Broken Places (31 page)

‘Not hungry.’

‘Well, how about a drink?’

‘OK,’ she said, grudgingly.

‘What d’you fancy?’

‘Diet Coke.’

He hoped she wasn’t on some dangerous diet, as all young girls seemed
to be, these days, although he had absolutely no intention of nagging about food or drink. Having fetched a Coke from the fridge, he poured himself a beer and joined her at the kitchen table. Now that he was sitting close, he noticed the acne beneath the make-up and the badly bitten nails, as if the half-fledged adolescent was showing through beneath the ‘adult’ exterior, and remembered, with compassion, how hard it was to be thirteen. ‘Now I
am
here, darling, let’s try to make the most of it, OK? There’s so much I want to know – how you’re getting on at school and—’

‘School’s shit!’

‘I thought you liked it?’

‘Not now. I don’t fit in. I get teased for being English and wearing the wrong clothes and stuff.’

‘How do you mean, “wrong”?’

She let out an impatient sigh, as if he ought to understand without it being spelt out. ‘Listen, Dad, I was used to wearing uniform and being at an all-girls’ school and—’

‘But you said you were looking forward to mixing with boys and choosing what to wear. You
wanted
to go to the States, remember – thought it sounded exciting and—’

‘I’ve changed my mind, OK? I admit it did seem cool at first, but I knew nothing about America and even less about their schools. And, to be honest, I find the clothes thing a real drag. I have to decide what to wear, every single day, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. I’m always worried about people making fun of me.’

‘Surely they don’t do that?’

‘Oh, all the time! Like, to start with, they’re all taller than me and
prettier
and have loads more clothes, in any case. And Kelly’s just the biggest bitch. She used to be my friend, but now she makes me feel like a piece of shit. She had this make-over party and I was the only one in the class she didn’t invite.’

‘What’s a make-over party?’

‘Oh, you know, Dad – where you get your face and hair done, and people give you advice on how to make the best of yourself and how to dress and—’

‘Aren’t you a bit young for all that?’

‘Young? No way! Half the girls at school have been having manicures and facials since, like, the age of eight. When they heard I’d never shaved my legs, let alone had a leg-wax, they thought I must be kidding.’

‘But doesn’t Mum object?’ he asked, truly shocked that eight-year-olds should be frequenting beauty salons, rather than climbing trees or playing hide-and-seek.

‘Not really. And, if she did, it would just be hypocritical, because she’s always having pedicures and fake tans and stuff herself. She even has a personal shopper who picks out all her clothes. The only thing she
does
object to is the way some of my friends get up, like, two hours early and use all that extra time just doing their face and hair. And, of course, they’re really good at make-up – unlike me.’

‘But, darling, you don’t
need
make-up.’

‘I do – to cover the zits.’

‘You can hardly see them, honestly.’

‘Who are you kidding? I look gross!’

‘Don’t keep putting yourself down. You’ve always been attractive and—’

‘Attractive, with this acne? You must be blind or something.’

He gave a nervous laugh; intent on lightening the mood. ‘Well, look at me, covered in a rash!’

‘Yeah. I noticed. Is it infectious?’

‘No, just stress. Listen, darling, I know it’s hard, but it’s best simply to put up with things like spots and rashes and just accept that eventually they’ll go.’

‘That’s easy for
you
to say. Suppose I’m stuck with them till I’m twenty or something?’

‘You won’t be, Erica.’

‘Oh, by the way, I’m not Erica any more. I’ve decided to change my name.’

He stared at her, appalled.
His
name; the name that bonded them, and which had given him such pride when she was born.

‘It’s a man’s name and I hate it.’

He swallowed. ‘So what are you going to call yourself?’

‘Carmella. That’s feminine and pretty and makes me feel less of a weirdo.’

‘Erica, you’re not a weirdo, and there’s nothing weird about your name. It’s a perfectly good name.’

‘Well, I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m Carmella from now on, so will you please stop calling me Erica.’

‘OK, Carmella, then. Does Mum know you’ve changed your name?’

