‘Finished?’
‘No. But I want to hear what you have to say.’
David stood up and went to the window. Even his back looked angry – yet Frieda had a sudden clear flashback of sitting on those shoulders, holding on to his head with one hand, and with the other reaching down some fruit from the tree at the bottom of their garden. She could almost feel the cool heaviness of the plum in her hand, its bloom against her fingers. She blinked away the memory and waited. David turned round.
‘I don’t know how you can sit here, in this room, and talk to me about what teenagers are like and what parents feel.’
He wanted to hurt her.
‘You weren’t a parent last time I looked. How old are you? It won’t be so very long before you’re forty, will it?’
‘This is about Chloë.’
‘It’s about you thinking, after everything, you have the right to come here and tell me what to do with my life.’
‘Just with your daughter. And if I don’t tell you, who will, until it’s too late?’
‘What do you think she’s going to do? Slit her wrists?’
She gave him a look so fierce that she could see he was shaken. ‘I don’t know what she could do. I don’t want to find out. I want you to help her.’ She took a deep breath and added, ‘Please.’
‘This is what I will do,’ he said. ‘Because I had already decided to, not because you’ve asked me to. I will see her every other weekend, from Saturday afternoon, until Sunday afternoon. Twenty-four hours. All right?’ He picked up his electronic organizer and started pressing buttons, very business-like. ‘Not next weekend, or the one after, though. We can start at the beginning of April. You’ll see to it that she knows?’
‘No. You have to ask her if that’s what she wants. She’s seventeen. Talk to her. And then listen.’
He slammed the organizer on the table, so hard that his mug jumped.
‘And please don’t tell her I came to see you. She’d feel humiliated. She needs you to want to see her.’
A door slammed and someone called his name. Then a pretty young woman entered. She had blonde hair and long legs. She must have been in her late twenties, though her style was of someone younger – someone of Chloë’s generation, thought Frieda.
‘Oh,’ she said, in obvious surprise, laying one hand against her stomach. ‘Sorry.’ She looked enquiringly at David.
‘This is Frieda,’ he said.
‘You mean – Frieda Frieda?’
‘Yes. This is my wife, Trudy.’
‘I’m just going,’ said Frieda.
‘Don’t mind me.’ She picked up the two coffee mugs, making an odd little grimace of distaste as she did so, and went out of the room.
‘Does Chloë know?’ asked Frieda.
‘What?’
‘That she’s going to have a sibling.’
‘How the fuck?’
‘You have to tell her.’
‘I don’t have to do anything.’
‘You do.’
She walked back to the station. She had plenty of time before Sasha’s birthday party, and although the day was grey and foggy, threatening rain, she needed to be outside in the cleansing wind. She felt polluted, defiled. At first, as she made her way rapidly up the lane lined with bare trees and muddy fields, she thought she would actually be sick, but gradually her feelings began to settle, like something sinking back into darkness.
Sasha opened her front door to find a couple she didn’t know outside. She felt a brief moment of panic. Were these some old friends she’d forgotten about? The two of them had easy, cheerful expressions, as if they were both in on a joke. The man put his hand out.
‘I’m Harry Welles, a friend of Frieda’s.’
A relieved smile broke over Sasha’s face.
‘Frieda said you were coming. She’s told me all about you.’
‘I’m a bit worried about what Frieda might mean by all about me,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve brought my sister, Tessa, as well. Is that OK?’
‘Great.’ Sasha stepped back. ‘Come in out of the cold. Dump your coats and then join us.’
They went up the stairs together to a small bedroom, where the bed was already piled with coats and jackets. Harry picked up a photograph that was on the little table: Sasha and another young woman standing arm in arm in front of a tent, wearing shorts and hiking boots. ‘Do you think she’s gay?’ he asked.
Tessa snatched the picture out of his hands and put it back on the table. ‘Do you fancy her as well?’ she said.
‘I was thinking of you,’ he said, and she responded with a playful slap. They headed back down to the music and hubbub of the party. Tessa watched Harry as he entered the main room. He looked at ease, handsome and full of an amiable curiosity. Of course Frieda liked him.
And there was Frieda, in a corner of the room holding a glass of what looked like mineral water, wearing a dress the colour of moss that shimmered slightly when she moved. Tessa noticed how shapely her legs were, how slim her figure and how upright she stood. She was talking to an older man with grey hair and a thin, unshaven face. He was wearing a tatty pair of jeans, a gorgeous patterned shirt, and had a bright cotton scarf wrapped round his neck. A pretentious abstract artist or another psychotherapist, she thought, as she and Harry approached. It looked as if they were having a serious conversation, almost an argument.
‘Am I interrupting something?’ Harry said.
‘Frieda has problems with her friends helping her,’ said the man.
‘What Frieda has problems with,’ said Frieda, ‘is that her friends might get arrested while trying to help her.’
‘Arrested?’ said Harry.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Frieda.
Harry kissed her, first on one cheek, then, lingeringly, on the other. She didn’t draw back, but put a hand on his arm, holding him by her side. She smiled at Tessa, apparently unsurprised to see her, then introduced them.
‘Reuben McGill, this is Harry and Tessa Welles.’
‘Brother and sister,’ said Harry.
‘Well, any fool can see that,’ said Reuben.
‘Really?’
‘Cheekbones,’ said Reuben. ‘And the ears as well. Dead giveaway.’
‘Reuben’s a colleague of mine,’ said Frieda. She lifted a hand in greeting and an olive-skinned woman, with dark hair tied in a dramatic bandanna and wearing turquoise eye shadow, came towards them, swaying slightly. ‘And here’s another colleague. Paz, Harry and Tessa.’
‘I am already drunk,’ said Paz, solemnly, forming her words with care. ‘I should have paced myself. But I am a very bad pacer. My mother used to make me drink a glass of milk before going out to line my stomach. I hate milk. Sasha says I have to dance.’ She tucked her hand through Reuben’s arm. ‘Will you dance with me, Reuben? Two people with broken hearts?’
‘Do I have a broken heart?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re probably right. Just a bit broken in many places. Multiple hairline fractures. Is your heart broken as well?’
‘Mine?’ said Tessa, startled.
‘You don’t look like someone with a broken heart. I can usually tell.’
‘How?’
‘Something in the eyes.’