The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020

by Charlotte Duckworth

  I wasn’t allowed to move. So I sat there as still as I could, but then I felt it in my nose. A tickle at first, that grew into the inevitable: a sneeze. A simple, everyday sneeze, but one with such force behind it that I dropped her hand and the bed shook. I looked up at Esther, but it was too late, she was retching again. I grabbed the bowl, but the puke from the meagre portion of porridge she had managed to eat when we first got home hit me full in the face, soaking the clean bedding.

  I wiped my eyes and looked over at Esther. Tears streamed down her face. Her body was shaking, perspiration springing to her forehead as though on a timer.

  ‘I’ve wet myself,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ve pissed myself!’

  As I watched her cry, I felt as though I was watching her breaking in front of me.

  Once we’d cleaned her up, and I’d changed the bed, and she was resettled, I told her to try to get some sleep. It was only 8pm, and I had wanted to stay with her, but she had told me to leave her alone.

  ‘OK, I’ll just be in the other room,’ I said softly, about to turn out the light.

  ‘I’m not doing this anymore,’ she said, her voice low. Different. ‘I can’t. This . . . baby. It’s going to kill me.’

  I paused. I didn’t know what to say. I had nothing, no tools left to handle this. I’d never had any tools in the first place.

  ‘Try to get some sleep, Tot,’ I said. I wanted to get out of that room as quickly as possible. I just couldn’t face seeing her like this. Where was her strength? Where was her defiance? I was angry with her. No, worse – disappointed. It was a tinge of my father, threaded through me: that disgust at the weak and feeble.

  ‘I can’t do it anymore,’ she cried, and then she turned and spat into the plastic bowl beside her. She was producing excess saliva – another side effect of the condition. ‘Some women in my situation . . . feel they have no choice but to terminate . . .’

  ‘You’re tired,’ I said. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. Get some sleep. You’ll feel differently tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said. Her voice was quieter now.

  ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’ I said. ‘You’re saying you’re thinking about killing our baby.’

  ‘I can’t cope any longer. Please! You need to help me. If you love me . . . please, make it stop,’ she begged, looking up at me. Her eyes suddenly seemed dark. I didn’t recognise her. ‘Please, it’s me or the baby. Bird. I can’t . . .’

  She reached up, scrawny fingers clasping my arm, but I shook her off.

  ‘You’re being irrational because you’re tired. Get some sleep. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,’ I said. ‘And think about what you’re saying, Esther. Really think about it. It’s my baby too.’

  And then I turned and left the room. I shouldn’t have done, but I slammed the door behind me.

  Esther

  I leave Claudia’s feeling emotionally spent, but lighter somehow too. And as the adrenalin wears off, I feel ashamed of how angry I got. I hope she isn’t cross with me for losing my temper like that. I never wanted to upset her. I just wanted her to understand what it’s like to be in my head. Even though I don’t suppose anyone ever can.

  I hail a black cab and, on the way to the office, check Facebook. Kim has an open profile. Privacy doesn’t seem to be a concern to her. It’s become a habit now, a way of keeping an eye on her, and, though I hate to admit it, Robin. I have gone through so many different emotions with Kim – from revulsion and envy to hatred and admiration, and everything in between. Sometimes, I even felt I loved her. After all, she gave me the best thing in my life: my daughter.

  The number of times I’ve wanted to send her a message, asking her what the hell she’s playing at delaying the adoption for so long . . . but Robin has said we have to be careful, that we can’t risk upsetting her.

  But what about me? I’m upset. She’s completely out of order, treating us like this.

  Facebook helpfully reminds me that it’s Vivienne’s birthday today. I haven’t spoken to her in months. She’s the only one of my friends who knows the truth, that Kim is Riley’s biological mother. Everyone else thinks we chose to use a surrogate after the trauma of my own pregnancy – even Robin’s parents. Viv said if Sean ever cheated on her, that’d be it, game over. Tried to convince me I was in no fit state after my miscarriage to make major decisions.

