A Daughter's Secret (13 page)

‘Potatoes,’ she says, nodding at the soil she’s turned over. ‘
You’re
looking too thin. You’ve lost weight.’

‘No I haven’t.’

‘A mother knows these things,’ she says, brooking no argument. Is that how it feels, motherhood, a bedrock of instinct, of certainty, underpinning all the choppiness? I don’t think it feels like that for Annie, even if it’s what she chooses to project when she’s trying to get one up on me. I wish the Vines weren’t invading my everything. It’s Sunday now: since my unwelcome Gemma/Patrick sandwich on Friday, I’ve barely thought of anything else. I force myself to stop with the mental time travel, looking instead at Mum’s strong hands gripping the spade, age spots spreading across them like a map of the world. I don’t see it so much in her face. Is it because I see those same familiar expressions I always have, regardless of her lines; the worry I can never quite steal away from her, however much I tell her I’m fine, the bafflement at how much I’m willing to spend on a pair of boots?

It’s hot today, an unexpected blast of springtime sunshine. I’m wearing massive oval sunglasses that Marcus bought me in the Nice Duty Free, and a flowery dress that suddenly feels too short. I put it on in anticipation of our date later, but now I wish I’d rolled it up in my bag and worn a pair of jeans.

‘Where’s Nick?’ I say, backing away from the stinky manure. The doors of the house are all wide open, but there’s no sign of my stepfather. Sort of stepfather – they’re not married, but they’ve been together twelve years. I don’t know if Lorcan’s refusal to submit to such a bourgeois convention put her off for life – I suspect the doggedly loyal Nick would relish a real commitment. Nevertheless, I don’t see her skipping out on him: their relationship is like a warm, shallow bath – something comforting she can submerge herself in without fear of drowning.

He was her first real foray into love after Lorcan. Day after day he’d come into the café where she worked and buy a coffee, gradually wearing her down. She was mistrustful, skittish – a foster kid who didn’t want a new family. She agreed to have lunch with him, eventually dinner. It was when she invited him to hear her choir sing Handel’s
Messiah
I knew she’d started to give in to his campaign of unbridled adoration. ‘It’ll sound like nails down a blackboard,’ she said, self-conscious, but of course he loved it. He loved her, and for him that was something both simple and urgent.

‘He’s upstairs, working in his study.’

‘On a Sunday?’

She gives a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

‘Lunch is in the oven. Let’s go and give it a poke.’

The house is red-brick and square, the kind of shape you draw at primary school when you’re asked to draw home – it’s even got a chimney. The fixtures and fittings are all woefully dated – Mum’s never been one for splashing cash on anything ‘unnecessary’, years of frugality ingrained in her. There’s an aubergine parmigiana bubbling away in the oven, and some more of her potatoes baking around the sides.

She makes her voice gossamer light. ‘I thought you might bring Marcus with you.’

‘He’s been in Dubai all weekend. He’s got this huge deal going through.’

‘Another huge deal?’ she says, and I try not to hear judgement. Children are like dogs, the way they can hear a pitch in their parents’ tone inaudible to other humans. ‘Is it the money, or the thrill of it, do you think?’

‘Bit of both.’

‘Your time together must be . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Quite scant?’

It’s true, I think, but then I remember how much time she spent sitting around waiting for Lorcan’s key to turn in the lock. What’s wrong with two alpha people living life full tilt and coming together when circumstances allow?

‘It’s not just big bad Marcus, Mum. I’m studying for an extra qualification. And I’m dealing with some pretty complex cases now. You’d be proud of me.’ She looks at me, waiting for me to elaborate, and I start to scorch with self-doubt. It’s still a couple of days until I see Gemma, I tell myself, time enough to confide in Judith about what’s happened, but the truth is, there’s been time enough already. My words about Lorcan keep echoing around my head, a soundtrack to the looping memory of the way her face scrunched up with hurt and anger as she realized I really wasn’t going to take her hazardous present. I need to make it right. I need to put the pieces back in place. ‘Client confidentiality, Mum. My lips are sealed.’

‘And the flat hunting?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure we’ll find the right thing soon,’ I say, slicing into the ripe flesh of the avocado she’s given me for the salad, my eyes trained on the green mulch that’s oozing out of the ruptured skin.

