A Daughter's Secret (15 page)

Lysette’s a properly good mover – she somehow manages to lose herself in the music without looking like a pretentious idiot. I try and copy her, but my feet feel like flat irons. ‘You OK?’ she shouts, and I nearly drag her off to the loos and pour it all out, but I don’t want to give Bella a clear shot. It’s more than that: I don’t feel like I deserve a best friend like her, not now I’ve been so two-faced. I wish I’d told her in France, but I was terrified of the spell being broken. Please let her understand, please let her not hate me after tomorrow.

I force myself to take another sip of my proper drink, then give her a spontaneous hug. Being no fun is way worse than being a liar. I make my feet start moving and my mouth start smiling, keeping my gaze tight on the square of sweaty bodies. Lysette catches the eye of a dark-haired man – he’s old, thirty at least – and soon they’re dancing together. I miss Jim so much it actually aches: I don’t want to be a secret.

‘Going to the bog,’ shouts Lysette into my ear. ‘You coming?’

‘Do you like him?’ I say when we’re crammed into a smelly cubicle. He’s been trying to touch her, even though it was proper dance music, not a Whitney Houston smooch.

‘He’s sexy.’

‘He is OLD,’ I say, and we collapse into the kind of giggles that seize hold of you and won’t let go.

‘Just because he hasn’t got a mate!’

‘What, like Terry Wogan?’

And we’re off again, stumbling back to the dance floor in fits of giggles, gripping clammy palms to keep our balance. But now it’s not safe. Now Lorcan’s there, dancing like he’s twenty years younger to music he hates. His whole leg kicks up, clearing a space around him, his eyes wild. Bella’s there too, laughing and clapping, egging him on. He looks like a total fool. I stand there, frozen, wishing I could disappear. When he grabs a champagne bottle, starts spinning round and spraying it across the room, a bouncer rushes up to him.

‘Is Lorcan OK?’ says Lysette.

He’s arguing with the bouncer now, shoving a finger in his face. I can’t bear it. I push my way over there.

‘He’s just excited,’ I say. ‘He’s being stupid because it’s his big night. I’ll look after him. I take full responsibility. He’s my dad.’

Lorcan turns to me, his pupils tiny pinpricks. He doesn’t even look like my dad: it’s like someone’s bodysnatched him.

‘Don’t you dare talk about me like that,’ he says, his words slurring. ‘You stupid bitch.’ He turns to Bella. ‘Get them out of here,’ he says, then turns back to me. ‘Go on, get out. You’re a fucking child. I should never have had you here.’

‘Lorcan, don’t,’ I say, trying not to let his words break my skin and burst inside me. ‘You’re drunk. Let’s go home.’

He looks at me with an expression of cold contempt, then turns away. Now he’s dancing again, his pipe-cleaner limbs flying in all directions, until the bouncer pins them to him and starts manhandling him towards the exit.

I don’t know whether I should follow him. How is it possible to love someone this much and hate them just as much?

Chapter Eight

Gemma’s iPad, wafer-thin and shiny, gleams with newness. Her eyes track across the fast-moving screen, her finger expertly swiping at it; she’s totally oblivious to me watching her from the doorway. A hot gust of anger sweeps across me, but I swiftly rationalize it: if I can’t rationalize it, I can’t be here with her. It’s not her fault that Mum and Nick are scrabbling around to try and keep a roof over their heads. And they’re just a pinprick, one of a nameless mass of people battling impossible odds. I start to think of all the darker things that Patrick’s implied, then slam the brakes on. None of it is Gemma’s fault.

I look at her again, chapped bottom lip caught between teeth that protrude a little, her bony body swamped by a baggy grey T-shirt.
Pow!
it says, in big neon-yellow letters.

‘I’ve come to prise you away from Facebook,’ I say, smiling down at her.

There’s a deliberate pause before she looks up, her eyes slowly deigning to meet mine. They’re slate: cold and flat.

‘I’m not on Facebook. Facebook’s lame.’

‘I suppose it is a bit 2009,’ I say, keeping the smile on my face. ‘Come on, let’s go through.’

Gemma sits on the sofa, places the iPad next to her reverentially, her bag discarded in the corner. Now I’m getting a closer look I can see it’s literally brand new, a model that only dropped last week. Her ragged nails are unexpectedly red, the lacquer chipped and lumpy. It makes me think of Mum, how much of an impostor she was when she tried to enter the world of grooming. She’s comfortable now, muddy and comfortable. At least she was. Gemma pulls and nibbles at them, avoiding my gaze. I wait it out.