  But I never told her about the email I sent to that clinic, and so she doesn’t understand the depth of my guilt. Or that taking on Riley felt like a gift. A way of atoning. Something I could do right.

  ‘You know I’ve never liked Robin,’ she said, as we sat in a bar the night I told her that Kim was pregnant. ‘I’m sorry but he’s too controlling. Possessive. All this I love you so much, I’d die for you crap. But then he does this. Esther, seriously. You don’t have to do this. Taking on someone else’s baby! You’re still grieving your miscarriage – you shouldn’t make decisions like this!’

  ‘You’re the one who told me you always have a choice in the way you think about things,’ I said, trotting out the words I’d been using to convince myself ever since Robin suggested the plan to me. ‘That you can reframe any situation positively, if you just try. That’s all I’m doing.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Esther! There’s reframing things positively, and there’s staying in an abusive relationship because you’re too weak to leave it!’

  I walked out then. Chose Robin and the baby I was so desperate for over my best friend.

  People never understand other people’s relationships. You simply can’t, from the outside. No one knows what’s going on under the surface.

  Claudia always tells me I need to stop worrying what other people think. If the situation works for us, then that’s all that matters.

  But does it? Does it work for us? I’m not sure anymore.

  I start to type a generic Happy Birthday message on Vivienne’s page, but something stirs in me. I miss her. I call her. She picks up on the third ring.

  ‘Hello, stranger!’ she says, and I feel the breath I’ve been holding escape. She’s not cross with me. And then I remember: she never was. It’s me who’s been avoiding her all this time. I’m the one that’s put the distance in our relationship, because she held a mirror up to my life that I didn’t want to look into.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I say, and I suddenly feel a spark of happiness burst in my chest. My friend. She still cares. Before I know what I’m saying, the words are out. ‘What are you up to today? Got time for a drink tonight?’

  ‘I’m meeting Sean after work for dinner, but hell yes, let’s meet for a drink! It’s been forever. Crystal Bar? For old times’ sake?’

  I laugh at her suggestion, but find myself agreeing to meet her there at 7pm. I can work late in the office and go straight there. It means I’ll miss Riley’s bedtime again, but I can’t face Robin at the moment anyway.

  I’m early to meet Vivienne, and so I take a seat in the window of the bar and order myself a martini. I don’t drink often these days – hangovers with 5am starts aren’t the best combination – but I feel like letting my hair down for a change. Dad’s money means one thing: we can definitely move house. Finally. Perhaps this is what we need: a fresh start.

  I just need to look forward. This storm will pass, like all the other storms, and the sun will be brighter for it tomorrow.

  I am browsing Rightmove on my phone, wondering what kind of place we could get with a bigger mortgage and using Dad’s money as a deposit, when Vivienne appears in front of me. She’s dressed in a tight, shiny dress under a giant pink furry coat. She looks like a marshmallow.

  ‘Hello!’ she says, almost squealing as she leans down to kiss me on the cheek, falling on to the sofa beside me. ‘Oh golly, these seats are a bit low.’

  She pulls her dress down over her thighs and shrugs off her coat, snatching up the drinks
menu.

  ‘What are you having? Martini? Very nice. Hmm . . .’ She looks up, winking at one of the barmen, who immediately ambles over as though summoned by the queen. ‘Porn Star for me, and another for her, please. Oh, and some crisps. Salt and vinegar, two packets.’

  The waiter gives a nod and walks away.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I say, raising my glass and draining the rest of its contents.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ I begin, but then stop myself from trotting out the obvious line. ‘OK. It’s been a rough time, what with my dad . . .’

  ‘I bloody loved your dad,’ Vivienne says, staring at me. ‘He was great. I’m sorry, Est. Life’s absolute shit sometimes.’

  I nod and fiddle with the cocktail stick in my glass.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I say.

  Now that she’s sitting still, I see that she’s looking a lot older than she used to.