‘That’s good!’ she says, watching me. ‘But you’re still planning to rent, not buy?’ I nearly spell it out for her, save her from wrapping herself up in endless riddles. She wants to ask if I think Marcus is the one, even if he’s not entirely to her taste – if she can make her heart vulnerable to the possibility of grandchildren or if that one lost moment was her only chance – but she’s far too sensitive to plough straight in there. I appreciate that about her, I really do, but the less she tries to pressure me the more it feels like pressure.

‘Yup, rented. I’ll rent out mine. Keep your eyes on the road, Mum – there’s nothing to see. Promise I’ll tell you as soon as there’s news.’

‘Good,’ she says, so much complicated love visible on her face that I feel it land in the centre of my chest, a grappling hook that lodges itself in my heart. ‘Nick,’ she shouts, ‘lunch is ready!’

‘Will you pull it out for me?’ asks Mum, throwing an oven glove at him as soon as he appears in the kitchen doorway. She shakes dressing over the salad, leaving him to find the cutlery, and I chide myself for my slightly cool assessment of the state of their union. There’s something seamless about their soft-shoe shuffle that’s lovely to watch.

Once Nick’s thumped the parmigiana down on a cork mat, he crosses the small kitchen to kiss me hello. ‘It’s terrific you could come,’ he says, beaming at me. His relentless enthusiasm always reminds me of a local-radio DJ, forced to make the harvest festival sound like breaking news. His body is short and stocky, his hands big, capable paddles, constantly looking for something useful to do. Right now they’re engaging me in a hug that’s neither cold nor overfamiliar, a textbook step-parent embrace. He’s bald, but even that reads like a clear decision, rather than an unfortunate side effect of late middle age. He’s not handsome exactly, but the fact that he isn’t almost makes him more attractive.

‘So what’s with you slaving away on the Sabbath?’ I ask him, once lunch is dished out. ‘How’s that whole retirement thing working out for you?’

‘You’re one to talk!’ laughs Nick. ‘No, I’m – I’ve taken on some exam marking.’

Nick was a headmaster until a couple of years ago, a job I know he was born to do. Marking must pay peanuts. I look between the two of them, but their faces don’t tell me much. Mum still cooks in a café a few days a week, but I hoped that money was an added bonus rather than a necessity. Nick deftly changes the subject, asking the same questions as Mum did about the flat hunting, minus the whispery subtext, and enquiring about Marcus’s trip.

‘Interesting place, Dubai,’ he says. ‘Extraordinary amounts of growth, but does he worry about the human rights side of things?’

Does he? Surely he must? I should know things like that. Is it me, self-importantly beavering away and never listening, or is it him never talking about anything tricky?

‘Um, yeah. He does a lot of pro bono type stuff though. And it’s a huge opportunity.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ says Nick, a
Guardian
reader to his very core.

‘They’re very ethical in the way they do business,’ I say quickly, thinking of that grateful student from some godforsaken town who’s now working his arse off for his architecture qualification.

Once we get to pudding, I can see that Mum’s got something she wants to get off her chest. It’s the way she’s worrying at her spoon, like she’s contemplating matchmaking it with her ice cream but she’s lost her nerve.

‘Mum?’

She gives a brief, snatched smile.

‘We’ve got some news.’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been using protection?’

She giggles, properly giggles like she needs the release, and I feel a sense of that lovely bubbly warmth we sometimes manage to find.

‘Worse.’

‘Charming!’ says Nick, but when I look at his face it’s scarily serious.

‘We’re getting married,’ says Mum, the words out of step with the way that they sound, like a badly dubbed snatch of Euro-porn.

‘Congratulations,’ I say, looking at them both, waiting for the happy smiles. Nick’s trying, but even his reliable mouth seems reluctant to comply. A trickle of dread slithers through me. I’m not ready to lose another parent, not yet. ‘But why now? Mum?’

They shoot a quick, meaningful glance at one another. Mum looks at me, serious.

‘Have you heard anything about this vile Stephen Wright character? I know how busy you are, but it’s been all over the news.’

‘Yes . . . no. I think so,’ I say, aware that I’m stammering. That was the last thing I was expecting.

‘I’m afraid I invested a chunk of my retirement savings in his organization,’ says Nick. ‘Fool that I am. It’s gone – kaput. If we get married we’ll at least improve our tax position.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, my hand flying out to meet Mum’s. ‘That’s awful.’

