Deviant (12 page)

The chat was the same, over and over.

You look so like your father
.

Sorry, what did you say?

What a change this must be
.

I cannot understand that accent! Hilarious!

How wonderful that you finally found your family
.

What? What are you saying?

Marlborough! You’ll love it
.

I didn’t catch that. You sound just like Billy Connolly!

Do say something Scotch–let me hear the brogue …!

Exactly like Billy Connolly! You just have to laugh!

No one mentioned her mother. Either no one knew about her or she was a dirty word. In the whirl of being presented like an object, Abigail could once again slip back into robot mode. There must have been a reason her mother distrusted her father. But perhaps it was only resentment. While £50,000 was no small sum, this party alone probably cost half that. Maybe Sophie resented the fact that Grahame could have always taken care of Abigail without a second thought. If so,
why the hell would Sophie have kept Abigail from him? Why the hell would she have left her to Nieve? And Abigail wasn’t angry at Nieve; she
loved
Nieve. She loved Nieve more than she would ever love Sophie Thom. But was it that simple? Had her mother been as misguided as Becky and her friends? Was Abigail’s fate all some part of some stupid protest against rich people?

Melanie, a tireless and gracious host, tugged Abigail this way and that and she played her part as best she could. It was surreal, perfect. Underneath, Abigail was only left with two desires: she wanted this to end, and she wanted to find Becky.

Then her father reappeared.

“This is Matthew,” he said, tugging a lanky boy alongside him. “He and your sister are friends.”

Abigail blinked. The guy was gorgeous, over six feet tall, with wavy dark hair that defied his Fudge hair product (she could smell it) and fell into his eyes—

Jesus Christ
.

Matthew was Stick? Stick was Matthew? This guy?

Her pulse quickened. Her right hand was damp, she realized to her embarrassment, as she shook his. Those puppyish eyes flickered. He smiled politely.

She lowered her gaze. He wore smart trousers and a crisp shirt with a couple of buttons undone. She found herself staring at what she could see of his chest. Tanned. No hair. She shifted her gaze to the shoulders she’d not noticed the night before. Broad and straight.
Inappropriate
. She didn’t know where the hell to look.

“Although Becky calls him Stick on account of his height,” her father said.

“That’s right,” Matthew said evenly. He continued to stare back at Abigail as if she were a stranger, and released his hand. “I grew to this height at twelve. Used to be even more of a rake.” His stare hardened, as if commanding:
Don’t say anything, not a thing
.

“Nice to meet you,” she croaked.

The words stuck. Time stopped. Everything in the room, everything but his eyes, faded.

“Well, you’ve certainly filled out now!” Grahame exclaimed, snapping her out of her trance. “And this is Matthew’s father, my oldest and dearest friend, Mr. Howard.”

Abigail forced herself to shake hands with a shorter, sterner, grown-up version of Stick. His father’s hand was even clammier than hers.

“Friends since kindergarten, Dennis and me,” Grahame said jovially. “Just like our kids. Dennis is the Lieutenant Governor of California.”

“Oh! I heard you on the radio,” she said automatically, mostly to distract herself from Stick. Bad move. How could she have heard him on the radio? She hadn’t even been to the States when he’d been interviewed. And she couldn’t explain what had really happened, that Becky had played the interview as Exhibit A of his evil ways.

Stick’s father didn’t seem to notice. He smiled with a politician’s mock humility. “What did you think?”

“About unemployment and poverty? I thought you were
right. Something has to be done.” Abigail’s heart thudded in her chest. When she was this nervous, she knew it was always best just to stick to the truth.

“Smart girl,” he said. “My son seems to disagree.”

All eyes were on Stick now. He did a duck and dive: “I’m gonna go find Becky.”

“I’ll come with you!” Abigail knew she sounded over-enthusiastic. “Nice to meet you, Howard—I mean Mr. Howard.”

Mr. Howard nodded. She followed Stick, but couldn’t help glance back at the two men. They were already huddled in deep and serious conversation.

T
HE SHOES WERE A
nightmare to walk in. Abigail wriggled each step, and felt ridiculous. How are legs supposed to do their job with a four-inch spike of red leather under each foot?
Shite
, that reminded her. The shoes were making her butt point upwards like a horny simian. She banished monkey-mating images from her mind and tried her best not to stare at the butt in front of her. It was difficult, though. The shape of him! Feck, now
she
was a man-monkey.

