Chapter One
Sunday, November 3, 4pm, Kingston
I’m never coming home for Christmas. Ever. I’ll make sure I’m busy every single holiday from now till I’m seventy.
“You can’t be working on Christmas day,” my mum calls from the open front door as I hurry to get into my car. “Theatres are closed.”
“We’ll be too far to travel for one day.” The lie comes easily. And in a minute, so will the tears. Better be out of sight before that happens.
I turn on the engine with one hand and clip on my seat belt with the other. Hopefully, I’ll be on the M3 before she discovers that I’ve accidentally on purpose forgotten my birthday presents on the bed.
“Bye, Mum.” I wave while putting the car into gear.
“Leonie!” Mum tries to delay me. “What about New Year’s? Surely you’ll be home for that?” she insists.
Home? What a joke.
Waving quickly, I drive away just as the first tears overflow and drip down my face. My tears have always been quick. I hate them; they make me appear fragile. Which I’m not. What I am – what I want to be – is a survivor. A fighter. A crusader. It’s just a pity I look like a sweet damsel in distress, and circumstances keep forcing me into places where I need rescuing.
Ding!
My phone on the passenger seat besides me has a new message. I bet it’s Mum.
A quick glance proves me right. But also twists the knife because it’s just one word.
MUM:Leo
Mum only ever uses this nickname as a last resort. Normally she insists on Leonie, a name she originally hated but later discovered it made her baby sound interesting.
Only Dad ever called me Leo.
Dad.
My breath escapes on a shaky whimper
Oh Dad.
His wonderful, kind face swims into my imagination. His eyes crinkling with humour. His voice full of love.Leo.
How could my mother go from a man like him to a brash pompous git like Howard?
Then again, Howard isn’t her only unexplained attraction. Throughout her marriage, all the men she cheated with, not one of them held a candle to Dad. He put up with it. For my sake. More than put up with it, he tried to excuse her.“You can have love in your heart for more than one person,”he said wheneverI complained about her.“What really matters, Leo, is our family, our home.”
The car in the right-hand lane swerves in front of me so suddenly I have to slam on the brakes hard enough to make the seatbelt tighten painfully on my shoulder.
“Wanker!” another driver shouts out of the window at the offending car.
Sunday afternoon traffic is often like this. You’d think people driving back from an outing or a weekend away would be in a more cheerful mood.
Then again, look at me. Who knew a family lunch could be so crushing. Until last year, Sunday lunch had been fun, full of good food and laughter. It was from Dad I inherited my love of cooking. Mum was always being taken out to restaurants. He cooked at home so there’d be a hot meal waiting for me. We sat together, talked and laughed. Even after I moved out, whenever I visited, he cooked and made sure we had a wonderful time.
It’s why I went home every weekend. Except that final year.
When Dad hid the truth from me.
I’d been touring withSnow White, eleven months going round every seaside town in the UK. By the second month, I was getting bored of playing this incredibly gullible girl whose only talent was for getting herself nearly killed.
“Why don’t you play around with it a bit?” Dad suggested on one of our weekly calls. “Pantomime is supposed to be fun.”
