Читать книгу: «Not My Daughter»

This book is dedicated to my twin sis, CS Quinn – an

amazing author and fantastic human being.

Contents

Cover

Praise

A note from your author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Lorna – Once upon a time …

Lorna – Sixteen years later

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Happily ever after …

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Lorna – Once upon a time …

There was once a woman who had long in vain wished for a child.

– RAPUNZEL

‘Lorna Miller?’

I want to stand up, but I can’t move.

My sister Dee gives my shoulder an urgent shake.

‘Come on, Lorna,’ she hisses. ‘You’re here now. Too late to back out.’

‘Ms Miller?’ The registrar calls again, looking over the room of couples and their new-born bundles. It’s very beige in here. I suppose people don’t want too many stimulating colours when they’re registering births. It might wake the babies.

My bony legs, bare in denim cut-offs, stick to the fake leather seating. Like they’re glued.

It’s warm today. Warmer, I’m told, than usual for the UK this time of year. And it’s spring here. A time of new beginnings.

Dee loses her patience. ‘Miller,’ she says, standing. ‘Lorna Miller. That’s us.’

‘You’re Lorna Miller?’ the registrar asks.

‘No,’ says Dee, placing a hand on my shaking shoulder. ‘She is. I’m her sister.’

Everything feels weird and slow. I’m under warm water and all I can feel is baby Reign’s warmth against my chest and the weight of Dee’s chubby hand.

Dee’s voice becomes urgent. ‘Come on, Lorna.’ She reaches to take the baby.

‘NO.’ My arms lock in one tight muscle and the whole room widens its eyes. ‘Just … give me a second.’

In one swift ‘pulling off a Band-Aid’ movement I get to my feet.

The registrar smiles. ‘It’s okay. Registering a birth isn’t an interrogation. Just a bit of form-filling.’

Dee puts an iron-bar arm around my shoulder. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster – the part where the ride starts and you can’t get off.

The registrar leads us into his office. There is a UNISON mug on his desk and a half-eaten Trio bar beside it. Two segments left. Trio bars are a peculiarly British sort of candy; too teeny-tiny to ever be popular in the States. I feel homesick, suddenly, for giant Charleston Chew bars.

‘The father couldn’t be here today?’ the registrar asks. ‘Or …’

‘There’s no father,’ says Dee.

My hands make fists around the baby.

There are chairs either side of the desk – sort of like a police interview room. The window overlooks a half-empty parking lot and a green fir tree.

I drop into the chair, feeling baby Reign against my chest, our heartbeats finding each other – hers like a fluttering leaf, mine like a tribal drum.

‘So you have your forms with you?’ the registrar asks.

‘Here.’ Dee shoves our envelope to the registrar like it’s a biting animal. Her hand drops on my shoulder and I feel she’s shaking too.

The registrar opens the folder and flicks through. He makes a clucking sound. ‘You’ve cut this very fine. If you’d left it any later …’

I nod, but my throat is too tight to reply.

Then the corners of the registrar’s mouth drop down. ‘You’re only seventeen. You have some support here, do you? Your mother?’

‘She’s in the States,’ I say. ‘And she’s not much of a support wherever she is.’

Dee manages something like a laugh, but her hand is still tight on my shoulder.

There is a pause, then the registrar says, ‘You had a home birth?’

I nod, my voice leaving me again.

He squints at the form. ‘And your sister …’

‘She … uh … witnessed the birth.’

‘Yes,’ says Dee.

‘It was just the two of you at the birth? The father—’

‘He’s not in the picture,’ says Dee.

The registrar hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he wants to ask something else.

This is it. The part where I break down and lose this baby …

I risk a glance at Dee. She won’t meet my eye.

And then it happens.

The registrar writes my name in neat black ink.

Mother: Lorna Miller.

I feel Reign’s warm body in my arms and dampness from Dee’s palm.

The registrar’s pen moves to the next box.

Father: unknown.

It was that easy. Who’d have guessed it would be so easy?

‘You’re entitled to benefits,’ says the registrar. ‘Worth looking into. There’s no shame in getting benefits. Especially at your age.’

‘It wouldn’t feel right,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here originally. I grew up in the States.’

‘What about healthcare?’ Dee asks. ‘My sister … she had cancer, sir.’

I make urgent eyes – what are you doing? Dee makes apologetic I had to ask eyes back.

‘You’ll be entitled to free healthcare,’ says the registrar. ‘What kind of cancer did you have?’

‘Bowel,’ I say, just as Dee says, ‘Breast.’

We look at each other.

Dee clears her throat. ‘Um … she had both.’

‘I’m fine now,’ I insist. ‘Really. Not worth talking about.’

The registrar glances at me for a moment, then moves to the next box.

‘What’s the baby’s name?’ he asks.

There’s a long silence. Too long. My mind is wrestling with itself. Trying to pin down thoughts.

I can’t call her Reign. It’s too distinctive. Why didn’t I think of this before?

‘Liberty,’ I decide. ‘Like the Statue of Liberty. Freedom.’ And then more words tumble out. ‘She’ll have a middle name too. Liberty Annalise.’

Dee’s hand clenches my shoulder, her nails digging in. ‘Are you sure you want that name? Annalise? I mean, really?’

