I tilt the box so she can read the address label and she smiles.
‘I’m sorry, dear, but Luke isn’t here. Can I sign for the package? I’m his mother.’
All my careful preparation fades to nothing as I stare at her in horror. Far from being mentally and physically frail as Luke described, this woman appears on the outside to be in excellent shape, without any sign of the confusion he led me to believe had pretty much robbed her of all her faculties. I know I should have prepared for this eventuality, but I honestly never thought it would come to pass.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asks, her face now concerned. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you need a glass of water or something? I know how hard these companies work you. You’ve probably been on the road since some godforsaken hour.’
‘I…’ I begin, but the words just dry up. I have no idea what to say, and the urge to just run is greater than ever. Forcing myself to remain in character and stick to the script I practised with Mike, I finally manage to speak. ‘Package needs to be signed for by Luke Mil-nay,’ I tell her again, pulling out the ‘sorry you were out’ card and starting to fill it in. ‘I cannot deliver if he does not sign. I can try again tomorrow if he will be here.’ I won’t, of course, but this is the line we rehearsed.
‘I can’t tell you when he’ll be here next, I’m afraid,’ the woman says ruefully. ‘He drops by occasionally, but he works shifts and his wife’s expecting a baby, so there isn’t a lot of space for me at the moment. I can’t imagine why he’s addressing parcels to himself here, unless it’s a surprise for her, I suppose.’
Hiswife? This piece of information hits me like a punch to the solar plexus and I’m unable to stop myself from staring at her with my mouth open, temporarily unable to breathe. I can feel my legs turning to jelly beneath me and I grab the doorjamb for support.
‘Goodness me!’ Luke’s mum exclaims. ‘You really are unwell, you poor thing. Let me help you inside, and we’ll sit you on the sofa with a glass of water while I call the ambulance.’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I insist, all pretence at an accent gone as I struggle to regain my balance. Shit, she’s looking at me suspiciously now.
‘You’re in no fit state to drive, young lady,’ she says firmly, still staring at me. ‘If you won’t let me call an ambulance, let me at least check you over. My son’s a doctor, so he’s taught me basic first aid. Come in. Your deliveries can wait for a few minutes, I’m sure.’
I’m still so shocked by her revelations that I barely notice as she gently takes my arm and leads me inside the flat. I follow her down a short corridor before turning into her sitting room, which I notice immediately is adorned with pictures of Luke. There he is in his graduation gear. Another picture shows him with a smiling woman by his side; I assume that’s his wife.
His wife. His pregnant wife.
Once again, I can feel the strength leaving my legs, but this time Luke’s mum is ready for me, and guides me backwards onto the sofa.
‘Just relax there while I fetch you some water and get my first-aid things,’ she tells me, before disappearing back into the corridor. I want nothing more than to get out of here, but my rebellious legs are refusing to move. Instead, I find myself studying the remainder of the family pictures, like a rubbernecker poring over the scene of a particularly nasty traffic accident. There are lots of pictures of Luke at various stages of his life, but there are also a similar number of another person, who has enough similarities to Luke that he can only be a brother. Another lie, another punch to the gut. ‘Here you are,’ Luke’s mum says to me as she comes back into the room, placing a glass of water on a leather coaster on the immaculately polished antique table next to the sofa. ‘Sip it, don’t gulp it.’
I pick up the glass carefully, but still nearly drop it because my hands are slippery with sweat. I take a tentative sip; it’s cold and refreshing, and the urge to gulp it straight down is strong.
‘Right,’ Luke’s mum continues. ‘Let’s start with the basics. My name is Richenda, and you are?’
‘Tilly,’ I mumble. Mike and I never considered this possibility, and my brain has pretty much shut down so I can’t conjure up a plausible Eastern European name.
‘Tilly,’ she repeats thoughtfully. ‘Not a common name from your part of the world. OK, I think we can assume that you’re conscious and breathing, so that’s a good start. Do you have any pains anywhere? In your chest, for example, or down your arm?’
She’s checking to see if I’m having a heart attack. If I wasn’t so completely dumbstruck, I’d be impressed.
‘No,’ I tell her quietly.
‘Good. Now, can you smile for me, please?’
She’s checking for a stroke now, I realise. I force my mouth into a rictus grin. For a moment, I nearly perform the other test activities automatically, before thankfully remembering just in time that delivery drivers probably wouldn’t know what those are. I need to try to get back into character and get out of here as soon as possible.
‘Lift your arms,’ she continues, and I obey, making sure they’re at the same level. ‘Can you remember my name?’
‘Richenda,’ I tell her, ensuring I pronounce every syllable clearly.
‘Excellent.’ She brings out a thermometer and points it at my forehead before pulling on a trigger. ‘Your temperature is also normal,’ she informs me after the machine beeps. ‘I think we can rule out anything serious. So why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?’
‘Vot do you mean?’ I ask her, being careful to use my accent.
‘I couldn’t help noticing the name of the delivery company on the card you started to give me. I had a quick look online when I was getting your drink and it doesn’t seem to exist. Then there’s your accent, which is a little inconsistent, if you don’t mind me saying. And your name. Tilly is a very British name. I did briefly wonder whether you were here to rob me and considered calling the police, but you would never have let me go into the kitchen alone if you meant me harm and you were actually any good at your job. I could have called 999 while I was in there or picked up a large knife to defend myself. Also, you must have known who I was to address the parcel to Luke, which leads me to think you’re connected to him in some way.’
Mentally frail? Bloody hell, this woman would put Hercule Poirot to shame.
‘I have my suspicions,’ she continues, ‘but I’d rather hear the words from you. How do you know my son?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her as I force my legs into action and try to extricate myself from her over-soft sofa. ‘I should never have come. It was a stupid idea.’
