Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘You have my number, don’t you, Eric? Don’t hesitate to ring if there’s anything you need. In fact, why don’t I phone you tomorrow, to make sure everything’s OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, feeling so far from fine he was tempted to cling on to this female and keep her there by force, so he wouldn’t have to be alone with his transformed and sullen daughter.

  ‘’Bye!’ Kimberley called, returning to her car – a huge, truck-like monster in an incongruous powder-blue. ‘Have fun!’

  Fun seemed hardly likely, judging by the way Erica was dragging her feet as she walked into the house; shoulders hunched; eyes down.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you, darling.’ He was determined to act the loving father, whatever her own attitude might be.

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ wasn’t exactly a promising start, but he persevered, trying to conceal the sense of hurt he felt. ‘Did you enjoy your time with Brooke?’

  ‘Has Mum gone?’ she asked suddenly, ignoring his own question, as if it were beneath contempt.

  He nodded. ‘She sent you her special love.’

  ‘Love?’ She pronounced the word with a mixture of bitterness and sarcasm. ‘Dwight’s the only one she loves.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘And how would you know? You haven’t seen her for yonks. Or me.’

  Her undisguised resentment resulted in a surge of guilt. Now that he was with her, it did indeed seem terribly remiss that he should have allowed his fears to stand in the way of maintaining the relationship. True, she’d been ill last summer, which had wrecked the plans for her visit to see him, but that was no real excuse. ‘I’m sorry. I should have come before. It’s totally my fault.’ He needed to apologize, own up about his failings, and also give her time to thaw, to readjust, get to know him again. Nor must he forget that she was the child of a divorce, which obviously brought a raft of problems and was – again – very much his fault. ‘Look, why don’t we sit down and have a bit of lunch or something.’

  ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘Well, how about a drink?’

  ‘OK,’ she said, grudgingly.

  ‘What d’you fancy?’

  ‘Diet Coke.’

  He hoped she wasn’t on some dangerous diet, as all young girls seemed to be, these days, although he had absolutely no intention of nagging about food or drink. Having fetched a Coke from the fridge, he poured himself a beer and joined her at the kitchen table. Now that he was sitting close, he noticed the acne beneath the make-up and the badly bitten nails, as if the half-fledged adolescent was showing through beneath the ‘adult’ exterior, and remembered, with compassion, how hard it was to be thirteen. ‘Now I am here, darling, let’s try to make the most of it, OK? There’s so much I want to know – how you’re getting on at school and—’

  ‘School’s shit!’

  ‘I thought you liked it?’

  ‘Not now. I don’t fit in. I get teased for being English and wearing the wrong clothes and stuff.’

  ‘How do you mean, “wrong”?’

  She let out an impatient sigh, as if he ought to understand without it being spelt out. ‘Listen, Dad, I was used to wearing uniform and being at an all-girls’ school and—’

  ‘But you said you were looking forward to mixing with boys and choosing what to wear. You wanted to go to the States, remember – thought it sounded exciting and—’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, OK? I admit it did seem cool at first, but I knew nothing about America and even less about their schools. And, to be honest, I find the clothes thing a real drag. I have to decide what to wear, every single day, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. I’m always worried about people making fun of me.’

  ‘Surely they don’t do that?’

  ‘Oh, all the time! Like, to start with, they’re all taller than me and prettier and have loads more clothes, in any case. And Kelly’s just the biggest bitch. She used to be my friend, but now she makes me feel like a piece of shit. She had this make-over party and I was the only one in the class she didn’t invite.’

  ‘What’s a make-over party?’

  ‘Oh, you know, Dad – where you get your face and hair done, and people give you advice on how to make the best of yourself and how to dress and—’

  ‘Aren’t you a bit young for all that?’

  ‘Young? No way! Half the girls at school have been having manicures and facials since, like, the age of eight. When they heard I’d never shaved my legs, let alone had a leg-wax, they thought I must be kidding.’

  ‘But doesn’t Mum object?’ he asked, truly shocked that eight-year-olds should be frequenting beauty salons, rather than climbing trees or playing hide-and-seek.

