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

by Charlotte Duckworth

  When I researched it online and discovered that surrogates in the UK are usually paid around seven thousand pounds, not twenty, he even made a joke about London weighting. He said that I shouldn’t see it as buying a baby, rather helping out with Kim’s living costs.

  He told me that it was perfectly legal to compensate surrogates for their expenses. That we weren’t doing anything wrong, even though morally it had always troubled me.

  I watch him with Riley. This is what he always does, I think. And this is what I have always hated. Talking to me indirectly, through Riley, as though I am their pet dog perhaps, or some other inferior, incapable being. What do we think Mummy would say about this? Who didn’t put the lid back on the orange juice? Silly Mummy.

  I think of all the times I was the brunt of his jokes – the fact that I have always been material for his shows – how I laughed it all off, said it was flattering. What an idiot I was. What an idiot I have been.

  ‘What is it?’ Robin asks, again.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘It’s boring . . . complicated . . . not something I can talk about in front of Riley anyway.’

  She’s not listening, she’s too busy chomping on her cereal, but I still kick myself a little. I don’t want her picking up on any of this. Not anything, not even the slightest whisper that any respect I once had for her father has been shattered.

  Robin frowns at me, but then he does what he always does: he dismisses my feelings with a wave of his hand, and turns to something else. In this case, it’s making his own breakfast, limping around the kitchen as though his foot injury wasn’t self-inflicted.

  He thinks I believe him. He thinks I’ve bought his lies, hook, line and sinker.

  I almost feel sorry for him. His arrogance has always been his downfall. He has no idea what’s coming. No idea at all.

  Robin

  It was surprisingly easy to get tickets to Sarah’s new kids’ show. Not the sell-out she was hoping for. But even I’ll admit that it’s not the best timing. Playing with fire again. It’s going to get me burnt.

  I sent Kim a long message last night telling her exactly what I thought of her little conversation with Esther. I told her Esther was confused about the money, and I laid it on thick about how selfish Kim had been, given Esther’s condition and her post-traumatic stress disorder. Said she’d been seriously ill, that her mental health was incredibly fragile. I offered to meet her, to talk the whole mess through, but she hasn’t replied.

  The money.

  God, yes, it was wrong, but at the time I was desperate. My debts were insurmountable; it seemed like the perfect solution. Esther had it; I needed it. She was my wife; technically it was my money too anyway.

  Plus, it made her feel better about taking on Riley – she thought she was saving her from a mother who’d happily flush her down the toilet, and the thought that she had handed over money gave her some sense of proprietorship.

  And anyway, she would never have understood how I’d got myself into all that mess. She’s had a steady job and a reliable pay cheque ever since she left university. She has no idea what it’s like when you’re self-employed, how you live one day to the next, how hard it is when you get dropped by your management and everyone stops working with you and you end up spiralling into debt, spending every spare pound you have on coke. Self-medication to numb the pain.

  Esther couldn’t possibly understand how desperate I was. How humiliating it was, to have to steal from my own wife.

  Not for the first time, I have no idea how this situation is going to sort itself out. But I can’t think about it today. Today is so important. I just need to see Sarah, show her how I’ve changed, that I’m no threat to her now, and convince her to tell someone – anyone who matters – to take a chance on me, my stupid sitcom. It’s my last hope. The only way is up.

  Unfortunately, Riley had a bad night and now she’s in a grump too. Esther said she felt sick this morning, that she wasn’t going to go to work, and of course as soon as she said that, Riley wanted to stay with her.

  They say kids can sense tension, and she’s a smart cookie, my daughter. In the end, I told Esther that I’d booked theatre tickets, that it was too late for a refund. She looked surprised, but she let us leave without much comment, and I dragged Riley out of the house screaming that she wanted to stay with Mummy.

