Carolyn was significant in my life, though, because she represented normality. If she did know about my past – as an Ice Cream Girl and/or a former convict – she never let on. She treated me like a human being and like a friend and that made all the difference in my life. She was another piece in the puzzle that made me feel normal; that made the nonsense with my parents not so awful.
Carolyn welcomes Betina with open arms. ‘So, pumpkin, you’re going to hang out with your Aunty Carolyn for a bit while Mum and Dad go off and do stuff, huh?’ she says.
‘Yes, I am,’ Betina replies. Despite what the head teacher implied the other day, my daughter loves most people and is always up for spending time with them. She runs into Carolyn’s arms, who effortlessly scoops her up.
The pair of them seem to be staring each other out while simultaneously checking out each other’s features in case they’ve changed since they were last together. ‘Well, there are several things we can do,’ Carolyn says seriously. ‘I’d love to take the wakeboard out for a bit, but I think your mother might have some kind of breakdown if I attempted to do that with you. So, we can do some baking or we can give Maia a makeover. She’s been looking far too ordinary pretty recently. I’m thinking me and you could put some pink in that blonde hair, a new orange eyeshadow, I’m sure I’ve got blue mascara somewhere. How does that sound?’
‘Excellent,’ Betina replies.
‘Great. Obviously, we’ll have to trick her into it, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Betina echoes.
‘But in the meantime’ – Carolyn puts her down – ‘I’d like you to do me a favour. Megan didn’t make it down to breakfast this morning. As you know, that’s not allowed in this house – Sunday morning breakfasts are everything. So could you go and wake her up? You know where it is, don’t you? A good old-fashioned piley-on should do it. Are you up for that?’
‘Oh yeah!’ Betina squeals then darts out of the room. None of us move or speak we just leave it three . . . two . . . one . . . and she’s back in the room, hurtling towards her father. She throws her arms around him. ‘See you later, Dad!’ she says. Then she moves on to me before her dad has a chance to speak or even ruffle her hair. ‘See you later, Mum,’ she says to me. She does linger with me, allows me to fold my arms around her, kiss the top of her head, squeeze her extra close. And then she’s gone, desperate to carry out her mission to the best of her abilities.
‘How are you?’ Carolyn asks the second Betina’s footsteps clatter at the top of the stairs. ‘How’s Logan?’
‘I called earlier, they said he had a comfortable night but there’s no real change, he’s still in a coma.’
Carolyn shakes her head. ‘And they don’t know what happened?’
‘The police are on it, apparently. They’ve taken statements from a few people, and they’re going to his flat later. But no one really knows anything.’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, this is so rough. If you need Betina to stay over, or anything, just let me know.’
I’m about to thank her when a wail, from someone who has been dragged from the depths of comfort to a world of hell, sounds throughout the house. The sound is swiftly followed by Betina’s giggling.
‘Oh, that’s my girl, Betina,’ Carolyn says with a delighted chuckle. ‘That’s my girl.’ She grabs her phone from the middle of the table she was in the middle of clearing and in a swish of blonde hair dashes out, throwing ‘I’ll see you later’ over her shoulder.
Rather than leave, I pull out a chair and sit down. ‘I don’t want to do this.’
This confession isn’t a surprise, especially not to Alain. He says nothing and I pick forlornly at a piece of watermelon that looks perfect to sink my teeth into. I would have loved to have had my breakfast here this morning before trekking the short distance to my parents’ for whichever version of badly cooked Sunday lunch we’d be getting. I would have loved to just have a normal Sunday. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any way out of it, is there?’
Alain takes my hand. ‘I’ll be with you. It’ll be fine.’ He rubs the back of my hand reassuringly. ‘Remember when you went to tell them you were pregnant? You thought they’d freak out. They didn’t. It was the first time your mum hugged you in years, you said. And your dad spoke directly to you. Properly.’
‘This isn’t a baby, Alain.’
‘I know, but it might not be as bad as you think. And you don’t have to tell them about Serena. Not yet. Not until you know if it’s relevant.’
Just when I think Alain has got it together. Just when I think I can trust him, he suggests something like this. ‘I’m not going to lie to them, Alain. Not even by omission. It’s bad enough I didn’t tell them straight away because I wanted to have something concrete to tell them, imagine what they’ll feel like if they find out about Serena being involved later? They’ll wonder why I didn’t tell them. They’ll have their faith in me, as tenuous and tiny as it is, shaken, and I don’t want that.’
He looks embarrassed, as he should. We split up because of his lying and here he is, trying to get me to lie my way out of a bad situation. ‘You’re right. You’re right.’ He hauls me to my feet. ‘Come on, then, the sooner you tell them, the sooner you get to see Logan.’
serena
Now
There are so many of them.
They stand on the doorstep, they stand on the path, like uniformed clockwork toys waiting to be wound up and let loose on our house.
Evan stands at the door with a woman who is a good head-and-a-half shorter than him, but what she lacks in height she more than makes up for in confidence and self-crowned authority. Evan is reading through the papers in his hand and will clearly not let them in until he’s finished.
This is like 1988.
This is like watching my life repeat itself on a digitally remastered video film. This is 1988 and any moment now my father is going to finish reading the paper in his hands and the police officers will push past him into the house. They will spread out. They will each take a room and they will start to look. They will turn things over, pull things out, snap things apart, push things aside and accidentally knock things down, smash things into pieces, rip things into shreds. I will stand and watch. I will see everything in slow motion, I will want to scream at them to stop. I will try to tell them I’ll confess to anything if they will stop this wilful, sanctioned destruction of my home; if they will stop the violation that will make me never feel safe again.
Conrad is in the corridor by the kitchen. I want to whisk him out of here; he does not belong in 1988 after all. Evan has stepped aside and his back is against the wall by the front door, and he is staring at the coat rack opposite. Verity is on the stairs, standing aside to let officer after officer after officer climb up the stairs to begin their violation of our bedrooms, our bathrooms.
I stare at her, but she is staring at her father. She is focused on him so she doesn’t have to look at me.
I don’t want to whisk her out of here. She does belong in 1988, because, after all, she put herself there when she started sleeping with Poppy Carlisle’s brother. My eyes continue to bore into her, glaring and staring until it’s too much for her – she has to give in and turn to face me.