There’s only one canvas bag in the hall so I conclude that Richie hasn’t actually evicted her, he’s just throwing a tantrum.
‘No, Mum.’ She reads my mind. ‘He wanted me out immediately. He’s getting all my stuff boxed up and sent on in a van.’
Christ. Just when I’d thought he couldn’t get any more heinous. This is going to be the heartbreak of Neeve’s life.
‘Dad said it was all good with him, me taking a stand. I don’t understand.’ She’s getting tearful.
But I understand. He’s an unprincipled prick. He’d thought being pro-choice would play well, but all the negative publicity has scared him. Who knows how this will unfold in the medium term, if Neeve will be declared a winner or loser? Richie doesn’t have the guts to hold his nerve, even for his daughter.
As always, though, my mouth stays shut.
The sound of my phone ringing makes us both jump. It’s Hugh.
‘Amy?’ He sounds frantic. ‘Where are you?’
‘At home. What’s up?’
‘Is Neeve with you?’
‘Yes, wh–’
‘Your address is up on one of those boards. People know Neeve is with you, or they’re guessing. Either way, it’s –’
With shaking hands, I go online. Oh, fuck, this can’t be real, this can’t be happening – Hugh is right. There’s our address.
It was hard enough knowing threats of rape and painful death were aimed at Neeve while she was secured inside a state-of-the-art apartment. But here? In this small suburban house?
At lightning speed a scenario plays out in my head – a brick through the window, the angry men inside the living room in twenty seconds, and up the stairs in another ten. Us all in our beds with nothing to protect ourselves and no one to help us. Which one of you is Neeve? If the house alarm goes off, it takes about fifteen minutes for the monitors to ring to see if everything is okay. By then we’d all be butchered.
If this was happening to someone else, I’d think, Yes, it’s bound to be unpleasant, but no actual harm will come to anyone, these keyboard cowards are just throwing shapes to scare people.
But now that it’s actually in play, I’m terrified. I look out of the kitchen window, half expecting to see men bumbling along the windowsill or for a gloved hand to try the handle on the back door.
‘I’m on my way over now,’ Hugh says. ‘But ring the police.’
I phone the local station, feeling foolish, petrified and embarrassed all at once. ‘My daughter’s received some death threats.’
Within twenty minutes, a pair of guards have arrived, a woman and a man, who insist the threats have to be taken seriously. The man goes off to see how vulnerable we are to home invasion and the woman starts taking down all the details. Then she spots something in the hall. Fearfully she jumps to her feet and shouts, ‘What is your business here?’
It’s Hugh. Oh, thank God, it’s only Hugh, who must have let himself in with his key.
‘It’s okay, Officer – Sergeant.’ I have no idea of police hierarchy. ‘This is my husband, ex … Neeve’s step-dad.’
‘He lives here?’
‘Not any more but it’s fine, we know him.’
The male guard is back and he says to Neeve, ‘You can’t stay here. Is there a friend you can go to for a few days? Till things calm down?’
‘Um, yeah, I’ll just make a call.’ Neeve hits a button and launches into a high-pitched exchange, lots of ‘Totally!’ and ‘I know, right!’ as if getting death threats was the most exciting thing ever. But when she makes her request for accommodation, the entire tenor changes. All energy drains from her. ‘Right. I get it. Totally. Yeah. Later.’
She rings someone else and has a near-identical conversation. When she hangs up, Hugh asks, ‘What’s going on?’
‘They’re too scared to let me stay with them.’
‘What about a hotel?’ I suggest.
But it wouldn’t be the guards’ preferred option: too many opportunities to be spotted.
Tentatively Hugh says, ‘What about my place? There’s very little to connect Neeve and me. I haven’t lived here for nine months. Neeve and I have different surnames.’
The guards are interested, and after they’ve established that Hugh lives alone, without any pesky flatmates to dob Neeve in, they seem happy to let her go there.
‘How long for?’ Neeve is tearful.
‘Impossible to say. Would you also stay there, Mr Durrant?’
Hugh looks at Neeve. ‘I don’t have to. I can stay at Nugent’s.’
‘Is there room for both of us at your place?’ Neeve asks. ‘I’d feel safer if you stayed.’
The guards break the news that they have to take Neeve’s laptop and for the first time I think she really is going to faint.
‘It’s inadvisable for you and the other occupants of this house to remain here either,’ the lady guard says. ‘For a few days anyway.’
‘I’ll just call my mum.’
Mercifully Mum is home and not out gin-and-tonicking. I launch into an explanation and she gets it immediately.
‘So can Sofie, Kiara and I stay for a few days?’
‘What about Neeve?’
‘She’ll stay with Hugh.’
‘With Hugh? And him not even her real daddy?’ Mum’s laugh is grim. ‘Isn’t she lucky he’s never held that against her?’
Mum and Pop are sitting in their overgrown garden, drinking tea.
‘EXCELLENT TIMING,’ Pop greets me with. ‘THIS WOMAN HAS JUST AGREED TO MARRY ME!’
‘Humour him,’ Mum says.
‘Congratulations, Pop.’
‘SHE’S THE WOMAN OF MY DREAMS. I COULDN’T BE HAPPIER.’
‘That’s lovely news.’ In a way I mean it.
Soon Pop needs to return to his serial killers. Mum and I remain outside.
‘Poor Mum.’ My sympathy is profound. ‘Do you still see your gin-and-tonic friends?’ It’s a genuine question, asked without judgement.
A long pause follows in which she stares at her lap. Eventually she looks up. ‘It’s hard, Amy, sharing a house with a headcase.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t. You have no idea. But my gin-and-tonic friends, that was nothing. Just some light relief.’ She grasps my wrist and forces me to look at her. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt your father. For better, for worse, it’s what I signed up for when I married him.’
‘You could never have anticipated this, though?’
‘But that’s the point, Amy. It’s easy to love someone when they’re on their best behaviour – you can do that in your sleep. The real test is when they’re – to use Neeve’s expression – a pain in the hole. That’s what love actually means.’
‘Does that not just make you a walkover?’
‘There’s a difference,’ she’s uncharacteristically grim, ‘between being a doormat and forgiving someone for being human.’
‘Grand. Well.’ I’m keen to escape from her and her odd mood. ‘I’d better find the sheets and stuff, get myself and the girls organized.’
‘Do that.’ She calls after me. ‘Make your bed, Amy. Make your bed.’
122
Friday, 30 June
The social media firestorm continued to blaze with promises of a variety of slow, lingering deaths for Neeve; the mainstream papers and chat shows call her silly, shrill and strident.
But by Thursday morning I could almost feel the interest ebbing, like the tide going out. The posts on Twitter, Facebook and YouTube dried to a trickle and by Thursday afternoon it was over.
Neeve was allowed to come home, and now that it’s safe, I’m sheepishly wondering if we all overreacted.
On Friday morning Sofie and Kiara leave for Switzerland. Hugh and I meet at the airport to see them off. After countless hugs and checks, some friendly advice and more hugs, it’s finally time to let them go. Kiara is the first to disappear around a screen to security. But just before Sofie also vanishes from sight, she turns and looks directly at me and Hugh. Very deliberately she pats her heart, and mouths, ‘Thank you.’ She’s smiling, but even from a distance it’s clear that she has tears in her eyes.
Instantly so do I.
I whip round to Hugh. ‘Do you remember –’
‘– when she first came from Latvia?’ His eyes are also shiny.
‘– and she was so scared? You were the only one she’d trust.’
‘– and remember the day we bought her bed?’
‘– and painted it pink?’
‘– and you made her those magical curtains?