Fake (10 page)

The glue gives way easily. I don't know whether it's my body heat or that it's cheap and nasty but the paper flap lifts at the slightest pressure.

Did my father get someone at his work to post it or did he seal it closed himself? Growing up in small town Tuckersfield didn't give me much insight into the habits of an executive for a huge family-owned olive oil company. Maybe his assistant does everything for him.

These and a billion other unrelated wonderings swirl in my brain in the second it takes the single sheet to fall out of the envelope. It flutters to the floor and as I bend over to pick it up my hands are shaking.

I don't read it. Not at first. All the reasons hammer at my will with the thumping of my heart.

He's no one to me.

He doesn't deserve any attention from me.

He's a stranger and I've been told not to communicate with strangers.

I hate him.

But it's this lie that has me turning it over. At the last moment, I close my eyes. Squeeze them shut against the bold black strokes across the sheet. Handwritten, I noticed in the second before I wimped out.

I sit up straight. Maybe I've been going about this all wrong. Not reading his letters gives them a weight, a heaviness in my mind and in my heart. It makes them far more important than they need to be.

I exhale and my breath is loud in the quiet of my bedroom. I open my eyes and look down. ‘You are nothing to me,' I tell him, wherever he is.

And then, I read.

CHAPTER

9

The one page takes somewhere between nine years and a heartbeat to read.

My hand convulses, crushing the paper inside. It's the end that kills me. ‘Your father.'

‘As if I wouldn't know.'

I moan the words into my pillow and my shoulders shudder but I don't cry. I won't give his crappy letter the honour of my tears. I will not cry for my father again. I did enough of that when we drove away from our Beige Life and I had to leave everything I'd ever known behind.

Because of him.

I hold myself still, fighting the sting in my eyes and the agony in my heart. Wishing more than ever for Sebastian's strength.

At the same time I'm growing increasingly annoyed at Mum for being out. If she'd been home I never would have opened the letter.

I ache worse than after double gym class. All over, but worst of all on the inside.

He can want it all he likes but I don't want to meet him.

‘I don't.'

The scrape of the car entering the driveway below has me on my feet and stuffing the letter under some papers on my desk. Guilt slithers up my spine. ‘It's not like I'm going to actually meet up with him.'

The words hang in my room, for some reason hollow and unconvincing.

I switch on the light and meet Mum at the top of the stairs.

She's glowing. Her cheeks are flushed and she's slightly breathless as though her day has been a whirlwind of excitement.

‘Where were you?' The question comes out louder than I intended.

Mum's smile vanishes. She brushes past and heads to the kitchen with me trailing behind. ‘I'm not sure I need to answer to you.'

‘Really? And here I was believing the lines you fed me about honesty and respect.
Mutual
honesty and respect.' I shake my head. ‘You're just like every other parent. Except they don't walk in at close to midnight while their teenage daughter is home worrying about them.'

I ignore the voice in the back of my mind reminding me about the less than honest detention ruse I pulled this morning. This is different.

Mum dumps her bag on the bench and her favourite burgundy lipstick rolls onto the floor. She doesn't pick it up. Her sigh is a slump of her shoulders and part of me hates that I've taken the light of happiness from her eyes. ‘It's only ten.'

‘Yeah, like that makes any difference. Where were you?'

Her eyelashes shield her eyes. ‘I told you. Meeting a friend. I had my phone.' She glances down at the object and must register the missed calls and text. ‘Sorry, I missed your call.'

‘Which friend?'

She does the hesitating thing where she bites on her top lip. She's thinking about how to put it.

But I'm in no mood to dance around the subject. ‘Was it Colin?'

There's a long pause where she looks everywhere in the room but at me. ‘Yes.'

‘Why didn't you say it was a date?'

She gathers up the contents of her bag and shoves the tissues and purse and glasses case back inside before turning to flick on the kettle. Mum has always believed there isn't a problem a good cuppa won't help. ‘I thought you were past the whole jealous child thing.'

Automatically, I get two cups and saucers down from the cabinet. ‘That's not the point. You met some random bloke off the net and you went out with him without telling anyone your plans.'

‘Colin is different. I know him.'

‘How? From a blog?'

‘And emails.'

I shake my head. A mental image of Aaron Winter and all the people we've conned in a few days niggles at my conscience. ‘You can't know someone from what they say online. He could be anyone … an axe-murderer or something. He could be a complete fake.'

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. ‘Who is the parent here?'

Some of the fight seeps from my body. ‘I was beginning to wonder the same thing.'

She pours us both tea and leans in her customary space at the bench by the sink. I sit opposite on one of the bar stools and sip at the warm milky liquid. Tonight I add two sugars, needing the sweetness to lift my mood and my energy. Despite the addition of milk, it's hot enough to burn slightly going down and I welcome the sensation. Physical pain is so much easier to deal with than the turmoil inside me.

Because even as I'm lecturing her about internet safety, I'm aware of the letter from my father hidden on my desk and am afraid that by opening it in secret I've somehow betrayed the life Mum and I have worked so hard to make together. The life Mum has done her best to give me.

She puts her cup down into the matching saucer and meets my gaze for the first time since she walked up the stairs. ‘How did you get so smart?'