I nod.

The registrar looks between us. Then he hands me a pen to write the names. Next comes the hard thunk of an official stamp.

As we walk out of the registrar’s office, I kiss the baby’s soft head over and over again.

Liberty Annalise Miller.

It’s official.

Dee won’t look at me.

That afternoon, I buy a heavy-duty safe with one-inch-thick steel sides. It costs £150 and takes twenty minutes to carry upstairs.

I put Liberty’s birth certificate inside the safe, along with all my medical records and lock it up tight.

The documents are still in there now.

Lorna – Sixteen years later

‘Well, well,’ said the old woman, peering out with a crafty look. ‘Haven’t you got a sweet tooth?’

– HANSEL AND GRETEL

Why isn’t Liberty home?

I’m in my workshop, legs crossed in paint-stained yoga pants, gluing tiny hairs into a foam-filled werewolf head.

Yoga pants? Leggings, Lorna. Leggings. You’ve been in this country seventeen years now. Butt is bum. A knob isn’t always a door handle. And never say ‘move your fanny’ unless you want to cause offence.

The workshop door is open and I can see our front gate, thick as a fist, the wood warm in the sun.

Warm.

Not hot. It’s never hot hot in this country.

I grew up under scorching California sun, but I’ve learned to love these softer British summers. Diet summer. Summer lite.

You know Liberty will be late today. All the students will be talking about their mock-exam results.

These werewolf hairs are a bad job to do while I’m waiting for Liberty. Way too fiddly. But filming starts next week and this guy needs to be ready. It’s ironic that I make monsters for movies, given my past. As ironic as my occasional bacon sandwich with Liberty’s vegan spread. But life never goes like a fairy tale, right? Maybe these teeth could do with more saliva.

I tap my laptop. The screen shows me the photoshop version of Michael, my nickname for this flesh-ripping, vicious beast. A moment later, the screen turns sleeping black and shows me something even tougher than the werewolf.

Me.

Once upon a time, I was skinny, sickly and quiet.

Not anymore.

My eyes, which my sister used to call cornflower blue, are now steel grey, like the weights I lift. Long hair – once short and naive sandy brown – dyed jet black. Arms no longer bony rods but toned and strong and covered in sleeve tattoos. I’m gym-fit and sturdy. Not the frail cancer survivor I was once upon a time.

Of course, I’m like every other tough-looking woman – soft as a marshmallow in the middle. Someone hurt me once. So I got strong. No choice really. It was either that or fade away.

As I reach for silicon glue, I hear footsteps outside the gate.

Please let this be Liberty …

But it’s not my daughter. I know this because Skywalker, our German Shepherd, watches the gate like a mafia boss, body stiff, ears pricked. Skywalker doesn’t do the guard-dog stuff when Liberty comes home; he gets excited, leaping up and down, pawing at wood.

So this must be Nick.

The lock buzzes and my eight-foot wooden gate swings open, making a big, light hole in the safe little world of our house and grounds.

I call out from my workshop, ‘Hey, future husband.’

Nick sidesteps through the gate in his gym gear, biceps bulging with hessian bags of shopping.

‘Hello, future wife.’ Nick bounds into the workshop and kisses my hair. ‘I found everything. Everything on the list. Even cashew nut cheese. I have a good feeling, Lorn. A really good feeling.’ Nick has a Yorkshire accent, which makes his boyish optimism sound even more naive.

Should I tell Nick that my teenage daughter might hate him less if he didn’t try so hard?

No. Nick is who he is. The man I love. Not with obsessive, fake teenage love. Real, sincere, honest love. It happened slowly, like real feelings should. Not overnight, like …

Michael.

Don’t think of him today.

I look around the workshop, mentally naming objects to switch my mind off bad thoughts.

Silicone glue. Silicone paint. Mould. Plaster of Paris. Movie script.

Skywalker trots into the workshop, sniffing the shopping bags.

‘Hey, pup.’ Nick reaches to pet him, but Skywalker barks and runs off.

I give Nick a sympathetic smile. ‘Baby steps, right? Listen, let’s start dinner. I need a distraction.’

‘She’ll be home any minute,’ says Nick. ‘When I was sixteen—’

‘I know. You were hiking alone in the Peak District.’ I lift the shopping bags of sourdough bread, tofu and asparagus. ‘How did that girl of mine get to like all this fancy food? When I was a teenager, all I ate was hot dogs and noodles.’

‘It’s great Libs eats mindfully,’ says Nick. ‘I’m proud of her.’

I bristle at the word ‘proud’ because I know Liberty would. It’s hard, this stepfamily stuff, and somehow Nick always manages to say the wrong thing.

I kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks for getting the groceries, honey.’

‘Anything to get into Liberty’s good books. Do you think she’ll get the results she wants today?’

‘Oh, sure. I never worry about Liberty in the smarts department. She’s so clever.’

Like her father.

I shake the thought away.

‘Anyway, they’re only mock exams,’ I continue. ‘No big deal.’

‘Well, she’s had plenty of time to study,’ says Nick.

‘Oh, yeah,’ I laugh. ‘I never let her out.’