‘No. I only decided yesterday. Me and Brooke discussed it last night, for hours. She hates her name, as well, you see, but she hasn’t come up with a new one yet. It takes time, you know, to choose.’

‘Well, shouldn’t you tell Mum before you go ahead?’

‘No point,’ she shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t give a shit.’

‘Of course she would. You’re her daughter, for heaven’s sake! She takes an interest in everything you do and—’

‘Dad, you’re
so
out of date! The only person she cares about now is Dwight. And, actually, it makes me puke the way they slobber all over each other, as if I wasn’t there. I suppose you know she’s pregnant, do you?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Well, don’t you think it’s disgusting?’

‘Erica – sorry, Carmella – when people love each other, they naturally want to have children together. Just as
we
did, with you. When you were born, Mum and I felt our marriage was … you know, complete. You were the most wonderful thing that ever happened to us and—’

‘Don’t change the subject. I’m talking about Mum, not me. And you haven’t a clue what she’s like these days. I hardly ever see her, for a start. She’s either at work, or out at the salon, or entertaining loads of boring people – mostly Dwight’s gruesome friends. And, as for Dwight, he’s a total shit.’

‘Do watch your language, darling. You shouldn’t keep saying “shit”.’ Despite the reprimand, he was secretly delighted by her description of his hated rival, although he made a heroic effort to defend him, knowing it was his duty as a parent. ‘Look, whatever else, he’s given you a really luxurious life. I mean, this lovely house and the sailing trips and riding lessons and holidays and things. Doesn’t all that count?’

‘It might do, if he didn’t hate my guts. And, of course, when the baby’s born, he’ll probably want to push me out completely. I mean, he’s really, like,
old
, yet he’s never had a kid before, so he’s bound to go all gaga over his precious brat and I’ll just be in the way – even more than now.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true, Erica – Carmella.’

‘You keep saying you’re
sure
about things, but actually you don’t know what you’re talking about. And, if you really want to know, Dad, most of this is
your
fault. If you and Mum hadn’t split up, we’d still be living in Kingston and I’d be back at my old school, with all the friends I had then, and I’d never have laid eyes on Dwight, or had to come to this rotten country, or—’

‘Darling,’ he said, feeling extremes of shame and guilt, yet also a sense of mounting irritation. ‘I wish I could change the past. I hate to see you so unhappy and I’d do anything I could to try to make it up to you.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? You should have made some changes before everything went wrong – agreed to travel, for one thing, so Mum and I could go abroad, like everybody normal does. You don’t realize, Dad, what a total freak you are. When I first told Brooke about your fears and stuff, she just couldn’t believe that Mum would ever put up with it. No wonder she fell for Dwight and couldn’t wait to have a different life. OK, I loathe the guy, but he’s pretty cool, you have to admit – even the way he looks. I mean, you never had your teeth fixed or
bothered
to buy decent clothes, so you can’t blame Mum for wanting a bit of style.’

Horrified, he sat in silence. She was
ashamed
of him – that was glaringly obvious. He was a total freak, with no dress sense and bad teeth.

‘But, even at that late stage, you could have, like, taken a stand; not let yourself be pushed around and agree to a divorce you didn’t want. And
I
didn’t want it, either. It was horrible for me. I just felt caught in the middle, while you two got all angry and emotional. I kept hoping you’d stand up to Mum and make her change her mind, but the thing is, you’re just totally weak.’

Still, he didn’t say a word. What was there to say? He was feeling even more guilty, yet also indignant and insulted. Forget the teeth, the clothes, his lack of cool. What really stung was the ‘totally weak’. But how could he contradict her, when he was well aware that his whole upbringing had made him submissive? Throughout his childhood, he’d had no say in his life, no vestige of control, no room for negotiation, either with the
grown-ups
or with the other kids, let alone in relation to his absent mum. He couldn’t make his mother
want
him; make her return and take him home. He couldn’t even choose to be good – his natural inclination – because the bully-boys insisted he be bad; join them when they bunked off school, or nicked fags from the jobbing gardener. And, as for the staff, they had all the power and, since he couldn’t change the outcomes or the decisions that were made about him, he had gradually lost hope and simply
surrendered
to authority. What his daughter didn’t understand was that it required confidence to take a stand and, because kids-in-care were
stigmatized
as dirty, feckless and inferior, they soon lost all self-belief. Yet, if he mentioned any of that, it would only seem as if he were trying to
excuse himself. Perhaps he should take a stronger line with her; prove he
wasn’t
weak.

