A Daughter's Secret (16 page)

‘I can tell him anything.’

‘Like what?’

She looks at me, styling it out.

‘Clue’s in the question. They’re secrets.’ I look back, wait. ‘Anyway, him and Janey are just friends.’

‘But it nearly broke him and your mum up?’

‘FWB,’ she says, almost rapping. ‘Friends with benefits. We need different things from different people. You can’t expect to get everything from one person. If you love someone, set them free, that’s what Dad says. But Mum can’t understand that. Doesn’t have the nous.’

I cringe so much when she tongue-twists his middle-aged phrases. I look up at the clock, aware we’ve got only a few minutes left. She knew that too, I’m sure: she wouldn’t have told me any of this without a get-out clause.

‘I know you like being close to your dad, but it has to have been hard to hear those things. I wouldn’t have had a clue what to say to him, if I’d been you. Knowing I couldn’t share it with my mum without it hurting her.’

Gemma shrugs, leaning down to grab her rucksack, sliding the gleaming machine inside. It’s halfway in, face up, when she looks to me again. I look, I can’t help it.
Love you, babes
, says the top one.
13.24.
It’s 13.45 now. ‘Babes’ – is that a girl thing? What if he really is using her to move evidence around for him? I realize I’m shaking. I want to bolt the door, stop her going back out there into a world more dangerous than she could, or should, even know.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. Again. It wasn’t hard at all!’

I can’t hold it in.

‘Gemma, it’s not right for you to have to keep secrets for him. He’s got adults he can talk to. You should be his daughter, not his best friend. He should be protecting you from his adult problems.’

Not his pseudo mistress is what I’m really thinking. That’s how those creeping tendrils of adult need feel, even if there’s nothing as stark or undeniable as physical touch.

‘Janey loves films,’ says Gemma, zipping up her rucksack. ‘When I went to her apartment we watched
Pretty Woman
. Julia Roberts is a hooker, nothing like in
Eat, Pray, Love
.’

She stands up, gives me an empty smile.

‘Why don’t you sit back down? We can run over a few minutes. This doesn’t feel like the right place to finish.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got to go and see someone now.’

‘It’s a school day.’

Can she hear the fear in my voice? I breathe deeply, internally lower my pitch.

‘Yeah,
at
school. Take a chill pill, Mia!’

She’s angry again; it’s coming off her in waves. She’s angry, and she’s lying.

‘What you just told me is a big deal. If you want to stay and talk more about how it felt to know that about your dad, we’ve got time.’

She was headed for the door, but she stops now, perches unexpectedly on the arm of the sofa. She’s closer to me than she is when she sits on it properly. It feels oddly intimate.

‘I just wanted to give you a present,’ she says, real and vulnerable. ‘That was all. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have come.’

‘I know you did,’ I say, smiling at her, keeping my eyes deliberately soft. ‘But you don’t need to give me presents.’

‘You could have a new iPad if you wanted,’ she says, her slyness creeping back. ‘Even if you can’t afford it, you could just get it on Amex.’

‘I feel like there’s something else you want to tell me. Is it about who gave it to you?’

‘No one you know. Stop going on at me.’ She gazes at me, eyes clear and steady. ‘Did your dad give you presents? Is that why you don’t like it when you get them now?’

That chill spreads through me again. She doesn’t seem like a child when she steps into this place.

‘We’re not here to talk about my dad.’

‘You don’t like it when we talk about him, do we? You just like slagging off mine.’

Her proximity feels oppressive now, my decision to let the session run on yet another mistake. Boundaries are all we have. I keep my face neutral.

‘Let’s talk more about all of this next week.’

‘Bye, Mia,’ she says, standing up abruptly, hugging the rucksack against her like it’s her baby. ‘I’ll see you then. Don’t be a stranger.’

APRIL

Chapter Nine

When I peek round Judith’s door she’s on the phone. ‘Two minutes,’ she signals, her fingers swishing through the air, pushing me away. If there is such a thing as a past life, then Judith was a warrior – bare-breasted, spear aloft, charging into battle. I’m dreading this. She takes a good hard look at me when I come in.

‘Sit down,’ she says, motioning to her sofa. Today isn’t like other days. Today I need permission. I perch on the marshmallow cushions, unsteady, waiting for her to speak. She sips her espresso, thinking it out. The cup clatters against the saucer, making the silence that surrounds it even more silent. ‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ she says.