Mum’s jaw is clenched, her eyes filling.

‘Darling, please don’t worry. No one’s ill. We’ll get through this. But . . . we’re going to have to sell the house.’

I can feel the blood leaching from my face, my heart lurching. What a stupid irony: I spend so much time finding excuses not to come home, but when I find home may no longer exist it seems cataclysmic.

‘Can I help?’ I say, groping desperately for a solution. My hand is wrapped around the seat of the wooden kitchen chair, as if holding on tightly enough will stop it happening. ‘I’ve got some savings.’

‘No, of course not,’ she says. The thought of losing the fairly modest nest egg I’ve accumulated terrifies me, but I’d do it in a heartbeat.

‘I could sell my flat.’

‘No you couldn’t,’ she says firmly. ‘You need that security. You’re not . . . in any position.’

She edits herself, but I hear the rest of the sentence. My lifestyle is built on sand – it’s not actually my money.

‘Let’s not waste any more time talking about it,’ says Nick. ‘We’ll do what we can. At least if they track down this accountant and get it to court there might be some kind of class action against the organization.’

‘I really hope they find him,’ I say, the words dry and chalky in my mouth. I wish Patrick’s face would stop popping into my consciousness, all bright-eyed and righteous.

Marcus is in full James Bond mode tonight. He sent me coordinates – actual coordinates – for where we’re meeting, which Nick helped me decipher on his ancient desktop. I should never have asked him: it’s a bar at the top of a skyscraper in the City, yet another place where a glass of house wine will cost double figures. We watched a panorama of London roll out across the screen. ‘Makes me queasy just looking at it,’ Nick said drily, and I was filled with a surge of anger, an impotent longing to protect them.

Marcus is sitting by the window when I arrive, a half-drunk glass of red wine on the table. He springs up and encircles my waist, pulling me so tight against him that my organs feel like road kill. There’s something pulsing here, a force field vibrating around him. I’m not sure if it’s repelling or attracting me.

‘I missed you,’ he says, his voice low and guttural.

I’m too soft after the day I’ve had – soaked through with a tender sadness that’s painful but also reassuring – sometimes it’s good to feel something so completely, without any questions. I went up to my bedroom after lunch. It’s full of junk now, the wardrobe stuffed with old coats and shoes that Mum refuses to throw away even though the soles are paper-thin, but my single bed’s still there, covered in the old green bedspread I bought in Camden Lock when I was fourteen. I sat there, playing with the tassels, running them between my fingers like rosary beads, thinking about all the other times I’d done exactly that. It took a lot to stand up and leave.

‘I’m surprised you had time. Sounds like you were flat out.’

‘Doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you,’ he says, a strong hand caressing my thigh. It feels like ownership. Why am I being so snarly? I snatch his hand and place it on the table, then stroke his fingers to soften the gesture. I should tell him about today, but I can’t quite find the words. A small, proud part of me hates the idea he might think I’m asking for a loan.

‘Did you do a good job?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you save the deal?’ I say, something jagged in my voice. Am I asking him a question I haven’t been able to bear to ask myself? ‘That would be doing a good job, wouldn’t it?’

‘Long story. We don’t need to talk about it.’

‘Well excuse
me
– have you got somewhere to be?’

‘Let’s get you a drink,’ he says, pulling his hand away to signal for service.

Marcus says something discreet to the barman, who swiftly returns with an ice bucket and a couple of champagne flutes. He hands us each a glass. I hold it for a second, looking into its empty recesses.

‘So,’ says Marcus, signalling to the barman to pour. ‘We celebrating?’

I watch some of my clients doing this, driving round and round the culs-de-sac of their own minds, waiting for the perfect moment to have a child or quit a hateful job or pop the question. Frankly it’s boring. Boring and paralysing. I look into his eyes, flinty with concentration, a muscle in his jaw twitching. I should be grateful for his certainty. If there’s one thing today has illuminated in neon lights, it’s that there’s no such thing. We should enjoy the moments when we can plausibly kid ourselves that there is.

‘Yes. Yes!’ I say, bumping my glass against his. ‘Let’s rent the fridge, damn it.’

He leans across the table, kisses me like we’re naked. I try not to look around at who is close to us. I gently push him backwards, my hands spanning his broad chest.