The Family Friend Read online

  C. C. MacDonald

  * * *

  THE FAMILY FRIEND

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  C. C. MacDonald is a writer and actor based in Margate where he lives with his wife, two children and dog Frankie. The Family Friend is his second novel.

  Also by C. C. MacDonald

  Happy Ever After

  For Mum.

  1

  Erin’s heels clack along the uneven pavement like castanets. She got off the train eighteen minutes ago. She bought a vanilla doughnut from the delicatessen opposite the station and ate half of it before dropping it in a bin. She filmed herself doing all of this, told her smartphone camera why she was throwing it away – too much sugar – and why she bought it in the first place – it was luminous yellow and made her smile. But when she watched the footage back, she came across a little irritated, probably because she was thinking about having wasted £1.20, so she decided not to post the video.

  Erin runs her fingers over the ridges of a long fence that hems in the gardens of a row of bungalows, nausea bubbling up from her stomach, giving everything she sees a filter of unpleasantness.

  She rounds the corner and emerges onto a wider road, where most of the cars drive over the speed limit, and spots the memorial opposite to a little boy who was one of its victims some years ago. Broken shards of old CDs hang from the tree at the memorial’s centre to ward birds away from the dutifully tended floral display and sun-bleached Arsenal shirt. The story goes that the boy’s mother was chatting on the phone and didn’t see him step out. The road is one back from the sea, protected from the harshest ravages of the North Sea wind, but not far enough away to escape the ice water in the air that seems to seep through Erin’s merino-mix cardigan as the light dies away.

  Glancing up at the houses, the dusk reveals who’s in and who’s out. The colours glowing from the windows remind her of the blinking lights of a Christmas market. The strobing blue of a humungous flat-screen; pink warmth coming through a mid-range red Ikea roller blind upstairs; the ochre tint of an open fire, shadows licking a paved driveway.

  A cloud must have moved as the sky turns from a muted purple to Technicolor terracotta. She stops outside one of the houses, a bungalow with a dormer stuck out of its roof. The square bay window that stretches over most of its frontage emits a golden hue that gives Erin a swell of warmth and she touches her chest as if she can feel it. She gets out her phone, scans the screen for a moment and posts something before dropping it back into her coat pocket. The January air makes her eyes water. She blinks them dry, scratches her right ear with her shoulder and walks towards the bungalow with the purpose of someone prepared to face the music.

  She nudges the house’s cast-iron gate gently with her knee and heads up the path. She glances through the window and stops.

  A man sits at an oval dining table at the back of an open-plan living-kitchen-dining room, smiling. He’s looking at a baby boy with copious dark hair, plumed up in a loose Mohawk, being held out by a striking red-headed woman with a face so chiselled it could have been drawn on a computer. She lifts the baby into the air, staring at him and, is she singing? It seems to Erin like she might be singing. She has the boy stand on her knees and makes him dance, using the hand that isn’t supporting him to move his arms and legs like a marionette. The man glances at the woman and the baby, looks down and his face cracks into a slow smile.

  The woman puts the baby back into the crook of her arm and looks straight out of the window. Erin knows that she can’t be seen now that it’s darker outside but she ducks away from the woman’s gaze anyway. The man tickles the baby’s palms as he reaches towards him.

  It looks like something from an advert for a gas company. The happy family laughing with each other in the warmth of the home. The woman holding court, mother, friend, lover. Perfect.

  Except that’s not her family. It’s Erin’s.

  2

  BRAUNEoverBRAINS

  358 posts 36.2kfollowers 1,321 following

  ERIN BRAUNE

  Mum to Bobby. Salty sea-dweller. Bright up your life. Reformed thespian.

  These are my hangover shades. Because this is my hangover.

  Banger of a #gifted mini-break @digidetoxglamping. Huge thanks. The cocktails were ting. Not entirely convinced about not having my phone for twenty-four hours. Felt a bit like I’d had a frontal lobotomy. Not the best. BUT my first night away from Bobby-boy was surprisingly fun. I can’t wait to see him but feel racked with guilt and nerves about having left my baby boy behind. IS THIS NORMAL? What if he’s pissed off with me and doesn’t want cuddles?! All your good wishes yesterday made leaving him a lot easier. This piñata was in the bargain bin of a shop at the station (everyday travel essential, sure). Not convinced big-Bob will know what to do with it but will look lush hanging by the window in his nursery and maxing out the Frida Kahlo vibes. WISH ME LUCK.

  #thehungovergames #toooldtosayting #mumsofinsta#absentmumsofinsta #hotmessesofinsta #haveabreakhaveameltdown #willyoustilllovemetomorrow

  AnnaMaitron HE’LL BE SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU

  salveno33 ‘thehungovergames’ LOL

  Fran_Tony98 i’d never leave my son at nine months and certainly wouldn’t come back still drunk.

  motherhubbardglittercupboard Erin, you make it look easy but you still deserve time away. Hope you got my @mysteryboxes to celebrate 30K followers.

