They look to be in their late forties. Susie is small and squat with a round, attractive face and dark hair piled on top of her head. Peter stands behind her, tall and thin, pink scalp showing through white candyfloss hair. He resembles a sergeant major. Two boys hang about by the front door. The older one – maybe fifteen – seems sulky, as if he’d rather be anywhere else, but the younger boy smiles, his freckled face lighting up when he notices something behind me. I turn to see what’s caught his attention. Amelia is standing at the other end of the hallway, near the playroom. She’s swamped in a lilac hoody and is twisting a strand of hair, scowling in the boy’s direction. She turns away abruptly and disappears into the playroom.
The boy thrusts his hands into his pockets, appearing bemused.
‘I’m Kirsty,’ I say, stepping forward so that I’m standing beside Mum.
Susie Greyson smiles. She has a grey streak through her dark hair and is strangely glamorous, like Mrs Robinson inThe Graduate. ‘Are you the owner?’
I can feel Mum pulling herself up to her full five foot three. ‘We are both the landladies here,’ she says, and I swear she takes a step forward so that she is ever so slightly in front of me. I try not to let my irritation show as she offers to show them to their room. They trudge after her with their bags, Peter Greyson hauling his suitcase up each step with a huff, beads of sweat on his wide forehead. I hope he’s not scuffing the wool carpet with his wheels. I wonder where Adrian is and if I should fetch him to help. Mum is wittering about the local area, as though she’s been living here for years instead of weeks. I stare at their retreating backs with dismay, suddenly feeling redundant.
‘Don’t let it bother you.’ Selena is standing in the living-room doorway, her arms folded. ‘Aunty Carol means well.’
I consider saying I don’t know what she’s talking about. But she’s family: she knows all our dynamics, our oddities and idiosyncrasies. Even after all these years apart.
‘You know what she’s like. Always trying to take over. To be in charge.’
I remember running to Selena’s house after a row with Mum over homework and she’d listened as I ranted about how controlling and selfish she was, how she wanted to ruin my life. Selena had said, a little sadly, that her behaviour showed she cared. That it was better to have a mother who was interested enough in you to be controlling than one who sat in front ofNeighboursdrinking vodka and didn’t give a shit about what you got up to.
I take the duster out of my pocket and move towards her. She steps aside so that I can get into the living room. It’s empty – I wonder if any of them will use it later. Perhaps they’ll sit on our sofas and watch TV while we hover in the kitchen feeling like intruders in our own home.
Selena follows me. Her eyes are sad. ‘She’s a strong woman. The way she coped with what happened to your sister, and then when Uncle Derren died …’
I flinch. ‘I’m sorry to bring up your dad,’ she says.
‘It’s fine.’ But it’s not. Losing Dad was the worst thing that ever happened to me, even worse than losing Natasha. One day she was there and then she wasn’t. I can’t remember her being ill, just the void she left behind. But Dad was my world. He made me feel safe. He wrapped us all in his protective embrace, even Mum, so that we felt as though we could do anything.Beanything. Their marriage didn’t crack when Natasha died: they seemed to grow stronger, crying together, talking about her, visiting her grave on birthdays and at Christmas. Her death wasn’t a subject everyone was scared to bring up in case it turned Mum into a quivering wreck. No, Natasha was talked about. She continued to be one of the family. It was only after Dad died that Mum became the emotionally cut-off person she is today.
It wasn’t until I held my own baby for the first time, all those years later, that it hit me. I loved Amelia. I’d do anything for her. I’d kill for her if anybody ever tried to hurt her. And then I thought of Mum and her little girl, who didn’t make it past her second birthday, and cried as though my heart would break. Having my own daughter had given me an insight into what Mum had been through and how much she had lost. It frightened me. Looking back, I realize I could never enjoy my children when they were babies: I was too wrapped up in the responsibility of trying to keep them alive. Dad had died by falling off a building at the site he was working on, and Natasha died of pneumonia. How easily the people you love can be snatched from you. Suddenly. Without warning.
‘Kirsty?’ Selena is staring at me, an eyebrow raised. She must have been speaking to me. ‘Are you okay?’
I nod and sit heavily on the sofa, swallowing the golf ball in my throat. ‘Sorry, it’s Dad. It’s been over twenty years but I still miss him. Every day.’
She perches next to me, touching my hand lightly. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Your dad was the best … better than mine.’
I move my hand away and push back my hair from my face, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. ‘Uncle Owen was great too. He tried, he really did. It couldn’t have been easy for him, with your mum the way she was. And losing Dad was hard on him too. They were close, as you know.’
The air between us has changed. It’s become charged, dangerous. Anything said out of turn could lead to a row like we had all those years ago. I need to tread carefully yet I’m compelled to continue, to clear the air once and for all so that we can truly move forward, now she’s back in my life. ‘I still can’t believe he walked out the way he did. You were his life, but then he just disappeared.’
It was after her eighteenth birthday – after our row and her accusation. I wonder if he found out and left in disgust. Or were the wheels already in motion long before that? Was he waiting to leave his toxic marriage until his only child was old enough?
Selena stares at me, her face drained. Is she going to admit that she lied all those years ago? I return her stare, willing her to say something about the night of her eighteenth birthday, to admit she shouldn’t have said it. That it was one story too far. But she doesn’t.
She juts out her chin. ‘Do you know what I think?’ she says. ‘I think you idolized my dad because of what happened to yours. But he wasn’t perfect.’
I swallow. ‘I know he wasn’t. Nobody is. But he loved you, Selena. You have to admit that.’
‘True. He did. But his love suffocated me.’
‘Is that why you lied?’
Something changes in her expression and I can almost see her conflicting emotions rippling across her face. This is a pivotal point in our relationship. If she admits that she lied, we can move on. We can continue to be in one another’s lives. But if she doesn’t, well, our relationship is irretrievable, the damage too great.
She holds my gaze. ‘Yes,’ she says eventually. ‘That’s why I made it up. I made it all up. I was young and I was stupid. And I blamed Dad for Mum. For being weak. I’m sorry, okay? I should never have said those things to you. It ruined everything.’ Her words tumble out, fast and furious.
She’d lied. Of course. I’d always known it deep down. Kind, soft Uncle Owen –my dad’s brother– would never have been capable of the disgusting things she’d accused him of doing.
‘Oh, Selena,’ I say, sad that seventeen years have been wasted.
‘I was messed up,’ she mumbles, looking into her lap. ‘I had an overactive imagination.’
