Chapter Four
Twelve years later
It is loud in the kitchen. The chime of girlish chatter greets me as I nudge open the front door, hoisting the Waitrose shopping bags inside. Alfie, our golden retriever, crashes in after me, heading in the direction of the noise.
I pause and stand in the hallway with my eyes closed for a minute. Two. I lose track of time, the way I do sometimes.
In another world it would be both my girls in there, nattering away. But I know it isn’t. You’d think after fourteen years the cavity in my heart would be familiar to me, and yet, my throat constricts at the thought of what could have been.
When my eyelids flutter open, I catch a glimpse of a girl disappearing into the guest bathroom. A veil of waves swooshing over her shoulders.
I sigh, wondering if there’s another mouth to feed tonight. I haven’t bought enough chicken and will have to nip back to the shops, but I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I’m just happy Skyla has a friend over. It’s been a while.
Kicking off my shoes, I note the black biker jacket dangling from the coat stand and the grungy pair of scuffed Dr. Martens lying haphazardly on the floor.
I step over the shoes, wander down to the kitchen and stop, leaning against the doorframe.
The table is scattered with books, all on Elizabethan England. History, Skyla’s passion.
‘Hello you,’ I say softly, and Skyla tears herself away from her textbooks, offering me a beaming smile. They are so rare these days that my heart swells. Today must have been a good day.
‘Mum,’ she says, replacing the cap on her neon yellow highlighter. Alfie has curled up at her feet, tongue out, panting happily.
Dropping the shopping bags to the kitchen counter, I start to unload the chicken breasts and courgettes. ‘What’re you studying?’
‘Stuff about the monarch, privy council and parliament,’ she says, and there isn’t an ounce of boredom etched into her words. She blows onto a page in her textbook to dry the ink from her highlighter.
‘My little history nut.’ My lips curl up and our eyes meet. ‘That reminds me.’ I dip my hand into one of the shopping bags and withdraw a paperback copy of Alison Weir’s latest book, something on Cardinal Wolsey. Her eyes light up at the sight of the blood-red cover.
‘You didn’t!’ She grins, bouncing up and snatching the book from my hands. She clutches it to her chest. ‘Thank you.’
I won’t tell her that I’ve booked tickets to Alison Weir’s book talk in Chorleywood yet. I’ll leave that to be a surprise, pull it out as a treat after her GCSEs.
I’m happy my daughter is more thrilled with a book as a present than make-up or a Zara clothing voucher. She’s a good girl, and it makes me feel like I’ve done at least one thing right over the years.
I kiss her forehead, my hand grazing over her beautiful curls, the way I’ve always done. While she perches on a stool by the kitchen island, I bend and pull out some pots and pans to start on dinner. The guest toilet flushes, reminding me of a stranger’s presence.
‘One more for dinner tonight, darling?’ I ask, thinking, I can make this work. Instead of crispy parmesan garlic chicken I can do some sort of easy bake. I’m already reworking the recipe in my head. Saves a trip back to the shops.
Glancing up, Skyla shrugs. ‘I’ll have to ask,’ she says, and there’s a pinkness to her cheeks that wasn’t there before.
I twist, asking the Alexa to play Tracy Chapman.
My go-to music to cook to. I won’t overwhelm Skyla by asking more.
My counsellor told me that’s one way to help the situation — don’t breathe down her neck.
Let her come out of her shell slowly, at her own pace.
I start the slow, methodical process of slicing the chicken breasts into thick cubes.
I guess the hiss of garlic frying in the pan muffles the sound of Skyla’s friend re-entering the kitchen, because I don’t hear her footsteps.
It’s only when I turn again to look in my daughter’s direction that I freeze, the wooden spoon falling from my hand like a deadweight.
It clatters noisily to the tiles, oil splattering up the cabinet doors.
‘What the fuck?’ I mutter, blinking again and again, but the image in front of me remains the same.
Both girls snap their heads in my direction, their movements indistinguishable. I have to clamp a hand over my lips and dart from the room. By the time I reach the bathroom, hot vomit has already pooled in my mouth, the acidity burning my tongue.
I spit the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl and feel my heartbeat hammering against the vitreous china.
I’m seeing things again, I think. I must be.
It takes a while to compose myself. I splash water onto my face, smudging my mascara, and rinse out my mouth.
By the time I make it back into the kitchen, the garlic in the pan has burnt, the smell bitter and sulphurous.
But that doesn’t matter because staring up at me is a girl who looks so much like Skyla, it’s not possible. Unless . . .