by K. L. Slater
‘You have?’ I look at her, my eyes wide. ‘In what way?’
‘She’s always been my little star, first to volunteer to give examples at the barre, full of ideas, a bundle of energy. Just lately, she’s seemed lethargic and quite miserable. Lurking at the back of the group on her own. That’s why I sent you the note about the Christmas show?’
Note?
She presses her lips together when she sees my puzzled expression.
‘She didn’t give it to you, did she? I told you I chose her for Dorothy, in the Christmas show. Instead of jumping with excitement when I announced it to the group, she scurried off to the bathroom. When she came back, she wouldn’t engage in conversation with me. I asked if we could discuss the role, all three of us.’
‘I never got the note,’ I say quietly.
Miss Diane sighs. ‘I might’ve known. I should’ve come out after class and looked for you.’
I realise again how I’ve cut myself off from more and more people without really even trying.
She touches my arm. ‘It’s not a criticism, Emma. My intention was to give you a call if you didn’t respond to the note.’
I nod. ‘Please do that right away in future, if you have even the slightest concern about Maisie. I should have let you know there were problems at home before now.’
Miss Diane nods. ‘Please don’t think I’m prying, but I overheard some of the other mums talking.’ She hesitates, and I nod for her to continue. ‘I heard that you and Maisie’s father have split up and he’s moved in with…’
‘Joanne Dent,’ I provide. ‘Yes, it’s true.’
I dread to think what those gossipmongers have been saying, but that’s the least of my worries right now.
‘I’m sorry.’ I hang my head. ‘I should have spoken to you, to make you aware.’
‘It’s often useful to know these things, just in case personal stuff spills over into class, but it’s your own business and I’m truly sorry I had to ask.’
I don’t know why it never occurred to me to tell her, instead of letting her find out via the local gossip network.
‘You have my sympathy,’ she says, looking at her hands. ‘I know only too well that Joanne can often be… let’s say, difficult.’ She hesitates. ‘I need to know that, if I speak frankly, you won’t go off in a rage and confront her like last time.’
I nod. ‘I promise. You have my word. I’m sorry I embarrassed you like that. I don’t really know what came over me.’
‘Confidentially, Joanne is furious that Piper didn’t get the lead role in the show. She’s threatened not to renew the lease on this place in the new year unless I change my mind.’
My mouth falls open. How far will that woman go to give her daughter everything in life? At the expense of Maisie and the entire dance school, too!
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m thinking about it. I can hardly just tell her where to get off; this is my livelihood. I rue the day her daughter started here, if I’m honest. But… well, I can’t help but think Maisie doesn’t want the part anyway.’
‘I’ll talk to her,’ I say, suddenly desperate for Maisie to keep the role.
‘Anyway, that’s another conversation, and I digress. You came here to talk to me about Maisie.’ She smiles kindly.
‘I just don’t know what to do. She’s lost so much weight recently, and my mum found food she’d hidden. As you’ve said, she seems completely listless and devoid of energy.’
‘And you mentioned your doctor?’
‘I took her to the surgery. He weighed her and calculated her BMI and concluded she was borderline underweight. He told me that young girls often go through phases and that a bit of weight loss and being faddy with food is completely normal.’
Miss Diane frowns. ‘I’m not sure hiding food should ever be considered normal.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’ I feel better already, just being validated, rather than have Dr Yesufu patronise me as a panicky mother. ‘And she’s so young to be worrying about how she looks. Anyway, his professional opinion is that trying to tackle it could be more harmful than letting it run its course.’
‘Well, I’m not sure about that either.’ Miss Diane sighs. ‘I see more and more of it here at the dance school. Young girls acting like teenagers, wearing make-up and worshipping celebrities. It’s worrying.’
Piper instantly comes to mind.
Miss Diane continues. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so though, I’d say she’s bound to feel a little insecure given that you and her father have split up. Perhaps it’s best we don’t put any more pressure on her with a lead role in the show.’
I pause, my fingers toying with Joanne’s house keys in my pocket, trying to decide whether I dare say what’s really on my mind. She sees my hesitation.
‘Go on.’ She lowers her voice. ‘You can trust me, Emma. If there’s anything I can do to help Maisie, you only have to say.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
Since I’ve been toying with the theory that Joanne may have something to hide, ideas have been coming thick and fast.
I admit I want to be proved right just for the satisfaction of it, but my main concern is Maisie. What if Joanne is poisoning Shaun and Piper’s minds against her so they can be one happy family of three, without Maisie?
I’ve often assumed Joanne might be planning to take Maisie away from me, now she’s got Shaun. But perhaps it’s the opposite.
I confided my thoughts to Miss Diane, and although she looked a little taken aback, she agreed there could be more to it.
I’m sick to death of feeling like Shaun and Joanne, and even Piper, are doing stuff to me and my daughter. It’s such a negative, reactive place to live my life. Maybe it’s time I took some action of my own instead of being such a passive victim.
The first thing I need to do is find out a bit more about Piper’s biological father. The man who must never be mentioned.