I mean this as a joke, but it comes out sort of sinister.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to let Liberty out in the evenings?’ Nick asks. ‘She’s old enough. I was working at her age.’

‘We have different parenting styles, Nick. I parent Liberty my way, you parent Darcy yours.’

‘We’re supposed to be a team. Teams work together. We have two kids between us. We should parent them both together. Like a family. And we do parent Darcy together. It’s just Liberty—’

‘Look, I know the principle is a good one. But the kids are different ages.’

‘Why can’t I be a dad to Liberty? You’re amazing with Darcy. Better than her own mother sometimes …’

‘God, don’t say that, Nick. Darcy’s mom is doing her best. It’s a tough job raising a little girl with special needs.’

‘Yeah, okay. But you have to admit, Michelle doesn’t get Darcy like you do. The special needs thing doesn’t fit with her image.’ He makes a face. ‘You’re different. You don’t care if Darcy screams her head off in public. And Darcy loves you for that, Lorna. She feels safer here than she does at Michelle’s house. If you can parent her, why can’t I try with Libs?’

‘Liberty’s sixteen.’

‘Exactly. Sixteen. Don’t you think it’s time to loosen the reins and let her live a little?’

‘Sleeping Beauty had a really bad year when she was sixteen.’

I head into the house with the groceries, throwing a backwards glance at the gate, willing Liberty to buzz herself in.

She doesn’t.

I hate this part of the day.

‘She’ll be back any minute. Okay?’ Nick gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘You worry way too much.’

I nod, but I’m not reassured.

Inside, I dump groceries on the counter and watch the front gate through the kitchen window.

I never thought I’d live in a house like this – a little piece of English history. Growing up in America, my mother called the many different 1950s homes we lived in ‘antique’. Around here, most of the homes are four hundred years old.

‘Okay, so how do we cook this stuff?’ says Nick, looking at the ingredients.

‘Um …’ I glance at the kitchen window. ‘Not sure.’

‘Just playing devil’s advocate,’ says Nick, ‘but what if Liberty gets bad grades in these mock exams? What’s the plan? I mean, we can’t ground her, can we? Since you don’t let her out of an evening.’

‘Just as long as she tried her best.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’m going to give her until 4.30 p.m. Then I’m calling the police.’

Nick laughs. ‘They’re going to lock you up for wasting police time. You’re always overreacting. Liberty will be with her friends, probably writing songs or something. She’s okay. Don’t you remember being sixteen?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘But mostly I try and forget.’

Once upon a time …

The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand and said that she, above all others, was his dance partner.

– CINDERELLA

The year was 1996. The band were Crimson. The lead singer was Michael Reyji Ray.

I’d never known a high like it. The heat, the noise, the rush.

A multicoloured sea of arms waved in the air, Celtic armband tattoos and wrists jangling with thin Indian bangles and knotted cotton friendship bracelets.

Michael, Michael, Michael …

The girls wore light summer dresses with spaghetti straps and DM boots. The boys wore Michael Reyji Ray ‘Psycho-Delia’ T-shirts, ripped jeans and Vans trainers.

The stadium smelt of beer, incense and CK One perfume.

‘There are no strangers here,’ Michael boomed into a golden microphone. ‘Only friends you haven’t met.’

For 13,000 teenagers, Michael Reyji Ray was God that night. We worshipped him.

The world had never felt so real. So awake. I heard the roar of the crowd, felt tribal drum music under my feet, saw colours everywhere. Rainbow flags fluttering on parachute silk.

Michael had short, bleached white hair and wore a black T-shirt, jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses. His feet were bare, despite the cold night, because, he told us, he wanted to feel the beating heart of the earth.

To me, this statement was beautiful and artistic.

‘He thinks he’s Jesus,’ Dee croaked as Michael spread his arms on stage. She had a cold that night and was a begrudging chaperone.

‘Music has power,’ Michael boomed. ‘And tonight, we’re going to change the world.’

‘Oh, wow.’ I grabbed Dee’s arm, blinking back tears as we jostled against the cattle bars. ‘He is incredible. And he’s looking right at me, Dee – do you see it? Tonight is destiny. Michael Reyji Ray saved my life, Dee, I swear to God. It was his music that got me through cancer.’

My sister was less than impressed. ‘He doesn’t even write his own music – the rest of the band are the talent.’

‘He writes all the lyrics and they’re the amazing part,’ I gushed. ‘It was destiny I found that first Crimson album, Dee. I swear to you. And now I’m so close to him.’

On stage, Michael downed a beer. I took a large gulp from my own bottle.

‘Lorna, go easy on that stuff,’ said Dee, taking a bite from her hot dog and adding a chewed, ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’

‘I am,’ I insisted. ‘It’s six months today since they gave me the teen-cancer-girl all-clear. Exactly today. Profound, right? On the very day I see Michael sing live for the first time.’

As the night went on, I danced and screamed like a lunatic, downing beer, singing, holding up a light to the slow songs and putting my arms around complete strangers while my big sister looked on pityingly.

Dee didn’t get it. She wasn’t a Ray-ite. She didn’t get the depth and meaning and poetry of Michael’s lyrics. Those of us who did swayed and cheered and sang together.