  Tontonteron some people have real problems

  3

  ‘Here she is,’ the woman says in an Australian accent as she spots Erin standing at the open door frame to her living room. Erin’s fiancé Raf stands up and gives her a flat-palmed wave and a crooked smile that references the strange woman in their front room. The woman gets up and walks towards Erin, still holding baby Bobby, who’s scanning his mother’s face to try and make sense of it. Erin knows she should put her arms out for her son but finds herself leaning against the in-built shelving, fingering the fraye
d top edge of a hardback.

  ‘Erin, Amanda,’ Raf says, having edged around the table, a note of weariness in his voice, ‘an old family friend from back in Oz.’

  ‘I think this might be yours?’ the woman says with a muted laugh as she gets to the door. Erin comes forward to take Bobby, but his little monkey paws cling to the edge of Amanda’s summer dress so she has to prise them off before handing the baby over. Erin is unbalanced by the sudden weight of her son as he attaches himself to the crook of her arm. He squeaks, then buries his head into Erin’s neck, his wedge of hair tickling the underside of her chin.

  ‘Amanda’s mum used to work with my dad at the university,’ Raf offers, leaning on the last word and giving Erin a look warning her to be tactful.

  ‘It’s just so great to meet you,’ Amanda says, clapping the tips of her fingers together to emphasise how great she’s finding it. ‘The woman who captured Raf’s heart.’ Erin catches her fiancé’s eye over her shoulder. He shakes his head, a hint of a shrug, eyes hooded.

  ‘When did you get in?’ Erin says, trying to sound casual.

  ‘This morning,’ Raf answers. ‘I called but you were, you know, uncontactable.’ Erin looks at Bobby. His over-round cheeks are dappled with patches of red, his eyes look raw, sunken and the dribble rash on his chin seems angrier than it did yesterday. It looks like he hasn’t slept for days. Teeth, probably. He cries out several times every night until Raf goes in to soothe him and they always blame teeth though she’s no idea if that is the real reason.

  She spends longer than usual taking in every detail of Bobby’s face, assessing how much he’s changed in the thirty-six hours since she’s been away. Guilt aches in the pit of her stomach. How could she leave him for so long? It must have been so unsettling, and on top of that, another woman, here in their house when his mum’s away.

  ‘Raf said you’ve been at some thing in the woods where you’re not allowed to take your mobile? Sounds wonderful. I wish smartphones had never been invented.’ Erin spots Raf smirking as he takes some mugs from the table over to the sink. Erin’s often said to Raf how pretentious she finds people who bang on about how phones are to blame for everything. She notices that there are still plates with the crumbs of some kind of flapjack on the table. They’ve been having tea and cake in her absence. The house seems calm, composed, even the often-screaming Bobby.

  ‘It was fun, yeh.’ Erin thinks of being stacked around a huge wooden table in the most beautiful forest just outside Sevenoaks with seven other mummy-bloggers; being fed espresso martinis and a smorgasbord of vegan nibbly bits. How much they laughed guiltily every time Anna Mai (74k followers) barked that she missed her phone way more than any of her kids, the way the whole gang giggled every time Erin asked the guy who’d done the food if he had any bacon bits she could sprinkle on top of the food. The blissful silence, the empty space in her head where the bubble of stress around how Bobby’s going to sleep normally resides as she put her head on the crisp Egyptian cotton pillow in her luxurious yurt.

  She feels a sharp pain and looks down to see Bobby grabbing a clump of skin on her shoulder. She yanks his hand away. Amanda’s watching with a strange intent, pupils large in paper-white eyes.

  ‘You must have missed this one so much.’ Amanda tickles one of his feet.

  ‘Yeh, course.’ Erin waves Bobby’s hand drowsily in the air. The action feels insincere and she has the thought that she’s somehow trying to copy Amanda dancing Bobby around the table, so she stops and lets the boy’s arm fall to his side. She scans the room. Her colour-coded play texts, her blocky modern prints, her fiancé rinsing things in the sink in the orangey light of the kitchen. It’s all the same as it was when she left, but this stranger’s presence makes her feel like she’s been gone for months.

  Raf sidles over to them while Bobby discovers his mother’s jawline with a pudding fist, eyes doubtful as if he’s never seen it before. Raf leans towards her, takes the back of her neck in his long fingers and gives her a firm kiss somewhere between her cheek and her ear. Amanda’s eyes seem to grow bigger and she smiles on in wonder as if she’s at an immersive theatre production.

  ‘Does he need to nurse?’ Amanda says, nodding at Bobby who’s grappling at Erin’s top and headbutting her chest.

  ‘Ah, I don’t know?’ She looks to Raf.

  ‘He’ll be due a feed,’ he says. ‘He’s done great on the bottles though.’