  ‘Not really. And, if she did, it would just be hypocritical, because she’s always having pedicures and fake tans and stuff herself. She even has a personal shopper who picks out all her clothes. The only thing she does object to is the way some of my friends get up, like, two hours early and use all that extra time just doing their face and hair. And, of course, they’re really good at make-up – unlike me.’

  ‘But, darling, you don’t need make-up.’

  ‘I do – to cover the zits.’

  ‘You can hardly see them, honestly.’

  ‘Who are you kidding? I look gross!’

  ‘Don’t keep putting yourself down. You’ve always been attractive and—’

  ‘Attractive, with this acne? You must be blind or something.’

  He gave a nervous laugh; intent on lightening the mood. ‘Well, look at me, covered in a rash!’

  ‘Yeah. I noticed. Is it infectious?’

  ‘No, just stress. Listen, darling, I know it’s hard, but it’s best simply to put up with things like spots and rashes and just accept that eventually they’ll go.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. Suppose I’m stuck with them till I’m twenty or something?’

  ‘You won’t be, Erica.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, I’m not Erica any more. I’ve decided to change my name.’

  He stared at her, appalled. His name; the name that bonded them, and which had given him such pride when she was born.

  ‘It’s a man’s name and I hate it.’

  He swallowed. ‘So what are you going to call yourself?’

  ‘Carmella. That’s feminine and pretty and makes me feel less of a weirdo.’

  ‘Erica, you’re not a weirdo, and there’s nothing weird about your name. It’s a perfectly good name.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m Carmella from now on, so will you please stop calling me Erica.’

  ‘OK, Carmella, then. Does Mum know you’ve changed your name?’

  ‘No. I only decided yesterday. Me and Brooke discussed it last night, for hours. She hates her name, as well, you see, but she hasn’t come up with a new one yet. It takes time, you know, to choose.’

  ‘Well, shouldn’t you tell Mum before you go ahead?’

  ‘No point,’ she shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t give a shit.’

  ‘Of course she would. You’re her daughter, for heaven’s sake! She takes an interest in everything you do and—’

  ‘Dad, you’re so out of date! The only person she cares about now is Dwight. And, actually, it makes me puke the way they slobber all over each other, as if I wasn’t there. I suppose you know she’s pregnant, do you?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think it’s disgusting?’

  ‘Erica – sorry, Carmella – when people love each other, they naturally want to have children together. Just as we did, with you. When you were born, Mum and I felt our marriage was … you know, complete. You were the most wonderful thing that ever happened to us and—’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. I’m talking about Mum, not me. And you haven’t a clue what she’s like these days. I hardly ever see her, for a start. She’s either at work, or out at the salon, or entertaining loads of boring people – mostly Dwight’s gruesome fri
ends. And, as for Dwight, he’s a total shit.’

  ‘Do watch your language, darling. You shouldn’t keep saying “shit”.’ Despite the reprimand, he was secretly delighted by her description of his hated rival, although he made a heroic effort to defend him, knowing it was his duty as a parent. ‘Look, whatever else, he’s given you a really luxurious life. I mean, this lovely house and the sailing trips and riding lessons and holidays and things. Doesn’t all that count?’

  ‘It might do, if he didn’t hate my guts. And, of course, when the baby’s born, he’ll probably want to push me out completely. I mean, he’s really, like, old, yet he’s never had a kid before, so he’s bound to go all gaga over his precious brat and I’ll just be in the way – even more than now.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true, Erica – Carmella.’

  ‘You keep saying you’re sure about things, but actually you don’t know what you’re talking about. And, if you really want to know, Dad, most of this is your fault. If you and Mum hadn’t split up, we’d still be living in Kingston and I’d be back at my old school, with all the friends I had then, and I’d never have laid eyes on Dwight, or had to come to this rotten country, or—’

  ‘Darling,’ he said, feeling extremes of shame and guilt, yet also a sense of mounting irritation. ‘I wish I could change the past. I hate to see you so unhappy and I’d do anything I could to try to make it up to you.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? You should have made some changes before everything went wrong – agreed to travel, for one thing, so Mum and I could go abroad, like everybody normal does. You don’t realize, Dad, what a total freak you are. When I first told Brooke about your fears and stuff, she just couldn’t believe that Mum would ever put up with it. No wonder she fell for Dwight and couldn’t wait to have a different life. OK, I loathe the guy, but he’s pretty cool, you have to admit – even the way he looks. I mean, you never had your teeth fixed or bothered to buy decent clothes, so you can’t blame Mum for wanting a bit of style.’