She focused on the carpeted stairs. She couldn’t believe the gooey feeling. So yes, Stick was model-perfect and rich. But he was a vandal and in love with her sister. Annoyance with herself turned to anger at
him
. And now he was already ten paces ahead, halfway down the hall toward Becky’s room. She would not be weakened by such stupidities. What did she care?

“Hey, wait!” she called. She stumbled, losing a shoe but still hobbling ahead.

He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you leave Becky alone?” Abigail said. “You’re going to get her into trouble.”

Those eyes. For God’s sake. Stick paused thoughtfully. “We’re all in trouble,” he said.

She sniffed. Well, no wonder he was in love with her. They were both riddle-ridden wankers. He knocked on the door, uninterested in further conversation.

Becky opened immediately. “Hey you two, how’s the party? You getting to know each other?” She jerked her head toward Stick. “He cleans up all right, don’t you think?”

“Apparently I lead you astray, Becky,” Stick said.

“Aw. So you do …” Becky kissed Stick full on the mouth. “And I lead you.” She slapped him gently on the cheek, but her touch made both sides of his face turn red.

Abigail’s stomach churned. So, what
was
between these two? It angered her that her sister got to kiss those lips and she didn’t. And it angered her that it angered her.

Becky had made a tiny effort to dress nicely, in silk trousers and a shoulder-less top. Even with the tiny effort, she was so much more beautiful than anyone at the party, certainly much prettier than Abigail.
There’s no point in competing
, Abigail realized. She would never win. And why would she even want to, anyway? She
didn’t
want to win. Win what?

“I’m sorry I threw you in the deep end last night,” Becky said, ignoring Stick.

“It’s okay,” Abigail answered, still wondering about the kiss.

“It’s not. But I won’t do that again. Now let’s go and do our family duty, shall we?”

Becky threw an arm over each of their shoulders and escorted them down the stairs. On the way, Stick leant down and picked up Abigail’s missing shoe, passing it to her.

As if I’m Cinderella
, she couldn’t help but think. Too bad that was a lie, as well.

W
HEN THEY REACHED THE
garden, Grahame started to clink his glass with a spoon. Abigail asked a waiter if she could have a pineapple juice. The answer was no. He filled her glass with champagne instead. She’d never tasted champagne before. She sipped, keen to discover what all the fuss was about, and winced.
Yuck
. Stick veered off into the crowd. Becky led Abigail over to their father.

“As you all know, we’re here to celebrate the arrival of my daughter,” Grahame announced. His eyes were moist. His voice was thick. “Usually when you say that, the new arrival comes in a swaddling blanket and diapers. Well, as you can see, this one is potty trained.”

The crowd burst out laughing.

Abigail’s face flushed. Everyone,
everyone
in the room was now imagining her sitting on a potty. Some of them were imagining her in a nappy. A smaller amount had probably moved on from this image to consider her in her underwear. She looked down at her stupidly tiny dress. Perhaps they could
see
her underwear. Perhaps Stick could see it. She fidgeted with her bra strap, then touched her dress to make
sure the line of her new lacy pants (now giving her the wedgie of the century) were within the boundaries of the red material. Stick was looking at her as she fidgeted. He probably had the nappy image in his head. A poo-filled nappy.
AGH!

“I didn’t know she existed till three days ago,” Grahame continued. “As some of you know already, her mother was very unwell. I’m sad to say, she spent most of her adult life in institutions. She never told me about this wonderful gift …” He was tearing up.

Abigail smiled nervously. She’d never mastered crocodile tears, even in emergency situations like at US Immigration. She wouldn’t be able to do it now, especially with all the underwear concerns bashing around in her screwed-up head. Becky must have noticed, because she grabbed the shaky hand at the bra strap and shoved it down between them, holding it tight.

“I don’t know everything about her yet, but I know enough. Family is like that. I can tell that despite the difficulties she’s had to endure, Abigail is a sensible, wonderful girl.”

Sensible and wonderful
. Not the adjectives Abigail would have used, but like he said, he didn’t know everything about her.