‘Don’t you have your twenty questions prepared?’ she snaps. ‘“Gemma, tell me about your fa-ther.”’

‘I don’t prepare questions,’ I say. ‘We don’t know how we’re going to feel before we arrive in the session. I think it’s better to let it unfold as we go.’

‘How modern. Very 2018.’

‘Oh I’m cutting edge,’ I say, but she won’t raise a smile. I wait a second, watch her. ‘Do you
want
me to ask you about your father? We talked about him a lot last week, didn’t we?’

‘No. Why – do you want to talk about yours?’

We need to deal with this. I try not to get bogged down by the internal acid of self-judgement.

‘Did it bother you that I talked about my dad?’

‘No. I just thought it was a bit pathetic.’

‘I wasn’t asking for your sympathy, Gemma, I think it’s important you know that. I don’t need you to look after me. I was just trying to let you know that I understand how complicated it can be with dads. And that sometimes we can end up feeling responsible for things that aren’t our fault.’

‘That’s
your
dad,’ she spits back. ‘He’s so obviously a loser. My dad takes responsibility for EVERYTHING. He runs the whole business and then he has to come back and run our house too. He looks after all of us.’

‘That must make it extra hard, him not being here.’

She looks at me, unable to hide the hurt in her eyes.

‘That police guy . . .’

‘Patrick. Yes, we need to talk about that too. It shouldn’t have happened.’

‘I know the police are after us. I’m not a baby.’

‘Of course. But you shouldn’t have been here, and neither should he. This is your safe place, Gemma, and it must feel less safe once you’ve seen the police – invading it.’ She shrugs, face set. I continue, trying to stay soft within the hard point that I must make to her. ‘That’s why we have appointments. We need boundaries – rules. It was sweet that you wanted to give me a present, but you can’t just turn up on the doorstep when you fancy.’

‘Tell you who really wants to give you a present. Patrick!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He totally fancies you. It’s so obvious.’

‘Gemma—’

‘He was checking out your arse! Like this.’ She swivels her head a hundred and eighty degrees, widening her eyes, jaw dropping open, then smirks at me. I laugh, I can’t help it.

‘How did it make you feel, coming face to face with the police here? It made me feel very protective of you. I don’t want the outside to come in.’

‘I’m not traumatized, if that’s what you’re asking. Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Is that what you think? That I
want
you to be traumatized?’

‘Yeah. So you can fix it. That’s your job. It’s what gives you the raging horn, isn’t it?’

I smile, pause to watch her. Is this what it’s like between her and Annie – so much unsaid, communication played out via cleverly aimed poison darts? When I spoke to Annie, told her about the present, I wondered if it would set off alarm bells, but she affected the same world-weary acceptance she displays towards any revelation about her daughter’s behaviour.

‘What made you turn up unannounced? You’re a clever girl, Gemma. You know what the rules are. I might not have even been here.’

‘I wanted to give you your present, but you obviously don’t like washing.’

‘You don’t need to waste your money giving me presents. I want to be here with you.’

‘Er, correction: you’re
paid
to be here with me.’

‘We’ve already talked about that. I’ve got plenty of clients. If I didn’t want to see you, I wouldn’t.’

She draws herself up, a snooty look on her face.

‘But that would be hay-ly unprofessional,’ she says, in a la-di-da voice. She’s a bit of a ham, I’m starting to realize, the posturing a way of deflecting anything that comes too close.

‘Gemma, listen to what I just said. It’s important. I
want
to be here with you.’ I look her in the eyes as I say it. I watch as her shoulders collapse down like the starch has been washed out of her: something’s hitting home.

‘OK,’ she says, voice small.

‘Do you believe me? You don’t have to just agree.’

‘My dad wants to be with me all the time,’ she says emphatically. ‘That’s why he takes me with him, even when he shouldn’t.’

My senses switch up a gear, the atmosphere shifting and sharpening between us. It’s one of those times when her mentioning his name almost conjures him up, a living ghost that’s haunting the room. She looks at me, face twisted and defiant, waiting for my next move. I’m not the enemy, I silently intone, mind racing back over Patrick’s words. Could he really drag her up onto the stand? Maybe it would be a softer landing if her secrets spilled out here.