  Horrified, he sat in silence. She was ashamed of him – that was glaringly obvious. He was a total freak, with no dress sense and bad teeth.

  ‘But, even at that late stage, you could have, like, taken a stand; not let yourself be pushed around and agree to a divorce you didn’t want. And I didn’t want it, either. It was horrible for me. I just felt caught in the middle, while you two got all angry and emotional. I kept hoping you’d stand up to Mum and make her change her mind, but the thing is, you’re just totally weak.’

  Still, he didn’t say a word. What was there to say? He was feeling even more guilty, yet also indignant and insulted. Forget the teeth, the clothes, his lack of cool. What really stung was the ‘totally weak’. But how could he contradict her, when he was well aware that his whole upbringing had made him submissive? Throughout his childhood, he’d had no say in his life, no vestige of control, no room for negotiation, either with the grown-ups or with the other kids, let alone in relation to his absent mum. He couldn’t make his mother want him; make her return and take him home. He couldn’t even choose to be good – his natural inclination – because the bully-boys insisted he be bad; join them when they bunked off school, or nicked fags from the jobbing gardener. And, as for the staff, they had all the power and, since he couldn’t change the outcomes or the decisions that were made about him, he had gradually lost hope and simply surrendered to authority. What his daughter didn’t understand was that it required confidence to take a stand and, because kids-in-care were stigmatized as dirty, feckless and inferior, they soon lost all self-belief. Yet, if he mentioned any of that, it would only seem as if he were trying to excuse himself. Perhaps he should take a stronger line with her; prove he wasn’t weak.

  ‘Now, listen to me a moment, Carmella. Whatever I did or didn’t do, that’s over now and we have to try to deal with the present situation. I admit I haven’t seen you for ages, so, yes – you’re right – I don’t understand what’s going on, but maybe you can fill me in over the next few weeks. And, now they’ve given you this extra time off school, we ought to use it to go out together – perhaps see a bit of Seattle, take in a few movies or museums.’

  ‘And how are you going to get there?’ she asked, contemptuously. ‘That’s another thing that made Mum mad – the fact you never learned to drive. I mean, how pathetic is that?’

  ‘Surely there’s a bus?’ he said, ignoring her sneery tone, however wounding it might be.

  ‘Look, buses may be OK in London, but they’re nothing like as frequent over here. Everyone drives in the States, so they don’t bother to lay on any decent sort of service. And, if you weren’t so useless, Dad, you could borrow one of our cars, instead of expecting me to hang about at bus-stops.’

  He fought a sudden urge to slap her. OK, she had her grievances, but she was also a spoilt brat, and he was outraged that she should call him useless, when she hadn’t the slightest comprehension of how deeply fear could sabotage a life. Taking a long, slow draught of his beer, he tried to calm his anger. ‘OK, forget the bus. How about doing something local?’

  ‘And what do you suggest? There’s nothing much round here – well, a few lousy restaurants, maybe, and a Starbucks and a sandwich-bar – big deal! And the shops are pretty crap. There’s only, like, a supermarket, a drug-store, a dry-cleaner’s and—’

  ‘Well, why don’t we walk to the supermarket? It’s a lovely day and I need to stock up on T-shirts. The airline lost my luggage, you see, so—’

  ‘Dad, the thought of buying T-shirts at QFC isn’t my idea of a fun day out.’

  ‘OK, let’s go to Starbucks and treat ourselves to ice-creams.’

  ‘I’m nearly thirteen, you know, not eight,’ she said, giving him a withering look, ‘so there’s no need to bribe me with ice-creams. In any case, I can’t go anywhere. I promised to ring Brooke.’

