‘Dad?’ She leans over the banister, her hair hanging loosely around her face in chunky ringlets.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he says, trying and failing to inject some joviality into his voice. Sometimes, even greeting people is an uphill struggle. But this is Lauren, his daughter and none of this is her fault. None of it. She deserves better. ‘Listen, honey. How about we go out somewhere for lunch for a change?’ The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He doesn’t regret it. Sometimes, it’s better to let things take their own course, not put too much effort into forethought and planning. It clouds things.

  There is a brief hiatus, a second or two that feels much longer than that before she replies, her voice almost a squeak. ‘That sounds great! Where were you thinking of going? Have you booked anywhere?’

  She’s right. It’s Sunday. Most places will be full to bursting. Being spontaneous does have its downfalls. This is the first time he has ever suggested such a thing and now he runs the possibility of letting her down. Again. That happened a lot when Sophia was alive. He swallows down those thoughts, blots them all out. A fresh start, that’s what they need. And if not now, then when?

  ‘Just a minute. Let me have a look.’ He scrolls through his phone, checking all the local restaurants and pubs, checking reservations and stops at the one that has a table available. The Half Moon Inn. Sophia’s favourite. His heart hammers out a small beat in his chest. He clamps his jaw together, telling himself to stop it. Lauren needs to get out of the house for a while. They both do. They need to talk, be normal again. Be a proper father and daughter. A father without a wife, a daughter without a mother. He punches in the number, speaks to the person on the other end, and reserves a table for 1 p.m.

  ‘Right,’ Lauren says, her voice lighter than he has heard for many months when he tells her that they’re good to go. ‘I just need to get showered and changed. I’ll be twenty minutes.’ She pounds her way around her room right above him. He smiles, unfamiliar feelings of normality slowly returning. The sounds above his head take him back to a time when things seemed brighter, a time when Sophia was still alive.

  He checks his watch and glances in the mirror. It feels like such a long time since he took any interest in his appearance. There seemed little point but now is the right time to do something about it. If Lauren can make an effort, then so should he. He stands there, his own reflection staring back at him, his features coming sharply into focus. He sees things there that make him ashamed, things nobody else can see. He blinks and looks away.

  Twenty minutes later, they’re both showered and dressed and standing at the front door, ready to go.

  ‘Dad. You look…’ She steps around him, eyeing him up and down as if he is a lab rat about to undergo some sort of experiment. ‘You look great. I mean, really healthy.’

  ‘For a change, eh?’ He gives her a wink and she smiles. His stomach flips. She resembles her mother so much. He realises then that that is one of the reasons why he’s been avoiding her, keeping his eyes lowered every time she passes him in the hallway, or getting up and heading into the kitchen whenever she enters the living room. Guilt travels through him, swirling in his gut like acid. He hasn’t been a terrible dad but he hasn’t been a good one either. Lauren is still young. He is a grown man. They need each other. It isn’t her fault she bears such a striking resemblance to the woman who used to be his wife. The woman who made him feel complete and yet utterly empty at the same time. He thinks back to the arguments, the suspicions. The furtive glances she gave to her phone when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  ‘Right,’ he says, grabbing his keys from the console table that has been there since they moved into this place over twenty years ago. ‘Your carriage awaits, young lady. And my stomach is empty. Let’s go.’

  6

  LAUREN

  ‘I went for coffee with somebody today.’

  I feel as if I’m falling, the floor coming away beneath me. Dad had coffee with somebody? ‘Oh my God! Really?’ My voice is croaky, gravel filling my throat. I sound like one of those lads at college whose voice is in the process of breaking: half man, half boy. ‘Who? And where?’ I’m in shock. Dad going out for a coffee with somebody is a good thing. It’s just unexpected, that’s all. And well overdue. That much I do know. It’s been a long and lonely year.

  ‘Just a friend from the church.’ He fiddles with the menu, straightening it, rearranging the condiments, twirling his fingers around the rim of his glass.

