Lost Daughter Page 13

  ‘You have to make the decision that’s right for you, and that means what works for your family,’ he said. ‘There’ll be other opportunities, and life isn’t just about scaling hierarchies. You have a valuable contribution to make, whatever you choose to do.’

  His hand darted forward and plucked something from behind her ear. He held it out to show her: it was a bit of cherry blossom.

  ‘What have you been doing, rolling round in the garden?’ he asked, getting up to drop the blossom in the waste-paper basket.

  ‘Something a bit like that,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what are you going to do with yourself now? You must have plans. I’ve never known you not have plans.’

  ‘Oh, I do, believe me. The only problem is going to be fitting everything in.’

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll keep in touch. If you have time, that is. Let me know what you decide.’

  He went back to his desk, and she realised the meeting was over and got to her feet.

  ‘Rachel?’

  He was holding something out to her in a paper bag.

  ‘Hang in there,’ he said, and handed it over.

  She didn’t need to look inside to know that it would be her favourite Danish pastry, with cinnamon and icing on top. Whenever they’d had a particularly tough deadline to meet or a disappointment or a success, Frank brought in breakfast for the team. This time it was just for her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, touched her fingers to her forehead in salute, and withdrew.

  When she got home that evening Mitch was in the kitchen, taking a beer out of the fridge. Probably his second. He always cooked with a beer to hand. He and Becca had already eaten; the dirty dishes were still on the table, with stray peas and ketchup clinging to them. Mitch had given up on waiting for Rachel to get home for dinner years ago, after one spoiled meal and hungry Becca tantrum too many.

  ‘Where’s Becca?’

  ‘Showering.’ Mitch took the cap off his beer bottle and dropped it by the dirty dishes. ‘Then we’re going to have a Wii tournament. Care to join us?’

  ‘I have some work to catch up on, actually.’

  ‘Ah, you’re just afraid we’ll thrash you. Beer?’

  ‘Not for me. Like I said, I’ve got some work to do.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  She took the least dirty pan off the hob – he must have used it for the peas – and took it over to the sink. There was ancient, ingrained limescale round the taps, and the trim between the worksurface and the splashback was alternately stained and, where she had attempted to scrub it clean, scratched.

  They’d always intended to redo this kitchen. They still hadn’t got round to it.

  ‘Rachel,’ Mitch said. ‘What’s up?’

  She put the saucepan back on the hob, put the kettle on to boil water for pasta and turned to face him. He was leaning against the fridge, nursing his beer.

  ‘Nothing’s up,’ she said. ‘Frank’s taking early retirement, and I’ve been offered a promotion. It would mean more money. Quite a bit more money. But it’s based in Cambridge.’

  Mitch couldn’t disguise his shock. His face was a mask of astonishment: mouth downturned and tight like a child faced with a disagreeable dinner, eyebrows raised.

  He said, ‘Are you interested?’

  ‘It’s got to be worth thinking about. It might mean you could give up doing the commissions and imitations. Go back to doing your own work.’

  He composed himself, ran a hand through his hair, folded his arms across his body and raised the beer to his lips again, then held the bottle close to his chest.

  ‘I don’t mind the stuff I’m doing,’ he said. ‘OK, it’s not going to do anything for my reputation, but the art world has pretty much forgotten I exist anyway.’

  ‘But, Mitch, you have so much talent. You should be making the most of it. Remember what that art critic said about you, after you did the Persephone painting? One of the most promising enfants terribles on the block?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not an enfant any more, not by any stretch, and I think I’m well past the point at which I ceased to be promising,’ Mitch said. ‘Anyway, this isn’t about me, it’s about you. I don’t think you want to do this. I think you know this new job would be too much for you. And you’re looking for me to say no to give you an easy way out.’

  She found the nearly empty packet of dried pasta in a chaotic cupboard, tipped it into the saucepan, covered it with water from the just-boiled kettle and lit the gas. Her fingers came away greasy from contact with the dial.

