I swallow. It’s true. I’d wanted to spare Phoebe all of that – the depth of her father’s betrayal, my wild flight, so out of control. I was lucky I didn’t crash the car. My whole world had dropped away without a warning.
“It happened so fast, Phoebe, my darling,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just ...” I can’t tell her I found her father in bed with his personal assistant. “I just couldn’t go back there. I knew you were safe; busy in college. If I went back, I’d be living a lie.”
“But you took forever to let me know.”
“I wanted to spare you the truth as long as I could, and I guess I wondered if Bart would have a change of heart.”
“You’re the one who left, Mom.”
“I left because your father fell out of love with me. He fell in love with the Minx ...”
“Her name’s Mishelle. Mom. Dad’s happy. He said you didn’t love him anymore.”
He would say that. As his star kept rising, I was beside him with my make-up kit, all the way. I can’t tell Phoebe how vain he became, how in love with his own image, how he began to believe his own PR. Over time, I realized Phoebe and I came a big fat second to Bart’s ego. Bart stared at himself in mirrors more than he ever looked at us. In time, our only intimacy was when I touched up his makeup. No wonder I turned to restoring furniture. It was ultimately more rewarding. She doesn’t need to hear any of that.
“Dad told me you had an affair.”
My mouth drops open. Do I have to tell Phoebe her father is a liar? At least it explains why she’s been keeping her distance.
“I did not have an affair, darling. And I never wanted your home to be ripped from under you; from either of us,” I say.
“That’s not what Dad says.”
I close my eyes. I don’t need to hear more of Bart’s lies. Bart is my past.
“On a practical note, darling, I need to know your bank account details. A settlement will come through, maybe soon. I want you to benefit.”
Phoebe stares at me; stares at my rings. I pull one off and try to give it to her, but she waves me away.
“Why not? My mother gave them to me; and her mother gave them to her.”
“I know, but you can’t buy love, Mom. There are so many more important things going on in the world than this. Global warming. Climate change. Refugees with nowhere to go.”
“You’re absolutely right, but we all need security, darling.”
I haven’t convinced her.
“You always cared more for the house than for us,” Phoebe announces.
I can’t nod at this, but I want her to keep talking. Maybe once she’s said it all to my face, we can move on.
“Your whole ‘shabby chic trash to treasure’ business? Those photos with me in frilly, old-fashioned little girl clothes ... I was just another accessory, another prop for your Instagram photos. You never asked me if I wanted my picture all over the web; never got my permission.”
“I closed down that side of the business, Phoebe – it’s all gone to ReUse – and I deleted all the posts with you in them. I only run Lucy’s Lamps now – and no photos of you, I promise.”
“Good.”
“Phoebe, I don’t know what the best way to tell you would have been.” I can’t get the pleading out of my voice. It cracks as I try to explain. I stare at a spot on the side of the sugar bowl; twist the lid on and off and on again as my words rush out.
“I know the phone was grossly inadequate; but I managed to find work, and I needed that work whenever I could get it,” I say. “I had to make a fresh start. Perhaps I should have driven up to see you, but I couldn’t risk losing my job; not in those first few months.”
She nods slowly. It occurs to me she’s not deliberately trying to hurt me. She genuinely wants to know how her own world turned upside down.
“Let’s talk about you, darling,” I say, chancing a smile. “How is your course? Where did you and your boyfriend meet? What’s his name? Where’s he from?” They gush out after all; some of my questions; like the tea from the pot as Sabrina returns and pours it, fragrant steam rising around us.
Phoebe wraps her fingers around her cup and shrugs.
“You look great,” I say.