‘Now, listen to me a moment, Carmella. Whatever I did or didn’t do, that’s over now and we have to try to deal with the present situation. I admit I haven’t seen you for ages, so, yes – you’re right – I don’t understand what’s going on, but maybe you can fill me in over the next few weeks. And, now they’ve given you this extra time off school, we ought to use it to go out together – perhaps see a bit of Seattle, take in a few movies or museums.’

‘And how are you going to get there?’ she asked, contemptuously. ‘That’s another thing that made Mum mad – the fact you never learned to drive. I mean, how pathetic is that?’

‘Surely there’s a bus?’ he said, ignoring her sneery tone, however wounding it might be.

‘Look, buses may be OK in London, but they’re nothing like as frequent over here.
Everyone
drives in the States, so they don’t bother to lay on any decent sort of service. And, if you weren’t so useless, Dad, you could borrow one of our cars, instead of expecting me to hang about at bus-stops.’

He fought a sudden urge to slap her. OK, she had her grievances, but she was also a spoilt brat, and he was outraged that she should call him useless, when she hadn’t the slightest comprehension of how deeply fear could
sabotage
a life. Taking a long, slow draught of his beer, he tried to calm his anger. ‘OK, forget the bus. How about doing something local?’

‘And what do you suggest? There’s nothing much round here – well, a few lousy restaurants, maybe, and a Starbucks and a sandwich-bar – big deal! And the shops are pretty crap. There’s only, like, a supermarket, a drug-store, a dry-cleaner’s and—’

‘Well, why don’t we walk to the supermarket? It’s a lovely day and I need to stock up on T-shirts. The airline lost my luggage, you see, so—’

‘Dad, the thought of buying T-shirts at QFC isn’t my idea of a fun day out.’

‘OK, let’s go to Starbucks and treat ourselves to ice-creams.’

‘I’m nearly thirteen, you know, not eight,’ she said, giving him a
withering
look, ‘so there’s no need to bribe me with ice-creams. In any case, I can’t go anywhere. I promised to ring Brooke.’

‘But you’ve only just seen her.’

‘
So
?’ she countered, insolently. ‘Are you trying to tell me I can’t phone my friends?’

‘No, of course I’m not. But why don’t we have lunch first?’

‘I’ve told you, I’m not hungry. Kimberley made us pancakes for
breakfast
, and breakfast wasn’t that long ago. They get up late at her place. So, if you’ll excuse me, Dad …’

Wincing as she slammed the door, he sat with his head in his hands, remembering how he had fed her as a baby: the countless bottles he had given her during the long stretch of time that Christine had been ill with mastitis or laid low with depression. He had burped her, changed her nappies, laid her in her cot; sung her lullabies until she had settled down to sleep; got up in the night, every time she cried, and walked back and forth, back and forth, with her cradled in his arms until she gradually calmed down. If only it were that simple now. If only he could hold her in his arms – calm her, feed her, be important to her. Yet, judging by her attitude, they might never be that close again.

Not only had he lost his longed-for second child, it appeared he had also lost his first. 

‘Carmella!’ he called. ‘Kimberley and Brooke are here.’

Erica came rushing down the stairs, displaying an enviable enthusiasm to see her friend – again. If only
he
could rouse the same responsiveness. She and Brooke embraced, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, instead of just yesterday evening. His first sight of Brooke last night had been almost as much of a shock as his first sight of Erica. The pert little miss was in essence a miniature version of her mother, with the same scarlet nails, blonded hair and over-made-up face. Indeed, he strongly suspected that Erica had copied her new sexy style from this mother-and-daughter duo. However, whereas Kimberley was wearing puce-pink pedal-pushers and a sequinned silver top, the two girls were in riding gear: figure-hugging
jodhpurs
and knee-length riding-boots. He found his eyes straying back to Brooke; horrified to realize that her curvaceous little figure had aroused definite sexual stirrings in him.

