A Daughter's Secret (14 page)

‘It’s going to be good,’ he says, eyes dancing.

‘The agent did say she could give us a deal?’ I ask. ‘Because I can’t remotely afford what they quoted.’

‘Just don’t worry about it,’ he says, kissing my neck. ‘You never have to worry about it. You know that really, don’t you?’

‘I’m not your geisha.’

‘Did I say you were?’

‘I didn’t say you did,’ I say, looking into his eyes. ‘What about the kids? Juliet looked the polar opposite of pleased the other night. I don’t want to be the wicked stepmother, Marcus.’ I shouldn’t have said the S word. Shouldn’t have said the M word. They still feel too dangerous. I grab a salty almond, try for casual. ‘Poisoned apples aren’t my thing.’

‘Listen, if you’re worried, we can put something in writing.’

‘What, like a prenup?’

‘A prenup lite,’ he says, smiling. ‘And don’t worry about the kids. Trust me, Juliet won’t have time to think about it.’

‘Why?’

‘This job’s going to cost a lot more than we first thought.’

‘What, like thousands more?’ Marcus raises his hands, palms upwards, almost as if he’s offering it to the heavens: nothing to do with him. ‘Millions?’

‘Yup.’

‘And did Juliet do the costing?’

He shrugs, his expression hard to read. He doesn’t want to talk about it – I know that – but I can’t stop myself from digging. It makes me think of Mum – all angry and hot and purposeful. ‘But it sounds like you saved the day?’ That cast-iron self-belief of his, it seduces me most of the time. I’m sure it seduces most people. ‘It’s sorted?’

‘You have to get bloodied in this game,’ he says. ‘All part of the ride. She’ll be fine.’ His gaze is sliding sideways, his fingers worrying at the almonds, just like mine were. We’re like a couple of shifty squirrels, out for a night on the tiles.

‘What, so she took the rap?’

‘We would’ve lost the job if she hadn’t.’

‘And it wasn’t her fault?’

‘They can’t think I’m fallible. I’m the brand. I’m what they’re buying. She knows that.’

‘But Juliet loves her job. She’ll feel about three inches tall.’ He stares at me, his eyes cold. ‘Like a Borrower,’ I add, trying to lure him back from wherever it is he’s retreated to, but he doesn’t give me even a flicker of a smile.

‘She took one for the team, she’ll be fine. She doesn’t have anything to worry about either.’

‘Yeah, of course she knows you won’t sack her, but it’s about her reputation in the industry. She won’t want to look like the only reason she’s got a job is down to nepotism.’

I should back away from this. You should never tell a parent how to be a parent, especially when you’re as under-qualified in that department as I am.

‘Swings and roundabouts, darling. She just took a tumble on the slide: no harm done.’

‘Do you not think that’s kind of patronizing?’

Why am I picking a fight, tonight of all nights? I look at the smooth lines of his profile, which is all he’s showing me right now. Here’s the problem with chiselled features – they’re made of stone. A snake of panic wraps itself around my gut but I force myself to ignore it. I’ve made a decision.

‘I’m not asking you to understand,’ he says, raising a hand for the waiter to top up our glasses.

‘What, because you don’t think I can?’

‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

‘I did have a father,’ I hiss, poking around in my handbag for something completely imaginary. My cheeks are hot, splashed red. I don’t trust myself to look up. I can’t carry on like this, the past a livid bruise that throbs at the slightest touch.

‘Did I say otherwise?’ he says. We look at each other for a long moment, neither of us speaking, and then, somewhere in the silent space that stretches between us, we decide to make up. ‘Drink up, gorgeous. Let’s go back to mine and celebrate properly.’

I think about it for a second, imagine spiralling down in the lift, sticking my arm out for a taxi and sailing back to my own bed.

I think about it, but I don’t do it.

November 1994 (sixteen years old)

It’s Jim’s eighteenth birthday tomorrow and I’m in a total panic. It’s not about what to get him – I’ve babysat around the clock to fund a moss-green Calvin Klein jumper from the first floor of Selfridges that he has to like, considering how beautifully it will match his eyes – it’s that it’s D-Day. Or should that be L-Day? I’ve finally convinced him that we have to tell Lysette, and we’re going to do it on the afternoon of his birthday party. I can’t stand deceiving her any longer. The longer we lie the bigger the lie will become, until it’s big and black enough to eclipse our whole friendship. I want both: I want both forever. I hope that’s not too greedy, because I would hate to have to choose.