  Perhaps I was being an idiot – perhaps she’s too young for the theatre. The website said it was perfect for those age three and up, and Riley’s only two. But she’s clever, it’s her favourite book and she has a pretty impressive attention span for her age. So hopefully it will be OK.

  The show’s only an hour long anyway.

  The reviews have all been raves, of course. Lots of chat about Sarah’s broad appeal and versatile talent. ‘It appears she can switch effortlessly between smutty Fleabag-esque humour to winsome childish charm – a force to be reckoned with on a comedy scene where women are finally coming into their own.’ So declared the Guardian.

  She would have loved that one.

  For once she’s starring in something she hasn’t written herself, and I’m curious. When we were together she always told me she would never do that. She was too proud.

  But children change everything, don’t they? As the Guardian interview with her revealed, she longed to do something that her children would appreciate. So far, so clichéd.

  It’s a matinee performance – as they all are – and I suppose that probably also appealed. An hour-long show twice a day in the West End for three months, not much of a challenge, really. Home in time for a nice curry and bath before bed. Plus there’s the added fact that she’s getting tons of extra press and good karma points for doing something so unexpected of her. Her management are smart.

  Her management.

  My old management.

  Saul Webster and Larry Bernstein. Dropped me like a ton of bricks when Sarah and I broke up.

  And yet here I am, in the queue outside her show, waiting for some spotty wannabe thespian to rip my ticket and direct me to my seat, having shelled out more than forty-five pounds for the privilege. Surely she’ll take pity on me? It’s been years now.

  But this is Sarah, after all.

  ‘Who’s the mug here?’ I say to Riley. She stares back at me. She’s wriggling in my arms, complaining to be put down. ‘Me, that’s who.’

  ‘Snack, Daddy,’ she says. ‘I hungry.’

  I roll my eyes and pull out a breadstick. I’ve stocked up on food in case she kicks off during the show. I want Sarah to see us, but not if Riley’s being a total brat.

  ‘If you’re a good girl and behave yourself, I’ll get you an ice cream afterwards.’

  Her eyes light up, and the doorman ushers us inside.

  After the show ends, we step out on to the pavement. Clearly there’s something in her genes. Riley loved it, sat mesmerised throughout. I watched her, wanted to see if she would notice Sarah, or pay her more attention than the rest of the cast. But even though Sarah was playing the lead role of the witch, Riley was far more interested in the poor sods sweating inside the dragon and dinosaur costumes. I have to admit it made me smile.

  She loved the show. And of course, she loved the tub of chocolate ice cream I bought her even more.

  I lean down and laugh.

  ‘Oh, monkey,’ I say, ineffectually attempting to wipe the brown smears from her cheeks with my thumb. ‘You’re covered in ice cream. Silly billy.’

  She giggles, her round eyes scrunching up as she curls her little hand around her mouth and laughs along with me. She’s so flipping cute sometimes. She makes everything feel all right again. It’s all simple, when I look at her.

  ‘Right, sweetie, now, would you like to go and meet the people who were in the show?’

  ‘Yep, yep, yep!’ Riley replies, but she’s not really listening.

  ‘T
hey’re called the cast, and they’re the people who dressed up as the dragons and dinosaurs, and . . . of course, the lady that played the witch. We can go round to the secret door at the back, and wait for them to come out. And if we ask really nicely, then they might sign our programme. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy!’ says Riley, in the non-committal way of a distracted two-year-old. She’s staring at the colourful rickshaws that have pulled up outside the theatre.

  ‘Great, come with Daddy, then.’

  I take her by the hand and we walk round the side of the theatre. I’ve never done a show in a venue like this, of course – a proper, West End theatre. I wonder what the dressing rooms are like. Rumour has it that all these posh theatres are horribly run-down backstage, that the dressing rooms are damp and filled with mice.

  Sarah was scared of mice, if I remember rightly.

  There’s a huddle of other cold parents already standing at the stage door, so I hang back a little. The kids range in age from tiny tots like Riles to monstrous seven- and eight-year-olds giving their parents lip.

