The Lying Game (13 page)

Her heart thudded as she knocked on the kitchen door. A grimy net curtain covered the glass, so all she could see as she waited was a vague shadow on the other side.
Florence’s
mother.
The woman who’d raised Nell as her own.

She stared in disbelief as the door opened.

She’d have recognized Zoey anywhere.

It was as if Florence was staring back at her: the same grey eyes, the same unruly blonde hair, the same full mouth. She was tall, though not as tall as Florence; and she had a round
voluptuousness Harriet guessed Florence would inherit in a few more years. If she’d seen Zoey’s photograph, there would have been no need for DNA tests. Her genes ran through Florence
like the name in a stick of rock.

‘I know who you are,’ Zoey said faintly. ‘You look just like her.’

‘You’re Florence’s mother,’ she returned.

‘No. I’m
Nell’s
mother.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Of course. But—’

‘You’d better come in.’

The woman turned without waiting for a response, her strange pink skirt billowing around her bare feet. Harriet followed her down the crowded hall to the kitchen, stepping around towering blocks
of cardboard boxes and half-clothed mannequins and hat racks. She had no idea if Zoey was moving house, or if it was always like this.

‘Tea?’ Zoey said.

‘You don’t have to go to any trouble—’

‘You’re here now.’

She sat at the cramped kitchen table, suppressing the urge to wipe the sticky seat first. Her pantry at home was larger than this entire room. Every surface was covered with the detritus of
family life: heaps of envelopes and magazines, open boxes of cereal, dirty crockery, a sweatshirt – Nell’s? – thrown over the back of a chair. Fabric swatches were strewn like
party streamers across the top of everything; beads and buttons and ribbons tangled across the kettle, the stove, even the taps beside the sink. Harriet didn’t know how anyone could live in
such clutter. At home, her granite surfaces gleamed, their virgin surfaces unblemished by anything beyond a few expensive chrome appliances, most of them bought by Oliver. Even the boys knew better
than to dump their backpacks on the worktop the way Nell had.

She searched for something neutral to say. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Since I was pregnant with Nell – ’

She broke off abruptly. Harriet smiled sadly. ‘It’s OK. I know what you meant. I keep doing the same thing.’

‘How do you take your tea?’

‘Black, no sugar.’

Zoey fished a couple of mugs from the sink and gave them a quick rinse, threw in the teabags, then added three spoonfuls of sugar to one of the mugs before pouring in the boiling water. No
teapot. Harriet tried not to wince.

She handed Harriet her tea, then wrapped the trailing sleeves of her rather grubby purple cardigan around herself and sat down.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked. Her tone was neither hostile nor friendly. Despite her ditzy appearance and chaotic house, Harriet suddenly realized she wasn’t a pushover, nor
someone to be taken lightly. Not where Nell was concerned.

‘I know how hard this is for you,’ she said carefully. ‘I’m probably the only person who does. Nell’s your daughter, but she’s my daughter too. You must see
how I couldn’t just walk away from that.’

‘But it isn’t about you, is it?’

She sounded just like Oliver.

Harriet sighed. ‘Look, I understand you want to protect Nell. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt her, or Florence. But don’t you think they need to know the truth about
who they are? Nell has a father and three brothers. Grandparents. Cousins. Doesn’t she deserve to be allowed to make a choice about knowing them?’

‘If you force this on her now, you’re taking that choice away from her.’

‘She doesn’t even know about me. What choice is that?’

‘And . . . Florence.’ Zoey stumbled slightly saying her name. ‘Are you giving her the same choice? Have you told
her?’

She flushed. ‘Not yet. My husband thought we should wait. But—’

‘Your husband sounds like a good man.’

‘He is. He’s a wonderful father. If Nell just met him . . .’

Zoey’s jaw set stubbornly in a way she recognized only too well. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way, Harriet, but I’m not going to change my mind. In a few years, when Nell
is old enough to understand the implications, perhaps then she’ll want to meet you all.’ Her voice softened slightly. ‘Look, you seem like a nice woman. I’m sure
you’ve done a wonderful job with Florence. I’m sure she’s happy and well looked-after. That’s all I need to know.’