Lorcan lopes down the stairs as my single slice of brown toast erupts from the toaster. I won’t be having any butter on it, even though it means it tastes like cardboard. He looks exhausted and wide awake all at the same time. He’s like a Mad March Hare at the moment: his album’s about to come out, and, against the odds, it’s getting a release in the US with a big publicity campaign.

‘Morning, beautiful,’ he says, grinning widely.

I do feel beautiful at the moment. It’s a revelation – like the world is floodlit, bright and magical. I’ve had my sixteenth birthday, and my body’s stood up to attention, my cleavage something real, the spots that plagued my early teens finally wiped away. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? It might just as well be having a gorgeous boy to kiss me and whisper unrepeatable suggestions into my ear.

August was like a dream, even if making endless excuses to Lysette was more like a nightmare. I would sneak off to meet him on Hampstead Heath or at the cinema, and we would kiss until my lips were chapped and my chin was red raw from his carefully cultivated stubble. ‘I don’t think I can wait much longer, baby,’ he would murmur, his erection pressing hard against me through the knobbly seam of his jeans, and I would kiss him back more fervently, hoping it would be enough to keep him warm. Since my birthday his pleading has got more bullish. It’s so much harder to see him now he’s back at boarding school, and I’m terrified I won’t be able to hold on to him with my clumsy pawing. The fact we’ve had to meet in public has been my secret blessing.

‘Toast?’ I say.

Lorcan waves me away, scooping a mound of coffee into his stovetop espresso pot. I grab my school books, ready to head for the bus.

‘Eight o’clock,’ he says. ‘I need my little girl there, front row.’

He looks at me, fear etched into the Modigliani planes of his face. I nearly go and throw my arms round his bony shoulders, but I’ll miss the bus.

‘You got it.’

Lorcan’s playing a showcase in a bar in Soho tonight. I’m sort of looking forward to it, I just wish there weren’t so many things criss-crossing over the top. Mum’s scurried off to see her best friend in Brighton, which seems pretty cruel to me.

‘We’re not in California any more, Toto,’ he shouts after me. I’m so stupid. Too much Saturday-afternoon
Beverly Hills, 90210
. Sometimes I feel like I’m so many different people I can’t remember who the right one is.

Lysette comes home with me after school, a stretchy tube of Lycra rolled up in her bag with a pair of clumpy high-heeled sandals. I’ve got better at putting make-up on these last few months. She watches my profile as I sit in front of the mirror, dabbing on red lipstick with a brush, then blotting it with a tissue to prepare for the second layer.

‘Who’s it for?’

‘Who’s what for?’ I say, playing dumb.

‘All of this,’ she says. I’ve not yet put my top on, my new black bra cupping my almost cleavage. ‘You haven’t got a secret boyfriend stashed under the bed, have you?’

‘It’s nice to look nice,’ I say, gazing into my own duplicitous eyes.

‘You’d tell me?’

‘Ob-viously. Anyway, you look nice too!’ I say, forcing myself to turn towards her before the atmosphere congeals any more than it already has. ‘Your legs look amazing in that dress.’

‘Thanks,’ she says, happier. ‘Do you think I should wear it for the party?’

‘Two days on the trot. Stinky!’

‘Skanky!’ says Lysette, laughing. ‘Come round early and get ready, yeah?’

‘Course I will,’ I say, the words truer than she knows, my tummy turning over like a Ferris wheel.

We’re actual VIPs, it says so on the list, which means we’re waved right to the front of the longish queue. The club is deep in a basement, dark and atmospheric, the walls lined with posters from bands who are properly famous and have played here over the years. My heart swells up with pride like a balloon inflating: finally Lorcan’s getting what he always deserved. We eye the bar nervously, too scared to try our luck. The crowd are filtering in now, and my fragile sense of sophistication is being sucked right out. We look like girls at best, adolescent and awkward. A blonde woman with eyeliner like Madonna had a few years ago approaches, and I wonder if this will be over before it began. My life seems to be like a computer game these days, a constant fight to make it to the next level.

‘You must be Mia!’ she says, her accent cut glass. ‘You’ve got your dad’s eyes.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘This is my best friend Lysette.’

‘Your BF! I’m Bella. I’ve been told to get you naughty BFs a drink. If anyone asks you, say it’s a softie. What would you like?’

‘Malibu and Coke,’ says Lysette, quick as a flash.

‘Same,’ I say.

‘Coming right up,’ says Bella, laughing at our speedy response.

It’s an excellent choice, the Coke sweet enough to disguise the taste of the alcohol (does anyone really like the taste, or just the effect?). Bella stays with us for the first few sips, and I track her carefully to work out if she’s me and Mum’s enemy. I’m good at this.

