‘She self-harmed? Poor little thing.’ I know those marks. I asked Amber about them once and she said she was accidentally splashed by hot fat when she was a child. ‘Why has she come after me? I haven’t done anything to her.’
‘The thing is, Vicky, I used to talk about you a lot. She was reserved and it seemed a good way to get her to talk to me. I didn’t see that she was storing it all up, that you had become some sort of aspiration for her, a fantasy she could hold on to when things got rough. She got it into her head that I would eventually adopt her and she would be your sister. She was always going to be disappointed.’
‘So that’s all she was to you? A case. A cardboard folder?’
I try to picture my own daughters caught up in a similar situation and my heart bleeds for the child Amber was. No wonder she’s screwed up. I wish she had talked to me. I should have realized something was badly wrong. I could have helped. I could have stopped things getting out of hand.
‘I cared a lot,’ Mum says tartly. ‘But I had to maintain a distance. It’s part of the job, like it is in teaching. It would have been unprofessional of me to get emotionally involved with one of my cases. You know that perfectly well.’
‘OK, but are you telling me you ran out on her, left London and didn’t even say goodbye, or sorry? Why would you do that?’
‘Because I was scared. And I had you to consider. The truth is, Vicky, I should never have been in that job. It was a disaster.’ She hesitates and I can feel her fighting her instinct to keep the worst back; to make herself look better. It makes me dread what she’s going to say next.
‘Katya told me that her foster father, Luke Bryant, was abusing her and I refused to believe her. When it all exploded in my face, I decided to go. It was for the best.’
I am truly horrified and my voice rises. ‘Why didn’t you check? Why did you trust him?’
‘The climate was very different then. People had no idea what was going on or they simply refused to see it or believe it. Luke was a very persuasive man and he was very clever.’
‘But you’re not dense,’ I blurt out. The doorbell rings and I groan. ‘Oh hell. That’s the decorator coming to take a look. I have to go. I’ll call you back.’
In the end, I don’t get a chance to do that.
His name is Steve. I show him the bathroom first, then take him down to the spare room and, lastly, into the kitchen where the girls are sitting at the table; Emily doing her homework, Polly drawing a picture for my mum. She tells me it’s a fish and I tell her it’s the best fish I’ve ever seen.
Steve gazes up at the ceiling and nods wisely. ‘That it then?’
‘Yup, that’s the lot. How soon can you start?’
He hums and haws then offers to come in two weeks, once he’s finished a project down the road. ‘Take me a week to do a good job. What happened? Pipe burst, was it?’
‘One of the kids left the tap running and the plug in when we went out for the day. We came back to a flood.’
‘Kids, eh? Little rascals. My two are always up to no good. And they’re in their twenties now.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t know what I did to upset them.’
He laughs. ‘Sounds like the green-eyed monster. Bit like the ex cutting the sleeves off your suits.’
There a commotion behind me and I turn as Polly’s chair falls over.
‘I didn’t do it, Mama!’ She’s literally shaking with anger, her face wet and red.
‘Oh, Polly. Darling, don’t cry. We were only joking.’
Tears stream down her face, but it’s more frustration than upset this time. She’s furious and Polly furious is both heartbreaking and frightening. She is so desperate to be understood. I try to pick her up, wanting to comfort her, but she avoids me and charges upstairs sobbing.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’d better go after her. Could you text me when you have a date?’
‘You shouldn’t have said that, Mummy,’ Emily says when he’s gone. She stops working out her sums and looks me in the eye. ‘We didn’t do it. I didn’t and Polly never would.’
‘Then who did?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe another man got in the house.’
I open my mouth to speak, then just look at her, horrified, as realization dawns. Someone certainly did get in but it wasn’t a man. Not a jealous lover but a jealous friend. I can’t prove anything, but my gut knows it’s true. Shit. I owe my daughters an apology. I go after Polly and find her curled up in a ball under her duvet.
She moves when she feels my hand on her shoulder, pokes her face out and wipes her eyes.
‘I know you didn’t do it, Polly. Or Emily. And I am very, very sorry I said you did. I should have believed you.’ I lean over and she puts her arms round me and I hold her close as I carry her downstairs. Amber knew I’d blame the children: she knew it would damage my relationship with them. Even if I apologize, the sense of injustice will remain.
‘I think it was Amber who flooded the house.’
I hover near Tom as he divests himself of his leathers, takes his helmet out of his hands and puts it on the side table. ‘Tom, are you listening?’
‘What are you talking about? Why on earth would Amber do something like that?’ His glance is distracted, his mind elsewhere.
‘Because she’s angry. It makes sense. She has a key. She’s used to letting herself in when we’re away. She was pissed off because we’d invited the Forsyths down to Mum’s and not her.’
He looks at me like I’m out of my mind. ‘Oh my God. Will you listen to yourself!’
My mouth opens in surprise. It never occurred to me that he might have trouble believing it. It makes perfect sense to me. ‘You have to admit it was out of character for either of the girls.’
‘It was an accident. They’re children. Shit like that happens. I can’t believe you’d accuse Amber. She would never do something like that.’
I cross my arms and purse my lips, ready to do battle. It was her. I know it was. Tom gets himself a beer, prises off the top and drinks it straight from the bottle. He looks tired.
‘Are the children asleep?’ he asks.
‘I think so.’
‘Shut the door then. We need to talk.’
I do as he says and then move over to the worktop where I have supper semi-prepared: chicken breasts slathered in butter and sprinkled with salt, pepper and paprika; purple-sprouting broccoli in the steamer and sweet potato chips arranged on a baking tray and ready to go into the oven.
‘You need to believe me. Amber isn’t the person you think she is. I’ve found stuff out about her. Mum says—’
‘All right. Enough.’
‘But you’re not listening to me. This is important, Tom. Why do you take her side all the time?’ I’m becoming tearful. ‘She’s being a bitch.’
‘What is wrong with you? I’m not interested in talking about Amber or what she may or may not have done to upset you this time; I want to talk about why you lied about the breakin.’
I stare at him. ‘I didn’t. What do you mean? What’s she been saying?’
‘Amber, more fool her, has been loyal to you.’
‘You’ve spoken to her then? When was this?’
‘It wasn’t her, Vicky.’