Lost Daughter Read online

  Well, what did she expect?

  The disco reminds her a bit of the dances in the Jane Austen adaptations her mum used to sometimes want to watch together on a Sunday – except at least in those days they had dance cards and steps you could learn, and this is just a pool of girls from St Anne’s and a pool of boys from St George’s, milling about and attempting to merge. Still, on the plus side, it’s too noisy to talk, which means there’s no point in attempting to make conversation and therefore no risk of being rebuffed. And it’s dark, which means it’s less obvious that she’s on her own.

  Meanwhile, Amelia seems to have forgotten her completely. Some boy or other has made an entirely predictable beeline for her; he is tall, and not all that good-looking, but radiates a kind of masculine cockiness that Becca has already decided to find irritating. Amelia is gazing up at him and toying with her hair as if he’s Michelangelo’s David and a superhero rolled into one; nauseatingly, she even lets him hold her hand. Everybody notices, of course, and at one point they slip out together, only to return some time later looking smug.

  Slowly, tortuously, the disco proceeds towards the inevitable conclusion: the slow dance. It should be cheesy, the kind of thing that she and Amelia would laugh about later. But actually it’s torment, because Amelia is part of it and all Becca can do is watch.

  It’s not that she really wants to dance like that with anybody. So close! It’s creepy and embarrassing. But it would have been nice to be asked, if only so she could say no.

  Amelia’s just showing off, anyway. She can’t possibly be loving it as much as she’s making out. Not with that annoying boy.

  The song finishes and the lights come up; some of the newly minted couples spring apart as if released by a mechanism, others appear to be glued together. Amelia and her new friend stay locked in a tight embrace, her face buried in his shoulder. It is not possible to tell if her eyes are closed, but Becca is willing to bet that they’re not – or not entirely. Amelia wouldn’t be Amelia if she didn’t take the chance to peek at the effect she’s having.

  She turns her back on them and goes off to get her coat. The hall reeks of sweat and perfume: she needs fresh air. And anyway, she’d rather wait for Mrs Chadstone by herself than have to watch Amelia being happy any longer.

  She makes her way to the exit nearest the car park, which is already busy, illuminated by headlights and filled with the quiet growl of waiting cars. Overhead there is a thin slice of moon, and patches of scattered stars are revealed and then obscured again as clouds move across them. The cool night is a sharp contrast to the stuffy heat of the hall, and Becca puts up the hood of her parka and wishes that both Mrs Chadstone and Amelia would show up as soon as possible, and preferably at the same time.

  If Amelia appears first she’ll have to pretend she didn’t mind being abandoned, and if it’s Mrs Chadstone she’ll probably have to go back in the hall and drag Amelia away from her new boyfriend. She doesn’t really fancy either option.

  She stands at a slight distance from a group of girls who are waiting for their parents to arrive and discussing everybody else.

  Millie Parker-Jones says, ‘Did you see Amelia with Ollie Pickering?’

  Amanda Cheam asks, ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘A bit,’ Millie tells her. ‘His brother used to play cricket with my brother.’

  Verity Hoddle chips in: ‘Did you see them go out together?’

  ‘We all saw that,’ Amanda says.

  ‘Are they going out now, then?’ Verity says. ‘They must have kissed at least.’

  ‘More than that, from what I heard,’ Amanda says. She drops her voice. ‘She touched it.’

  Verity cries out, ‘Ugh, no!’ and Millie explodes into disbelieving giggles.

  Becca flips her hood down. ‘Amelia wouldn’t do that,’ she says.

  All three girls turn and stare at her.

  ‘What do you know, anyway?’ Verity says. ‘You’re not even friends. She just feels sorry for you.’

  At that point a long adult shadow falls between them. It’s Mrs Chadstone, looming over them all.

  ‘Becca – why don’t you come and wait in the car? I presume Amelia is on her way?’

  The other three girls look sheepish. ‘Um,’ Becca says, ‘I think so.’