  ‘How’s work?’

  She screws her face up.

  ‘Sean’s doing well,’ she says. ‘They’re touring the show after the West End run is up, so he’ll be away for a year. Nothing much going on with me at the moment. I’ve had some voice-over work lately, but nothing else. I’m getting to that age. Too old to play the piece of fluff, too young to play the mum. Although I am definitely getting put up for more of those parts. Last week I had an audition and I was meant to be a mum of a fifteen-year-old! As if!’

  She rolls her eyes, gives a brittle laugh. I do the maths in my head. It’s more than possible, but I don’t expect she’ll want to be reminded of that.

  ‘Ugh,’ I say. ‘It’s a hard business. I don’t know how you cope with it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to do anything else though,’ she says. ‘My dad keeps offering to help but . . . between you and me, I think he’s lost his touch. His last two productions were absolutely mauled by the press. And anyway, I just can’t bear to be that person, you know? Only where I am because my dad helped me.’

  I think of the flat he bought her, and then realise I’m about to do the exact same thing – use Dad’s money to buy myself somewhere to live. That’s what parenting is too, after all. Putting food on the table, a roof over heads. In which case, I am just as much of a mother as Robin is a father.

  ‘And how’s Sean?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s good,’ she says, but there’s a sadness in her eyes. ‘The reason I’m not so worried about work at the moment is, well . . . We’ve been . . . trying. You know. For a baby. But nothing’s happening yet. How did you cope with it? I know it took you ages too.’

  I swallow.

  ‘Yes. It was dreadful. And then . . .’ I say.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘Seems that everyone has a story. I can’t believe what you had to go through.’ She pauses, gives me a beatific smile. ‘How’s Riley?’

  ‘She’s amazing,’ I say, and I feel my face flush with joy. Because she is. She is what makes everything bearable. My little sixteen-month-old walker and talker. I pull my phone out and start flicking through the latest pictures of her. ‘She’s super ahead on all her gross motor milestones, amazed us all.’

  But of course it’s not surprising. Her mother’s a trained dancer. I swallow again. These are the thoughts that Claudia says I must accept and wave away.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Vivienne says, flicking through my phone. ‘Her eyes! And that hair – such an unusual combination.’

  She hands the phone back, smiling, but embarrassed that she’s said the wrong thing.

  ‘Do you ever see her?’ I say, unthinking. ‘Are you still in touch?’

  She knows who I am talking about. Kim.

  ‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I think I saw her a few months ago. At a party. She was back for a bit. But she’s doing back-to-back cruise contracts now, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard,’ I say. I frown. ‘When was she back?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember. February?’

  I swallow. Robin never mentioned she’d come home earlier this year, just like he didn’t mention when she was back a year ago. Did he know?

  ‘I guess you’re not in touch with her?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Robin’s been handling it all. I’m pissed off with her, actually. There’s still some legal stuff to finalise with the adoption but . . . well, she’s been really evasive. Not replying to Robin’s calls or messages. Let’s just say it’s my priority to get it sorted.’

  I look down, ashamed.

  ‘You know what, Est?’ Vivienne says, sighing and leaning back into the leather sofa. ‘I used to think you were crazy, agreeing to that situation. But now I know . . . we’ve been trying for months and months now, and nothing. Had all the tests; there’s no reason that I’m not pregnant yet. Unexplained infertility. And now I get it. I’m sorry I was so harsh and judgemental of you at the time. I thought, how can you put up with this? Robin cheats on you, and then gets some other woman pregnant, and you just accept it and agree to adopt the baby? But now I get it. I know how devastated you were when you had your miscarriage . . . how tough your pregnancy had been, how long it had taken you to get there. And I know how much you wanted a baby. So I get it. What you did . . . taking on Riley; it was selfless. And look how it’s all worked out! You’ve done so well. You’ve proved me wrong. Both of you.’