It was beautiful. I felt like Michael was looking right at me, singing the words to me.

Live your life, little one. You’re a survivor …

When the concert finished and the crowds emptied, I needed to stay and get near the stage. It felt special – the spot where Michael had stood. I climbed right over the cattle bars at the front, watching the empty stage with big moony eyes.

Eventually a female security guard approached.

‘Girls,’ said the security guard. ‘Time to leave.’

‘We should go home,’ said Dee from the other side of the cattle bars. ‘Lorna, it’s cold. I have an excess fifty pounds to keep me warm. You’re skinny as a twig right now and still in recovery.’

‘You go home. Go. I’ll catch a cab later. I’m gonna hang out and wait for Michael and the band to leave.’

‘I can’t let you—’

‘Dee, he’s in this venue somewhere. I might meet him. Michael Reyji Ray.’

‘Never meet your idols, Lorna,’ said Dee. ‘I bet he’s even shorter than he looks on stage.’

‘I have to try.’

Dee shakes her head. ‘Come on, Lorna. I can’t stay out late. I’m teaching kids tomorrow.’

‘Then go.’

‘As if I’d leave my little sister. Come on. We need to get back.’

I pulled my trump card then. ‘Dee, meeting Michael Reyji Ray was on my list. The one I wrote in the hospital. Things to do before I die …’

Dee’s face faltered. ‘I’m responsible for a whole class of middle graders. I need to sleep—’

‘I’m telling you to go. I’ll be fine. There are no strangers here, right? Only friends I haven’t met. Come on, Dee, I’m sixteen. You moved out of home at sixteen.’

Dee sighed. ‘Okay, fine. Fine. But if you’re not back by 1 a.m. I’m calling the police.’

‘You’re the best big sister in the world. Always have been.’

‘Okay, okay. Stay out of trouble, little sis, and look after yourself. Take care of your body. Remember how lucky you are to be alive. You’re still crazy thin.’ She managed a tired smile. ‘Even so, you look a darn sight better than I did at your age.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the most beautiful person I ever met.’ And I meant it. My big sister always looked like an angel to me with her cuddly, curvy body and warm, smiling eyes.

Dee laughed. ‘And you’re my best little cheerleader. Enjoy yourself. Okay? You deserve a good time after everything you’ve been through.’

I know Dee still feels guilty about that night. If she’d have stayed with me, Michael might never have happened.

But it’s not her fault.

Men like Michael are predators. They’re experts at luring you in.

Lorna

Liberty’s still not home and I’m starting to panic, pacing back around the kitchen.

The griddle sizzles as Nick lays large, flat mushrooms on hot oil. He watches the pan intensely, glancing between the smoking mushroom and a little black kitchen timer.

‘Great job, Nick,’ I say, trying not to sound as distracted as I feel. ‘Smells delicious. Liberty is going to love this. A plant-based feast.’

‘Yeah, it looks good, doesn’t it?’ says Nick, voice cheerful. ‘I’m going to try Darcy on one of these mushrooms tonight. It would be great if she ate a vegetable. This yellow food phase is just going on and on.’

‘I’m not sure it’s a phrase,’ I say. ‘I think it’s just how Darcy is. You told the nursery that Bella’s mother is taking her home tonight, right?’

Nick snorts, still watching the mushroom, spatula poised. ‘I was a parent before you came along, Lorna Miller. Don’t worry. I told them.’

‘I’m giving Liberty one last call,’ I decide, taking out my cell phone. Mobile phone, Lorna, mobile, not a cell phone. You’ve lived in this country for seventeen years …

‘Lorna.’ Nick shakes his head. ‘She won’t answer. How many times have you called today?’

My flip-flops shuffle on the slate floor. ‘Three?’

This is a lie.

‘Hold up.’ Nick points at the window. ‘I think this is her.’

Skywalker is going mad, jumping around at the gate.

‘Oh, thank God.’ I watch our front gate swing open on its pivot, and my tall, slender daughter appears, army backpack hanging from one shoulder. Her skin is lightly tanned from the sun. Different to my pale skin. I’ve always been pale. The palest kid in California.

Liberty’s wearing a messed-up version of her school uniform, her tie the skinny way around, skirt rolled up and something else: an oversized denim jacket with band patches sewn on it. I’ve never seen the jacket before, and … what happened to her hair?

I feel Nick’s arm around my shoulder. ‘Whoa. Very rock and roll. It suits her.’

‘What has she done to herself?’ My voice is shaking.

Liberty’s long, chestnut brown hair has been cut to her chin, flicked over in a deep side parting and streaked an uneven blonde, some parts bright white, others orangey.

I put my hand to my own hair. It was short like that once too.

When Liberty comes through the front door, I accost her in the hall beside Nick’s ‘Steps, Achieve, Goal’ pinboard.

‘Liberty, what happened to your hair?’

Skywalker barks and barks.

Liberty raises a hand to Skywalker. He sits instantly, tail still and obedient. ‘I cut it. And bleached it.’

‘Where?’

‘At school.’

I watch as Liberty hangs her army backpack and the unidentified denim jacket.

‘Where did you get that jacket?’