  She can’t help but feel as if she has just won some kind of victory as she follows Mrs Chadstone to her Range Rover, leaving the girls behind her to change the subject and find fault with someone else.

  ‘Why don’t you sit in the front with me?’ Mrs Chadstone says as she unlocks the car. Becca does, though she wonders if Amelia will mind that her rightful place has been usurped. Still, it serves her right for being late.

  Mrs Chadstone is wearing a green quilted jacket and knee-high boots; she looks as if she’s just come from riding horses, but very clean, freshly perfumed, obedient ones who she has been able to manage without getting so much as a hair out of place. But then, she always looks like that, and Amelia says her mum doesn’t ride any more and Amelia doesn’t either. It’s just a look. A convincing one, though.

  ‘I’ve never been in one of these before,’ Becca says.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A Range Rover.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Do you like it?’

  ‘Um… yeah.’

  There is a pause. Awks, as Amelia might say. Which might be the kind of thing Mrs Chadstone would say, too. Amelia probably wouldn’t want to hear this, but Becca wonders if mother and daughter might be more alike than they think.

  ‘Thank you for the lift,’ Becca says. ‘And for having me to stay.’

  ‘You’re very welcome. I’m glad you felt able to accept the invitation. I think it was rather brave of you, after… after what happened.’

  OK. Here we go. Becca is grateful to Amelia for having forewarned her. And at the same time she’s annoyed with her for not being here to come to the rescue.

  ‘Oh… it’s fine.’

  ‘Good. Because I want you to feel welcome. I know it can’t have been easy for you. Since… you know. How is your mother doing these days?’

  ‘She’s OK. She’s got a new job. I don’t know what she’s doing, exactly, but it’s somewhere nearby. She met some new people. So I think that’s helping.’

  ‘Oh! New people? What kind of new people?’

  Is she fishing to find out if Mum has a new boyfriend? Becca is tempted to say, none of your business, because it isn’t, really, but you can’t say that to a grown-up. As it happens, Mum has talked quite a bit about her two new friends: one who she works with and who makes jewellery and stuff as a hobby, and one who’s really old and bakes a lot of cakes. Mum has even started driving the older one, Viv, for like an hour each way every Sunday to see her son, who’s got something wrong with him and lives in an institution. It doesn’t sound like much fun to Becca, but she can tell it makes her mum happy. It seems better than a new boyfriend, in a way: less likely to get dramatic. And it’s a change: in the old days, when her mum worked in London, she never had much time for hanging out with friends.

  But Becca doesn’t feel like explaining this to Mrs Chadstone. She doesn’t know why not, exactly – it just seems like it would be the wrong thing to do.

  ‘I don’t really know much about them,’ she says.

  ‘Well, do you know how she met them? Is it like a self-help group or something? I know people with the kind of problems your mum had often find those quite useful.’

  ‘Actually, I think she got to know one of them through work.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That must be nice for her. I assume they’re all women, these friends? Or is it like a mixed group?’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know,’ Becca says. She vaguely remembers Mum saying something about Leona’s friend Mark who’s gay, but that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Mrs Chadstone needs to know either. ‘I guess I wasn’t really paying attention.’

  Mrs Chadstone sighs. ‘Well, that’s great news. Your dad must be relieved that she�
��s doing so much better. And tell me, how’s he getting on?’

  ‘He’s fine, you know, same as ever.’

  ‘Is he? Well, good for him. You know, your parents and I go back a long way.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know what set your mother off, do you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  This also feels like something else she probably shouldn’t go into. But then again, why not? It’s not like she’s been sworn to secrecy or anything, and Mrs Chadstone has always been really nice to her, even after the thing that happened on Becca’s birthday. Not that they had talked much immediately after that, stuck in that awful, crowded waiting room while people stitched Daddy up on the other side of the double doors.

