‘Tapas OK? asked Frieda.
‘I don’t eat meat any more.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘And only sustainable fish.’
‘Fine.’
‘There aren’t many of them.’
The restaurant was only a few minutes away, in Islington, and they walked there in silence. It had been raining earlier and the car headlights wavered in the long shallow puddles. Only after they’d taken their seats at a rickety wooden table by the window did Frieda speak.
‘Did you get to school today?’
‘Yeah. I said I would.’
‘Good. Was it all right?’
Chloë shrugged. Her face was slightly puffy, thought Frieda, as though she had cried a great deal. Her arms were covered by her shirt, so she couldn’t see if she’d been cutting herself again.
They ordered squid, roasted bell peppers, a Spanish omelette and a plate of spring greens. Chloë cut a tiny squid ring in half and then in half again, put it into her mouth and chewed very slowly.
‘Let’s take one thing at a time,’ said Frieda. ‘School.’
‘What about it?’
‘You did really well in your GCSEs. You’re bright. You say you want to be a doctor …’
‘No. You say that.’
‘Do I? I don’t think so.’
‘Anyway, people do. Adults. My dad. Teachers. There’s this road you’re expected to be on. You’re supposed to do your GCSEs and then your A levels and then you go to uni and then you get a proper job. I can see my whole life in front of me like a great slab of tarmac. What if I don’t want it?’
‘Don’t you want it?’
‘I don’t know.’ She stabbed her fork into the bright green pepper and juice spurted out. ‘I don’t know what the point of any of it is.’
‘You’ve had a hard time, Chloë. Your father left –’
‘You can use his name, you know. He’s called David and he’s your brother.’
‘OK. David.’ Even saying the name left a nasty taste in her mouth. ‘And Olivia has a new boyfriend.’
‘Guess where she is now,’ said Chloë.
‘I suppose she’s with Kieran.’
‘Wrong. Guess again.’
‘I can’t,’ said Frieda, uneasy under Chloë’s interrogation.
‘It’s that accountant or whatever he is. The one you brought round.’
‘I didn’t bring him round.’
‘I know what’s going on,’ said Chloë.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know I’m just a teenager, but even I can see that it’s really about you.’
‘I don’t even know where to start with that,’ said Frieda.
‘I can see the way he looks at you. He’s using my mother as a way to impress you. What do you think of him?’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘Auntie Frieda, you’ve got a really bad habit of always answering a question with another question.’
Frieda smiled. ‘It’s lesson number one in therapist school,’ she said. ‘It’s the way of avoiding being put on the spot. So that whatever your patient says to you, you just say, “What do you mean by that?” And then you’re off the hook.’
‘But I’m not your patient. And you’re not off the hook.’
‘We were talking about your mother.’
‘All right then, let’s talk about my mother,’ said Chloë. ‘I think she doesn’t care about me.’
‘I think she cares a lot, Chloë. But, you know, she’s not just your mother, she’s a woman who feels she’s been humiliated, who’s worried about the direction of her own road, if you like, and who’s just met a new man.’
‘So? She’s still meant to be my mum. She can’t just behave like a teenager herself. That’s supposed to be me. It feels scary sometimes. Like there’s no solid ground for me, so that everything shifts under my feet.’
This was so exactly what Frieda felt about Olivia that she took a moment to answer. ‘You’re right. And maybe you and I could talk to her about it, try to explain what you’re feeling and draw up some ground rules. But give her a chance to change as well. Leave doors open. She can be good at acknowledging when she’s wrong.’
‘Why should I give her a chance when she doesn’t even notice me?’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘I don’t think it, I know it. She’s so wrapped up in her own mess, she can’t see mine. I get home and I don’t know what I’ll find. Sometimes she’s drunk. Sometimes she’s crying. Sometimes she’s hyper and wants to rush out to the shops with me to buy me ludicrously expensive clothes or something. Sometimes she’s shouting at me about Dad and what a wanker he is. Sometimes she’s in the bath and she doesn’t even wash it out after she’s used it – she leaves hair and tide marks all over it. It’s disgusting. I have to clear up after her. Sometimes she cooks and sometimes she forgets. Sometimes she wakes me up in the morning for school and other times she doesn’t. Sometimes she’s all over me, hugging me and telling me I’m her precious darling or something, and sometimes she snaps at me for no reason. Sometimes Kieran’s there – actually, it’s best when he is. He’s calm and kind and he talks to me. She doesn’t ask about my work, she doesn’t open letters from school, she forgot to go to my last parents’ evening. She couldn’t care less.’
Frieda listened while Chloë talked and talked as though the floodgates had at last been opened to a gush of fear and wretchedness. She didn’t say much, but anger swelled inside her until she could barely contain it. Privately she made plans: she would talk to Olivia and make her see the consequences of her disordered life on her daughter; she would go with Chloë to talk to her teachers and draw up a plan of work; she would – this last resolution made her feel slightly dizzy, as if she was peering over a cliff edge – talk to her brother David.
Half a mile along Upper Street, in a new wine bar that had been extensively refurbished so that it looked as if it had been there unchanged since the nineteenth century, Harry was topping up Olivia’s wine glass. She took a sip.
‘It seems a bit cold,’ she said. ‘For a red wine.’
‘I think it’s meant to be cool,’ Harry said. ‘But I can get them to warm it up for you.’
Olivia took another sip, more of a gulp. ‘It’s fine. I’m sure you’re right.’
‘You know what they say, white wine is always served too cold and red wine too warm.’
‘No,’ said Olivia. ‘I didn’t know they said that. I just drink it, I’m afraid.’
‘Which is the right attitude,’ said Harry. ‘But what I’m really here to talk about is this.’ He put a folder on the table and pushed it across to her. ‘I’ve gone through everything. I’ve looked at your accounts and credit-card bills. I’ve drawn up a plan for you, made some suggestions. The situation isn’t as bad as you told me. And I’ve found some standing orders you’ve been paying for services you no longer get. I’ve written some letters for you to reclaim the overpayments, so you should get a bit of a windfall.’
‘Really?’ said Olivia. ‘That’s amazing. But I must say, I feel a bit embarrassed by all of this. I’ve dealt with my affairs for years by not opening letters or throwing documents away without looking at them and hoping for the best. And now you know all my most shameful secrets.’
‘That’s my job,’ said Harry. ‘Sometimes I feel a financial adviser ought to be like an old-fashioned priest. Your client, or parishioner, or whatever, has to confess everything, all the sins and omissions and evasions and then –’
‘And then you can give me absolution?’ said Olivia.
Harry smiled. ‘I can show that once you get everything into the open, look at all the figures, it’s not so bad. What causes problems is when you have secrets, when you don’t face up to things.’