‘Okay, okay,’ I said, instantly regretting how soon I had broached it. ‘As I say, whenever you’re ready.’
And I retreated out of her bedroom, feeling uneasy, and slowly made my way down to Vics, who was sitting at the kitchen island staring out of the window, with her heavily ringed fingers encircling a mug of tea.
She jumped when she saw me. ‘Sorry, in a daze. How is she?’
‘All cried out.’
‘You took a whole lot of loving for a handful of nothing,’ Vics sang inappropriately, screwing up her eyes, her hands at her heart.
I laughed, relieved that I still could, having felt wrung out by Rosie’s outpouring.
‘Does anyone still listen to Alison Moyer?’
Her eyes sprang open and sparkled at me, like darts of light on a choppy sea, outshining her garden-tan crinkles. Vics had a high-reaching, freckled forehead that lent her an air of wisdom and somehow belied the less serious bright white-blonde hair and unfashionable blue eyeliner that she wore every day, rain or shine.
‘I have her CD in my car,’ she cried defensively, handing me a steaming cup of tea, bangles clanking.
‘You would. You’re mega uncool, as Rosie would say.’
‘I’m retro-cool, darling,’ Vics grinned, then she tucked her hair behind her ears, getting down to business. ‘How is she?’
Paranoia singed at the edges of me, like the burning edges of a piece of paper. I felt ashamed of what had happened, and wondered if it had changed how Vics viewed me, if it had left a trace of suspicion in her mind. ‘She’s writing in her diary.’
‘I bet you want to read that.’
‘I wonder whether I might have to.’
‘Did you manage to get anything out of her?’
I wanted to ask Vics if she believed Rosie, but I was too scared. If there had been even the vaguest of hesitations, I would have been crushed. Vics would be honest and sometimes I didn’t need it.
‘I thought I’d wait a bit.’
‘Does she know how serious it could get?’
‘That’s a good question actually. I wonder if she does.’
It hadn’t occurred to me that Rosie would, of course, not fully understand the consequences of her lie, and the processes involved following my arrest, and what it could lead to.
‘I think it might be wise to tell her.’
‘I don’t want to scare her.’
‘It’s a tough one.’
‘Does Beth have a diary?’
‘Beth? Have you ever met your godchild?’
‘I wish Madam up there was as chilled out as her.’ I pointed up in the direction of Rosie’s bedroom and rolled my eyes. Childishly, I was trying to garner some solidarity from Vics, some acknowledgement that Rosie was a nightmare and that I was the victim.
‘If she takes it back, will the case be immediately dropped?’
‘Yup.’
‘Probably best to be gentle with her rather than force it out of her.’
‘Obviously,’ I said defensively.
‘Sorry, I know you wouldn’t force her.’
I smiled knowingly. ‘No, you don’t know. You think I’m too hard on her, everyone does, admit it.’ I light-heartedly raised my eyebrows over my cup of tea, pretending that I could take whatever she might throw at me, but I was braced, expecting it might cut right through me.
‘I’d say you’re strict, about manners and things like that. They’re always so well turned-out.’
I looked right into her bright eyes, inspecting her for signs of shiftiness, wondering if she thought I was so strict I might actually hit Rosie.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t care so much.’
‘It’s good to care. Look at Beth! Poor thing goes to school with birds’ nests in her hair and toothpaste down her cardigan.’
I imagined a typical morning before school. If Rosie looked messy, I worried the teachers and other parents would judge me for being a bad mother, slovenly or neglectful. While Noah could bowl about making mistakes all over the shop, with filthy hands, knotty hair and unfinished homework, and I would be endeared, not enraged.
‘Peter accused me of being a control freak like Mum last night.’
‘You? Who rearranges my herbal teabags in alphabetical order? Can’t be talking about the same woman,’ Gemma laughed.
‘God, I’m a nightmare,’ I said, and dropped my head in my hands. ‘No wonder Rosie goes mental on me sometimes.’
‘Come on Gemma, I’m just kidding.’
‘But you’re not, though, are you?’
My impossible standards, my impossible need to control every aspect of her life, down to every last granule of sugar she consumed, every hair out of place, every toy she played with, every thread of her clothes and every second of the routine I had imposed on her (however remotely). ‘Eat with your mouth closed!’. ‘Sit up straight!’. ‘Stop picking your scab!’. ‘Brush your teeth!’. ‘Do your homework!’. ‘No! Do it better!’. ‘No, you can’t have another biscuit!’. ‘No, you can’t have any biscuits at all!’. ‘Stop running in the kitchen!’. ‘Finish your broccoli!’. ‘Stop playing with those beads!’. ‘Stop breathing!’. ‘Stop living!’. I watched her like a hawk when I was there, and grilled Harriet or Peter for a minute-by-minute download of the moments when I wasn’t.
When she was around me, I wondered if she felt that she was trapped in a cell, utterly powerless. It was no wonder she wanted to pound me with her fists, just as I had pounded at the walls.
‘Of course I’m joking,’ Vics insisted, looking hurt and surprised by my forcefulness.
‘I realise everyone thinks I’m too strict with her but I’d never hurt her,’ I said, my voice breaking a little. I dug my nails into my palm.
Vics put her hand on arm. ‘I’ve never doubted that for a second.’
I let out a little gasp, and pressed at my lips to hold it back. ‘Thanks, Vics. Sorry.’
The paranoia ebbed away, replaced by the truer knowledge that Vics was on my side.
‘I’ll give them breakfast or tea any time you need me too. You have to try to look after yourself.’ She glanced anxiously at my stomach.
I shrank away inside, desperately self-conscious of my new neediness and vulnerability, degraded by the forthcoming restrictions on my parenting. Everything had to change rapidly, literally overnight, and instinctively I baulked at the reordering, while knowing I had no choice.
‘It’s okay, Peter’s going to go in late this week if necessary, although Mum should be here by Monday. We’re not really sure when the social worker is coming round though. I think it’s more likely to be in the afternoon on Monday or Tuesday.’
‘Have you told Harriet yet?’
‘No. I’m going to tell her tonight. I’m dreading it. I think I’m just going to say we’ve had a personal family crisis.’
‘Which is true.’
‘Yes,’ I laughed, ‘I suppose it is.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
ALERT! EVERYTHING IN INVISIBLE INK!
* * *
YOU ARE SO CRITICAL. I actually said sorry and you really actually just didn’t listen. You never listen to a word I say. You want to force me to tell you. I can’t say the words out loud to you about what I said to the police lady because it will sound so, so, so bad, and you will think I am such a horrible girl and you will think I am horrible and mean and you will tell your friends, like you always do, and my cheeks will burn off my head with embarrassment and you will get cross and say I am not your real mummy again and I will KILL MYSELF. YES, I WILL LITERALLY KILL MYSELF. Please don’t ever ask me to tell you about it. Please don’t, Mummy, I beg you.
* * *
Rosie
* * *
P.S. I have nothing else to say.
Chapter Forty
It was school pick-up time. Mira put on her jogging tracksuit. Before she left for the recreational ground, she popped a couple of chocolate biscuits into her pocket and wrote Gone to get milk! on a Post-it that she stuck onto the kettle for Barry. She removed the unopened carton of full fat from the fridge door and brought it with her.
Before she turned right into the main road, she ducked down and stuck the milk into the hedge on the corner of number seven.