‘Do you really think that?’

She gives a dry smile. ‘That’s why I said it. It’s Tuesday morning. It’s over a week since we last spoke about Gemma, and that was a rushed conflab in the waiting room. I’ve had to ask you twice for this meeting.’

I look down, look up, a smile in place.

‘OK, Miss Marple—’

‘Don’t pull that one, Mia,’ she interrupts. ‘Don’t use being funny to get around the sides.’ A wave of shame washes through me and I look back down at the carpet, wondering what fresh piece of idiocy might be queuing to come out of my mouth next. ‘Let’s be real with each other. We both know this case is a big one for you. Your story’s either going to help you or hinder you. I’m here so we can make sure it’s the first one.’

Truth is a funny old thing. Part of what my job’s taught me is that there’s rarely an incontrovertible truth, just our dogged belief in our own version of events. I spend my time listening for the gaps and contradictions in the stories people tell me, just like Judith’s listening to me now, her eyes pin-sharp, tracking every movement in my face as I describe the last sessions. I stumble and fall in places, plagued by stage fright.

‘I do realize I shouldn’t have told her anything personal—’

‘Sure, it may have been a slight misjudgement, and I certainly don’t think you should share any more information about yourself, but I can absolutely understand why you did. Your reasons were good.’ She looks out of the window for a second. ‘It’s not even the words, Mia, it’s the fact that they caught light so easily. It’s still flammable, isn’t it, the whole story around your dad? And Gemma’s seen that light – she’s a moth to the flame. No wonder she’s bringing you presents, trying to get closer to it.’

‘I just wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. I get the feeling she feels like a freak, and what’s happening to her now’ – I hear my voice rising and I try to push it down – ‘she’s lost the only person who she believes can really see her.’

‘Is that how it felt with
your
father?’

‘Sometimes.’

It’s a non-answer, and we both know it. We sit there in silence.

‘And do you still think she might know more than she’s letting on? Could Patrick be right about that?’

‘She certainly hasn’t told me anything.’

Like I told you, the truth lies in the gaps in what we say, not in the words that actually come out. The same goes for Gemma. I can see the iPad, those green bubbles relentlessly popping up all the way through our hour together. Judith hasn’t missed my swerving of the question. She tries a different way in.

‘What do you think Little Mia would say if she was here? This case must be bringing up a lot of feelings for her.’

Judith’s very big on the idea that our inner child stays with us throughout life, needing us to mother and take care of her. If we don’t, there’s a danger the child feels omnipotent, snatches the wheel and drives the car off the road. I understand it in principle, but in practice it makes me feel faintly silly. The week I tried having a cosy chat with her in the mornings like Judith had suggested, I felt like I was the worst ventriloquist ever, about to get booed off
Britain’s Got Talent
in favour of a dancing schnauzer.

‘I think she’d probably roll her eyes and ask you if she could go and watch
Beverly Hills, 90210
in her hideous Aztec-print leggings she mistakenly thinks are trendy.’

‘Only if she’d already finished all of her homework,’ she says. Her face says
I know you, I know you so well I don’t even have to tell you what it is you’re doing
. ‘I think Little Mia might want you to talk to her, and reassure her that this is Gemma’s life, not hers.’ Her tone hardens. ‘That you know that you can’t fix it.’

‘I do know that! And you’re right, of course it’s touching on my stuff, but perhaps that’s why she’s opening up to me.’

‘You need to be very careful that there’s not some magical thinking going on. That you’re not trying to heal your own past by going in all guns blazing to mend her present.’

Tears prickle at the back of my eyeballs, a lump not in my throat, but in my chest. Somewhere more fundamental, harder to spit out. I’m a cat with a fur ball, something choking me that’s made out of the very stuff of me.

‘I know I need to put clearer boundaries in place, but I really think she needs me.’

‘Mia, you’ve only seen her a few times. How will you cope if she suddenly does blurt out some vital piece of information? I’m not sure how easy you’d find it to tell the police, knowing what she’d have to go through. You could really compromise yourself here.’

I haven’t told Judith even half of what Patrick’s told me, what he’s implied. It’ll give her too much ammunition. I kept my story simple – office bound, free of warm white wine and half confidences.