  ‘It’s not just about me,’ she said. ‘It’s about all of us. Since we’re mainly dependent on my income.’

  ‘Ooh, the breadwinner card,’ he said. ‘Well, I honestly don’t know why you’re asking me then. Why don’t you just go ahead and do what you want?’

  She closed her eyes and counted to ten, unclenched her fists, opened her eyes and forced herself to look at him.

  ‘Because I care what you think,’ she said.

  ‘Do you?’

  She nodded, and he visibly relaxed, found a space on the work surface behind him for his beer, and held out his arms to her.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, and she did, and he embraced her and drew her close.

  ‘I’ve been worried about you, you know,’ he said. ‘You’ve had so much on your plate lately. And you haven’t been sleeping. You know, you should go to the doctor about that. But I bet you haven’t made an appointment yet. Have you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Look, if you really want to do it we’ll make it work – but we need to find out what Becca thinks. It’s just come as a bit of a shock, that’s all. Sleep on it, see what you think in the morning, OK? I just feel like you’re on some kind of edge right now. And I really don’t want to find myself picking up the pieces.’

  ‘You know I can’t do any of it without you,’ she said.

  ‘Eww.’ Becca had appeared at the kitchen door, her hair wet from the shower, already in her pyjamas and dressing-gown. ‘Do you have to?’

  Mitch released Rachel, and Becca grudgingly permitted her mother a brief embrace.

  Rachel asked, ‘How was your day, sweetheart?’

  ‘Good. I’m all ready, Dad – how about it?’

  ‘Prepare to meet thy doom,’ Mitch said. Becca whooped and charged off and he grinned at Rachel and followed her, still clutching his beer.

  Rachel found a jar of pesto at the back of the fridge. Mouldy. Sometimes her diet these days was not much better than when she first left home. And even if she did accept the chance of promotion, that was probably something that wouldn’t change.

  The next morning she went into Frank’s office and told him that she was grateful for his support and encouragement, but had decided she would prefer to remain in her current role.

  And almost instantly, as he began to tell her he understood her decision, she regretted it.

  Twenty-Three

  Becca

  The last time Becca had been in Amelia Chadstone’s bedroom had been just after the thing that happened on her thirteenth birthday – that’s how she and her father have come to refer to it, the thing that happened, the least painful, most evasive description possible.

  Thankfully, Amelia hasn’t referred to it at all; the only thing they’ve talked about is the disco. At least they’ve both got their outfits sorted. Amelia’s discarded clothes are scattered all around, an incongruous contrast to her pink-and-white bedroom; she’s going through a phase of liking black and grey and things with rips or zips or both, while her room has pale candy-striped wallpaper and a big, exquisitely detailed dolls’ house in one corner. Maybe the décor is Mrs Chadstone’s choice? Or maybe it suits Amelia for her parents to keep on thinking that at heart, she’s still a little girl.

  Becca offers to help Amelia put her stuff away, but Amelia says not to bother, that’s what mums are for. She has been sitting in front of her lit-up dressing-tab
le mirror for the last half-hour, doing her hair and make-up; Becca is sitting cross-legged on the bed. The air reeks of perfume.

  ‘That’ll do,’ Amelia says, and pouts at her reflection. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

  She gets up, picks up her schoolbag, takes the exercise books out of it and puts them on her desk. Then she kneels on the rug at Becca’s feet, upends the bag and shakes it. A slew of small objects spill out: nail varnishes, a tube of highlighter, a Curly Wurly bar.

  ‘You don’t really wear make-up, do you?’ Amelia says. She looks immaculate; her skin is impossibly flawless, her eyebrows perfect arches.

  ‘I’m not very good at putting it on,’ Becca admits.

  Amelia picks out a lip gloss and sits down next to Becca on the bed. ‘Here. Let me.’

  She opens her mouth wide to show what she needs Becca to do, and Becca copies her, then Amelia puts the lip gloss on her, then pulls back to inspect her handiwork.

