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‘What did he do to help you?’
‘The same as you.’ She smiles, then points to a plate with a half-eaten croissant. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘They’re French.’
‘What do you mean he helped you the same as I do, Mum?’
‘Paul helped me out of bed and to get dressed, then he brought me here and made breakfast.’
What did she just say? She must be misremembering. ‘Are you sure he helped you get dressed?’ I ask.
‘Of course! I’m not daft.’
‘How did he get into the house?’
‘I gave him a key.’
What the actual fuck! I try and measure my tone. ‘Why would you do that?’
She frowns as she thinks. ‘I’m not sure.’
The rage rises inside me like lava reaching the rim of a volcano. Paul helped an elderly woman he barely knows to get washed and dressed? How dare he do that! And now he has her front door key? He has crossed a line, and as soon as I get him out of here, I’m reporting him to that charity and getting him cancelled.
‘Where’s Paul now?’ I snap, looking around the garden.
Her face lights up. ‘Paul? Is he here already?’
‘His van is on the drive.’
‘He must be in the house then.’
‘Can you keep an eye on Oscar, please?’ I say, and hand her the lead without waiting for an answer.
I hurry across the garden, and as I enter the kitchen, I spot Paul in the hallway. He is dressed in paint-splattered white overalls and is pulling off strips of wallpaper. He’s also quietly muttering to himself. He looks displeased, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. He notices me and my appearance seems to ever-so-briefly fluster him. A split second later he’s returned to form. It’s unnerving.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I ask.
‘It’s called redecorating.’ This time, there’s nothing disarming about his smile. I just want to slap it from his face.
‘Who told you to do it?’
‘Gwenny.’
‘What did she say, exactly?’
‘Um, let me think ...’ He exaggerates placing his finger to his chin as if deep in thought. ‘Something like, “Paul, could you redecorate for me?”’
‘And what do you think you are doing letting yourself into her house, getting her out of bed and changing her? Do you know just how inappropriate that is?’
‘She’d fallen out of bed and was struggling to get back on her feet,’ he replies. ‘Would you rather I’d have left her there until you arrived?’
‘Well, no, but —’
‘And I stood on the landing while she showered with the bathroom door closed, then I led her back into her bedroom where she got ready – alone. The key she gave me is to the garage door so I can get to my tools, which Gwenny’s kindly let me store here for now.’
‘You should have called me. You have my number.’
‘I tried but you didn’t answer.’
I remove my phone from my pocket and realise it’s turned off. We remain in an awkward stalemate until it comes to life, and I seeI have three missed calls from him an hour ago. He has me over a barrel. What can I say if I report him to the charity? That he helped one of his clients back to their feet after she had a fall? That he fed her breakfast? Hardly Dr Harold Shipman, is he?
