‘What is it, dear?’ says Mum, squeezing Alice’s hand.
‘I’m dyslexic,’ says Alice. ‘I get things back to front, letters mostly, but I also have trouble with sequences, you know days of the week, months of the year. I also get my left and right muddled up.’
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ says Mum. ‘I had no idea.’
I feel as if the air has been taken from my lungs. They deflate like a burst balloon. I hear Luke mutter nice one from behind me.
Alice looks up at Mum with big, round, sorrowful eyes. ‘I didn’t want to say, not with Clare being such a successful career woman. It made me feel, I don’t know, inferior, I suppose. I didn’t want you to think I was stupid. Daddy was always telling me how I would only ever wait on tables because I couldn’t get my grades.’
‘I thought you were a teacher,’ I say. I’m certain that’s what she said in one of her emails.
Alice looks up at me. ‘Yes. That’s right. I am. I proved them all wrong. Just because I’m dyslexic and don’t read books, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’
‘But you still get left and right muddled up.’ I’m not buying the tears. Big fat crocodile tears, if you ask me. I know she’s right about dyslexia and intelligence and normally I wouldn’t even imply anything so insulting, but Alice seems to have the knack of bringing out the worst in me.
‘Like I said, I just wanted to prove them all wrong. Especially Daddy.’ Alice makes a sobbing noise and buries her face in her hands.
‘Oh, my darling child,’ says Mum and pulls Alice into her arms. Mum looks up at me. ‘I think you’ve done enough damage for one day.’
Pain. I think that’s what I see in Mum’s face. I’ve hurt Alice and, by default, I’ve hurt her. It cuts deep into my heart. I stutter out an apology. ‘I’m … sorry. Mum. Alice.’ It’s all I can manage. I’m withering inside like the Wicked Witch of the West, but something makes me plough on. Call it tenacity, pig-headedness or it could just be a professional trait I’ve developed. I don’t know, but I can’t help myself. The search for the truth is driving me on. I’m totally consumed by it. ‘You know, Pippa isn’t speaking to me now,’ I say, ignoring Mum’s look, which intensifies. I try to shut down the hurt this is causing me, rather like I’ve managed perfectly well to shut down the hurt of my father deserting me. ‘She’s not letting Daisy come round any more. She says Daisy isn’t safe here. What happened today, Alice?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Clare. Can’t you just leave it?’ It’s Luke. ‘I’m sorry, Marion. Alice. I don’t know what’s got into her recently.’
‘Don’t apologise for me,’ I say. ‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything, I’m just asking.’
‘Bullshit.’ Luke shakes his head. ‘Come on.’ He takes my arm, but I shrug him off.
‘I’d like you to leave now,’ says Mum. ‘If you were a child, I’d be sending you to your room, but you’re a grown woman. You need to start acting like it. Now please leave us alone.’
Feeling both humiliated and indignant I do as I’m told. Back in the kitchen Luke sits down at the table, turning his chair inwards, and pulls another round to face him. He nods to the chair and I sit down. He has the air of a man under pressure. He rests his elbows on his knees and puts his hands together, as if in prayer, dipping his head for a moment as if to steel himself. Then he takes my hands in his.
The physical contact from him practically sends a small electric shock through me. I’ve missed him these last few days. I’ve missed his touch and I’ve missed his love.
‘Clare, I’m worried about you,’ he says. ‘You’re not yourself lately. You’re very … or rather, you seem very tetchy … almost paranoid.’
I take a sharp snatch of breath. ‘Paranoid?’
I want to pull my hands away, but Luke holds onto them. ‘Like there’s some sort of conspiracy going on with Alice.’
This time I do yank my hands free. ‘I can’t believe you’re saying this.’
‘It’s only because I care about you. I think you’ve too much going on at the moment. Maybe you should take some time off work. Have you thought about talking to someone? Not a friend. I mean a professional.’
‘A doctor?’ I snort at the idea.
‘I don’t think you’re coping,’ he says.
I stand up, scraping the chair back across the tiled floor. ‘I do not need to see a doctor. There is nothing wrong with me.’ I storm out of the kitchen.