  ‘Not bad. You’ve got quite a nice mouth, actually,’ she says, and puts the cap back on.

  Becca says, ‘Did you seriously nick all of that stuff just while we were in Kettlebridge today?’

  Amelia rolls her eyes.

  ‘Aren’t you scared you’ll get into trouble?’

  ‘Of course. That’s what makes it fun. I could teach you, if you like.’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s just way too predictable to turn into a juvenile delinquent if you already come from a broken home.’

  ‘You’re only a delinquent if you get caught,’ Amelia says, and stoops on the rug to gather everything up. ‘Here, do you want this? I’ve already got loads.’

  She holds out the lip gloss to Becca, who shakes her head. She’s reluctant to become a receiver for stolen goods – even from Amelia Chadstone.

  Amelia shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’

  She drops her haul into her desk drawer, then rounds on Becca with a suspicious expression.

  ‘You’re not going to go all judgey on me, are you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m not particularly judgey. I mean… I try to keep an open mind.’

  Which is true. She has to. Dad had said, Your mother messed up and she knows it, but she’s trying to do better. Try not to be too harsh on her. And she had tried. She was still trying.

  ‘It’s just that the mark-up on all that stuff is ridiculous,’ Amelia says. ‘You’d have to be an idiot to pay full price for it all. You’re not going to tell on me, are you?’

  ‘Like who am I going to tell?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not your mum, I guess. But you’re kind of pally with your dad, aren’t you?’

  ‘Up to a point. I don’t tell him everything. I don’t tell anybody everything.’

  ‘Little Miss Mysterious. Well, don’t you want to see what you look like?’

  ‘Like a slut, I expect,’ Becca says.

  ‘You don’t look like a slut, and as your make-up artist I have to say I’m very offended by that remark. You just look like a slightly fitter version of your usual self.’

  Becca gets up and examines her reflection in Amelia’s full-length bedroom mirror.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

  She does look different. It’s partly the lip gloss; also, she’s wearing the new red top Amelia had talked her into buying when they went round the shops after school. It’s a bit tighter and shorter than anything Becca usually wears, and shows a good two inches of skin above the waistband of her jeans.

  Actually, she doesn’t look too bad, actually. She looks older – much older than thirteen; maybe fifteen at least.

  ‘You look hot,’ Amelia says firmly.

  ‘Everyone will think I’m desperate to get off with someone.’

  ‘Yeah, well, why shouldn’t you? Not that there’s going to be much choice tonight. The St George’s boys are all totally boring.’

  She retrieves her phone from the desk, puts an arm around Becca’s shoulders and draws her in, and raises her hand in a self-reflecting salute. There they are in miniature, framed by the perimeter of the screen; the blonde in black and the brunette in red, ready for a good time. They look as if they’ve deliberately coordinated their outfits. Amelia is wearing skinny jeans too, and a similar top, though hers is a black T-shirt with a picture of a skull surrounded by red roses, and ‘Rock forever’ written round it in gothic script.

  Amelia pulls away and taps at the screen of her phone.

  ‘There we are – sneak preview for the squad,’ she says. ‘I hope you’re ready to make an entrance. They are not going to believe it when they see you.’ She slips her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and looks Rachel up and down. ‘You know, you have lots of potential.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? As what?’

  Amelia shrugs again. ‘Whatever you want.’ She takes the Curly Wurly bar out of the drawer, unwraps it and offers a piece to Becca, who hesitates, then takes it.

  ‘Won’t it mess up my lip gloss?’

  ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

  They eat in companionable silence. Amelia scrunches up the sweet wrapper and puts it in her pocket.

  ‘I’ll have to throw it out when we get to school,’ she says. ‘If Mum sees that in my bin she’ll kick off. She doesn’t like me spending my pocket money on sweets. Little does she know, eh? You know, the main reason is that I never really wanted to be friends with you is because Mum was always so keen on the idea. I suppose it’s because my parents knew your parents like a million years ago, and it makes her feel young again or something. Or maybe it’s because your parents split up and that makes her feel better about still being married to my dad.’ She catches sight of Becca’s face and grimaces. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch. It’s not exactly like their relationship is some grand romance, anyway. I think she’s really married to this house, not him. If he wasn’t away so much, I have no idea if they’d still even be together.’