He turned to Kimberley, desperate to distract himself from the
troublingly
precocious nymphet. ‘Do stay for a coffee this time,’ he urged.

‘Well, it’ll have to be a quick one. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s all ready. All I have to do is pour it.’

‘OK, great! I’ll just bring Chandra in.’

Chandra? The maid? A babysitter? Brooke’s younger sister? No, Brooke had only an older brother, away at college, at present.

While he waited for elucidation, he fetched Diet Cokes for the girls and offered biscuits (cookies), which they both refused, too busy giggling and chatting. Although one part of him was hugely relieved to see his daughter lively and vivacious, another part was gutted that her attitude to
him
should be so entirely different. Indeed, he was still smarting from the rejection of being told there was ‘no point’ in him coming today, and that it would be ‘babyish’ for him to watch her ride. Accompanying the three
of them to the Flying Horseshoe Ranch, which was set in gorgeous
countryside
, apparently, seemed infinitely preferable to spending the day alone. However, Erica had made it clear she didn’t want him there and, even now, had disappeared with Brooke, presumably to her bedroom – strictly
out-of-bounds
to
him
.

‘This is Chandra.’ Kimberley announced, reappearing with a dog in her arms – the smallest dog he had ever seen; an exotic-looking creature, dressed in clothes identical to Kimberley’s.

A dog? In clothes? He blinked and looked again. Yes, a sequinned silver top and puce-pink pedal-pushers, with the addition of four, pink, matching bows in its long, white, silky hair. Being careful not to disturb its coiffure, he reached out to pat its head and was rewarded with a series of shrill, protesting yaps.

‘She’s the love of my life,’ Kimberley enthused, smothering the dog with kisses. Where did that leave her husband, he mused, wondering if the poor guy got a look-in? ‘Would she like some water?’ he asked. ‘It’s quite a humid day.’

‘Oh, no! She only drinks from her own special bowl and only bottled water, sourced from natural springs. I find Volvic’s the best. It’s filtered through volcanic rock, so it’s a hundred per cent pure. They’re a very
delicate
breed, you know, shihtzus, so I have to be extremely careful. All the food I give her is strictly organic and she can’t touch carbs in any shape or form, because they tend to leave her gaseous and bloated.’

He had been about to offer Kimberley the biscuits, but perhaps she, too, didn’t touch carbs. And would the coffee meet her exacting standards, or should he have made it from bottled water? Nervously, he poured her a cup, passed her cream and sugar.

‘No, thanks,’ she said, waving both away. ‘I’m on a diet. Aren’t we all?’

No, he thought, we’re not. And surely it was bad for Brooke and Erica to be surrounded by adults who saw food as the enemy. Ladling cream into his own cup, he motioned Kimberley to a chair, where she settled back withChandra cradled on her lap – a Chandra still yapping fortissimo. ‘Maybe she’d like to explore the garden?’ he suggested, hoping for a little peace and quiet, but Kimberley looked deeply shocked.

‘I wouldn’t consider such a thing! There are just too many risks – poisonous plants, for instance, or crap from other dogs. I prefer to keep her close to me, then I know she’s safe.’

It seemed a waste of four perfectly good legs, although he had no intention
of arguing the toss. ‘So where do you get her clothes?’ he asked, with genuine interest, having never seen such extraordinary gear in any type of shop.

‘There’s this fabulous little boutique in Belle Vue, which sells matching designer outfits for dogs and cats and their owners.’

‘
Cats
?’ he goggled, trying to imagine his lost, lamented Charlie clad in pedal-pushers. How the devil did these poor animals pee if they were bundled up in trousers? And Chandra’s bladder situation would be still more dire, if the pampered little creature was forbidden to leave her mistress’s lap.

