A Daughter's Secret (2 page)

‘Of course you have . . .’ says Judith, a wry smile on her face. ‘Till midnight, I imagine?’

‘I’m a swot, what can I say?’

The manhunt’s been all over the papers, but I’ve been trying to avoid the lurid headlines so I can meet her fresh. I’ve still found myself worrying about her all weekend, pulling the facts I do have in all directions, like dough I’m still deciding how to shape. How must it feel to have her dad disappear in a puff of smoke, only to have him reappear plastered across the front of the
Daily Mail
?

‘How can he not have known – Gemma’s dad? That’s what he said, isn’t it? That he didn’t know Stephen Wright was a criminal.’

‘Wright’s definitely a criminal,’ says Judith drily. ‘It’s just that he’s clever enough and ruthless enough to have prevented the police from building a case until now. One particularly charming anecdote I was told is that he slashed the face of someone who had the temerity to disagree with him in a business meeting. Imaginative way to make it clear who’s boss.’ I shudder involuntarily. ‘Don’t look so worried, Mia. I’m not planning on stealing any management tips from him.’

‘Yes, so Christopher Vine must have known? And if he knew – surely the whole family must’ve known. Gemma even?’ Judith looks at me, face neutral, spoon gently clinking against the bone china cup. ‘I just want to go into this session ready for whatever could come out of her mouth.’

‘Mia, it’s not for us to speculate. I told you that. You’re just here to provide a safe space for Gemma.’

‘But . . .’

‘Besides, all this information is only just coming out in the press. Stephen Wright might have deliberately kept Vine away from the underground part of the business. Having a squeaky clean accountancy firm was a great way to give himself a veneer of respectability.’

‘So if Vine didn’t know anything, why go on the run? He’s abandoned his family. He’s left his own daughter to be interrogated by the police . . .’

Judith shrugs, deliberately non-committal.

‘The police will have put pressure on him by telling him the horror stories. If Stephen Wright’s idea of a friendly greeting is a knife to the throat, you wouldn’t want to risk taking the stand at his trial, even if you were going to do nothing more than recite nursery rhymes.’

‘But if she did say anything about his whereabouts . . . I’d have to tell the investigation, wouldn’t I?’

‘In principle, yes, but I don’t think that’s a real concern. Her mum wouldn’t be bringing her here if there was any danger she knows anything. She’s a mixed-up kid from a mixed-up family, who desperately needs our support.’

‘And it’s her mum asked for the appointment?’

‘Yes, I know a friend of hers socially. It’s too close for me to see Gemma, but I absolutely think you’re ready for it.’ Judith wriggles her shoulders, shaking it off, and takes another slug of coffee. ‘Besides, I think you’ll have real emotional insight into her situation.’

Judith’s a very instinctive therapist: one of her most deeply held convictions is that we get the clients we need for our own healing. I stand up a little too abruptly, smile a smile that shines extra bright.

‘OK, that’s really helpful. Wish me luck!’

‘You won’t need it. You’ll be great.’

Gemma’s twenty minutes late. I sit in my room, painstakingly rereading her notes, trying not to feel a sense of anticlimax. It’s a full half-hour after our appointment time before Brendan buzzes to say she’s finally arrived. I walk through to the waiting room, a tiny tremor of nervous anticipation running through me. I still get it on a first session, even as I’m outwardly projecting the smooth glide of a swan. There’s an intimacy to doing this work well, a locking together that has to happen.

Gemma’s jammed into the furthest corner of the grey sofa, hugged as close as a clam to its arm. She looks young for thirteen, like the endless billboards and MTV videos of girls dancing in just their teeny-tiny pants have somehow passed her by. She’s wearing a baggy unzipped hoodie and loose jeans, her small thin body lost in the swathes of fabric. Her dead gaze is fixed on an empty point in the distance, her sharp chin jutting forwards. Thin blonde hair, shaggy and unstyled, falls over her shoulders. A smattering of freckles punctuates her pale skin, playing across her small nose. There’s an innocence about those freckles that slightly breaks my heart: they speak of carefree summers playing outside, roaming around with a gaggle of friends – or perhaps that’s only in some storybook version of childhood. The thing that’s puncturing me is the way she embodies the fact that once innocence is lost it cannot be regained.

