A Daughter's Secret (24 page)

‘You don’t have to decide overnight,’ said Mum, but I could see relief as well as sadness in her expression as we finally faced up to the idea of me having an abortion.

‘I know,’ I said, yawning, bed calling to me. Now the adrenalin was wearing off I could feel my deep exhaustion.

It was three in the morning when he rang: Mum had left a message on his answering machine and he must’ve heard something in her tone that told him he should heed this particular call. I stumbled down the passage, hearing her voice, low and insistent. Once I was downstairs, she held out the phone, her eyes brimming.

‘Dad?’ I hadn’t risked calling him that for years, but normal service had not yet been resumed.

‘Hello, petal,’ he said, his voice soft and soothing, not at all what I’d expected.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been so stupid,’ I said. Tears were starting again, but they weren’t just about my ridiculous condition. I wanted to believe in the version of himself he was transmitting to me. I needed him.

‘Sweetheart, you were an accident and you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.’ I tried to track the words before they entered my heart, listen for any slurring. ‘The best thing. I think it’s meant to be. You can have the baby, and we’ll all move to Oxford. It’ll be an adventure. I’ll be your Mary Poppins, don’t you worry.’

‘Do you really think that?’ I unconsciously put my hand on my belly. I was the only protection this tiny smudge of life had right now.

‘One hundred per cent. No, one thousand per cent! Don’t let anyone judge you, Mia – you’re like me, you’re a free spirit. I’ll get on a plane tomorrow. You’ll feel like a different person once your daddy’s home.’

Chapter Thirteen

I’m sitting on the floor of my office, my back leant against the sofa, my fingers tangled up in the white fringe of Lysette’s rug. My eyes are chasing the circles, desperately searching for some kind of order. I can’t leave the room, can’t face joking about funeral parlours with Brendan or subjecting myself to Judith’s all-seeing eye. I’m a mess.

I’m trying Lysette for the third time (her perky voicemail, ‘This is Lysette’ when it so blatantly isn’t, is making me boil with frustration) when the phone rings in my hand. I watch his name flashing up. Flash, flash, flash. On the third ring I give in.

I make my voice steady. ‘Hi.’

‘What happened?’ he says, sounding worried.

‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ The sound of his steady breathing sets me off again, tears threatening. ‘Bad day, that’s all.’

‘I’ll take you for a glass of wine.’

‘We can’t do that. It’s inappropriate.’

‘You’re right, I’m the world’s worst sommelier. Come for a pint of Guinness.’

I laugh, despite myself, my body starting to unclench itself, my heartbeat slowing. I unravel my fingers from the fringes of the rug.

‘It’s still inappropriate.’

‘What, and the two of us talking when you’re so stressed you can barely breathe
is
appropriate? Let’s go out and discuss your dictionary, I think you should bin it.’

‘No.’

‘Coffee? Come on, Mia, I know how much you like a frothy coffee.’

The thought of going to the fridge – where I’ll be imprisoned between its Farrow & Ball walls like I’ve been committed to an upmarket mental asylum – is making me shudder. No, it’s not that. The truth is I want to see him.

‘I only drink decaf after lunchtime.’

‘You are one wild date, my friend.’

A hotel bar seems like a decent compromise: I can start with a professional seeming mint tea and then move on to a glass of wine without losing face. I choose the one near King’s Cross Station where I met Lysette last month, but as soon as I arrive, I regret it. What’s happened to me in the space of a few short weeks? I sat there that night, perched on my stool, coolly judging strangers and sipping a single drink whilst she downed three. I feel like a ragged, broken version of that Mia. The song keeps playing around my head like Chinese water torture. How many lives can I live in this one little life? I feel like a cat, well into my ninth, time running out.

Patrick’s frantically waving at me from the crush at the bar, pulling me out of my looping thoughts. I push my way towards him, and he hugs me roughly, kissing the side of my face. It feels shocking somehow, his lips against my skin, even for that brief second.

‘I’ve finally got this fine man’s attention. You need to tell me right this instant what it is you’re drinking. And make it worth our while.’

‘Mint . . .’ I look at him, then at the barman. He’s young and Eastern European-looking, olive skin rendered pale by the stress of dealing with hordes of commuters waving cash and barking demands like he’s a voice-activated vending machine. Even so, he can’t help but grin at Patrick, the other punters an irrelevance for this tiny moment. ‘Glass of Prosecco,’ I say.

