I pour myself another glass of Pinot.
‘It’s probably just a phase.’
She stares at me with great intensity.
‘Was it just a phase for you?’ she asks.
Well, I think, she’s got me there.
‘They aren’t my family, so it’s a little different.’
She turns away, her face screened by that curtain of dark hair.
‘But no,’ I say. ‘It’s not been a phase for me. I still feel all the same rage. I’ve just got better at disguising it. I’m better at playing by the rules and staying quiet and, well … I suppose you’d call it biding my time. The difference is …’
I sneak a sideways glance. I have regained Cosima’s attention.
‘… that I don’t want to be one of them anymore. It’s more that I want to expose them for what they are.’
I place my wine back on the side table. There is a fine layer of dust across the surface, apart from the circular imprint of the glass’s base.
‘Cool,’ Cosima says.
I confess, I was expecting more – a little hint of drama wouldn’t have gone amiss – but at least she hasn’t run shrieking back to her parents or denounced me as a crazed narcissist or gaslighter or sociopath or whatever pseudo-psychological label is au courant with Gen Z this particular week. Or would Cosima be Gen Alpha? I lose track. Either way, we seem to be aligned in our ultimate objective.
‘So, I read those files,’ I say.
She raises her eyebrows.
‘And now you know,’ she replies.
‘Know what?’
‘How awful my father is.’
I feel the familiar twitch in my left lower jaw.
‘I think,’ I say softly, ‘I already knew that.’
She gives a sharp semiquaver of laughter.
‘What did you do with the files?’
She scratches at her left wrist with her right hand. Lines of pinkish skin form underneath her fingernails.
‘You did do something with them, didn’t you?’ she asks, trying to disguise the undercurrent of desperation in her voice.
‘Are you sure you want to know?’
Maurice stalks back into the room and, ignoring me entirely, goesstraight to Cosima. I watch as the cat twists between her legs, nudging her calves until she reaches down and strokes his head. He starts to purr, with unseemly volume.
‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,’ she replies.
So I tell her all about Richard Take and the sushi place and what’s going to happen next.
‘Wow,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘That’s perfect.’ She leans back in her chair. ‘Perfect,’ she repeats.
XVII.
