Keeping Mum. Kate Lawson

it’s alright,’ said her mother over one shoulder as she lifted a tiny vanity case out of the back of the Land Rover. ‘We’ve brought our own.’

      What could she say to that? With a sigh, Cass headed upstairs to get ready. The dog followed her.

       Chapter Five

      When, a little while later, Cass padded into the kitchen fresh out of the shower, wrapped up in a robe and towelling her hair dry, Rocco—apparently on standby—handed her a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

      ‘We promise we won’t get in the way,’ he said in a conciliatory voice. ‘And I’m really grateful to you for letting us stay. You know your mum’s not good with chaos.’

      Cass lifted an eyebrow. ‘Then you might be in for a surprise. Chaos follows me around like a stray cat.’

      He pulled a face.

      ‘Rocco, all joking aside…you’re very welcome to stay, I’ve already said that, but I’m going to need some space over the next few days. I’ve got loads to do before I go out tonight, let alone go to Cyprus. I need to track down the iron, grab something to eat, glam up, lock up, walk the dog. I haven’t got time at the moment to be all polite and hostess-y…’

      But Rocco was a step ahead. ‘Don’t worry about us. Your mum brought some home-made butternut squash soup and rolls, enough for all of us if you’re hungry—oh, and the boys rang while you were in the shower. Danny wanted to wish you good luck, and Joe said is there any possibility you could see your way clear to lending him fifty pounds? Nita said she would send him a cheque.’

      ‘For goodness’ sake. Where is she?’

      ‘She’s taken the dog out for a wee and I’m just giving the cat a tin of tuna.’

      Cass peered out from under the towel. The kitchen was tidy, there was a bowl of roses on the windowsill and someone presumably had packed the dishwasher—unless the dirty dishes had been spirited away by magic.

      ‘This isn’t quite what I had in mind when I said space,’ said Cass.

      There was an elegant, unfamiliar cafetière on the kitchen table, alongside three white bone-china mugs, a tin of posh biscuits and a can of John West’s finest that Cass had planned to stir into a pasta salad on a day when she couldn’t be bothered to cook. Mungo, the cat, was on the floor, sitting by a large empty pie dish, licking the last remnants of fish off his lips.