The Other Son by Nick Alexander Page A

I bet you still have that five hundred pounds stuffed away under a mattress somewhere, don’t you?”
    Alice looks surprised. She doesn’t remember telling Dot about the five hundred pounds.
    “Think how much interest you would have earned if it had been in a building society all these years. It would have been worth thousands by now.”
    “We’ve managed just fine as we are,” Alice says. “And I have my own debit card and everything. I don’t need a separate account.” Dot pulls a face, so Alice insists, “I really don’t.”
    “Sometimes just feeling that you can do something takes the pressure out of needing to actually do it,” Dot says. “Sometimes–”
    “Look, I know what you’re saying,” Alice interrupts. “But I think you’re projecting your life onto mine. You left Martin and that’s great. But I’m not going to leave Ken. We all know that.”
    “OK,” Dot says, raising her hands in surrender at Alice’s suddenly strident tone of voice. “OK. You know best.”
    Alice glances at her watch. “I really do need to get a move on though,” she says. “I’ve only got two hours before Tim arrives. I wanted to make a quiche. He loves my quiche.”
    “Yes,” Dot says. “Plus you don’t want your husband realising you’ve been visiting forbidden friends, do you?”
    “It’s not that,” Alice says. “You know it’s not that.”

MAY
     
     
    Alice hands over the wad of cash. The notes are secured by two faded elastic bands. They once, Alice remembers, held two bunches of asparagus together. She had used the tips to make risotto and the stalks had gone into soup. And how can she possibly remember that now?
    As Tom starts to count the banknotes, Alice feels a little sad at the loss. Though Dot’s logic is unarguably correct (at least this way her cash will keep up with inflation), she’s already missing the concrete reassurance of their existence. Though she hadn’t known this until now, she has liked knowing that the cash was there, waiting, should she need it.
    But Dot is right. It’s safer this way. And Tom, who is indeed a great deal like Alan Carr, has been very pleasant about it all.
    “And the cash card definitely won’t be sent to her house?” Dot is asking.
    “No, as I said,” Tom replies, “we’ll call your mobile once it’s ready and you can come here and collect it.”
    Outside in the street, Dot claps her hands together. “There!” she says, triumphantly. “Done!” It has taken her the best part of a month to convince Alice to open her own account. “And don’t look so forlorn. The money’s still there. It’s just in a safer place.”
    “I know,” Alice says. “It just feels funny, sneaking around like this.”
    “It’s no more sneaky than keeping it hidden in a tin for twenty years.”
    “Forty,” Alice says. “ More than forty years.”
    “Coffee?” Dot asks. “There’s a Costa up there, and it’s my turn.”
    “No thanks. I really need to get home. I’ll drop you off on the way.”
    “Oh, go on. I’ll treat you.”
    “No, really. I have to get home. Plus it looks like it’s going to tip it down at any moment.”
    In truth, there isn’t any particular reason why Alice can’t stay out a little longer. But despite what Dot says, the opening of the bank account does feel sneaky, and a little monumental, too. Alice wants to go home to the quiet of the house so that she can sit and think about it all.
    The rain starts almost as soon as they reach the car, first spitting on the windscreen as Alice pulls away, then lashing at the streets until all the cars have to slow down. It’s only a short-lived spring shower, but they would have been drenched had they been caught in it.
    “You see?” Alice says, vindicated. “Rain!”
    “Yes,” Dot agrees. “You should work for the BBC. Do the weather, like.”
     
    Back at the house, Alice makes lunch for Ken – she’s not hungry herself.
    Once Ken has headed off for his afternoon kip and the