A few people clapped.

“I feel so blessed that she’s my daughter.” He wiped his eyes.

Becky’s hand fell away. Abigail almost shouted,
Becky’s your daughter, too
, but bit her tongue.

“So, everyone raise your glasses to my daughter Abigail!”

“To Abigail!” everyone chanted in response, everyone but Becky.

“And here’s lookin’ up yer kilt!” Grahame Johnstone
attempted to joke in his best brogue. There were a few nervous laughs. He downed his champagne in one gulp.

Thank God
. It was over. As the crowd applauded, Becky had already slipped away. Before Abigail could chase after her, Melanie appeared to continue parading her around.

A
BIGAIL ANSWERED QUESTIONS AS
best she could, repeating herself fifty percent of the time due to her stupid accent. But she could only concentrate on one thing: Stick and Becky, sitting close together on a bench in a dark corner of the garden. For the first time in her life, Abigail thought she might be going a little mad. She recalled late night parties at the camp on Holy Loch where the adults would get very drunk. There’d be toasts. Then guitars cracked out, then a heated political debate, then often an entertaining fight. Everyone would love
everyone
, except for a couple who would head out onto the main road to argue loudly. It would be hours before people went to bed.

Here, it was different. Eleven
P.M
., and the party was over. People had to drive home.

One hundred double-sided air-kisses later, the house was empty—except for Mr. Howard and Stick, who’d since vanished upstairs with Becky.

“Matthew!” Mr. Howard hollered from the door. “Time to go!”

Stick bounced down a few seconds later. He looked pleased, flushed, rumpled. Had he and Becky …?
Who cares?

“Thanks, Mr. Johnstone. And nice to meet you, Abigail.”

Abigail extended her hand to shake Stick’s. He leaned in for
an air-kiss. She quickly corrected her mistake and withdrew her hand at the same time as
he
withdrew the air-kiss option and extended his hand.

He laughed. “Let’s just nod at each other, cool?” His tone was dry, cheeky. “Great to see, er, meet you.” Before he turned to follow his father out, he winked at her.

Mmm
.

S
TOMACH STILL CHURNING
, A
BIGAIL
watched as the hired staff whisked away leftovers and tidied the house. By midnight, she’d never have guessed there’d been a party at all.

“You did great,” Grahame pronounced, as the last of them exited. “A proper little Johnstone. I’m so proud and happy.”

Abigail found herself rubbing her eyes, too frazzled to question the compliment. She’d never been called a proper little anything before. “Thanks, Grahame … Dad. And you too, Melanie. It was lovely. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can get some sleep!” Melanie yawned—an actress yawn, with an exaggerated stretch to match. “That’s what I’m going to do.” She headed upstairs to the master bedroom.

Grahame was already heading to his den. “Night!” he called, closing the door him.

Abigail raced upstairs knocked on Becky’s door.

“It’s me!” she whispered. “Can you come to my room?”

“Okay,” Becky’s muffled voice replied. “Just give me a minute.”

Abigail shut herself in her bedroom and opened her Nike backpack. Suddenly she was wide awake. She took out the
grimy Mitchell Library books, placing them on the shelf in the corner. She dug past the plastic bag that contained her social work file: #50837. Finally, she removed the photograph of her mother, the letter, and the money, spreading them out on the bed.

Becky barged in wearing a bikini. “Midnight swim?”

“Sit down for a bit first.” Abigail patted the mattress. “I need to show you some things.”

Becky immediately zeroed in on the photograph. “Is that her?” She plucked it from the bed, almost reverently, and sat down beside Abigail, legs crossed.

“Aye. In Glasgow years ago.”

Becky covered herself with the duvet. “Can hardly make her out,” she whispered.

“I enlarged it. The only one I have, I’m afraid. Do you have any?”

“Are you kidding? He
erased
her. I always knew she existed, but she was off-limits. All he ever told me was that she was nuts. Said she heard voices and thought everyone was out to get her. Used to attack him and set fire to things. Hadn’t brought her up in years until three days ago, when he told me about you. Even then, he said he didn’t want to talk about that ‘crazy woman.’ ” Becky squinted to look more closely at the photo. “She’s pretty, I think.”