  It’s a female, I just know it. It has to be. He can’t bring himself to look at me. ‘A friend, eh?’ I smile, picturing a tweed-wearing librarian type or a middle-aged woman in Victorian-style, lace-up boots and a high-necked, frilly blouse, wearing a stern expression and clutching a bible in one hand and her pearls in another, permanent outrage etched into her expression.

  ‘Yes,’ he says with a knowing grin, ‘a friend.’

  ‘So, is this friend a man?’ I glance down at the menu then back at Dad, who is now watching me intently, ‘or a woman?’

  His voice is soft when he replies. Gone is the desperate, hard-edged tone that he has used since Mum’s death. This is something gentler, more appealing than the brusque growl that has been his way for the past twelve months.

  ‘A woman. And before you say anything, she is just a friend.’ His hand is outstretched, his palm in front of his chest. ‘I met her at church and she also lost her partner at the same time as…’

  Even now, he can’t bring himself to speak about it, to broach the subject of Mum’s death. I wish he would. I really do. I want him to mention her and just get it over with. It feels as if we can never move on from this point until he accepts what happened. I mean, what the hell does he talk about at those grief sessions anyway? If he can talk about it there, why can’t he talk about it to me, his daughter, his only child? Mum is dead and we need to accept that fact. He needs to accept it. We have our lives to live. Does that make me sound cold and unfeeling? Perhaps it does, but life when Mum was alive was far from perfect. This is our chance to start again.

  A familiar itching takes hold on my skin, flames burning just beneath the surface. ‘At the same time that Mum died. Is that what you were going to say?’ There, I’ve said it, got it out in the open.

  He nods, his mouth a thin line. I feel guilty for being so blunt with him but one of us had to say something. I’m sick of tip-toeing around the subject. I reach over and take hold of his hand. It feels big and hot against my own skin, his fingers long and slender. ‘Look, Dad. I think it’s great that you went out for coffee. It’s time for us to start living our lives again. In fact, I think you should take lots of people out for coffee. Hundreds, even. And I hope they’re all glamour pusses who wear short skirts and boob tubes, not some doddery old frump that wears long, grey dresses and has their glasses perched on the end of their noses like some judgemental old bint.’

  He laughs and looks away. I swallow and clear my throat. Saying all of that about him dating some other woman was never going to be easy, none of this was, but it had to be said. And now the words are out there, now we’ve broken through that invisible barrier, we can start living again. Not before time.

  ‘Now then, Peter, good to see you here. Are you ready to order yet?’ Norah, the middle-aged waitress who has worked here for as long as I can remember, is standing by our table, her smile warm. She is genuinely pleased to see us and that helps me to relax. In her hands, she holds a notepad and a pencil. She looks at us both, her eyes flicking back and forth as if she is watching a particularly frenetic game of tennis.

  ‘Norah, it’s lovely to see you too. Tell you what, I think I’ll have the chicken. What about you, sweetheart? You know what’s safe and what isn’t by now, don’t you?’

  I look at the menu, searching for the things that I know are nut-free, thinking how much I would love a vodka and lime but knowing also that Dad wouldn’t approve and also knowing that they wouldn’t serve me. ‘I’ll have the same, thank you.’

  Norah smiles and nods, giving us both a sly wink. She continues to stand beside me, her smile now a rictus grin. ‘Any more drinks?’

  ‘Not for me,’ I say through gritted teeth, thinking of the night I spent in this place trying to get served and being refused because they knew I was underage, Norah continually shaking her head and smiling at me while I pleaded with her like a desperate schoolkid, which is what I actually was. How embarrassing. And I’m still underage. The humiliation is never-ending. Roll on my eighteenth birthday.

  ‘I’ll have another lemonade, please.’

  She eventually leaves, shuffling away to the other side of the restaurant. I let out a sigh and take a swig of my drink, hoping we can now start being more open with one another.