‘A friend.’ Liberty clicks her fingers and Skywalker trots to her side.

‘Who? Male or female?’

‘Does it matter? Gender is fluid these days. Get with the times, Mama.’

‘What happened to your duffel coat—’

‘Abi has it. We swapped.’

‘For a jacket covered in music badges?’

‘What’s the problem with a couple of band badges? You’ve got tattoos all over your arms.’

‘Liberty, honey. Your hair. Your beautiful hair.’

‘It’s my hair. It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Hey Libs.’ Nick pops his head out the front door. ‘Your mother just worries about you, that’s all. We want you to be safe.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘Because you are not my legal guardian.’

‘I’m responsible for you, just like your mother is,’ says Nick.

‘Not legally,’ says Liberty. ‘You and my mother aren’t married yet. Remember?’ Then she mutters under her breath. ‘Steroids cause memory loss.’

Unfortunately, Nick hears. He’s mild-mannered about absolutely everything. Except steroid accusations.

‘I do not take steroids,’ he snaps. ‘These muscles are born of hard graft.’

‘There are helplines you can call.’ Liberty tries to dart upstairs, shoulders shaking with laughter.

I grab her arm. ‘Hold it right there. Number one, apologize to Nick. Number two, we have to figure out how to fix your hair.’

‘Fix it?’ Liberty gawps at me. ‘There’s nothing to fix. And I was just teasing, Nick. That’s all.’

Nick goes back into the kitchen and starts cutting tofu, head bent over.

‘Apologize to Nick. He’s trying his best. He drove to Long Bridge for your vegan stuff today.’

‘You’re always on his side.’

‘I’m on both your sides.’

Liberty flips around her new short hair and kneels to stroke Skywalker’s long, salt and pepper body. ‘Thank you, Nick,’ she says in a tired voice. ‘Sorry, Nick.’

‘I’m trying my best, Libs,’ says Nick. ‘All I want to do is be a good … sort-of dad.’

‘Tell us about the mock exams,’ I say. ‘How’d you do?’

Liberty ignores me and pours vegetarian dog biscuits into Skywalker’s bowl. Skywalker sits obediently, as Liberty has trained him to do. Only when she gives him the command does he start eating.

Nick stumbles into the awkward silence. ‘Hey, you’ve done a great job with that dog, Libs. Look at how well trained he is. Just brilliant.’

‘What else do I have to do?’ says Liberty. ‘Mum never lets me out.’

‘Yeah, we were talking about that,’ says Nick. ‘I think it’s time your mother let you out more.’

Liberty looks up then, managing a smile. ‘Really? You told her that? Did she punch you?’

Nick laughs. ‘Just a couple of broken fingers.’

‘So tell us about your exams,’ I say. ‘Don’t keep us hanging on.’

‘I’ll tell you at dinner time,’ says Liberty. ‘Where’s my little buddy? Up in her room reading her number chart?’

‘Darcy’s still at nursery,’ I say. ‘One of the other parents is bringing her home.’

‘I brought her some patterns from Maths class,’ says Liberty, going to her school bag and pulling out sheaves of paper. ‘I’ll put them in her special drawer.’

When Liberty opens Darcy’s personal kitchen drawer – the one with all Darcy’s ‘important’ items in it – she bursts out laughing. ‘I love that little girl. She’s so funny.’ Liberty pulls out a handful of Chinese takeout menus. ‘Of course she loves these menus. Every dish is numbered.’

‘I’ll say one thing about this blended family,’ says Nick. ‘At least the kids get along.’

‘Who wouldn’t get along with Darcy?’ says Liberty.

‘Her birth mother, for a start,’ says Nick. ‘Not everyone understands someone so particular.’

‘Well, I think Darcy’s hilarious. I love how straightforward she is. And clever. Worth putting up with you for, Nick.’

Nick laughs uncertainly.

‘Liberty, please stop being so hard on Nick,’ I say. ‘He’s one of the good guys.’

‘Well yeah, he definitely has his uses,’ says Liberty. ‘But why not just download a diet and fitness app? That way I don’t have to find his hair in the shower.’

‘There’s a fine line between funny and mean, and you’re in danger of crossing it.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Liberty mutters. ‘Sorry, Nick. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

‘Let’s get all this food cooked,’ I announce. ‘Okay? What’s this? Jackfruit? What is it, some kind of vegetable?’

‘I’ll give you a clue,’ says Liberty. ‘You won’t find it in one of your disgusting hot dog cans.’

‘Don’t mock the afflicted. I can’t help my taste in food. I don’t know how you got so sophisticated.’

‘Maybe I got my sophisticated tastes from my real dad.’

The room falls silent. And then I hear myself say:

‘Liberty. Go to your room.’

Once upon a time …

After my sister left me at the Crimson gig, I followed a tide of fanatical, oddball hangers-on. They swept me out of the stadium and towards the east car park, where the band’s tour bus waited on gleaming tarmac.

The girls were obvious groupies, shivering in knee-high boots, Wonderbras and short skirts. The boys were boggle-eyed and acne-ridden under shaggy, Michael Reyji Ray haircuts. They were a fun and sweet crowd, all glossy-eyed and talking about the gig.

