My face flushed hot as I looked around. My joke had gone down like a cup of sick. A perfect example of not reading the room. Damage limitation was required. ‘Callie, I know that’s not you. It’s just a joke I heard,’ I tried feebly. ‘Besides, I know you wouldn’t work or go out with other lawyers who are like that either.’
A few hard glares, a couple of forced smiles.
The other lawyers might’ve been OK, but Gabriel sure wasn’t. I knew a dickhead when I saw one. He wasn’t just conforming to every negative stereotype, he was basking in them. After my comment, the gloves came off. Gabriel spent the rest of the evening ripping into me. Ass hat! He was so patronizing, he was lucky I didn’t knee him in the nuts. God knows I wanted to. But what burned me more than anything – and still burns, if I’m honest – is that Callie sat next to him and didn’t say a word as he verbally crucified me.
‘Well?’ I prompt. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. Gabriel isn’t happy and is telling you to drop the case.’
‘I have no idea how Gabriel feels about it. Nor do I care. He and I aren’t together any more,’ Callie retorts.
‘Oh? When did that happen?’
‘The day after the Mafanikio Ball.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘I didn’t appreciate the way he spoke to you,’ Callie says with a shrug.
‘No, why did you really break up with him?’
Callie quirks an eyebrow, tilting her head to one side as she looks at me. It hits me like an express train that she’s deadly serious.
‘You dumped him because of me?’
‘No, I dumped him because of him,’ she says firmly. ‘He went out of his way to be a dick to you and I’m not having that, not from him, not from anyone.’
‘Why was he so unpleasant?’
‘Maybe he thought that making you look small would make him look bigger,’ Callie says, unimpressed. ‘He was wrong.’
‘But you didn’t say anything at the time,’ I can’t help pointing out. ‘You sat next to him and didn’t say a word.’
‘I wasn’t about to make a scene in front of my colleagues and the whole lawyer fraternity,’ Callie replies. ‘I’ve told you before, Troy, learn to pick your moments.’
She had told me that – and more than once. If it’d been me, I would’ve told Gabriel something about himself right there and then, but Callie always views things from every angle before she makes a move. That’s probably why she always thrashes me at chess and is formidable in court. A satisfied smile creeps across my lips. Gabriel got dumped. Ha!
‘Troy, don’t get puffed up,’ she says. ‘I would’ve dumped him if he’d spoken to anyone the way he spoke to you. When people show you their true selves, you need to believe them. I always do.’
One shiny moment for my ego and then my sister has to go and stick a pin in it. Typical!
‘So you’ll be careful? And report anything suspicious straight back to me?’
‘Course.’
Callie’s eyes narrow. ‘Troy, promise.’
For Shaka’s sake! ‘I promise.’ It’s only a takeaway, disposable promise, barely acknowledged by me. I’m sure Callie is overreacting and worrying about nothing.
Callie nods, then leaves the room, taking my promise with her.
seventeen. Libby
* * *
I try to open my eyes, but the pain is blinding. My left eye feels like it’s been sewn shut with a rusty needle and my whole face is throbbing. A sound comes rumbling towards me like a rainstorm approaching. The voice is muffled at first, but grows more distinct by the second.
‘Libby darling, I’m sorry. Wake up. I’m so sorry. See what you made me do.’
Mum.
I lie crumpled on the floor. Forcing my right eye open, I see Mum standing over me, swaying slightly, still drunk. Or high. Immediately I scramble away from her until my back hits the wall. Mum looks at me, a strange expression on her face. She reaches out with one hand. I notice the back of her hand is bleeding where she’s been scratching it.
‘Libby—’
I shrink away from her. Mum’s hand falls to her side, her expression freezing by degrees.
‘You are your father’s child,’ she tells me, her voice dripping with contempt.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, but now I understand the comment for what it truly means.
‘And that’s why you hate me,’ I reply quietly. ‘That’s why you’ve always hated me.’
I voice what I should’ve figured out years ago. Mum straightens up, very still. We regard each other, the truth naked and ugly between us.
I struggle to my feet. Mum takes a step back as if she thinks I’m about to launch myself at her. I take a step forward. She takes another step back. For the first time, I’m in control, not Mum. The heady rush of realization is intoxicating.
‘Mum, I will never allow you to hit me again,’ I tell her quietly. ‘And tell your boyfriend that, if he ever lays a hand on me, I’ll chop it off and then go straight to the police and have him arrested.’
A moment’s consternation on Mum’s part, then she turns and staggers out of my room, slamming the door shut behind her. Her final word. I rush to lock the door, then lean on it, my forehead against the cool wood.
Stupid to open it in the first place.
Stupid for putting up with a mum who drifts through life with nothing but hatred for company.
Well, no more.
Swallowing hard, I reach out for the door handle, only to snatch back my hand. No! She isn’t going to do this to me. I open the door before my courage can dance away again. The landing is empty. I head for Mum’s bedroom. No more living with lies. No more living in fear.
I open her door without knocking. Mum is sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. The moment I enter the room, she looks up. Not allowing her a moment’s thinking time, I launch straight in. ‘Mum, where’s my trust money?’
Mum’s expression is instantly incredulous. Wary. ‘What trust money? What’re you talking about?’
‘The money my dad pays you each month to look after me, for my future college fees and other expenses,’ I reply. ‘The dad you took great pleasure in saying didn’t give a damn about me.’
Mum’s face began to redden. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
OK, so that was the way she was going to play it, was it?
I tell her, ‘The bank sent me a statement today and I phoned them to find out if they’d sent the letter to the right person.’
Mum’s cheeks are almost puce by now.
‘How dare you!’ She is actually beginning to shake with rage. ‘How dare you open my letters!’
But I’m calm. Cool. Confident. ‘It was addressed to me, Mum. They’ve been addressing letters to me about the trust since I was sixteen, apparently – so if there’s any inappropriate letter-opening going on, it’s not from my direction.’
‘I’m your mother. You can’t talk to me like this!’
I shake my head, recognizing this current argument for what it is. ‘Mum, pick one thing to get mad about and stick to that. You’re firing in all directions at the moment.’