A Daughter's Secret (39 page)

‘Seriously, do you mind driving? The train doesn’t take long.’

‘I only drank all that wine cos I was trying to get into your knickers. I’m fine to pace myself.’

‘Thank you.’

It’s the little things I’m discovering.

We park up outside Lysette’s, but Patrick seems in no hurry to get out.

‘So is he really tall, this Jim fella? You know, rippling muscles, manly chest?’

‘Patrick, I haven’t seen him for going on twenty years. Hopefully I won’t see him for another twenty.’

He turns to look at me, face serious.

‘You thought about him though, didn’t you?’

I can hear it in his voice, the vulnerability: there was a time not so long ago when it would’ve made my flesh crawl. Not now. I look at the lighted windows of Lysette’s little house, then turn back towards him, take his hand.

‘I did, yeah, but it wasn’t about him. It was my shit.’ I hold his gaze, my own vulnerability surging upwards. ‘He was a just a stand-in. Another man I couldn’t really have.’

Patrick smiles, his body softening.
You can have me
, say his eyes. I trace his palm with my finger, and he reaches under the seat with his free hand.

‘I got a bottle of that Merlot you liked. You know, the one the peasants trampled the grapes for, with their sweaty peasant feet.’

‘I love a sweaty peasant,’ I say, leaning across to kiss him.

Lysette hugs me tightly, then stands on tiptoes to embrace Patrick. He thrusts the bottle at her a little too hard. I love the fact that it’s me alone who can detect his nerves, read his tiny tells. As he heads down the hall in front of us, Lysette mouths, ‘He’s HOT!’ her sparkly eyes wide enough for me to know she’s not just saying it.

The kitchen is full of children, Saffron in a pair of pyjamas with fluffy attached feet. She throws her arms around my legs, casting a suspicious scowl at Patrick, and begs me to tell her a bedtime story.

‘Oh God, PLEASE will you go and read to her,’ says Lysette. ‘It’s about an hour past bedtime but she wouldn’t go up till you came. She’s a nightmare when she’s this overtired – she’s like Lindsay Lohan after a three-day bender.’

I scoop her up, lifting her high enough so that she’s in Patrick’s eyeline.

‘Before I tuck you in, I want you to meet my friend Patrick. He’s lovely. I like him even more than you like Peppa Pig.’ I look at Patrick. ‘And that, my friend, is a compliment.’

‘I’m honoured,’ he says, then gives her chubby hand a respectful shake.

I drink more than I intend to, Lysette’s right hand inching towards my glass with dangerous frequency. ‘I’m just so glad you’re all right,’ she keeps saying, the words getting thicker with feeling as she gets tipsier. Ged and Patrick slip into an easy rhythm, going out for the odd fag on the patio (I didn’t know Patrick was a social smoker – I decide not to mind) and ferrying the plates to and from the kitchen so me and Lysette don’t have to raise a finger.

‘He
is
lovely,’ says Lysette in a stage whisper.

‘I know,’ I say, my eyes mapping her face, suddenly emotional. It’s a face I’ve known so long, watched shift and transform; she’s no less beautiful now, it’s just a different breed of beautiful.

‘I shouldn’t tell you this, I’m sure you don’t care, but I’ve been worrying about it since Saffron’s party. He’s much, much hotter than Jim. He looks a bit like a rattlesnake who’s swallowed a turnip.’ She mimes a straight line, and then a massive hump. ‘He’s as vain as ever, so he’s determined to stay skinny, but he’s got dad tum. He HATES it.’

I take a swig of Merlot, snorting with laughter that won’t seem to stop. Lysette clutches my knee, choking with giggles. Soon we’re both weeping with tears of laughter that are totally disproportionate to the joke, wine starting to trickle down the inside of my nose.

‘What’s the joke?’ asks Patrick.

I look at him, trying not to seem like too much of a sap.

‘Who’s the joke,’ I correct him. ‘No one you need to worry about.’

ONE YEAR LATER

‘Look at you!’ I say, unable to keep the depth of feeling out of my voice. There she is on the couch, dead on time, her hair shorter, less straggly, a pair of black cords skimming her newfound curves. She’s nearly fifteen now: womanliness suits her.

‘OK, calm down. I’m not ten years old, Mia.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, standing before her. She smiles at me, tentative now, then gets up. We pause a second, and then we hug. It’s sharp, intense – brief. Brendan’s pretending not to track us, but his eyes keep darting upwards from his computer screen. He’s seen me duck out of my room about one hundred times to see if she’s arrived early.

Gemma throws a careful gaze around the room before she sits down, reorientating herself. I wonder if it seems almost insulting; nothing’s changed, and yet everything’s changed.

‘This isn’t a session,’ I say, partly to acknowledge that fact. ‘I’m really glad that you wanted to come and see me though.’ I pause, let us both settle. ‘I’ve thought about you so much.’

She looks down at the rug.

‘Have you?’

‘I’ve always told you the truth, Gemma. I meant what I said that night about keeping you in my heart.’

She looks up at me, her grey-blue eyes like lasers, searching my face for truth in the way they always did. I’d forgotten that gaze, so peculiar to her. The gaze that sees so much.

‘That guy you told my mum about – the other therapist. He’s got a beard.’

‘Michael Fassbender’s got a beard. David Beckham has a beard. Nothing wrong with beards.’ She gives a little eye-roll, a friendly one. ‘Has it helped, having him to talk to?’