While Maisie is upstairs watching TV in her bedroom, I search how to order a copy of a birth certificate online.
My heart sinks when a list of mandatory information pops up. Father’s name is required, along with place of birth, plus other information that I don’t have. The narrative states that unless such information is available, it’s not possible to order a duplicate certificate in the interests of guarding against identity theft.
Frustrated, I close the laptop just as my phone pings.
Did I leave some house keys at yours? Shaun.
No. I press send and feel the tingle of both anger and fear in my fingers. I don’t want to think about the trouble that will ensue if I get caught out.
I tidy around the kitchen and make a pot of fresh coffee, pausing to scan the garden.
My heart starts hammering and I will myself to calm down. But it’s no use. Just the thought of someone watching the house has unnerved me and sent me spinning back to the past yet again.
The morning after I acted as whistleblower over Damian’s illegal actions, I left the house with a heavy heart.
After a night of questioning my motives and conscience, I’d come to the conclusion that he’d put me in an impossible situation.
He’d insisted I should do the photocopying, despite my initial complaints. What really rankled was the thought that he’d decided I’d be the person least likely to spot his crime, either too unobservant or too meek and mild to cause a fuss.
If that was true, I had certainly set him straight.
When I arrived at work, I immersed myself in the laborious task that lay ahead: sorting through archived files to find salient details from a historical case.
I felt grateful for the routine nature of the work. Unsurprisingly, I found it difficult to keep my mind on the job in hand.
Of course, Damian was absent that day, and for the next couple of days after that. Nobody had said what had officially happened but I could imagine some sort of internal inquiry was underway. Perhaps even police involvement. I felt relieved I didn’t have to see Damian
, or avoid him.
I quickly realised that nobody said good morning to me any more since I’d shopped him. It was painfully clear that I’d become the office pariah, but that was OK. I knew I’d done the right thing, whatever the others thought.
Reassuring myself that I’d acted correctly was quickly becoming second nature.
Late afternoon, three days after the incident, I was engrossed in making notes at my desk when I suddenly became aware that the office had fallen silent.
When I looked around, Peter McCarthy was standing in the doorway, his face ashen.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please?’ he said gravely. ‘I’m afraid I have some terrible news.’
We all sat to attention, and for once, nobody glared at me. All eyes were pinned to Peter.
‘I’m devastated to have to tell you that Damian took his own life last night.’
A collective gasp filled the room. I felt my hand gripping my throat, and despite being seated, I felt dizzy with shock at Peter’s insensitive and sudden announcement. It was obviously too much to ask for him to take me aside first, to warn me.
Peter’s voice continued on the edges of my awareness.
‘We don’t have many details at this early stage, but his fiancée’s mother called to tell me personally.’ His voice cracked. ‘It’s so desperately sad, and particularly in the light of him leaving the company so suddenly.’
‘He was betrayed,’ someone murmured, and all heads turned to look at me.
Peter coughed, gathered himself. ‘As I said, that’s all we know for now. I will, of course, pass on more information as I receive it. Barbara is going to start a collection for flowers, and once we have a date, we’ll close the office so colleagues can attend the funeral.’
He turned and walked out of the office, and a low buzz immediately filled the empty space his words had left.
Damian… dead!
His snarling face and final threat filled my mind, and I got up from my chair and ran to the bathroom, past sneering faces and angry words.
After being sick in the loo, I splashed cold water over my face and studied my drawn features in the mirror.
Was the face staring back at me the face of someone who had driven another person to their death? Would Damian have killed himself if he still had his job?
His final words to me echoed in my head:
Keep looking over your shoulder, you utter cow, because you’ll never know when it’s coming.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Twenty-four years earlier
She places the tray carefully on your bedside table.
When you turn your face into the pillow and begin to weep, she strokes your hair gently, and when she speaks, her voice is soft and kind.
‘One day you will thank me for this. Food is the enemy to being loved. You must keep yourself looking beautiful or be alone in this world. The choice is yours.
You hear the clink of cutlery, the softness of a napkin in your hand.
‘Purging is a valuable tool you can use all your life.’
You turn your face to look at her, and she smiles lovingly as she helps you sit up straight. She hums a tune as she tears up the bread and drops it into the bowl.
‘I’m here to help you, my darling. I’m here to help you be as beautiful and lovable as you can possibly be.’
You nod and try to hide your shaking hands as she begins to spoon the soup and bread into your mouth.
Later, when you vomit it back into the bowl, she holds your hair and soothes you with her loving touch.
‘I’m so proud of you, my clever best girl,’ she whispers as your stomach heaves and roils. ‘I feel so much closer to you now, because this is our secret, my darling. This is just between us.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Emma
Mum comes to take Maisie to her house for a few hours – supposedly so I can work. I wave them off at the door, noting my daughter’s vacant stare and a patch of dry, flaky skin on her forehead.
Five minutes after they leave, I head out to the car, the Linby House keys in my pocket.