‘Absolutely. Most cats love dressing up as much as dogs. Chandra just adores her clothes and, every morning, she sits up on her hind legs, begging me to get her dressed. She has these really darling outfits, which cost nearly as much as mine, would you believe? I must spend a good five-thousand dollars a year, keeping
au courant
with the latest doggy fashion trends. And another five-thousand at the Pet Pavilion. She has “pawdicures” and massages and blow-dries and, if we’re going somewhere special, they spray her fur with gold and silver glitter, or even dye it fuchsia-pink – using strictly organic vegetable dyes, of course.’

‘Heavens!’ he exclaimed, busy working out the sums in his head.
Ten-thousand
dollars a year – roughly
£
7,500 – would pay for a part-time library-assistant, to help with community projects, or create funding for vital literacy courses, especially useful for his group, or replace the old, worn furniture in the Study Room and …

‘She even has her own cute little closet, with these tiny silk-padded hangers. And you should see her party dresses! One’s an exact replica of Marilyn Monroe’s favourite cocktail-dress. You wore it for your last birthday party, didn’t you, my precious?’ she added, now addressing the dog.

Chandra yapped an obedient ‘Yes!’, but Eric was rendered speechless. A birthday party for canines?

‘What a shame you weren’t here just a few weeks earlier, then you could have come. It was a really special day, Eric. We invited all her little doggy friends and I ordered two fantastic cakes – one for the doggies and one for their owners – both totally free of any kind of flour, or other nasties like preservatives. The doggy one was made in the shape of a big, pink, juicy bone, and contained nothing but organic salmon, organic chicken breast, a little touch of …’

He let the list of ingredients waft over him. Actually, birthdays were a
painful subject, with his daughter’s less than a fortnight away. She had turned down every suggestion he’d made to celebrate the occasion. No, she didn’t want him to take her out to dinner, or take her bowling, or
ice-skating
– or take her anywhere. She had her own private plans, and could he please stop going on about it?

However, he ought to switch the conversation to his concerns about the girls – another tricky issue, but one that needed tackling. ‘Kimberley, forgive me changing the subject, but I am a little worried about Erica. In England, girls her age don’t generally wear make-up. Is it common over here? And don’t parents take a stand or…?’

Kimberley sipped her coffee reflectively. ‘I’d say it’s very common, although, of course, it depends a lot on the individual girl. Some don’t bother with even the faintest dab of lip-gloss, while others go in for the full works. My Brooke was always extraordinarily mature. Even as a toddler, she took an interest in how she looked and I encouraged that, deliberately. I think it’s important for girls to make the best of themselves.’

‘But isn’t there a danger in them’ – he paused, a tad embarrassed – ‘you know, being over-sexualized, when basically they’re children still?’

‘Brooke’s thirteen-and-a-half. I don’t consider her a child. She’s well on her way to womanhood, so I feel she needs to prepare herself; learn how to dress, look after her skin and hair and nails, create an immaculate polished look and stay slender, of course, through careful calorie-counting.’

‘It seems, well … rather sad, though, for them to be worrying about their faces and figures when they could be just enjoying life.’

‘Oh, they do enjoy it – immensely. Brooke gets a real buzz from coming shopping with me. Right from when she was little, our trips to the mall have helped to bring us close. I guess you could say we bonded in the fashion boutiques! We often flick through magazines together – you know, like
Vogue
and
Glamour
– and we always book joint sessions at the beauty salon and have sun-bed sessions side by side. You may not realize, Eric, but my daughter has extremely strong ideas about the image she wants to create for herself, and I support her two hundred per cent.’

He gagged on the word ‘image’ – its falsity, its shallowness – but this determined fashionista was still in full flow.

‘And your Erica’s the same – at least
now
she is, although I have to say she did need a little help at first. It was Brooke who alerted me to the fact that some of the girls were ribbing her about the way she looked, so I decided to step in and lend a hand. Poor Christine’s up to her eyes with that
demanding job of hers and all the travelling she does, but I’m at home all day, so I have plenty of time to spend with the girls. And, actually, it’s given me enormous pleasure to help Erica find her feet, establish a basic beauty regime and work out her own individual style.’