  I lean back and smile, taking a sip of my drink. It all sounds so neat, so perfect, when you put it like that. It’s ironic really, isn’t it? That I’ve finally convinced Vivienne just as my own faith has started to desert me.

  Robin

  Esther sent me a text at 5pm saying she was meeting Vivienne for a drink and ever since, I’ve been pacing the flat. I preferred it when they weren’t talking. Vivienne will know that Kim’s been back in London. And who knows what will happen if the two of them start talking about her.

  Once Riley is in bed, I tidy up the living room and throw together a casserole, which I leave to slow-cook. I’m getting better at cooking – something else my dad would see as a failure not an achievement. Then, in a fit of something, I decide to clean the kitchen thoroughly, and then I do the bathroom too. It’s well overdue.

  Satisfying, but nope, I still don’t enjoy cleaning. It doesn’t help.

  When everything’s sorted, I go back into the living room and open my laptop, logging on to Facebook. Stu hasn’t mentioned his catch-up with me – of course he hasn’t, I’m not popular or successful, and he’s still friends with Sarah on there. I wonder if he’ll tell her we met up today. I wonder what she’ll say.

  I lean back, bottle of beer in hand. Then I type her name into Google.

  I haven’t done this for a while now. The page flickers before my eyes as it loads.

  So much stuff about her. Years and years’ worth of press articles, hundreds of photos from shoots with glossy magazines, interviews and appearances on daytime television.

  One of the headlines reads: ‘Sarah Harrison: Queen of Comedy’. I click on it.

  Her face fills the screen. She looks the same as she did back then. Just softened slightly, her jawline a little lower, her eyes a little smaller behind her trendy glasses. She’s wearing lipstick too – a jaunty shade of pink. Her hair has never changed, not since I met her. Shoulder-length, mud-brown and thick, with a fringe that practically obscures her eyes.

  The lipstick doesn’t suit her.

  It’s a recent article, waxing lyrical about her BAFTA for best female comedy performance. Her writing partner/husband gets a brief mention. Dean. He’s American, his teeth an ungodly shade of white, his hair thick but grey. But the focus of the article is her career, how she has risen through the ranks and is now the UK’s most ‘in demand’ female comedy writer. The misogynist in me wants to shout out loud that she doesn’t have much competition.

  At the end of the article there’s a brief mention of her desire
to get back into theatre, since the birth of her two children. She wants to do something they can watch, apparently.

  I swig the beer, staring at her face, then slam the laptop lid down so hard I almost break it.

  I’m watching my usual mind-numbing television, third bottle of beer in hand, when I hear the key turn in the lock. There’s a thump, followed by a giggle, from the hallway. It’s 10.05pm. Not late by my standards, but late for Esther.

  ‘Oops!’ she says, giggling some more. There’s another thump, and then I realise: she’s trying to take her boots off.

  I don’t say anything. The three bottles of beer have somewhat dulled the feelings of fury towards Sarah – that she has everything she wants, even after what she did, that she can still sabotage my career even though we haven’t spoken for ten years – but I’m not sure how I feel about Esther at the moment.

  ‘Hello!’

  I look up. My wife’s face is peering round the door to the living room, grinning.

  ‘Stone-cold sober, I see,’ I say, choosing sarcasm, my favourite disguise. ‘How much have you had?’

  She pads her way over to me, collapsing next to me on the sofa.

  ‘Not gonna throw up all over me, I hope?’ I say, but the dig goes over her head this time.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, muffled. ‘I had a pizza in the bar. Vivienne . . .’

  ‘. . . made you do it?’ I joke, but I feel relaxed finally.

  ‘She wants a baby,’ Esther says. ‘They’ve been trying for ages. Nothing’s working. The doctors are baffled.’

  I feel my muscles tensing, but I don’t say anything. Esther sits up, twisting her neck to face me.

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘I thought you liked me best drunk,’ she says. ‘Vivienne said . . . we used to be so much fun. And then I thought, no, I was never fun, but Robin was. Do you? Do you miss being fun?’