‘You must want to see Florence,’ she insisted. ‘You’re her
mother
!’

‘No, Harriet.
You
are.’

Harriet put down her cup and stood up, at a loss for words. Zoey wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She’d thought this would be so much easier; that the other woman would be so
grateful she’d taken the initiative, so desperate to hear all she could about Florence, that somehow they’d figure out between them what to do next, because they both really wanted the
same thing. But she was so . . . so
calm
about it all. As if it didn’t really matter; as if it hadn’t changed
anything.

She turned back to Zoey as she reached the kitchen door. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For at least hearing me out.’

Zoey nodded and Harriet opened the door.

And came face to face with Nell.

Nell ran a finger over her swollen lips, unable to suppress a secret smile.
Her first kiss.
Her first real one, that is; she’d snogged a few boys under the
school stairwell, but they’d been about as erotic as being licked by Richard’s Labrador, and nearly as sloppy. Not so much a kiss as a face-bath. Frankly, she’d take the dog any
day.

But
this.
She hugged herself, still glowing. That had been a
kiss.
The kind of kiss you read about in books. A Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet kiss. Kate and Leo. The kind of kiss
that made her nipples tingle and her body throb. She wanted more. More kisses. More
everything.

Her Nikes felt like they were hovering three inches above the pavement as she walked home. She shouldn’t have bunked off again, but no way could she have sat through double French after
that kiss. She just wanted to go home and lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling and relive every amazing second. She’d tell Mum she had her period or something.
Sweet fifteen and
she’d been kissed!

She ran her hand along the railings of the houses she passed, humming to herself. She ought to feel more confused about this, or guilty, or something. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
It just felt too
right.

She’d never thought she was into girls. It had never crossed her mind. She had posters of Robert Pattinson on her wall, and she thought the lead singer in McFly was hot. She’d never
really looked at the other girls when they changed or showered together, not in that way. She couldn’t imagine kissing any of them, even now.

But when Teri kissed her, it was different. It wasn’t about Teri being a girl. It was about Teri being
Teri

She knew Teri wasn’t gay, either. She was sixteen already, in the year above Nell, and she’d been out with quite a few boys at school. She’d lost her virginity to one of them,
a really hot black basketball player in Year 12; she’d told her all about it, every last detail, and the two of them had giggled over it together.
It’s true,
Teri had said,
what they say about black men.
She’d laughed with her, not really understanding but happy to be included in Teri’s confidence.

And Teri was beautiful, there was no question about that. She was one of the school idols, acknowledged as pretty and popular and smart. Everyone knew she was one to watch. It would’ve
been easy to get a crush on her, but Nell never had. They were just friends. Both of them were on all the school sports teams, they ran cross-country and played net-ball, they had a lot in common.
She’d stayed over at Teri’s house a thousand times and nothing had ever happened. She’d never even considered it might.

She crossed the road onto her street. She still didn’t know how it had started. They’d been practising netball in the gym during break, and then they’d gone outside to sneak a
cigarette, perching on the high grass bank behind the school building, out of sight. They’d been sharing a single Marlboro between them, passing it back and forth, huddled together on the
grass. And then, somehow, the cigarette was gone and they were kissing. She didn’t know who’d initiated it. It’d all happened so naturally. One minute they were talking and
laughing and the next . . .

Teri tasted sweet, despite the cigarettes. Like honey, or wine. They’d fallen back on the grass, still kissing, stroking each other’s bodies over the T-shirts and gym shorts, and
then Teri’s hand was somehow beneath her top, slipping into her bra, finding her small pink nipple and making her dizzy with wanting. She’d reached for Teri, too, tentatively at first,
seeking out her breast, feeling its weight and softness, the two of them breathing each other in.

After a long moment, they’d broken apart and looked at each other, and laughed in shared, nervous pleasure. They’d kissed again. And she’d known it wasn’t just her, Teri
felt it too.

Her phone beeped. She smiled when she saw Teri’s name on her message screen.
U free tonite?

Yes
, she texted back.
Where?

Evry1 out. Come over. 7?