‘
Two
glasses of Prosecco,’ says Patrick, his face lighting up: Marcus would’ve given me a look of amused disbelief and ordered a bottle of Veuve. Guilt pokes me hard, but I push it back. I can only deal with life one moment at a time.

‘Have you had your hair cut?’ I ask, playing for time. We’re sitting down now, shoved on a small, cramped table which looks over the platforms. It’s not just avoidance, he does look different tonight, more grown-up somehow. I thought he’d be wearing one of his flammable-looking suits, but instead he’s dressed in jeans, a well-cut black shirt thrown over the top, paired with shoes that actually aren’t hideous. If I’d been asked to imagine his bare arms I would’ve guessed they’d be like white drinking straws, but they’re not, they even suggest he might’ve seen the inside of a gym.

‘I have,’ he says, visibly pleased I’ve noticed. ‘Do you approve?’

‘At least your face is visible now.’

‘I know. Lucky, lucky you.’ I shake my head at him, smiling, then look away. ‘Can I say “Cheers”, or is that listed under “inappropriate” in the dictionary?’

‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass, and bumping it softly against his.

‘Come on, we can do better than that,’ he says, going in again. ‘Cheers!’

I clink harder, feeling a lump rise up in my throat. Patrick studies my face, concern etched on his.

‘Sorry . . .’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he says, his hand clamping over mine with surprising gentleness. Tears prickle my eyes like the bubbles in my glass.

‘No, I am sorry,’ I say, snatching up the thin paper napkin they’ve given us with the silver bowl of nuts and trying to catch the tears before they send my mascara south. ‘I’m being such a fucking idiot at the moment . . .’

‘Hey,’ he says, taking my hand again, discarding the damp, sooty clump of paper. ‘You’re one of the least idiotic people I know.’

‘Now
there’s
a compliment,’ I say, pushing my fingers between his and letting our hands rest on the table between us. I look up at him, our eyes locking together. ‘I really don’t know why I’m here.’

‘No, me neither,’ he says, squeezing my fingers. ‘How about you tell me about your day and we take it from there?’

I pause, groping around in the darkness for the right thing to pick up.

‘Right now this instant, I really wish I wasn’t Gemma’s therapist.’ I shouldn’t have said that. I expect him to seize on it like a dog chasing a ball, but he stays looking at me, his brown eyes soft smudges.

‘That’s hard. I know you really care about her.’

‘Yeah, it is.’

And I breathe, feeling the relief of telling the truth. Of him hearing it. I scissor my fingers together, squeezing his, and he squeezes back harder.

‘Did you see her today?’

I nod.

‘Don’t get excited,’ I snap. ‘There were no revelations. This isn’t about her,’ I say, pointing at my face. A wave of embarrassment hits me, and I lever my hand away, digging around in my bag for a mirror. It’s not a pretty sight: my skin is streaked and blotchy, my eyes like raisins, all puffy and swollen.

‘You look lovely,’ he says, which weirdly makes me feel even more embarrassed. I should go to the loos and tidy myself up – I’d hot-foot it if I was here with Marcus – but I can’t find the wherewithal to fight my way through the scrum.

‘I don’t,’ I say, too sharply, but he simply smiles, then lets his hand hover over mine like a helicopter on a rescue mission. I give a tiny nod, feeling my whole body relax as the warmth of him radiates through me.

‘I beg to differ.’

The relaxation is starting to give way to something else. I’m in a public place, holding hands with a man who isn’t the man I’m meant to be starting a new life with tonight. I’m Lorcan’s spawn all right – nature and nurture perfectly fused. I should take my hand away, but instead I move the parcel we make downwards, rest it on the rough denim of his knee.

‘You’re a terrible liar,’ I say, but when I look at his face there’s no lie to be found.

‘So if it’s not just about Gemma . . .’

Is he playing the long game, lulling me into a false sense of security with his big brown eyes, almost cow-like in their gentleness, or is he really here for me?

‘What’s it like being a man?’

‘Sorry?’ he says, laughter in his eyes. ‘You might need to get more specific. Or, I dunno, maybe not.’

‘I don’t mean what’s it like having a dick.’

‘Now that’s a relief.’

‘Of course I
do
kind of wonder that,’ I say. ‘But – can you just cut off from work? Do you ever come away feeling like this?’

‘I haven’t left the office before 2 a.m. for a fortnight. I’ll probably have to go back there later.’ He smiles. ‘I hope you’re feeling suitably blessed.’