‘I like your earrings,’ she says, her fingers fondling the interlocking gold hoops I’m wearing. I can’t help blushing – they were my treasured birthday present from Jim – but it’s too dark for anyone to see. I watch her smile, follow it until it reaches all the way to her kohl-smudged eyes. Perhaps I’ll just relax, let the tide of Malibu lap its way through my system.

It seems to take forever for Lorcan to come on, but maybe it’s just my nerves that make the time crawl past. Finally he appears, longish hair in a ponytail, his guitar under his arm. His backing band are minimal: he’s the real attraction.

‘Hello, London,’ he says, and Lysette squeezes my hand tightly. ‘Let’s get specific. Hello, Soho.’

And then he’s off. His songs are soulful and acoustic, a classy, timeless backlash against all the dance music that’s taken hold. He performs each one like he’s singing it directly to each of us, his voice caressing us. I mouth the words, loving how rapt the audience are. ‘He’s ama-zing!’ says Lysette, and I know it’s true. The audience scream for an encore and, eventually, when we’ve almost given up, he strides back out.

‘This one’s for someone very special,’ he says, and I stand up tall, hoping he can see me over the sea of heads. ‘My daughter’s in the audience. Petal, I’m so glad you’re here.’

I could actually burst. It’s an older song, and I’m not sure if most of the audience remember it, but he played it all the time when I was a kid, the central riff lodged deep in my memory. It keeps catching on my heart, like a snag of wool on a favourite jumper. ‘One more!’ shout the audience. ‘Encore!’ and Lorcan sidles back towards the microphone.

‘This really is your lot,’ he says, giving that grin that even now destroys Mum’s best intentions. He starts to strum, looking to the band behind him. It’s the final song on the new album, a slow one which stretches out far longer than the rest. ‘Bella, you’ve been an angel. Thanks for making tonight happen.’

Don’t think. You don’t know, so don’t think. And then I’m singing it, belting it out, even though it’s not that kind of song, my hand tight around Lysette’s, forcing our sweaty palms up into the air like a flagpole. All I can hear in my head are the words. I can’t hear the other voices that stalk me.

Bella comes and finds us afterwards. She looks at me a second too long before she speaks, unable to stop her eyes shining. What she doesn’t realize is that my superpower is being two people at once: I can know and not know, the truth and the untruth nestled so tightly together that they’re one piece, like the teeth of a zip. ‘Your dad wants you to come backstage,’ she says, and soon we’re crammed into his tiny dressing room, his arms pulling me into a hug that’s sweaty and real. Even now, when I feel the ladder of his ribs pressing against my cheek, something in me feels like I’ve come home.

‘You were so brilliant!’ I tell him.

‘You totally were,’ says Lysette, and he hugs her too.

‘I had to be brilliant for my little girl,’ he says, his face alight. ‘We can relax now. It’s time to take all you glamorous creatures to the after party.’ He’s looking at Bella when he says it, but he re-angles his gaze.

‘Yay,’ says Lysette, and I try and make my face go right. I know Mum would want me to go home now, get a good night’s sleep so I can make a start on revising for the flurry of pre-Christmas mocks coming my way. A wave of anger sweeps over me: why isn’t she here? She’s only got herself to blame. We’re hustled through to a back room in the club. It’s already rammed with people, all making use of the waterfall of booze pouring from the free bar. A cheer erupts at the sight of Lorcan, swiftly followed by an orgy of back slapping from his producers and managers. Lysette turns to me, wide-eyed.

‘Your dad is so cool!’ she whispers, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the bar. ‘Mine’s such a total plonker.’

I think of her father, calm and measured, but still twinkly of eye. He’d be putting us in a cab right now.

‘Your dad’s amazing too,’ I say, meaning it, but she’s not really listening. She’s high with it all, revelling in making it to the next level.

‘Come on, partner,’ she says. ‘Free booze!’

No one bats an eye as she orders more Malibu and Coke. I’ve gone off it now, it’s started to taste like cough medicine: I order a Perrier alongside, and try not to make it obvious it’s all I’m drinking. I’m watching Lorcan out of the corner of my eye, just like Bella is, from her sneaky vantage point at the far corner of the bar. He’s ordering shots of tequila, but there’s an abundance of champagne too. He sees me watching, raises his flute in a toast, and points at the bottle. I shake my head, try to smile, dragging Lysette to the packed square of dance floor, my heart pounding as loud as the bass line.