‘I'm not.' If only she knew how unsmart I am at the moment. I don't know what to do, I can't decide about anything. ‘But my mum taught me to be really careful online.'

When she smiles I notice the creases at the corners of her eyes. There are more of them than I remembered. Lots more. I've always been proud at school functions or wherever to point across the room and claim her as mine, but tonight she looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour.

Tired and old.

She sighs. ‘Your mum was right.' She takes another sip of her drink. ‘You'll be relieved to know I met him in a public place and didn't give him our address or anything.'

I nod sagely. ‘Not completely irresponsible then.'

This widens her smile and she chuckles. ‘Not completely, but I did have a wonderful evening.'

‘I'm glad.' Mostly it's true. I've never expected her to devote her life to me alone. I do want her to be happy. If she has someone else it will make leaving for uni easier. But … ‘What is his blog about?'

Her hands tighten on the cup, the veins becoming more prominent through her pale skin. ‘He lost his wife of twenty-five years to cancer and had some grief to work through.'

Twenty-five years? A lifetime. More than that. I can't imagine being with someone that long. And then to lose them … ‘He's ready to date?'

She shakes her head. ‘We met as friends.'

I look at her steadily, saying nothing. I might be only seventeen but I am pretty sure that joy in her eyes wasn't about friendship.

‘Friends,' she repeats firmly. ‘Enough about me. How was your day?'

This is my opportunity to tell her about the letter from my father. Or about Sebastian.

But either topic will open up a whole range of questions I don't have the answers to. I don't know what I'm going to do about the meeting and I don't know whether there is something more than friends going on with Sebastian.

‘I went to the movies with Chay.' As I rinse my cup and leave it to drain I regale Mum with a bad summary of the thriller, complete with actions and a few sound effects. Then I plead tiredness and escape to my room.

At my door I glance back and see her already opening her laptop. To email Colin I bet. ‘Friends, huh?' I call back.

Her head comes up. ‘For now.'

Back in the safety of my room I slip into an old pair of flannelette pyjamas and settle on my bed. My eyes ache but the ticking of my brain is keeping me wide-awake.

The letter from my father is a great big black sinkhole in the corner of my room and it keeps dragging my gaze in its direction. I manage to resist looking at it again, but avoiding the piece of paper doesn't wipe it from my brain. Why does he want to meet now?

For nine years I've mostly been able to pretend he doesn't exist. The headlines faded pretty quickly once we moved to Tuckersfield. There were some court proceedings I think, but Mum sheltered me from the legal stuff.

She didn't do any interviews and my father avoided the press completely. With nothing to feed the story, we were soon old news. I don't know how much people in town remember but no one talks about it anymore.

The letter has brought everything back. The pain isn't as fresh but the wound is still raw. Maybe if we met I could ask him the question I've never been able to completely let go.

Why?

I cradle my pillow close. It's useless. There's no answer that would make what he did okay. No response that would change the past. Better for it to stay buried where it belongs.

I have more important things to think about.

I pick up my phone to text Sebastian. I ask how his night of babysitting went, keeping the tone casual and friendly. I rewrite it three times and then don't send it.

Instead I open my laptop and log on to Facebook as Aaron. It doesn't make sense that Sebastian has to be at home on a Saturday night but Lana is allowed out to the movies.

Nothing on her profile gives me any clues and Sebastian doesn't even have a profile – something curious in itself.

She's not likely to talk about the subject and I don't want to push Sebastian but there is another option. I message her as Aaron.

I hold my breath. One second. Two. And then a minute passes. No response.

The tiredness of the day hits me and I'm about to shut down when my laptop beeps. Lana.

That's right. Aaron was supposed to have a gig tonight. I check the time and then type fast.

She bites.

I lean back into the pillows. How can I ask about her family situation without blowing the whole setup? The bang of a neighbour's car door closing gives me the answer.

Again there's a long delay before she answers. I try to picture her, maybe in the bedroom next to Sebastian's. Somewhere nearby Poppy, the little sister they don't seem to talk about, is probably asleep.

Eventually it comes.

And then.

What would Aaron reply to that? He's a wannabe rockstar, not likely to have much kid experience. I don't know if it's the late hour but I read a world of pain in Lana's words.

I should finish here. I don't want to know anything more about Lana but I can't make myself log off. She's so horrible to me but there's something about her that attracts people like Joel and inspires loyalty in someone as awesome as Sebastian.

I type in slow motion.

I remember Sebastian's comment about the book.

Me too. Reading her words brings the dream I've been ignoring back into focus. I always thought I wanted to do business, but lately I find myself creating stories from the antiques I've collected over the years and visualising them coming to life in my brain.

For the first time I let some of me into Aaron.

I wait but she doesn't answer, and eventually I fall asleep with the laptop next to me half under the blanket. As my eyes close I'm still logged in as Aaron and the screen is filled by a stunning shot of a smiling Lana on a beach somewhere.

I drift off to sleep wondering, is anyone really who they seem to be?

* * *

‘I thought I might find you here.'

I look up from my spot beneath the tree to see Sebastian's outline blocking out a cloud-drenched sky. ‘What are you doing here?'