Lemonade and Lies by Elaine Johns Read Free Book Online

back with two tumblers (I have those as well) half-filled with some kind of amber liquid. Shimmering. Looking inviting. I figured it was booze of some sort. I relaxed. Felt relieved. Perhaps I really was turning into a piss artist.
    “French cognac, aged in oak barrels,” he said and made a slow, circular motion with the glass. The sort of thing connoisseurs did with brandy snifters.
    “Really?”
    “Nah. Supermarket special. Cheap and cheerful. Figured you’d need something for the shock,” he said and smirked.
    What did I know? I wouldn’t recognise a twenty-year-old brandy if it smacked me in the mouth. Lighter fluid would have done the trick right then. But I didn’t want him to know how close I was to the Betty Ford Clinic. So I held back a bit. Showed some reserve.
    “I shouldn’t,” I said. “Have to get up for the kids in the morning.”
    He just laughed and in an exaggerated movement brought his watch to within inches of my face. “News flash. It is the morning.”
     
    *
     
    Today’s a better day. I knew one would come along eventually. Maybe it was the way that James had reassured me last night. He’d also promised to get a private investigator he knew through his business to look into things. I still didn’t know exactly what his business was. But did it matter? I trusted him and enjoyed his company.
    It might also have something to do with the arrival of half-term. And the general holiday vibe that’s invaded our house. But I guess the most important bit was that my children got up smiling this morning, both of them.
    Their mood was infectious. So I made pancakes, like one of those perfect American TV ‘moms’ who knock the things out as if it’s child’s play. Mine came out misshapen, but I smothered one lot in chocolate-and-hazelnut-spread and wrapped banana inside. Tom likes those. The rest I covered with syrup and flung some blueberries on top, Millie’s favourite. I had both kinds – cook’s perks.
    “Yummy, mummy.”
    My daughter pointed to the mess on her plate, like slaughter at a blueberry farm, and grinned again. “And you’re a yummy mummy.”
    I bathed in the glory, the unusual appreciation. And accepted Millie’s praise with a smile.
    It was an expression she’d heard. I don’t think she knew what it meant. For anyone less like a yummy mummy than me would be hard to find. My kids didn’t take violin lessons. Weren’t in the chess club. And I rarely had time to sit down with them to encourage finger painting or creative flair. As for my faded black joggers with the fraying bottoms, well they’re definitely not trendy like real yummy mummies. But a compliment’s a compliment, especially from your offspring.
    Tom wolfed down his breakfast in record time. I’d been warned by my parents to masticate (they never said chew) my food until it was tiny pieces that wouldn’t harm my digestive system. They refused to put a number on this that a child might understand. But at any given time, depending on my stepfather’s mood, it could vary between twenty and fifty times. This was a gem of wisdom I’d refused to pass on to my kids and at times I regretted it (like now with Tom’s mouth looking like something from a horror movie) but not often.
     
    *
     
    “You won’t regret it. They’re beautiful, elegant animals but rugged as well, if you know what I mean.”
    I’d no idea what the man meant. And the thing was massive, an English Setter that had seen better days and whose owners couldn’t afford to keep it anymore. I wasn’t surprised, for it must get through a small mountain of food. But I could see that Tom was really taken with it.
    We were on Operation Dog, visiting an RSPCA animal sanctuary, looking for a rescue dog that would make a good family pet.
    The RSPCA officer mistook my silence for agreement - when I’d just been confused. Was this huge thing really a dog? And what kind of mess would it make of our compact townhouse? Our back garden was small,