  Becca sighs. ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘Do you hate talking about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mostly no one asks. Thanks for not telling anybody at school about what happened.’

  ‘Some things are best kept quiet, right? I thought you probably wouldn’t like it if it got out.’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Anyway, don’t be surprised if my mum starts asking you a load of nosy questions. She’s always asking about you. It drives me crazy. Like how are you getting on, have things settled down, all of that. She’s more interested in you than she is in me.’

  ‘What do you tell her?’

  ‘Nothing really. That’s the point with mums, isn’t it? You can’t pay them too much attention. It spoils them. You know, I think the other reason she wanted me to be friends with you was that she thought you’d be a good influence. It’s because you seem so nice and quiet. Well, that’s what people think, anyway.’

  ‘Little do they know.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Amelia gives her an approving smile.

  Becca thinks of the awkward talk she’d had with Dad after he got called into school for that meeting with Mum, the questions he’d felt obliged to ask: was she still feeling upset about the thing that had happened in the autumn? Was seeing Mum bothering her? Would she be willing to think again about giving counselling a go?

  She could have answered him honestly. She could have said it was absolutely nothing to do with either of her parents, and that actually, since she’d starting hanging out with Amelia, her studies had become much less appealing. But she hadn’t. She had said, ‘You two are always on about counselling. I told you already I don’t want to go. It’s not like it’s going to put things back the way they were, is it?’ And then she had stomped off to her room. She had left him feeling guilty because that was easier by far than disillusioning him.

  Though actually, he probably just blames her mother. And you could argue that she deserves it.

  Amelia goes over to her chest of drawers and retrieves a pack of ten cigarettes and a lighter, which she s
lips into her bra.

  ‘You’re not seriously going to smoke at the school disco,’ Becca says.

  ‘I might if it’s really boring. Don’t worry, I’m not going to corrupt you. Unless you really want me to.’

  ‘But won’t your mum notice if you come home smelling of smoke?’

  ‘No, because she smokes herself. Three a day, in the evenings, though she doesn’t know I know. Come on, we’d better go down. She’ll be waiting, and she’ll probably want to take photos. She has to have something to put on Facebook so it looks as if she has a life. Don’t worry, she won’t take any of you, not unless she’s asked both your parents’ permission, and as far as I know she hasn’t actually spoken to your mother since… since the thing, has she?’

  ‘I don’t think so, not really. Dad said it was pretty bad when they both came to see Oliver! I mean, nothing happened, but they avoided each other, basically. Anyway, I guess they’ll have to try and be nice when Mum picks me up tomorrow,’ Becca says.

  ‘Awks,’ Amelia comments.

  ‘Awks,’ Becca agrees. ‘So is my lip gloss all right?’

  ‘Sure is,’ Amelia says, and they go downstairs together.

  Amelia turns out to be right about the photos, which take forever because Amelia keeps pulling faces her mother really doesn’t want her to pull, or at least, doesn’t want to put on Facebook. Eventually a suitable one is taken and uploaded (‘You look so nice when you smile,’ Mrs Chadstone says, ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t just do that the first time,’) and they’re on their way.

  The school hall is already crowded, and a few girls have ventured onto the dance floor. It’s dark, so Becca’s outfit doesn’t attract quite as much attention as Amelia had anticipated. It is just like when she was in Oliver! She had thought that would change things – that she would at least become the girl who sings, rather than the quiet girl nobody really notices – but the only difference that had made was that she had got to know Amelia better.

  And now, once again, Becca has ended up on the outside of a loose cohort of her classmates, playing the onlooker, while Amelia is somewhere in the middle, in the thick of it.