Free The Boy in the Olive Grove by Fleur Beale Page A

four months.’
    Beverly sat back, giving me time to get my head around that.
    I got my head around it pretty damn quick. ‘You’re giving us three working weeks to turn things around? If we don’t, Dad has to sell the house and pay back the money?’
    ‘Basically, yes.’ It was as clear as the moko on her chin that she didn’t have any faith that we’d do it.
    ‘What would you see as positive activity?’
    ‘Sell the furniture on hand. Get some definite orders. Send somebody out as a rep with a brochure to market the products.’ She held up her hand to stop me speaking. ‘Not you. I don’t know how old you are …’
    ‘Eighteen.’
    ‘As much as that? I’m surprised. Take my advice. Send somebody older. You just don’t look convincing enough, and if you try and look older by what you wear you’ll look like lamb dressed as mutton.’
    ‘But I’m the logical one to go. I can’t make furniture and we’ll be a man short if one of the guys goes.’ And I wanted to go. It was probably the only thing I could really help with.
    ‘Do it then, but don’t set your expectations too high. To tell you the truth, I can’t see that you’ll be able to do much. In a different economic climate maybe, but not right now.’ She shook my hand. ‘But good luck, Bess. I’ll see you in my office Friday afternoon for a progress report. Four-thirty.’
    It was 5.45 when I got home. Mum had eaten her meal. Mine was served and sitting on the bench: fish, new potatoes, baby carrots and a tomato salad. I ate the salad, zapped the rest in the microwave, then ate in peaceful solitude. ‘Thanks, Mum. That was great.’
    She didn’t look up from her Sudoku. ‘Has Hadleigh contacted you?’
    Was this a thaw? A truce? Détente? ‘Not when I checked this morning.’ I grabbed the tablet from where it sat near the phone. ‘I’ll see if there’s anything now.’
    There wasn’t, and I wanted to cry. If I hadn’t been a complete nutcase at the airport he would have messaged me by now, I knew he would have. ‘I’ll tell you if I hear from him, Mum. I promise.’
    She inclined her head, and I cheered up. There was a definite thaw happening, though she still didn’t look at me.
    ‘Marion Symes wants you to join the tennis club. I assured her you’d be delighted. It’ll give you something to do over the holidays.’
    My heart sank. By her tone, all my Christmases had arrived in a tidy bundle called Marion Symes. The woman must be a person of consequence in my mother’s world.
    ‘That’s nice of her to think of me,’ I said carefully. ‘But Mum, I probably won’t have time to play competition tennis. I have to run Dad’s business until he gets well again.’
    ‘Honestly, Bess, get your priorities right. Here I am, doing my best to repair your damaged reputation, yet you persist in throwing my efforts back in my face. You’re not helping yourself, you really aren’t.’
    ‘I’m sorry. I really am. But Dad needs—’
    She chopped that off quick smart. ‘And how typical of you to choose That Man over me.’
    ‘Mum, please — your relationship with my father isn’t my fault, and it’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t divorce him and I’m not going to cut him out of my life.’
    She reached for the tissues and wiped her eyes. Oh god, when would I learn not to talk about Dad any more than I had to? I did my usual grovel. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m really sorry.’ It made no difference.
    There was no space in my head right now for her martyr act. I shut myself in my room. To keep my mind from dwelling on her, I turned instead to the boy in the olive grove, striving to recapture that flash of joy. Then I stopped. Going back to that was also an invitation to let something else loose from heaven knew where. I logged on to Facebook instead, grounding myself in news of my ex-classmates. Their lives sounded so normal. Jessica moaned about her tidy-freak sister. Anita was in happy land over a