‘Yeah, a bit.’

‘I’m glad. I know nothing can take it away.’ Her body hunches in on itself, and I remind myself to stay the right side of the line. I’m not her therapist. I’ll have to say goodbye to her in less than an hour: I don’t want to open a trap door, then leave her in the dark. ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Gemma.’

She clamps her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes cloudy and damp. She doesn’t cry.

‘He’d hate my school,’ she says. ‘And I’m doing drama for GCSE, not maths.’

‘Are you? I thought all those props you’d made were so cool. I’m glad you’re doing a subject you really like.’

‘Yeah, when you were snooping,’ she says, a big grin on her face. The fact I went over there, the fact I tracked her down – she loves the proof it gave her. A win.

‘I’m just glad we got you back,’ I say, but she’s not listening. She’s staring at my left hand.

I splay it outwards so she can get a better look at my twinkly little diamond. It’s so new that I can’t stop staring at it. An unexpected surprise on our first anniversary, which, according to Patrick, dates back to the night of the ‘horse piss wine’. I thought about taking the ring off for today’s meeting, but I decided that the truth might set us free.

‘I knew it!’

‘You did. You’re no fool, Gemma, but it wasn’t true when you first said it. And I never, ever put him before my care for you.’

‘Was true for him,’ she says, smirking. ‘At least he doesn’t have a beard.’

‘It’s true. He’s a beard-free zone.’

‘Mum’s got a boyfriend too,’ she says, a flicker of pain in her face. ‘She keeps saying’ – she affects a grumpy voice – ‘“He’s just a friend, Gemma,” but I can totally tell.’

‘Does it feel weird?’

Poor Annie. For all the lies and collusion, I still can’t help thinking she deserves a chance of romantic happiness. They’ve moved out of the big house, rented a small flat in Wandsworth. Maybe escaping the gilded cage has had some unexpected benefits.

‘Yeah, well. I’ve got one too.’

‘You’ve got a boyfriend?’ She nods, grinning. ‘I hope he’s worthy of you,’ I add, a little too fast. I feel a squeeze in my heart, a sense memory of how very long it took me to learn the difference. I have to trust that beardy therapist – a man whose credentials I checked with the zeal of Homeland Security recruiting an operative – can guide her through that minefield.

‘Jeez, Mia, you talk like it’s the eighteenth century sometimes.’ She pretends to doff what I’m sure is a three-cornered hat. ‘Forsooth!’

‘Forsooth indeed!’ I say. ‘It’s only because I care about you.’

‘We’re doing
Top Girls
,’ she says, seemingly ignoring me, her eyes telling me she’s taken it in. ‘At school. Me and Caitlin and Leyla.’ She smiles as she says it – a real smile, that says real friends, before reaching into her bag. The rucksack’s long been consigned to an evidence log, Stephen’s life sentence under way. This new bag is black leather with gold studs, two smart pockets on the front. ‘I brought you a present. Is that allowed under the rules of our Ann-ual Vis-it?’

I cock my head.

‘Er. Depends how much I like it.’

It’s wrapped in pink tissue paper, a wonky green bow tied on top, like one of Saffron’s more outlandish up-dos. I open it gingerly, instantly regretting my joke. What if I don’t like it? She’ll know: she always does.

It’s a fine wool scarf, large enough to wrap right round me, a grey-blue colour that matches her eyes.

‘I thought you looked cold sometimes,’ she says softly. ‘In your big fat chair.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice cracking now. ‘I love it.’

‘Thing about me is, I’ve got excellent taste,’ she says, her eyes never wavering from mine.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Bye, Mia. See you next year. Better start thinking about my present.’

And with that, she stands up and gathers her coat, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my editor Jo Dickinson, for continuing on the journey with me! This book wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you to the Simon and Schuster team for welcoming me into the fold. Huge thanks to Mary Tomlinson for a thoughtful, helpful copy edit.

A huge thank you to my incomparable agent Sheila Crowley, and the wider team at Curtis Brown. Rebecca Ritchie, Alice Lutyens and the foreign rights team – you’re all amazing. A big thank you to Lucinda Prain for both excellent additional agenting and excellent gossip (and to the rest of the Casarotto team).

Thank you to Anne Mensah for legendary plot wrangling, above and beyond the call of duty, as always. I literally couldn’t have done it (and many other things) without you. Thank you to Caroline Henry for reading about a million drafts and cheerleading all the way. Thank you to Sophia Parsons for a therapist’s perspective (and for the ongoing Ron Swanson love in). Thank you to Matthew Read for stating the obvious, which was somehow not obvious. Thank you to Ben McPherson for a late stage waffle trim. Thank you to legal eagle extraordinaire Caroline Haughey for brilliant suggestions and fact checking – I’m so lucky to have met you. Thank you also to Jenny Parrott for her fantastic help. Thanks too to Kitty – for everything. Thank you to the Brighton Massive – (cousin) Damian Barr, cousin Mike, Alex Heminsley and the irreplaceable and lovely Carol Biss.

Thank you too to my family cheerleaders for always being excited enough to read a new book when there are still commas in the most curious places – Mutt, Caitlin, Leyla.

Thank you lastly to the amazing women I’m blessed to call my best friends. My blue earrings make my lobes ache, but they’re always the first ones I choose. You’re all in here and in my heart.