I talked music too, but I was there for something more. Something deeper. Love. Wholesome, honest, authentic love. Michael and his music had cured me of cancer. His lyrics spoke to my heart and soul while I was in hospital. The words were written just for me. And I loved him.

It was dark and freezing that night, but excitement kept us warm as we huddled outside the east car-park stadium doors.

I said silent prayers, shivering in my oversized denim jacket – the one I’d decorated with band patches and sharpie silhouettes. Please, God, please. Let Michael grace us with his holiness.

Just after midnight, it happened. The black-painted fire doors flew open and out came Michael Reyji Ray, Paul Graves, Alex Sawalha and a dozen crew members dressed in black ‘Crimson’ T-shirts.

We all screamed and cried.

Michael walked a little ahead of the other band members, looking thoughtful, hands in greying jeans pockets and walking on bare feet. The way the band and crew had arranged themselves around Michael – he was a king with his subjects.

Michael walked past all the half-dressed girls in short skirts and knee-high boots, his face still apparently deep in concentration.

And then a miracle happened.

Michal noticed the illustrations on my jacket and stopped walking. His eyes followed the long, hard sharpie pen lines and crosshair shading. ‘So what do we have here then?’ he asked, voice scratchy and deep. ‘A little artist. Is this me?’

‘I … yes,’ I stammered, grinning like an idiot. ‘This is you. And this is Sid Vicious. And David Roger Johansen.’

‘The New York Dolls?’ Michael asked. ‘You like them, do you?’

I nodded and nodded. ‘I love them. I love punk music.’

‘A little American punk princess.’ Michael pushed his sunglasses into his hair and took my face in his hands. When his eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been hit with something. He had unwavering, kaleidoscope eyes that saw everything – hopes and dreams, pain and fear. They were the most amazing eyes I’d ever seen and they were looking right at me.

Then Michael put one square, flat palm high on my chest, right over my beating heart. He held his hand there for a moment, then spoke to me again in his gravelly voice.

‘Do you know what?’ Then he sang. ‘I fee-eel a soul connection.’

The girls beside me swooned on my behalf.

‘You’d better come with me.’ Michael grabbed my hand, and I felt his calloused guitar-player fingers against my palm.

‘Where?’

‘To the tour bus.’ Michael pulled me across the car park and I stumbled behind him, grinning like an idiot.

‘Wait,’ I said, looking back at my new-found friends. ‘Just me?’

Michael held my hand tighter. ‘Just you, Cinderella. I’m taking you to the ball.’

Together, we walked over freezing tarmac to the tour bus.

The ground seemed to lay down under Michael’s bare feet. To glow with every step he took.

I kept glancing at Michael and giggling like an idiot. Yes, he was definitely the most handsome man I’d ever seen. A little bit careworn up close. Smaller than he looked on stage. And a lot older than me. But so, so handsome. I was in the company of music royalty. Music royalty was holding my hand.

Lorna

Darcy frowns at her dinner plate. She sits on a yellow booster seat in a cute yellow sundress, yellow sandals dangling. But little-girl embellishments aside, Darcy is the most grown-up, serious four-year-old you could ever meet. Her idea of playtime is numbering all the toys in the room and then doing it again – fifty times.

‘It’s okay, Darcy,’ says Liberty. ‘You’ve had all this food before, right? Except that one. It’s called a mushroom. Remember what to do if you’re not sure? Just count the pieces.’

Darcy’s black hair is tied in a messy ponytail. Liberty did it this morning, and hasn’t done a bad job considering Darcy will only tolerate hairstyling for around ten seconds.

She won’t let Nick or me touch her head at all in the morning – only her ‘big sister Bibbity’. Hair washing must happen after 6 p.m. and only if we’re quick. Sometimes, we cut her hair while she’s sleeping.

Liberty and I watch across the dinner table, faces tense. Nick looks hopeful, but holds his knife and fork in tight fists. He’s taken a risk tonight by putting a mushroom on Darcy’s plate. She analyses it with the concentration of a surgeon: the operation is macaroni and vegan cheese with crunched-up tortilla chips on top and a sliced mushroom on the side. Everything yellow, except for the mushroom – slightly yellowed by frying, but still a grey, white colour.

This procedure is touch and go. Things could go either way.

Darcy’s meals have to look and feel similar every time, which means yellow and crunchy. Oven-ready is the go-to safe option.

If Darcy approves the meal, it could be a good evening. If she doesn’t, she’ll scream the house down and it’ll take an hour to make her calm again.

‘This is more toe-curling than your YouTube fitness videos, Nick,’ says Liberty.

Nick, to his credit, manages an amiable laugh.

Darcy says nothing. She is still concentrating.

Then we get the signal – a full, beautiful smile like the sun coming out. Darcy picks up her fork and carefully loads food.

‘One,’ she counts.

We all relax.

‘Okay.’ I pour drinks: Coke for me, Diet Coke for Nick, San Pellegrino sparkling water for Liberty (in a sophisticated stem glass, of course) and Sunny Delight for Darcy.

‘So, Liberty, good day?’ Nick asks. ‘How about those mock-exam results? How’d you do?’

Liberty cuts a mushroom into neat pieces. ‘I failed.’