  ‘Sophia loved this place.’ Dad is looking around wistfully, an expression almost resembling happiness in his eyes, making it harder for me say what it is I want to say. ‘I asked her to marry me in here.’

  I know this story. I’ve been told it a thousand times or more. Years before Mum died when he would tell this tale, I used to roll my eyes at him and tell him to shut up and that it was a boring story and that his banter was boring as shit. My face burns at the memory. I like to think I’ve grown up since then, developed a more sensitive side to my nature.

  When she was alive, they always would come here, him and Mum, for their wedding anniversary meal. Actually, I’m surprised he managed to make it here at all without getting maudlin and upset. His rose-tinted memories are making it harder for me to speak openly about Mum, about what I knew of her life.

  There were things I discovered about her shortly before she died. Things that Dad should really know. Maybe he already does. She wasn’t the saint everybody thought she was. They didn’t know her that well. Not really. I did and I’m sure that deep down, Dad did too, it’s just that death has blinded him to who she really was. He’s obviously blinkered to it all but I’m not. Perhaps I’m a little less forgiving, or perhaps me being younger allows me the privilege of being able to see things without the hindrance of those rose-coloured glasses that have given her saint-like qualities. Whatever the reason, there is one thing I do know and it is this: Sophia Saunders had secrets. She may have brought me up and cared for me but sometimes, I lie in bed at night wondering if I ever really knew her at all.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this right now, Lauren.’ Dad’s hands grip the steering wheel. I bite at my lip. I should have expected this really, this reaction. She was his wife. People do take on saint-like qualities after they die. I get that. I mean nobody wants to speak ill of the dead, do they? Not unless it’s some mad dictator like Hitler. I’m not really sure why I said anything. I should have stayed silent, kept my words to myself. My timing is all wrong. Stupid. Sometimes, I’m such an idiot.

  I lean back against the headrest, a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach despite being a pig and having eaten a full plate of chicken, roast potatoes and gravy. I try not to think about it any more. I should just let it be. Mum is gone and we’re now on the path to having a life again but those words are out there now. There’s no taking them back. I’ve got to speak my mind, to clear the air and untangle the knotted thoughts that clutter up my head.

  ‘Dad, she wasn’t who you thought she was, that’s all I’m saying.’ There, I’ve said it again. I can’t seem to help myself.

  He drives on in silence, his face set like stone. I don’t even know why I’m saying this, why I’ve cornered him into having this conversation. It’s just that sometimes, I become furious at him for being so committed to her memory and refusing to allow anybody else into his life. But maybe now that’s all going to end with this new friendship he has forged. Maybe now we can allow somebody else into our life and move on from Mum’s murder. We’ve been on repeat for too long and I think it’s time to change that pattern.

  I decide to leave things alone, to let him get on with his life while I get on with mine and hope that at some point, our paths will cross and we can become a proper family again. A family without Sophia’s memory infiltrating every corner of our lives.

  7

  ALICE

  ‘No, you can’t have any more snacks. Your parents will be home soon and they’re taking you out for dinner.’

  I suppress an eye roll as Fionn slinks off into the playroom. If it was my decision, they would both be allowed the occasional piece of fruit or a yoghurt or even a bag of crisps but their parents strictly forbid it and as much as it pains me to do it, I have to stick to their rules. They’re children for God’s sake, not robots. I sometimes think that Jack and Elizabeth think less of their children than they do of me, and that takes some doing.

  I’m pretty low on their agenda. Their children aren’t much farther down the ladder than me. We are all practically scraping our bellies on the ground.