  Mrs Chadstone stays quiet, as if she’s waiting to see what Becca will say next. Sitting here in the front seat, with a grown-up really listening to her – as if what she has to say is important, and interesting, and worth being patient for – Becca suddenly feels reckless. Why not just tell the truth? It’s not as if Mum will ever know that she’s had this conversation, anyway.

  ‘I guess, you know, it started after my grandmother died,’ she says. ‘We didn’t use to see all that much of her, but it was still a big thing. And then Mum had some stuff going on at work. But as for what made her behave like that… I don’t know. To be honest, we haven’t really talked about it.’

  Is it disloyal to tell Mrs Chadstone this? Probably. But at the same time, it’s a weird kind of relief.

  ‘I think she’s too ashamed to talk about it,’ Becca continues. ‘Maybe one day she’ll try and explain. I don’t know. I’m not actually sure that she understands it all herself. I think she’s probably just trying to put it behind her.’

  ‘Mm. Well, look, I think the thing to remember is that you can get over these things, however enormous they may seem at the time.’

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I mean, if what happened to my mum happened to you… if you lost your home, and your job, and your health, and your family, do you think you could get over it?’

  ‘Mm.’ Mrs Chadstone raps her fingernails on the steering wheel. ‘I suppose I haven’t really thought about it like that.’

  ‘She lost all the things that made her her,’ Becca persists. She doesn’t know where this sudden impulse to defend her mother has come from, but she’s on a roll now.

  The back door of the Range Rover opens and Amelia gets into the car. ‘What did I miss?’

  Mrs Chadstone turns to face her and makes a point of checking her watch. ‘So nice of you to join us. What kept you?’

  ‘I thought I ought to help tidy up,’ Amelia says angelically.

  ‘Oh, really? And I suppose Becca just didn’t feel like helping?’

  ‘I didn’t, actually,’ Becca replies. ‘Helping’s really not my thing. But Amelia seems to be pretty keen on it.’

  Amelia giggles. Mrs Chadstone sighs and starts the car.

  That night Becca can’t sleep.

  It’s not because of the put-you-up bed that Mrs Chadstone has made up for her in Amelia’s bedroom. She’s perfectly comfortable, or would be if she could relax enough to drop off.

  Next to her, Amelia is sleeping quietly and peacefully. If only Becca could do the same… but she’s both tired out and wide awake, and the night seems to go on forever.

  It’s not because of her failure to interest anybody at the disco despite all Amelia’s efforts – though that does make her wonder what on earth is wrong with her. It’s not even anything to do with the slightly weird conversation with Mrs Chadstone.

  No: what haunts her is the memory of the thing that happened on her thirteenth birthday, right here at the Chadstones’ house, and the look on her mum’s face afterwards when they were back home and she came down into the kitchen and saw them eating the birthday cake, and said: I’m going now.

  And then she had left, and it had both been what Becca wanted and not what she wanted at all.

  Twenty-Four

  Rachel

  The Chadstones live on the outskirts of Kettlebridge in a large Georgian house that is easy to miss if you don’t know exactly when to turn. It’s set back from the road behind a high wall, and partially concealed by the tall old trees in the front garden. Rachel can never remember what it’s called, but it’s something tasteful and suggestive of space and greenery, like Lawn House or Ivy Place or The Chestnuts.

  She thinks of it as the House with Two Staircases. Once upon a time there would have been servants living there, people like her great-grandmother who had been in service and married the coachman. Now there is just plenty of space and whatever discreet help Mary hires in to keep everything immaculate.

  Rachel hadn’t known anyone who lived in a house like this when she was growing up. Becca seems to take it for granted, and Rachel both finds this disconcerting and is secretly pleased about it. Becca will be able to take wealthy people in her stride; she won’t be fazed by them. She won’t have to school herself not to be dazzled or intimidated, to see past the glow of money to the person on the other side.