  ‘Great,’ Erin says, trying not to feel too aggrieved that Raf seems to have taken his day and a half of solo parenting in his stride while Erin knows how difficult she would have found it. She has Bobby every day during office hours and often during the day at weekends, but Raf’s never been out of the house overnight and she probably wouldn’t sleep a wink if he was. She knew Raf would be fine without her, he never gets het up about anything, but she wishes it didn’t seem like everything had gone quite so well in her absence. She takes Bobby over to the table and tells him in a doting baby voice, ‘Can’t be grabbing at ladies’ dresses, can we? We’re going to have to teach you about consent, aren’t we, Mr Handsy?’ Amanda makes a strange noise and Erin turns to see her catching a laugh in a clenched hand.

  ‘Sorry, you’re just so funny, Erin,’ she says, shaking her head, amazed. Erin affects a grin at Amanda’s compliment as she sits down and scrabbles for the app that tells her which breast she’s pumped from most recently. It was only just before she got on the train but she’s doesn’t trust her memory for such things at the moment.

  ‘Shit,’ she says before she can stop herself as she sees that she has more than 400 notifications to attend to on her Instagram.

  ‘You all right?’ Amanda plonks herself in the chair next to Erin as Bobby’s fingers pincer at her shirt.

  ‘Yeh,’ Erin says, ‘just, you know, stuff to do.’ She puts her phone face down on the table, squeezes each breast to see which is fullest before pulling her top up and shoving her baby towards her nipple. Amanda leans forward and watches more closely than seems appropriate, as Bobby latches onto Erin’s nipple like a cartoon vampire.

  ‘You must be so relieved,’ Amanda says.

  ‘What’s that?’ Erin voice catches, her spit tastes acrid. She needs her bottle of water from her bag.

  ‘It’s the first time you’ve left him?’ Erin nods. ‘Sometimes they can be a bit fussy, doctors call it nipple confusion but I think babies are cleverer than that. I think it’s their way of saying “I don’t want those toxic-chemical plastic bottles, I like my milk straight from the udder”, but he’s doing fine. Beautiful boy.’ She squeezes the pudge that sits above his elbow. Erin gives her a wary smile.

  ‘Could you get me my water, babe?’ she says to Raf.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Amanda hops up from her seat and heads over to the discarded bag by the door. Erin feels ambushed by this woman’s presence. She almost wishes Bobby would tussle away from her nipple, distracted by the light and the hubbub, so she could make her excuses and take him to his room to start tackling the Everest of Insta-messages she knows she’ll have to deal with into the night. She won’t be going on another phone-free weekend, she thinks to herself, regardless of which ex-model turned mixologist is making the cocktails.

  ‘Amanda,’ Raf says, as he plucks their plates up from the table, ‘had been emailing my old address for years, the stupid “phoneypony” one from back in the day.’

  ‘We used to be close,’ Amanda says, a sudden thinness to her voice.

  ‘From when we had to move up to the north for a bit,’ Raf offers from where he stands in the low lights of the kitchen. ‘I will have mentioned Amanda and her mum, Ez, when I gave you the director’s cut of my nomadic teenage years but there was quite a bit of data to take in, Mand, so don’t be offended if she’s forgotten.’

  ‘Yeh, a lot,’ Erin says, summoning a laugh.

  ‘Formative years though,’ Amanda says, handing Erin her bottle of water. When was it Raf moved north? Erin thinks. His dad was a doctor who worked at universities
so they lived all over Australia, and although she knows the various places he lived, she’s never quite got a handle on when he was where. Amanda sweeps crumbs from the table into her hand and goes over to deposit them in the bin that she doesn’t have to ask Raf the location of. She wears a string of thick brown beads as a belt over her beige dress. With her bare feet and her hair falling in copper waves far beyond her shoulders, she reminds Erin of a goddess depicted on a ceramic pot.

  ‘Do you still live in Australia?’ Bobby comes on and off Erin’s nipple, pulling it painfully as he does. She rests her hand on the back of her phone, a ticker-tape machine running in her head as she thinks of all the things on there she’ll have to catch up on.

  ‘I do. I mean, I did. It’s – it’s actually this –’ she goes over to the far corner of the living room and indicates a painting with open hands as if presenting a magic trick – ‘that brought me here. Someone I worked for, she’s really into that social media stuff and she was showing me your Instagram and I saw this.’ Erin looks over Amanda’s shoulder at the painting. It’s a shrouded figure sitting among orange-red rocks with a vivid pink sky behind her. Erin’s never liked it, but Raf wanted it up, it added some colour to a dark recess of the room and, crucially, it didn’t cost them anything. ‘I recognised it from Raf’s dad’s house, used to be in the dining room?’

  ‘Mm-hum,’ Raf mumbles in affirmation. Erin glances over to him leaning against the kitchen work surface. She knows he’s had the painting for a while but she didn’t know it belonged to his dad and is a little surprised that he’d want something of his father’s up in their house. Perhaps even someone with an unhappy childhood wants little mementoes of it in their adult life. Amanda comes and sits back down next to Erin. ‘So then I saw pictures of this little beauty.’ She tussles Bobby’s thick hair, ‘and with Mercury in retrograde, I knew it was a sign.’ She flicks her full eyebrows up and ‘hahs’ a chuckle to herself.