I laugh.

‘I’m not joking,’ says Liberty, taking a delicate bite of food.

The room goes very still.

I decide to play along. ‘You failed drama? The girl who’s picked as the lead in every play?’

‘Failed it. Maths. English. Science. Fail, fail, fail. U grades. Unclassified.’

‘Very funny, Libs.’ I cut up food. ‘You’re the most intellectual teenager I’ve ever met. You can do a Suduko puzzle while the kettle boils. You’re an unbeaten chess champion. You read Dickens and Shakespeare for fun.’

‘It’s easy to fail when you don’t turn up to the exams,’ says Liberty.

‘You … what?’

‘I didn’t sit any exams,’ says Liberty, sipping sparkling water. ‘Except for Music. They predicted me an A-star for that.’

Silence.

Some parents worry about their children getting tattoos or leaving home to join a motorcycle gang. I worry my daughter will be a musician.

Nick looks between Liberty and me, brown eyes startled and unsure. Then he clears his throat. ‘Um … at my school sometimes the clever kids pretended to be thick so they wouldn’t get picked on. Maybe Libs doesn’t want to look too clever.’

‘Liberty,’ I say. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m protesting.’

I swallow. ‘Against … against what?’

‘I’m not taking my any more exams. Not until you let me meet him.’

I stiffen.

Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

‘I want to meet my real father.’ Liberty looks me dead in the eye.

There they are. Laid right out on the bamboo table top, making a nasty stain. The words I’ve been dreading since Liberty could talk.

Under the table, Skywalker makes a sort of snorting, whinny noise. It’s like he knows the gates of hell have been opened and Liberty is walking towards them.

‘I’m not taking any exams until you let me meet my real father,’ says Liberty.

‘Why would you want to meet him?’ I demand. ‘He’s a monster. That’s not a road we’re going down.’

‘Well, it’s a road I’m going down,’ says Liberty.

‘No, Liberty. Absolutely not.’

We glare at each other.

‘Liberty, your mother has her reasons, okay?’ says Nick.

Liberty stands and jabs her fork at Nick and me in turn.

‘See?’ she shouts. ‘I get totally ganged up on. I’m sixteen years old. It’s time I met my real dad. You should let me decide for myself what he’s like. Just because he was bad to you doesn’t mean he’ll be bad to me.’

Darcy doesn’t pay any attention, continuing to count her forkfuls.

‘You’re young and naive, just like I was,’ I say. ‘You just have to trust me.’

Suddenly, Darcy stops counting, frowning at a melted piece of cheese stuck on her place.

Liberty goes to helps Darcy cut it free. ‘I want to meet him, Mum.’

‘You can’t meet your father,’ I say, voice rising. ‘No way. Never. Do you understand me. You can NEVER meet him. Your real father will ruin everything.’

Lorna

I want to meet my father.

For a good few minutes after the ‘F’ bomb, only Darcy speaks.

‘Fork. Food. Eighteen. Fork. Food. Nineteen. Whoops! Start again. Fork. Food. One.’

Liberty is still behind her, helping her free stuck cheese from the plate when necessary.

Skywalker slinks into the kitchen and sits in his basket.

I stare at my plate, not wanting to eat.

When I look up, Nick has worried eyes and Liberty is glaring.

‘Okay, listen,’ I say. ‘The word “father”. It has a kind of status, doesn’t it? An authority? Like a king. Wise, kind. Fathers are kind men, right? But Liberty, your dad isn’t like that. How many times do I have to tell you? We all need to stay away. I’ve told you over and over again, he is not a good guy.’

‘Aunty Dee told me to take your stories with a pinch of salt.’

‘Aunty Dee thinks she’s protecting you,’ I say. ‘She used to do that when I was growing up too – tone things down, make them sound nicer. Always the mother figure. She was a great big sister. The best. But sometimes people need to know the truth.’

Liberty snorts. ‘And what would you know about the truth?’

‘Listen.’ My voice hardens. ‘Dee was there. She knows all about your dad. She knows full well.’ I push my plate of food away.

‘Tell me more about him at least,’ says Liberty, taking a seat. ‘He’s half of who I am.’

‘I … no,’ I say. ‘That’s not a good idea.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, Libs,’ says Nick, ‘I don’t know anything about your dad either. Your mother keeps me in the dark too.’

‘He’s just a bad guy who I left a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Can we leave it at that? And I don’t want you meeting him, Liberty, because I don’t want you getting hurt like I did.’

‘Maybe I’m not as weak and pathetic as you were.’ Liberty watches me, her eyes flat. ‘And I’m sick of listening to all the “Dad is a bad person” stuff without a shred of proof. If you won’t let me meet him, I won’t retake my exams.’

I cross my arms. ‘Fine. If that’s what it takes.’

Liberty glares at me. ‘I’ll ruin my future. You won’t let me do that.’

‘What kind of future will you have if your father gets a hold of you?’

For the rest of dinner, Liberty is sullen and silent, throwing me the occasional angry glance.

I try to strike up some small talk: ‘Do you think robot vacuum cleaners actually work?’

Liberty replies, ‘They probably don’t really clear up the mess at all. Just move it around. Hide it under the carpet.’ And eyes me meaningfully.