‘I don’t want to abandon her!’

‘Why do you think you would be?’

‘Her dad means everything to her!’ I say, my voice rising. ‘She’s found somewhere safe to express it – anger, sadness, whatever it is she wants me to witness. Of course she’d feel abandoned!’

‘She might experience it that way, but it doesn’t mean you
would
be abandoning her. And anyway, it’s pure speculation. We don’t know how she’d feel. You’re the only one talking about abandonment.’

I try not to look mutinous.

‘I can do this, Judith. You might just need to trust me, at least for a bit longer.’

‘You’re an excellent therapist, Mia. I’m not questioning that.’ I sit there, panic creeping up on me. It sounds like the first half of a sentence I don’t want to complete. Dot, dot, dot, each dot more ominous than the last. ‘Is it maternal instinct being triggered too? Moving into – what is it you keep calling it, the fridge? – must be making you think about that stuff.’

‘We’re not ready for kids. One step at a time. I – we – want to see how it goes first.’

‘Why do you think you call it the fridge?’

‘It’s just a silly joke between us,’ I say, realizing that Marcus hasn’t called it that once. ‘You know, it’s big and flash, but it’s a bit of a cold bachelor pad. It’s definitely a Smeg.’

‘It’s an interesting image. Has it got a freezer, this fridge of yours?’

It’s more like a trap than a question. Dot, dot, dot. I shrug, nod. No big deal.

‘Does it feel like you’ll be frozen? Like time will stand still when the door slams shut?’

‘No, not at all,’ I say too quickly. ‘I’ve made a decision. I’m moving forward. We’re getting the keys tonight! It’s the opposite of frozen.’

‘But it was your mum’s news that really triggered the decision, wasn’t it? The prospect of losing your childhood home . . . so many ghosts.’

‘It’s horrible. I wish I could do something to save them.’

‘It could’ve made you feel, I don’t know’ – her creased, ring-laden hands swoop through the air, like birds in flight – ‘fuck you about the Vine family. But it hasn’t. If anything it’s made you feel the opposite.’

It’s only as she says it that I realize it’s made me feel both.

‘I’ve never had a case like this before,’ I say stiffly. The truth might make her deem me overemotional, loop us back to where we’ve been. ‘It’s invaluable experience.’

Judith glances at the clock. Saved by the bell.

‘Your story was messy and painful and hard.’ She looks at me, her gaze penetrating. ‘It gives you insights, but what we’re seeing is that it doesn’t give you distance. Take the session with her this week, and then we need to meet the very next day. I
will
put a stop to it if I feel it’s dangerous for either of you.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, suddenly exhausted.

‘I think you need to work on the material around your own father in your personal therapy too.’ I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I stopped going a couple of months ago. It felt like I was continuously reversing over the same patch of road. ‘And I think it’s vital we keep Patrick on side,’ she says, watching for my reaction, a hint of mischief about her. ‘He’ll be less of a loose cannon if he thinks you’re his pal.’

‘Definitely.’

‘If any information does need to be shared, you want to be in control of that process. You don’t want them demanding access, interpreting your notes as they like.’

The phone on her desk buzzes, and I stand up.

‘Thanks, Judith.’

I smile at her, try to keep my mouth turned upwards, when gravity’s pulling all of me downwards. I want to curl up on the sofa, my feet tucked underneath me, grab a box of tissues, start again. I want to tell her everything, including every dark implication that’s crossed Patrick’s lips. I want to tell her I’m scared I might’ve waded into the sea, right up to my waist. I want to tell her that my instinct is my guiding light, my Star of Bethlehem, but now I don’t know if I’m following a rogue flare. I don’t say any of it. I smooth down the skirt of my green corduroy dress, keep my smile in place and walk back out into the unknown.

Patrick’s sitting on a bench by the duck pond in Regent’s Park, stringy body hunched over his phone. I scrutinize him as I make my approach, watching the way his attention is constantly being dragged away by their miniature dramas, however hard he tries to stay focused on the tiny screen. A minor skirmish leaves him rapt, two ducks with their wings spread, squawking wildly at each other, a troop of ducklings watching from the safety of their mother’s side. He’s a sentimentalist at heart.