  Eventually the cast emerge. A dinosaur first, and the kids have a good laugh about the fact that the actor still has his green face paint on. He scribbles his signature on the programmes, smiles and accepts the compliments, but his eyes are tired. No one wants to do kids’ theatre – the pay is shit, the recognition non-existent.

  Three years at drama school studying Chekhov, only to end up playing a monosyllabic dinosaur in a sweaty foam costume. At least I’ve never gone there, never sunk that low.

  Riley stares up at him as he chucks her under the chin, but she doesn’t say a word. She’s a deep thinker.

  Then more of the cast start to come out, and some of the band and tech crew too. Sarah’s taking her time. I think of her, backstage, timing it carefully in order to make the most impactful exit.

  Is that where it all really went wrong for me? Was I just too unwilling – no, unable – to play the game?

  Eventually, the scuffed black stage door opens and there she is. Wearing dungarees and a huge brown teddy bear coat. Her hair is tied up with a headscarf and she’s wearing her Buddy Holly glasses. They were conspicuously absent during the show, but with them on she is instantly recognisable. My heart begins to pound.

  She doesn’t spot me at first. Of course not, she’s too busy sucking up all the praise from the gathered sycophants like a dried-out sponge. But then her head rises from scrawling her signature on the last programme waved in front of her, and I see the flicker of recognition as she spots me. The way her eyes widen, the little swallow to try to ground herself.

  I smile broadly, to show I’m no threat, hoisting Riley into the air and taking a step towards her.

  ‘Look, Riley,’ I say, still grinning. ‘It’s the lady who played the witch! Look how different she looks now she’s not in costume.’

  Now we’re closer, I can see the fine lines around her eyes. She’s still staring at us. At me. Is it anger there? Or shock? Or something else?

  I can’t read her. This woman I used to know so well.

  But then something in her snaps. She gives a little shake of her head and beams at Riley.

  ‘Would you like me to sign your programme?’ she says, staring straight at Riley and ignoring me completely. ‘What’s your name?’

  Riley looks back at me, unsure of whether to answer.

  ‘Her name’s Riley,’ I say, but Sarah still doesn’t look at me. I’m impressed with her ability to ignore me completely while still being professional.

  She doesn’t even look frightened.

  I thought she was meant to be terrified of me; I thought I had caused her ‘significant psychological harm’.

  ‘She’s two.’

  ‘Two years old!’ Sarah exclaims, still smiling at Riley, her shoulders turned away from me. ‘Aren’t you a big girl?’

  She takes the programme from Riley’s hand then scribbles her name across it, thrusting it back at her.

  ‘Listen,’ I begin. ‘I know it’s been forever. It’s nice to . . .’

  But Sarah turns – very deliberately, very decisively – away from me, and strides off into the Soho crowds, without looking back.

  Esther

  Now I know for sure that I can’t trust my husband, everything is somehow a bit easier.

  I look at my reflection in the mirrored cabinets above our new double basins. They’re so new that there’s still plastic film across them. I reach up and pick at one corner, pulling the plastic away from the glass. As I do so, the sensor backlights come on, illuminating my face.

  I stare into my own eyes, willing myself again to think of something – some reason – why Robin might have kept that money. We’ve always had separate finances – our own bank account each, and then the joint account for bills. But of course I’m the only one who’s paid anything into the joint account in the past few years.

  So what has he done with the money? Has he been sitting on it? Saving it in case he ever wants to leave me? Apart from the odd packet of fags, he never buys anything for himself. I have to practically force him to get new clothes. It doesn’t make any sense.

  I lift my fringe away from my forehead. I have aged so much in the past few years. Underneath, the skin is marked with deep lines that run horizontally. I like the fringe, I like covering the lines up. It makes me feel a little less exposed, I suppose.

