I nod, feeling like some kind of criminal, which is ridiculous. I work hard, I pay my taxes.
‘Okay, so we’ll set up in here, if that’s okay?’
‘Set up? I don’t understand.’
‘It’s an audit, an investigation,’ John says. ‘We’re going to look at everything and make sure it’s all in order.’
‘You’re going to go through all my stuff?’
Cathleen grinds her teeth. ‘If you’d read the letters we sent you’d know exactly what the procedure is.’
‘I…’
‘Why don’t you take the paperwork out there and read through it.’ John’s tone is a little gentler. ‘Then you can ask any questions when you’re done.’
‘But can’t you at least tell me why you’re here? Did I do something wrong?’
‘Just read through the paperwork,’ he repeats.
The enormity of what they’re saying is beginning to sink in. I try to slow my breathing, wipe my sweating palms down the side of my dress. This investigation is going to mess up everything. And I’m not just talking about my business.
Cathleen makes a rising motion with her hand, coaxing me up out of my chair and back out into the showroom. I grip the sheaf of letters between my sweaty fingers and head over to the conference table as the door to my office closes behind me with a firm click. I’ve been ejected from my own office.
I start to read the letters, skimming through to see if I can find out why they’ve targeted my business, but there’s nothing here to give me any idea as to why they’re here. I snatch up my phone and do a quick Google search for possible reasons for tax audits. The results list several reasons why an investigation might have been triggered, including: mistakes on tax returns, omission of income, no accountant and unjustified expense claims. But it’s the last one that has me really worried:
A tip-off.
Could someone have contacted the tax office about my business?
Why would they do that?And, more importantly,who could it be?
Three
Thursday
KELLY
‘Have a good day, guys.’ I rest one hand on the front-door frame as I watch my sons head off up the road to school. It’s only a five-minute walk away with no busy roads to cross, so now that Ryan’s eleven, I said they could both go without me, as long as Ryan keeps an eye on Sonny. I love that they’re getting more independent, but it’s a shame I don’t get to catch up with Tia at the school gates any more. I miss our daily chats.
Right now, it’s quiet as the grave out there, most of the other houses still with their curtains drawn, their occupants still asleep. My two are going in to school extra early today, as I’ve volunteered them to help out with preparations for Saturday’s regatta. Ryan didn’t thank me for the early-morning wake-up call, but it’s good for them to help out.
Dark-haired like his father, Ryan lopes with long strides while his eight-year-old brother bounces along beside him, chatting incessantly. They’re complete opposites – Sonny has fair hair and a cheerful nature, like me I suppose, while Ryan is quiet and introspective. Right now, he’ll be gritting his teeth and telling Sonny to stop talking, to stop being so ‘annoying’, but Sonny will keep on anyway, unfazed by his older brother’s irritation. My late husband Michael would have loved to see how grown-up they’re becoming. How beautiful they are. I imagine how proud he would have been.
I swallow the lump in my throat and blink a couple of times. This won’t do. I can’t dwell in a world of what-ifs; I need to bring myself back to reality. To occupy myself. The trouble is, it’s my day off and it’s stretching out before me like an endless ocean. Even more so because of the early start. I wish I was working more hours. Maybe Derek will give me some extra shifts. I say ‘work’, but it’s mainly just volunteering at a local charity shop. I help out a few times a week, along with organising various fundraising events for the community.
Michael used to work in insurance. After he died fifteen months ago, he left us extremely well provided for. So much so that I’ll never have to work again, if I choose not to. Only, I’m not sure if that was a blessing or a curse, because not having to work means far too much time on my hands. Time to think. To mourn. To sink into misery. Which is why I now throw myself into volunteering. My whole adult life, I’ve always done bits here and there for charity, feeling like it’s my duty to help others less fortunate than myself. But these days it’s almost as though helping others is actually helpingme. Or, if not helping, at least it’s a distraction. A useful way to fill my days.
I like to feel as if I’m doing good. I always have. It’s probably my Catholic upbringing – the constant cloud of guilt. The feeling that I don’t deserve what I have. That I’ll probably go straight to hell for feeling any sense of happiness or enjoyment.
Maybe that’s why, when my husband died, along with the crushing sense of devastation, I also felt the tiniest sense of relief. The thought that, now this terrible, awful thing has happened, maybe that will be it. That’s my misery quota right there. After all, I never deserved so much happiness in the first place, so it’s only fair that some of it should be taken away, right?
I never voice these thoughts or think of them in any coherent way. They stay a jumbled mess in my mind, swilling around like an oil slick on an ocean. Never properly absorbed; just changing shape a little each day.
I close the front door and head into the kitchen, where I start pulling various baking ingredients out of the larder. I’m going to make a cake for Saturday’s regatta. My friends all envy my huge walk-in larder lined with its rows and rows of painted wooden shelves. The kitchen is original 1940s and I love it that way. None of that modern minimalism for me. I like warm, homely clutter. My best friend Fiona is an interior designer. She says she loves my quirky lakeside home, but I can tell she’s dying to get her hands on it. To transform it into the ‘right’ kind of vintage look. To drag it into the twenty-first century and make it Instagram or Pinterest-worthy. I certainly have the budget to do it, just not the desire. I’m not big on social media – too many happy perfect families showing carefully edited versions of their lives.
I set everything out on the blue Formica table, pull a scrunchie from my pocket and twist my unruly blonde curls into a messy bun. It’s far too quiet so I switch on the radio before settling down to make my famous Victoria sponge. I realise straightaway that I’ll have to make two of them, because there’s no way the boys will be able to see that cake and not want a slice as soon as they get home from school. I up the ingredients accordingly and tip them into my mixing bowl, smiling at the thought of their faces when they see what’s waiting when they get home. I also have some fresh strawberries in the fridge that I can slice and use to decorate the cakes.
I’m busy stirring the mixture and listening to a tune from my school days when I’m startled by a sharp tap on the kitchen window. My first thought is that it must be a bird or a tree branch, because why or how would anyone be at the back of the house? But as I look up, my heart jumps at the sight of a thin, fair-haired girl with a tear-streaked face and a haunted look in her eyes. She locks eyes with me, and I feel a moment of alarm, followed swiftly by concern. I turn off the radio and wipe my hands on my apron.