Next to Gemma sits a woman who must be her mum. She’s mid-forties, I think; her impeccable highlights and caramel skin making it hard to tell, a fidgety nervousness pulsing through her. Her fingers worry at her iPhone, her tongue darts out and moistens her lipsticked mouth. She’s faux casual – second-mortgage skinny jeans and a silk peasant blouse – a million miles from Gemma’s aggressively unkempt style. She jumps to her feet as I arrive, thrusts a hand towards me.

‘I’m Annie, Gemma’s mum,’ she says, the vowels slightly extending, a Northerner who’s lived South too long. ‘I’m SO sorry we’ve wasted your time.’

Her eyes blaze as she looks down at Gemma, but her gaze simply boomerangs back, no acknowledgement.

‘Please don’t worry,’ I say, shaking her hand, feeling its tremor. I turn my gaze to Gemma. ‘But we’d better make the most of what’s left. Do you want to follow me?’

My words simply hang there in the ether, unclaimed. Slowly, deliberately, Gemma turns to look at her mum. I wouldn’t want to receive that look: anger’s clean, but this is something else, harder and colder. Annie forces a smile as Gemma reluctantly prises herself from the sofa and stalks after me towards my treatment room.

‘Where would you . . .’

I’ve tried to make my room as welcoming and unthreatening as I can. There’s a dark red sofa scattered with big squishy cushions, and a box of tissues planted within easy reach. It’s light, too, with a big window with a view nearly as good as Judith’s – it’s very different from the little grey cage, deep in the bowels of an NHS clinic, where I first went, too desperate to carry on pretending I could keep it together. I was going to ask Gemma where she’d like to sit, but she’s already sprawled herself across my sofa like she’s got squatter’s rights. I sit down squarely, right opposite her.

‘I’m Mia,’ I say. ‘Mia Cosgrove. I’m a psychotherapist, and I can tell you more about what that means if you’d like me to.’

‘You’re a doctor. A head doctor.’

‘I’m not a doctor, no. But I do have qualifications. The idea is that I can help with the head stuff.’ Gemma’s eyes slide towards the big picture window – cars stream down the Marylebone Road, a haze of exhaust fumes throwing a gauzy grey blanket over the top. ‘We’re here to talk about whatever you’d like to talk about. This is your space. I won’t be telling your mum, or telling your teacher. You can use it however you like.’

‘Ooh, sounds like fun,’ she says, then snaps back to silence.

I let it run for a minute or so before I try again. I’m not one of those therapists who let the silence go on forever, pooling and deepening, waiting for the client to swim to shore. You can both end up drowning out there.

‘It feels to me like there’s quite a lot of tension in the room. Do you think that’s true?’

Sometimes it works, naming the big old elephant rampaging round the room; sometimes it doesn’t.

‘Maybe for you,’ she says, shoulders shrugging under her baggy hoodie. ‘I’m fine.’

‘That’s good,’ I say, managing to hold her gaze for a few seconds. ‘I just wanted to check in with how you were feeling. So you’re in Year Nine?’

She nods, almost imperceptibly. With the family’s assets frozen, Gemma’s been yanked out of her expensive private school and sent to the local comp.

‘And you’ve just moved schools?’ I pause, waiting to see if she’ll volunteer anything. ‘You’ve had a lot of changes happening all at once.’ Gemma shrugs, pale face effortfully rigid, like she’s putting everything she’s got into keeping me out. I keep inching forward. ‘Has it been hard for you, Gemma?’

‘No. It’s been like one big birthday party,’ she spits.

‘And Christmas?’ I say, cocking my head. It’s a risk. ‘Just one non-stop celebration?’

‘And Easter,’ she says, a tiny smile on her face. ‘Loads of chocolate.’

‘Hanukkah? No, you’re not Jewish.’ She’s softened, her body not quite so much of a fortress. ‘What
has
it been like, Gemma?’

‘What, at Shitsville Academy?’

‘Mmm, unusual name.’

Another tiny smile.

‘It’s shit. It’s a shit-hole, stuffed full of losers. Can I go now, or do I have to keep talking to you?’

‘Of course you can, if that’s what you want. I haven’t bolted the door.’

We look at each other, gazes finally locking.
Stay
: I send it out into the silence. Perhaps she hears it. Her shoulders slide downwards, the tension finally starting to lift. ‘Is there
anyone
you’d like to talk to, Gemma?’