  ‘But you’ve only just seen her.’

  ‘So?’ she countered, insolently. ‘Are you trying to tell me I can’t phone my friends?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not. But why don’t we have lunch first?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m not hungry. Kimberley made us pancakes for breakfast, and breakfast wasn’t that long ago. They get up late at her place. So, if you’ll excuse me, Dad …’

  Wincing as she slammed the door, he sat with his head in his hands, remembering how he had fed her as a baby: the countless bottles he had given her during the long stretch of time that Christine had been ill with mastitis or laid low with depression. He had burped her, changed her nappies, laid her in her cot; sung her lullabies until she had settled down to sleep; got up in the night, every time she cried, and walked back and forth, back and forth, with her cradled in his arms until she gradually calmed down. If only it were that simple now. If only he could hold her in his arms – calm her, feed her, be important to her. Yet, judging by her attitude, they might never be that close again.

  Not only had he lost his longed-for second child, it appeared he had also lost his first.

  chapter twenty-three

  ‘Carmella!’ he called. ‘Kimberley and Brooke are here.’

  Erica came rushing down the stairs, displaying an enviable enthusiasm to see her friend – again. If only he could rouse the same responsiveness. She and Brooke embraced, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, instead of just yesterday evening. His first sight of Brooke last night had been almost as much of a shock as his first sight of Erica. The pert little miss was in essence a miniature version of her mother, with the same scarlet nails, blonded hair and over-made-up face. Indeed, he strongly suspected that Erica had copied her new sexy style from this mother-and-daughter duo. However, whereas Kimberley was wearing puce-pink pedal-pushers and a sequinned silver top, the two girls were in riding gear: figure-hugging jodhpurs and knee-length riding-boots. He found his eyes straying back to Brooke; horrified to realize that her curvaceous little figure had aroused definite sexual stirrings in him.

  He turned to Kimberl
ey, desperate to distract himself from the troublingly precocious nymphet. ‘Do stay for a coffee this time,’ he urged.

  ‘Well, it’ll have to be a quick one. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s all ready. All I have to do is pour it.’

  ‘OK, great! I’ll just bring Chandra in.’

  Chandra? The maid? A babysitter? Brooke’s younger sister? No, Brooke had only an older brother, away at college, at present.

  While he waited for elucidation, he fetched Diet Cokes for the girls and offered biscuits (cookies), which they both refused, too busy giggling and chatting. Although one part of him was hugely relieved to see his daughter lively and vivacious, another part was gutted that her attitude to him should be so entirely different. Indeed, he was still smarting from the rejection of being told there was ‘no point’ in him coming today, and that it would be ‘babyish’ for him to watch her ride. Accompanying the three of them to the Flying Horseshoe Ranch, which was set in gorgeous countryside, apparently, seemed infinitely preferable to spending the day alone. However, Erica had made it clear she didn’t want him there and, even now, had disappeared with Brooke, presumably to her bedroom – strictly out-of-bounds to him.

  ‘This is Chandra.’ Kimberley announced, reappearing with a dog in her arms – the smallest dog he had ever seen; an exotic-looking creature, dressed in clothes identical to Kimberley’s.

  A dog? In clothes? He blinked and looked again. Yes, a sequinned silver top and puce-pink pedal-pushers, with the addition of four, pink, matching bows in its long, white, silky hair. Being careful not to disturb its coiffure, he reached out to pat its head and was rewarded with a series of shrill, protesting yaps.

  ‘She’s the love of my life,’ Kimberley enthused, smothering the dog with kisses. Where did that leave her husband, he mused, wondering if the poor guy got a look-in? ‘Would she like some water?’ he asked. ‘It’s quite a humid day.’

  ‘Oh, no! She only drinks from her own special bowl and only bottled water, sourced from natural springs. I find Volvic’s the best. It’s filtered through volcanic rock, so it’s a hundred per cent pure. They’re a very delicate breed, you know, shihtzus, so I have to be extremely careful. All the food I give her is strictly organic and she can’t touch carbs in any shape or form, because they tend to leave her gaseous and bloated.’