‘What, like when you went to New York?’

‘He takes me everywhere, Mia. You think because he’s gone, he doesn’t want to have me there.’ She reaches for the iPad as she says it. She’s gripping it, fingers of one hand trailing languidly across the surface until it lights up. Where is ‘everywhere’? ‘But sometimes things are the complete opposite of how they look.’

‘I don’t think he doesn’t want to spend time with you. I’m sure he loves you, and I know how much you love him.’

‘Don’t just say that!’ she snarls, face flushed. ‘You’re so fucking horrible about him. He loves me more than anyone in the whole world, but you don’t understand about that, because your dad is such a loser.’

I pause, try and give us a moment to breathe. The truth is, I deserve her anger. I shouldn’t have handed her these weapons.

‘I’ve been trying to reflect back to you what you’ve told me. And yes, like I said, I think it’s tough for you if you end up feeling like you have to act a certain way to earn his love. And telling you that little bit about my dad – that was me trying to tell you I feel empathy, not just sympathy. I’m sitting beside you, metaphorically and in real life. But I’m very sorry if it made our relationship confusing. Like we said earlier, boundaries are a very important part of the process we’re in together. They’re what keep us both safe.’

I wish I still believed it was that simple. She watches me, eyes narrow. She’s fingering the screen again, drawing my gaze to it. I deliberately look away from the green bubbles of messages that fill it. I won’t let her lead us.

‘That’s the new one, isn’t it?’ I say, trying to work out if she’s actually trying to show them to me.

‘Yeah, no. I’ve had it a while.’

‘You can’t have done. They were only released last week.’

‘Not in New York!’

I look at her, waiting for her to back down from this obvious lie. New York. Is that where he is? Did he take her so she’d be able to imagine him there once he’d gone?

‘I’m not sure why you’re saying that. Is it because you don’t want me to know your family’s still spending money? It’s not what I’m asking.’

‘It was a present.’

‘I guessed that. They’re a lot of pocket money. I’m kind of jealous.’

‘Why, can’t you afford one?’

‘I could, but it’d feel extravagant. Does it feel extravagant to you?’

She shrugs, her pert little nose wrinkling at the very question. Of course it won’t be; I’m guessing possessions are the one thing she’s never wanted for. I feel a chill: the way she’s fondling it isn’t about the machine; I’m sure it’s about how it got to her.

‘I could be wrong, but I feel like you want me to see those messages.’

She quickly turns it face down.

‘God, Mia, you’re so nosy! Dad says that’s what you are. You’re a professional nosy parker. Big sticky beak.’

She’s miming a Pinocchio nose, grinning at me, but there’s no warmth in her smile. It’s more like contempt.
Dad says
. That chill starts to slither its way through me again.
They’ll know who you are by now.
I take a breath. It’s me who needs to keep control in here – not her, not Patrick. One place I can still guarantee our safety is between these four walls.

‘I didn’t know you and your dad had talked about therapy.’ She stares determinedly out of the window. ‘Has he had it?’

‘My dad does not need therapy! Stop being so spiteful about him.’ I wait it out, wanting to see where she’ll go next. ‘It was school,’ she says eventually, voice low. ‘They wanted us to come.’

‘Your teachers thought your family should come for therapy?’

Why didn’t Annie tell me this? Gemma nods, almost imperceptibly, curling in on herself like she’s protecting herself from the whole damn lot of us.

‘Why do you think that was?’ I ask as gently as I can.

‘Dad knew I didn’t need it. We’ve got each other to talk to. I can tell him anything.’

‘Can you?’ I look back to the message-laden iPad, then at her. She doesn’t take the bait.

‘Yeah, and him me. I knew about Janey for ages.’

‘Who’s Janey?’

‘Him and Mum nearly broke up, but we got through it. He really needed someone to talk to then.’

Anger whooshes up inside me like a pilot light igniting. I look at the baggy swathes of fabric that fall around her too-skinny frame, the breasts that are barely budding. It feels like she’s split in two; forced to fake an emotional maturity she doesn’t possess to win his toxic confidences, all the time stifling her impending womanhood. It must be terrifying to her, the thought of her body telling her that her time is up. From the vantage point she’s been forced to see it from, adult life must look like a dark playground with no rules.

‘What do you tell him, Gemma? I’m hearing what he tells you, but what about when it’s your turn?’