When we’ve all finished eating, we all clear and tidy, moving dinner things to the kitchen and loading the dishwasher.

After Darcy meticulously scrapes her plate and loads it, Liberty takes her hand, leads her into the lounge and finds her a YouTube video about a jelly bean factory. She sits with Darcy for a while, explaining the factory mechanisms and jelly bean flavouring process. Then she announces she’s heading up to her room.

‘I’m going to write a song about controlling parents,’ she says.

I sigh. ‘Listen, Libs. With your father … some problems can’t be solved. Right?’

‘Don’t be frigging ridiculous,’ says Liberty. ‘Every problem can be solved. It’s just whether you make it a priority or not.’

Frigging is an Americanism she got from me. I have no one else to blame. Ditto when she says crap and Jesus H Christ. And ditto.

‘Even kids Darcy’s age know hiding from problems isn’t healthy,’ Liberty adds.

‘Okay,’ I admit. ‘Fine. Usually we face our problems. But when it comes to your father it doesn’t work like that. He turns it all around, spins it, makes you look like the crazy one. So can we just drop it?’

‘Hey Libs,’ says Nick, holding out a chessboard with an eager look on his face. ‘Why don’t we take our mind off things with a game of chess. Fancy a quick match?’

Liberty offers an eyebrow raise. ‘No offence, Nick, but I’ll beat you in three minutes.’

‘I’ve been practising,’ says Nick. ‘I downloaded Chess Tactics Pro.’

‘Fine.’

Nick sets up the chessboard, turning the white pieces to face Liberty. ‘Here. Ladies first.’

‘I like black, remember?’ says Liberty, turning the board again. ‘The dark, avenging army.’

Nick looks uncertain. ‘Um … okay. Right. Okay. I’ll go first then.’ He looks at the pieces, eyes darting everywhere, then finally moves a pawn.

Liberty checkmates Nick within three minutes, as promised.

‘Good job, Libs.’ Nick offers his hand to shake. ‘I’ll keep practising.’

‘You’re persistent, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘I have to give you that.’

‘Giving up is not in my vocabulary.’

‘Thank goodness,’ I say. ‘Or you’d have given up on us a long time ago.’

Nick grins at me. ‘Never.’

‘Okay.’ Liberty stands. ‘I’m going upstairs to work on my music before I vomit all over the pair of you.’ She disappears up the second staircase – the one that leads to her mezzanine landing, bedroom and ensuite. The mezzanine is a yoga space that Liberty and I both used to use, but these days she’s more into indoor climbing at my local gym. Chaperoned, of course.

When Liberty disappears, I burst into tears.

‘Hey.’ Nick jumps to his feet and puts his arms around me. ‘Hey, it’s all right. It’s fine. She’ll take her exams. She’s just testing you.’

‘It’s not her exams I’m worried about.’

‘So what are you worried about? That she’ll go running off to see her dad?’

I nod.

‘It’s normal that she’d want to, isn’t it? I get that you and he didn’t get along, but maybe there’s a way—’

‘No. There’s no way she can see him.’ I look away from Nick’s penetrating stare. ‘He can’t be part of our life in any way.’

‘But clearly Liberty wants to see him. Lorna—’

‘It’s fine, Nick.’ I start doing clap press-ups against the breakfast bar. ‘We’ve been through all this when Liberty was younger. The “I want to see my real dad” phase. It’ll pass like it did back then.’

Nick scratches his head in thought. He’s the only person I know who literally scratches his head when he’s thinking. ‘So … you’re just going to basically ignore what she wants?’

‘Not ignore. Just not give any fuel to it. And like I said, wait until it passes.’

‘You never talk about Liberty’s father.’

‘There’s nothing I want to talk about. Liberty’s never met him and that’s how it’s going to stay. Everything is near-perfect here. You have no idea how perfect. Liberty’s father would ruin everything.’

We hear the beautiful ebb and flow of acoustic guitar drift over our open-plan living area, floating past the panoramic windows and out into woodland, joining the birds fluttering from tree to tree.

Liberty is musically talented. No doubt about that. I wish she weren’t. There would be fewer questions.

I look at the staircase. ‘I’ll go talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.’

‘Have a good honest talk with her, Lorna. Get everything out in the open.’

A shiver runs through me.

If I were totally honest with Liberty, I’d lose her forever. I’d lose Nick too. He really has no idea.

‘Lorna?’ Nick’s watching me, and I realize my fists are balled.

‘I’m okay. Honestly. It’s just … Liberty and I have been through a lot. I’ll talk to her and smooth things over.’

Nick pulls me into another big, strong hug. ‘Just remember, she’s a kid who’s dealing with a lot. Sixteen is a tough age. I wouldn’t want some weird guy moving into my house, sharing my mum’s bedroom.’

‘Don’t forget your hair in the bathroom.’

We both manage something like a laugh.

‘Listen,’ says Nick. ‘Maybe you’ve got good reasons for keeping her away from her dad. But let the girl go out with her friends of an evening, at least. If she had more freedom, I think it would help a lot. With everything.’

‘You don’t understand teenagers,’ I say. ‘Freedom is the last thing she needs.’