C U then. xx

She reached the back of the house and fished around in her bag for her keys, still smiling. A moment later, the kitchen door opened and she nearly ran into one of Mum’s customers as she
came out.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Nell said, stepping out of the way. She slid her phone into her jeans and hitched her bag onto her shoulder. ‘Mum? I wasn’t feeling great, so I came home
early. I’m going upstairs for a bit, OK?’

The woman didn’t move. She was just
staring
, like she’d seen a ghost.

‘Harriet,’ Mum said, touching the woman’s arm. ‘Harriet,
no
.’

There was a note of panic in her voice. Nell had never seen her mother look so upset. And the other woman, you’d think she was about to burst into tears.

‘I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time,’ she said, gazing at Nell intensely. ‘I’m Harriet.’

‘OK,’ Nell said warily. ‘Mum? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing, darling. Harriet’s an . . . an old friend. She was just leaving.’

Nell didn’t buy that for a minute. She gave the woman a sharp, assessing glance. There was something familiar about her, though she couldn’t remember meeting her before. She
didn’t look like any of Mum’s friends, or even a client. She was wearing a stiff grey business suit, her dark hair pulled back in a neat French plait, and she had tiny diamond studs in
her ears. She wasn’t wearing make-up, but her short nails were polished and well cared for, and there wasn’t a single scuff mark on her shoes. Nell adored her mother’s funky,
eclectic look, but she had to admit there had been times, especially at school events, when she’d wished Mum looked just a little bit more like this woman.

‘Do I, like, know you or something?’ Nell asked, puzzled.

‘Something like that,’ the woman said faintly.

‘Harriet—’

The woman turned towards Mum. ‘Zoey, please. I can’t just
leave
.’

‘Look, I’m starving,’ Nell said, suddenly bored with their adult drama. ‘I’m going to make myself a sandwich.’

She politely pushed past them into the hallway. Whatever crazy stuff was going on between Mum and this woman, she didn’t want any part of it. She wanted to go upstairs and close her eyes
and think about Teri.

She scrabbled around in the kitchen for a clean plate, gave up and settled for one that was at least clean
ish
– she smiled inwardly:
camp clean,
Richard called it when
they’d first gone camping a few summers ago – and made herself a peanut-butter sandwich. She could hear Mum and the other woman talking intently in the hallway, though she
couldn’t make out what they were saying beyond a few disjointed snatches of conversation.
Just want to talk to her . . . promise not to . . . five minutes, that’s all . . .

She heard them move down the hall.

‘Nell,’ Mum called, sounding tense. ‘Can you come in here a minute?’

She wandered into the sitting room, munching her sandwich. ‘What?’

‘Harriet and I thought you’d like to join us,’ Mum said.

‘OK,’ she said thickly through a mouthful of peanut butter.

‘I used to work near here,’ the woman said, leaning forward on the sofa. ‘My husband and I own the Green Machine on Upper Street.’

Nell leaned against the wall and nodded. ‘Yeah. I know it. Cool.’

‘We moved to America about twelve years ago,’ the woman added. ‘We have a daughter the . . . the same age as you, Florence, and three younger boys, Sam, George, and
Charlie.’ She fumbled in her handbag and thrust a photograph at Nell. ‘Here. That’s them with my husband, Oliver, when we were at Nantucket last summer.’

She wiped a hand on her jeans and took the photo. She had no idea why a total stranger was showing her pictures of her kids, but whatever. She could play along for five minutes if it meant Mum
not asking questions about why she was home in the middle of the day.

‘They look nice,’ she said politely, returning the photograph.

‘We live in Vermont,’ the woman added eagerly. ‘They call it the Green Mountain State. It’s quite like England, though we get a lot more snow. Have you ever skied,
Nell?’

She shrugged. ‘Not many mountains round here.’

‘I’m sure you’d like it if you tried it. We go snow-shoeing in the winter, and the boys have even tried ice-climbing. Do you like sports?’

‘I’m on most of the teams at school.’

‘Really?’ She sounded as thrilled as if Nell had just said she was an Olympic medalist. ‘I used to be on every team at school when I was your age! What d’you like best,
Nell?’