Shaun obviously didn’t notice the keys were missing when he came back down from the loft and scooped the contents of his pocket back up from the worktop. And now I’ve told him I haven’t seen them, so he must assume he’s lost them elsewhere.
After I said I needed time to think about the house sale, he couldn’t get away fast enough.
‘We’re heading to Leicestershire for the afternoon tomorrow,’ he said by way of explanation for his haste. ‘Joanne has agreed that Piper can have the afternoon off school to look at a pony that’s for sale. She’s promised her another one when we move.’
He rolled his eyes and smiled, but I looked back at him blankly.
‘You’ll need to come over again soon,’ I said. ‘There’s something more important than a house sale that we need to talk about.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Maisie,’ I said. ‘She’s troubled. Someone is upsetting her, I’m sure of it. Surely you can see she’s fading away in front of our eyes?’
‘Right. If you say so.’ He backed away, as if I was exaggerating again. ‘See you soon, then.’
He clearly wasn’t interested in talking about the possibility that Joanne or Piper – or both – was responsible for systematically destroying Maisie’s self-esteem. That didn’t fit in with his nice clean break from the two of us.
I felt like shouting at him until he came to his senses, but I let him go.
I have other plans that may well prove to help my daughter.
By 3.20, I’m heading up the long, leafy driveway of Linby House. It’s impressive, I can’t deny that.
As the car reaches the top of the driveway, a large red-brick house looms in front of me. There’s a turret on either side, and a large glass balcony spans the top floor, overlooking fields and the neighbouring village of Papplewick.
I park up outside in a marked visitor spot. Judging by the numbered parking bays, the house looks to be divided into six apartments. I don’t know the number of Joanne’s apartment, but Maisie told me it’s at the top of the building.
I get out of the car and glance down at the keys in my hand. A sturdy-looking entrance door has a keypad and also a lock, so I would think one of the keys will be for that. The other should be for the front door of the apartment.
I walk around a decorative fountain, its water half frozen and trickling through. I’m just about to slide the key into the lock when the main door opens.
My heart feels like it has jumped into my mouth. What if I misheard the time and Shaun and actually he and Joanne were only just leaving now? But I needn’t worry. A young woman bustles out holding a baby and struggling with a large padded bag that I assume holds all the necessary paraphernalia one has to carry everywhere with a very young one.
‘Lifesaver, thanks!’ She beams as I hold the door open.
I allow it to click softly behind me and stand for a moment in the airy, calm entrance hall. The wooden flooring and high ceiling give the impression of space, although the area itself is not enormous.
I climb to the first floor and look down, out onto my parked car, from the large stained-glass windows. Up on the second floor, there are three doors and a final staircase. No lift here, no wonder Joanne is so slim.
I’m puffing a bit by the time I reach the top, but I’m gratified to see just one door. Number 6.
I raise the key to the lock and then, just to be safe, I knock. If they’re still home – which is unlikely, as there’s no car outside – I can say I found the keys on the floor at home and came over to return them.
No answer, so I slide the key in and turn it.
Inside, another short flight of carpeted stairs greets me. This takes me into the apartment proper. A very tasteful space decorated in neutral colours, with smooth wooden floors and lots of mirrors and pale textured fabrics.
There’s no time to delay. I know what I’m looking for, so I get
straight to it.
All the doors are open, and I can see at once which one is Joanne’s bedroom. Simply decorated with an antique oak sleigh bed and built-in wardrobes, the view is mesmerising. Large picture windows look out over the grounds of the house and the fields beyond, the whole scene framed with beautiful mature oak trees.
Briefly I think about our own little patch of garden. Shaun and I loved it when we first bought the house. We regarded it as sizeable, a step up from the postage stamp we had at our first place.
He must stand and laugh about that now, as he soaks this view in each morning.
I look at the bed and look away again. It’s too close to home. I really don’t want to think about Shaun and Joanne entwined on here.
Turning my attention to the task at hand, I systematically search the drawers, but it’s soon apparent there is nothing that can help me here.
I leave the bedroom and glance into the room to my right, which is the main bathroom. Next to it is a small, neat office.
I pull at the top drawer of a small black filing cabinet and groan when I find it locked. I peer into a pen tub on the desk and smile. The so-called security systems people have are generally laughable. No wonder burglars have a field day in posh areas like this.
I open the drawer and feel obliged to Joanne for her immaculate organisation. Each suspended file pocket is neatly labelled: House, Car, Bank and Personal.
Sliding my hand into Personal, I retrieve a folder. I place it on the desk and slip my phone out of my pocket.
Inside the folder, I find a paperwork gold mine that answers a lot of questions and my suspicions feel validated at last.
Leafing quickly through, my fingers close on the last item in there: a small photograph. I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it, but there’s no time to ponder.
I take the required snapshots quickly and efficiently, then replace the folder exactly where I found it and make sure I close the drawer properly.
I leave the apartment exactly as I found it, and after listening at the door for a moment, and satisfied that nobody is out there, I step out and pull it closed behind me.