Eric sat in silence, struggling with different emotions: anger with Christine for apparently neglecting their daughter; resentment towards Kimberley for encouraging these barely-teens to buy totally unsuitable attire and slather their faces with gunge, yet also a certain gratitude that she had cared enough to help Erica survive the hurtful teasing. He burned to state his own views about the superficiality of focusing on looks, but realized it was pointless, since for Kimberley they were paramount. None the less, it made him mad that children should be subjected to constant commercial pressures and encouraged to believe that following fashion and keeping up with trends were more important than developing ideals or working for some worthwhile cause. What, he thought, with sudden wry amusement, must she think of
him
, dressed as he was in his tatty old jeans and a T-shirt from the local thrift-shop, with
BORN WILD
emblazoned across the front – a somewhat inappropriate claim for a bloke as cautious as himself?

‘Erica’s just fine now,’ Kimberley observed, waving a superbly manicured hand in his direction, ‘so there’s no need to worry on that score. And Brooke’s been very good for her, you know – helped her with all sorts of things.’

He could guess what things those were – eyebrow-plucking, leg-waxing, powdering and primping. Didn’t Kimberley see the dangers of turning schoolgirls into nymphets? If
he
could feel aroused by Brooke – and the very notion appalled him – what about less scrupulous blokes, who might go ahead and act on their brute urges? But he could hardly bring up such a delicate subject, so, returning to his duty as host, he offered her more coffee.

‘Absolutely not! Coffee’s a major health-risk. New research has shown it can do more damage than heroin.’

‘Well, how about some juice?’ he suggested, draining his own cup. Despite his high coffee consumption, he wasn’t yet in need of rehab – or so he had assumed till now.

‘It’s kind of you to offer, but the high acid content of fruit juice is murder for my tooth-enamel. I find it safer to stick to iced green tea, which is better for my health in general.’

Lord, he thought, if she was so concerned about her health, would she sue
him for grievous bodily harm if she happened to catch his cold? Fortunately, the Sudafed had dried up the secretions and, although his nose was still red, she might put that down to a penchant for the hard stuff. Actually, he could do with a double whisky right this minute, but since all beverages, hard or soft, were clearly lethal for her, he might as well change tack.

‘By the way, there’s something else I want to ask. I wondered what you felt about both our girls deciding to change their names? I must admit, I’m not too happy.’

‘Oh, it’s just a bit of fun, Eric. They’re exploring different identities, that’s all. Brooke wants to be a fashion model, so she’s considering names like Jordan and Marisa, and where’s the harm in that?’ Kimberley gave a tinkling laugh. ‘The irony is, I named her after Brooke Shields, thinking she’d be a good role-model for any daughter with high aspirations. I mean, Shields was famous from such an early age. She started modelling as a baby of eleven months and was earning ten thousand dollars a day by the time she was fifteen. But, of course,
my
Brooke thinks her namesake is totally old hat and is much more into superstars like Miley Cyrus and Paris Hilton. And, as for Erica,’ she added, ‘I guess calling herself Carmella makes her feel she’s a Spanish prima donna and, if that helps to boost her self-esteem, it can’t be a bad thing.’

Didn’t this woman realize, he thought, with irritation, that a change of name could go much deeper and actually be a statement of defiance? In Erica’s case, it appeared to be a deliberate move to dissociate herself from
him
, and perhaps a way to challenge Christine, too, since she, of course, had helped to choose the name. But why enter such troubled waters with a featherbrained female who couldn’t see beyond the obvious? And, in any case, Chandra had started yapping again, with an even higher
decibel-count
.

‘You’re just the perfect alarm-clock,’ Kimberley cooed; the dog responding with another volley of yaps. ‘She always knows when we ought to leave and she’s exactly on time, as usual, aren’t you, my little precious? So, if you’ll excuse us, Eric …’ Kimberley stood up; her coffee almost untouched, apart from a crimson lip-print branded on the rim of the cup. ‘It’s a good hour’s drive to the stables, so we’d better make a move. The girls usually ride locally, but Brooke begged me to take them to this particular ranch and I hate to say no to my daughter. And it’s quite a famous place, you know, with fantastic trails through the pine forests and …’