  I blink slowly at the woman in the mirror and then I do what I always do: I clean my teeth. It’s the one habit I’m not prepared to break. Sometimes I do it ten times a day, sometimes only four. Claudia told me to snap the elastic band on my wrist instead, but she doesn’t understand how much it helps. I’m always gentle, so I don’t see the harm in it. And it feels like I’m rinsing my mouth clean, like a mini fresh start.

  After I have recovered, I have a strange sense of relief, and determination that I will find out the truth, and will protect Riley at all costs. First of all, though, I need to talk to Kim. I found her number in the paperwork from when Riley was born, and, with fingers that no longer tremble but instead pulsate with courage, I call her. The only nerves I feel are that she might not answer.

  This is it. No more lies, no more pretending, no more putting on a brave face.

  I’m a mother, and I am going to do the right thing for my child.

  We arrange to meet in a cafe near Waterloo. Kim thinks it’s too risky to come to me. I send Robin a text saying that I’m feeling better, so I’ve decided to go into the office for a few hours. I hate leaving Riley with him now I know the truth, but what choice do I have? And the one thing that I trust – the only thing that I trust, I think – is that he loves her. He would never hurt her.

  But what if I’m wrong about that, too?

  Kim looks even worse than last night – her skin is pale, and when I walk up to her I realise that she’s not wearing any make-up.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, noticing my surprise. ‘I was . . . I was asleep when you called me.’

  I nearly roll my eyes, but I stop myself. She’s coughing again, and she looks out of breath.

  ‘Have you got a chest infection?’ I say. ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘Something like that,’ she replies.

  I buy myself a coffee and her an orange juice and then I take a deep breath.

  ‘He texted me after Viv’s party. He told me you’re ill,’ Kim says. ‘He said I shouldn’t talk to you; that it would be too much for you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, forcefully. ‘I want to understand. What you agreed. With him. Tell me everything. He’s pushed me out for so long. I’m fed up of being sidelined. I’m not weak and pathetic. I’m strong and I want to understand. How did it . . . how did it even happen? I’ve heard his side of the story. Now I want yours.’

  ‘The night we slept together,’ she says, her fingers wrapped around the gl
ass of orange juice as though she might throttle it, ‘he was off his face. I mean, really, really drunk. He was ranting and raving about you, and what you’d done. He was in a right state. His head was bleeding – God knows what he’d done. At one point he went outside and punched the tree in Viv’s garden. Proper punched it. I thought he must have broken his knuckles, but he didn’t seem to notice. He kept talking about his parents . . . and about his ex. Sarah.’

  She pauses and I look at her.

  Sarah.

  Who is she and what hold does she have over him?

  ‘He went on and on about what a joke his life was. How all women betrayed him. It wasn’t that attractive, to be honest.’

  ‘But you still slept with him,’ I bite back.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, shrugging again. ‘What can I say, I’m a fuck-up. I’d had some pretty shit news myself that day. I was pissed off with the world, with what life had thrown at me. It was angry sex. Revenge sex. I guess I wanted to get back at you. The way you looked at me at the New Year’s Eve party. As though I was just a stupid slapper.’

  ‘What? But I . . .’ I start, but then I shut myself up. She’s right, part of me did see her like that, but after what she did, how could she blame me?

  I press my fingers into my forehead, rubbing the skin under my fringe.

  ‘Afterwards, when he’d sobered up a bit, he started crying. Going on and on about Sarah. How she’d ruined his life. It was only after a little while that I got her full name. Sarah Harrison.’

  My head snaps up in surprise.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she says. ‘Who would have thought it? Must be quite painful, given how famous she is now. I certainly wouldn’t mind her career.’

  ‘I . . .’ I say, dumbstruck. ‘But . . . but . . . we watched all the episodes of her sitcom together! He never said. He never said once that they dated.’

  I’m burning with the humiliation of it – remembering all the times that I laughed out loud at her acting, all the compliments I paid her as we discussed the show together.