I keep my voice gentle, watch for her instinctive reaction rather than the likely verbal missile. She folds a cushion into her belly, hugging it close. Her gaze drops to a point on the woven green rug that my best friend Lysette gave me when I started here, her eyes filling. This time I let the silence linger. Her eyes meet mine for a second, something close to desperation there, and then drop back to the rug. It’s round, with thick white stitching that spirals inwards, chasing itself round and round in an eternal circle. It’s either the perfect accessory for my work, or the absolute opposite.

‘If you want to ask about my dad, just say it. We both know why I’m here.’

The air feels taut again the moment she mentions him. No, ‘mention’ is far too feeble a word. It’s more like a bomb she drops.

‘Do we? I meant what I said when we started, Gemma. It’s your time. You’re the boss. We can talk about him, or we can talk about – I don’t know, Harry Styles’ lamentable use of hair gel. It’s up to you.’

‘I’m not a kid, Mia,’ she spits, as if there could be no worse insult. ‘Don’t patronize me. One Direction are a bunch of twats.’

‘They’re not really the point.’ I wait for her to look at me, keep my expression soft. ‘What I mean is, I want you to feel safe here.’

Safe: seems comical now. My naivety.

‘Dad knows where all the speed cameras are,’ she says, suddenly animated. ‘When we go to Westfield, he drives really fast on the Westway and he plays his music – not crap like One Direction – so loud the car shakes. It’s lucky we never get stopped.’

‘So what does he shake the car with?’

‘Old stuff. Blur and Radiohead. You know. Proper music.’

She’s grinning as she says it, eyes shining, like she’s there on the Westway right now, the music pumping, a hint of danger laced under the racing of her heart.
Proper music
. I play with the phrase in my head.

‘So his music is proper music? Do you like the same things as him, or do you like your own stuff too?’

‘What do you mean?’ she says, quick as a flash.

‘I’m just interested. Do you have your own version of proper music? You might like things he doesn’t.’

‘Don’t start thinking you can slag him off because he’s not here.’

She’s his guard dog: ferocious, quick to bare her teeth.

‘I’m sorry if it sounded like I was slagging him off. I was actually trying to find out more about you.’

‘Step away, Mia. There’s nothing to see.’

That’s when she starts to push up the ballooning grey cotton of her sleeves. It’s so very gradual, the way she does it, like a game of Grandmother’s Footsteps.

‘I’m not sure about that, Gemma. I think you might be selling yourself short.’ That spitting anger – it smacks of self-hatred that’s turned itself outward. Perfectly honed, forcing the outside world to keep confirming her darkest feelings about herself. And now, the one person who makes her believe differently has abandoned her – I bet, however illogical it is, it feels inside like it’s the casting vote. ‘There are lots of things I’d like to find out about you.’

‘Shame!’ She deliberately rolls her eyes towards the clock, the session almost ticked away. Then she gives her left sleeve a last, triumphant tweak. ‘We’re all out of time.’ That’s when I see them, deep, bloody scratches criss-crossing the tender flesh of her wrists. I try to control the shock in my face. ‘Gemma, have
you
done that? Have you been hurting yourself?’

She whips down her sleeves, busies herself with her scruffy rucksack.

‘Don’t be nosy. You think you’re so
qualified
, don’t you? You think you can just know all about us from some crap I’ve spun you, like you’re Sherlock or something. Well you’re not. My dad would never make me come here.’

I feel a surge of anger, not at her but at him. They merge and meld in her mind, like she doesn’t know where she starts and he ends.

‘I’m worried about you, Gemma. I think what you’re dealing with is incredibly painful and hard. Of course you don’t have to come here, but if you want to see me again, I’ll be here for you.’

She stands up, grabs the straps of the rucksack; her fury so palpable it feels violent. She won’t look at me.

‘He’s going to hate this,’ she hisses, her eyes suddenly finding their focus. ‘He’s going to hate you when I tell him.’

‘Gemma, why don’t you sit down? Take a few minutes to get calm before you go out there.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ she says, the door flung open so violently that the handle crashes against the plaster.

I want to give her a minute before I follow her out, respect her desire to get as far away from me as possible, but as I stand up to shut the swinging door, I realize it’s not just her who needs a minute. Did I go in too hard? I don’t think I did. Those livid scars, thin trails of dried blood.

When I brave the waiting room there’s no sign of Gemma, just Annie, looking even more flustered and anxious than when she arrived. I feel a burst of frustration. That session wasn’t for Gemma, it was for her.

‘What the hell happened in there?’ she says.