Three Mothers

Abby

It is ten-fifteen and Isla Richardson is not yet home.

watches the clock above the fireplace, listens to it fill the silence.

It is unlike her daughter to be late.

Picking up the phone beside her, she checks for unread messages, finds nothing, taps out a WhatsApp to her best friend, Nicole.

Any word from Nathaniel this evening? Isla’s not back from the party yet and I haven’t heard from her. x

She watches her phone, waits for the two ticks to turn blue – Nicole is never very far from her mobile – feels a pinch of concern when they remain stubbornly grey.

There is the metallic slice of a key in the front door lock, and whips her head around, relief expanding her lungs. But when the door to the sitting room opens, it is not Isla who walks through but Clio. She is wearing a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a white crop top that leaves little to the imagination. The outfit exposes far too much flesh for a fifteen-year-old, though never dares mention Clio’s clothing choices, is met with a scowl and a lecture on feminist rights if she makes that mistake.

A frown puckers ’s forehead that Isla still isn’t home, but she consciously irons it out, greets her younger daughter with a smile.

‘I thought you were staying at Freya’s tonight?’

Clio shrugs, does not meet ’s gaze. ‘Changed my mind.’

‘You didn’t walk home by yourself, did you?’

Clio rolls her eyes, fiddles with the toggle at the waistband of her joggers. ‘It’s literally a ten-minute walk.’

‘Still, I’d rather come and get you when it’s late. You know that.’

Clio sighs with teenage forbearance, and studies her daughter’s face: watchful blue eyes framed with thick, black kohl; eyelashes caked in mascara; heavily glossed lips pursed in a tight, unyielding line.

‘You haven’t heard from Isla, have you?’

Clio looks directly at for the first time since arriving home and glowers. ‘No. Why would I?’

‘I just thought she might have texted you or something. She said she’d be home at ten.’

Clio shakes her head. ‘God forbid Little Miss Perfect might be fifteen minutes late.’ Contempt smears her voice, and she turns, heads towards the door.

‘Are you off to bed?’

‘Yep.’ The single, clipped syllable hangs in the air as Clio exits the room.

listens to her thump up the stairs, wondering – as she so often does – about the person Clio might be in a parallel world, one in which her father had not died of a stroke a week after her tenth birthday. She had been such a happy child before: brimming with infectious enthusiasm, slightly cheeky, somewhat maverick. A natural charmer, endearing people to her with her impish smile and beautifully na?ve, often hilarious observations. The kind of child who managed to attract the affection of a room without ever showing off. But now – five years since Stuart’s death – that child has long since disappeared, replaced by a teenager who seems full of disdain for everything says and does, however much she tries to reach out to her.

Glancing down at her phone again, begins typing a message to Isla even as a part of her brain tells her not to. Isla is seventeen. It is not unusual for seventeen-year-olds to stay out late at a party. And ten-fifteen is not late for a Friday night, knows that.

But she also knows that Isla is not like other teenagers. She is responsible, considerate, diligent. She always messages if she will not be home on time. She is the daughter of whom other parents speak in adulating tones, because Isla is always so mindful of ’s feelings, has been such an emotional rock since Stuart died. And Isla has swimming early tomorrow morning, knows she needs to get a decent night’s sleep if she is to have a good session. After a training blip over the summer – a nasty tummy bug followed by a bad shoulder – Isla has been working fiendishly hard at the pool, is determined to qualify for the nationals when trials take place next month. knows Isla is good enough; her coach has made that clear, as have her results at county meets over the past year. All Isla needs to do is train hard. Keep focused. Get enough sleep.

Hey sweetheart. Just checking everything’s okay? Let me know if you want a lift home. xxx

Even as she presses her finger down on the send button, she is aware of a sharp flare of guilt. The party at Meera’s house is only a short walk away. Isla will be fine getting home. No doubt Jules or Yasmin, who live close by, will walk back with her. is worrying about nothing.

The sound of the doorbell shrieks into the quiet, and jumps up from the sofa, assumes Isla must have forgotten her key. She is usually so meticulous about her possessions, rarely forgets or loses anything.

Opening the front door, is aware of something pushing down hard on her chest.

It is not Isla, smiling apologetically at her.

Instead, two police officers stand on the doorstep. And neither of them are smiling.

‘Mrs Richardson? I’m PC Kelly and this is PC Hessell. Do you mind if we come in?’