  Mary had married Hugh as soon as they’d both graduated; it had been a big, traditional white wedding in a church in Oxfordshire, not far from Kettlebridge, all paid for by the father of the bride. Mary’s dad was a stockbroker, the same line of work Hugh had gone into, and even looked like Hugh, just older and fatter; Mitch and Rachel had both been struck by the physical resemblance. But he had given a long, affectionate speech about his daughter, and Rachel, who hadn’t expected to be touched by it, had ended up in tears. Also to her surprise, she had been impressed and moved by Mary and Hugh’s obvious devotion. She had come away wanting what they had – not the fancy wedding, but the sureness, the security. And Mitch must have felt the same, because he had proposed not long afterwards.

  Mary and Hugh had been the first of Rachel and Mitch’s peers to get married, and the first to start a family; when Rachel got pregnant, Mary and Hugh had been the only other couple they knew who already had a child. Henry had been a toddler then, and Amelia had arrived soon after Becca. Mary had never gone back to work, though – she’d briefly been in public relations, same as Rachel, before giving it up for family life.

  Rachel sometimes wondered if Mary minded having never really got her career off the ground. Her day-to-day life seemed impossibly leisured, a round of lunches and shopping and sessions at the gym. But perhaps, deep down, she was bored.

  It wasn’t the kind of thing they ever talked about, though. They had never become close; neither of them had ever quite let down their guards. Of course they had got off on the wrong foot to begin with. Maybe things would have been different – easier – if Rachel hadn’t overheard that conversation at that long-ago party. And maybe not. They’d made an effort for Hugh and Mitch’s sake, and later on, because the girls were in school together. But it had never come naturally.

  And as for Hugh – he had always been perfectly friendly, but whenever Rachel ended up talking to him it was like trying to communicate with someone from a different species. He commuted to London, too, and she still sometimes saw him on the train or in the Barrowton station car park, though there was a mutual, unspoken understanding that while they would greet each other in passing, they were not obliged to make conversation.

  What a relief it had been to get to know Viv and Leona… To have friends of her own, who knew her as she was now and accepted her completely. It was astonishing how quickly they had both become embedded in the routine of her life: Leona at work during the week and Viv on Sundays, which otherwise would have been a miserable comedown after the precious Saturdays with Becca. Viv and Leona were her antidote to loneliness. She’d taken to spending her lunchbreak at work with Leona more often than not, going to the weekly yoga class at the business park gym, or strolling round the grounds, talking about current affairs – Leona was more political than she was and had strong opinions on almost everything, from gl
obal warming to prison reform. You couldn’t talk about TV with Leona because she never watched it, but you could with Viv, who had a secret weakness for soaps and really twisty thrillers… The three of them complement each other. Or so she likes to think.

  But then, she has still never explained properly to Viv and Leona what she had done to make Becca reject her. And Mary had been there when it happened.

  No wonder Viv and Leona are easy for her to talk to. They still don’t really know her. And Mary does.

  Last time she had come to the Chadstones’ house it had been early autumn, though she had been oblivious to the colours of the leaves. Now it is spring, and there is blossom everywhere and she barely notices that either. She’s returning to the scene of the crime, and it fills her with shame.

  She parks in a corner of the broad gravelled area in front of the house, which is almost filled with the Chadstone family’s cars. Hugh must be at home; his Jag is parked next to Mary’s Range Rover. He’ll probably stay out of the way and leave it Mary to handle her, though he might be listening out, ready to intervene if needed.

  The shiny new Mini must be Henry’s. No doubt Hugh and Mary will get Amelia a car of her own, too, when she’s old enough. It seems highly unlikely that she and Mitch will be able to afford one for Becca – Rachel can barely cover the costs of running a car for herself – but maybe things will have picked up by then, who knows. And anyway, Becca will have the use of Rachel’s car, and Mitch’s, and somehow or other they’ll scrape together money for driving lessons.

  Maybe Becca will get a Saturday job, same as Rachel did as a teenager, and pay some of the costs herself. It wouldn’t do her any harm… would probably be good for her. The main thing is to encourage her. Not to be like Rachel’s dad, who had said there was no point Rachel wasting her earnings because she’d never pass her test.