  I continue folding the laundry, heat billowing off the linen. Perspiration stands out on my face. I rub my hand across my forehead and let out a long, frustrated sigh. It’s too warm for such chores. Were it not for the fact that Jack and Elizabeth are due back, I would take the children out to the park, let them run and play; let them have some fun and just allow them to be free of the constraints placed upon them by their overbearing parents. They are bored here in the house and forbidden from playing in the garden. No ball games. No trampolines. No paddling pools. Nothing that suggests children actually live here. Too many precious plants and flowers out there that could be ruined. Gardens are meant to be played in, but not in this household apparently. Poor Fionn and Yasmin. And poor, poor me.

  It’s another hour before Jack and Elizabeth arrive home, sailing through the door looking cool and composed. Sweat blooms under my armpits as I finish cleaning the windows in the children’s bedrooms. I empty the soapy water down the sink and rinse out the bucket, watching as the soap suds swirl and glug before disappearing down the drain.

  ‘Where are the children?’ Elizabeth rarely greets me, instead barking out commands and questions about Fionn and Yasmin and asking if my jobs have been completed in her absence.

  ‘In the playroom. I think they’re bored.’ I can’t help myself. I shouldn’t speak to my employer in such a brash, undiluted tone but something about this woman doesn’t sit well with me and today, I am all out of patience.

  I expect a dressing down for my arrogance and lack of respect but receive just a dark look as she brushes past me to see her offspring. Jack hangs up his coat and heads upstairs, his eyes averted away from me. I often wonder if he even notices that I’m here.

  On impulse, I walk over to where he has hung up his coat and slip my hand into the inside pocket. I have no idea why I am doing such a thing. I guess I am tired and pissed off and want to see if he is as perfect as he appears. Getting hold of any of Elizabeth’s personal effects is too difficult but this man is a little less anal with his belongings. Their bedroom door is always locked, as is the study. This only makes me more curious. It makes me wonder what it is they’re hiding.

  Inside his pocket is a receipt. I lift it out and glance at it, my stomach coiling and churning when I see the figures listed there. Over £300 for a meal. I shouldn’t be shocked, knowing how these people live their lives, but it still roots me to the spot. It’s for a restaurant in town – Maison. I know of it but have never been inside. It’s not for the likes of me. Far too expensive. Far too exclusive. Perhaps this is where they’ve been all this time, wining and dining in the most opulent restaurant in town while I carried out their menial chores – washing and ironing their clothes, scrubbing the kitchen floor and cleaning their windows. How the other half live. A furnace strikes up inside of me, a spark of envy at how easy, how luxurious and comfortable their lives are compared to my miserable existence.

  When Phillip was around, we could have afforded such luxuries. Not that he was ever interested in visiting those types of places, but still, the disparity in our circumstances since losing him sticks in my craw. And when I say he wasn’t interested in visiting those places, what I mean is, he wasn’t interested in visiting them with me. But that’s a different matter. A story for another time.

  ‘Alice, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?’

  Jack’s voice causes me to jump. I crumple up the receipt and stuff it in my pocket. He won’t miss it. It’s not as if they need a piece of paper to keep check of where their money goes. What’s £300 to these people? It’s small change to them. Chicken feed. To me, it’s a week’s wages. I can put the receipt back tomorrow.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I spin around, my face flushed, my chest, my torso, hot and clammy.

  Jack is still upstairs, his head peeking over the banister. ‘Yes, absolutely. We can manage here just fine. We’re going to spend some quality time with the children.’

  I cringe at his use of that phrase. Quality time. What does that even mean? It’s a trite expression trotted out to assuage people’s guilt for ignoring their progenies. I find myself wondering what their idea of quality time is, doubting that it involves anything remotely interesting or child-orientated. They neither know nor understand their own children.

  ‘Okay, well I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ I am out of the house before he has time to change his mind, the receipt a deadweight in my pocket. I have no idea why I took it. Jealousy, perhaps. Or maybe it was just because I can. These people are so frivolous with their spending, their lives, their children. They will hardly notice a missing receipt for a horribly expensive meal. They hardly notice me wandering around their house every single day so a little bit of missing paperwork isn’t likely to trouble them.