‘What, your presence is my present?’ He nods, smiles at my ravaged face. ‘Scrub that, I don’t usually come away feeling like this either. I don’t know what this case has done to me. I feel like it’s – I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same now. I’ll be holding on to the side, not swimming, always frightened I’ll get sucked down again. This isn’t me, Patrick.’

It sounds so ridiculous, so pompous, as it reaches my ears. The idea that there’s a ‘me’ – a solid bronze that’s been cast – is absurd. My work would be redundant if there was. And yet perhaps I thought I was different.

‘The Vines are a poisonous bunch,’ he says, and I try not to react to the unsaid ‘I told you so’.

‘This isn’t just about Gemma.’ Saying her name out loud brings her close again, fury and pity curdling inside me. Was I a fool to ever think I could make a difference? ‘But I’m seeing my boss in the morning. I’m going to tell her I’m going to stop seeing Gemma.’

Again, he stays quiet. I watch his face, daring him to start wheedling. I want somewhere to put this anger. Maybe he senses it, dodges the bullet. Or maybe – maybe he’s less single-minded than I thought.

‘So which bit isn’t about Gemma?’

‘Dads should protect their daughters,’ I say, my voice staccato, carrying too much. ‘When you’re a little girl, your dad’s everything. It’s like that awful song at primary school. You know – “He’s got the whole world in his hands.”’ I sing it softly, tunelessly. Even singing makes me think of her crazy-making humming.

‘When did you lose him?’ asks Patrick softly.

‘Ages ago. Your dad died a couple of years ago?’

‘Two years’ – he looks upwards – ‘four months, nine days.’

‘Were you close?’

‘Ish. He wasn’t big on heart to hearts. And I set up camp under my desk after I qualified.’

‘Do you think about it much? Do you wish it’d been different?’ I’m asking him to match me, to expose the soft underbelly of his story. ‘Tell me to piss off if you think I’m being a nosy bitch,’ I add, self-conscious.

He reaches out, very gently stroking my nose with his long index finger. I don’t look away, even though I should, and he leans in and kisses me, his lips light and fleeting on mine.

‘I don’t see much point in dwelling on it. I try and see my mum every few days, even if it’s just a cuppa on the way to work.’ That exhaustion again. Is there a river of guilt running through, measured out in an infinite line of steaming mugs? ‘Seems a better way to approach it. Now can I kiss you again?’

I want it too much. I kiss him this time, leaning in and crushing my mouth against his before I can overthink it. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be dancing on the rubble.

‘You know I’ve got a boyfriend,’ I say, pulling away. I force my hands to my sides, even though all I want to do is hold him.

‘I do. Just not convinced by him. You’re half-hearted.’

‘I’m moving in with him.’

‘Still don’t believe you.’ Perhaps, now I’ve sinned, there’s no point in stopping. Not until the ride slows down, comes to a halt, disgorges us back into normal life. Besides, I’m off the case. It’s over. ‘You’re a moral person,’ he continues, his eyes not leaving my face. ‘You’re more than that, you’re anguished. Sometimes you’re even a tiny bit’ – he makes a little gesture with his hand that makes me giggle – ‘I dunno, sanctimonious.’

‘Oh piss off.’

‘Come on, you were Miss, sorry, Ms, Hoity Toity when I first met you. Couldn’t for the life of me work out why I wanted to shag you so much. Anyway, my point being, if you really, really liked him there’s no way you’d be kissing me the way you just kissed me in a bar. Or anywhere else for that matter.’

‘How did I just kiss you?’

This time it’s Patrick who leans in. He slips his hand around my face, his thumb resting gently on my neck, tilting me towards him with strong fingers. His mouth reaches mine as his other hand slips around my waist, pulling me tightly against him. When he finally kisses me, the blood pounds through my head, knocking out any kind of rational thought. Eventually we pull a few centimetres apart.

‘You shouldn’t be kissing me like that,’ I say, kissing him again, my lips trailing the soft pink surface of his. His mouth is full, easy to melt into. ‘Even if I didn’t have a boyfriend, we’re the last two people in London who should be kissing each other.’

‘I told you last time, we’re on the same side.’ I go to reply, but he bats me away. ‘Let’s not talk about it. Boring. You do realize we’ve got a full-scale Prosecco emergency on our hands, Mia?’

I don’t want him to leave my side – it’ll give real life a chance to bundle me up and kidnap me. He builds a fort from his newspaper, the glasses placed at menacing angles, and grips my hand tightly as we cross to the bar. I feel drunk just from that one glass, the lights brighter than they really are, the bass a thumping heartbeat.