She glances at the menu, giving me an opportunity to look at her without making her feel self-conscious.
‘Are you staring at me again?’
‘No.’
‘Good. So what are we going to do about Charlie?’
‘The police aren’t going to charge her.’
Surprise on her face. ‘That’s great. What happened?’
‘Ronnie Cray sorted it out.’
‘You made some sort of deal.’
I don’t answer. Normally, Julianne would fight against the idea, but this time she says nothing.
‘How is Sienna?’ she asks, switching her concern.
‘In a lot of trouble.’
‘Did she do it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she had a reason.’
Our meals have arrived. In the lottery of ordering, Julianne has again triumphed. Her choice looks healthier and more appetising. She’ll eat half and push the rest around her plate.
‘So what are we going to do about Charlie?’ she asks between mouthfuls.
‘She made a mistake.’
‘She broke the law! I talked to the school counsellor today and she recommended a therapist. He has a practice in Bath.’
‘I’m a psychologist.’
Julianne puts down her fork. ‘You’re her father. I’m sure there is some sort of conflict of interest there.’
She’s right, of course, but I still baulk at the idea of my daughter talking to a stranger, revealing things that she wouldn’t tell her parents.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Robin Blaxland.’
‘I could check him out . . . ask about him.’
‘And not scare him off?’
‘No.’
‘We still have to punish her,’ she says.
‘I saw the video of what happened. She tried to pay the driver but didn’t have enough money. She only panicked when he locked the doors. I think she was frightened it was going to happen again, the kidnapping.’
‘She should never have gone to the hospital without our permission.’
‘I know. Maybe we could ground her for a few weeks.’
‘School and home.’
‘Tough but fair.’
I like talking with Julianne like this - discussing anxieties and tiny victories, the happenstances of family life. Her long fingers toy with the stem of her wine glass.
‘Do you want to go to dinner on Saturday night?’ I ask.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m going out.’
‘Who with?’
‘Harry Veitch.’
My heart jerks like a hooked fish. Harry is an architect. Rich. Divorced. One of his houses was featured on Grand Designs, which I guess makes him a celebrity of sorts, or a ‘person of note’. He has a daughter Charlie’s age living with her mother. I can’t remember her name.
‘How long have you been . . . ?’
‘We haven’t.’
‘So this is your first date?’
‘It’s not a date.’
There is an edge to her voice. She’s waiting for me to say something negative. I glance at my food, no longer hungry. I didn’t see this coming. Didn’t even contemplate it. Harry is older than I am - by at least ten years. He’s one of those big-boned former rugby players who struggle with their weight when they give up competing but never lose their self-belief.
Julianne speaks. ‘Harry wants to thank me for helping him choose a colour scheme for one of his new houses.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say.
There is a long embarrassed silence. The silence of separation. Worse - the silence of possible divorce. I can see the future flashing before my eyes. Julianne will marry Harry ‘big-boned’ Veitch and spend her new life choosing colour schemes for his McMansions. The girls will have a new father. At first they won’t like him, but Harry will bribe them and make them laugh. He’ll be jolly old Harry. Rich old Harry. Ho, ho, ho Harry. He laughs like that: ‘Ho, ho, ho.’
‘What did you say?’ asks Julianne.
‘Nothing.’
‘You sounded like Santa Claus.’
‘Sorry. So where is he taking you?’
‘To a new restaurant. He knows the owner or the head chef - something like that.’
‘What about the girls?’
‘Charlie can babysit.’
‘I’ll do it.’
Julianne arches an eyebrow. ‘Charlie’s old enough.’
‘I know.’
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘You’ll have to let go one day.’
Is she talking about the girls or herself?
‘I don’t want to let go.’
Her pupils dilate slightly and she releases my hand, folding her arms beneath her breasts like a teenager. I’ve upset her now. She changes the subject.
‘Charlie says you kissed Miss Robinson.’
‘She gave me a peck.’
‘On the lips?’
‘Some people peck on the lips.’
‘I’ve always found that kind of creepy,’ she says playfully. ‘It was Miss Robinson who suggested Charlie see a therapist. Apparently, some of the teachers are worried about her.’
‘Miss Robinson didn’t mention anything.’
‘That’s because she was flirting with you.’
The silence stretches out and is far more uncomfortable than it should be after so many years of marriage.
‘Did Miss Robinson mention Sienna coming to see her?’
Julianne shakes her head. ‘Maybe you should ask her. Take her for a drink.’
‘I don’t want to ask her out.’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘She’s not you.’
Julianne shakes her head and drains her wine glass. ‘This was nice, Joe. Don’t spoil it.’
Summoning a waiter, she asks for her coat and leans towards me, accepting a kiss - a peck on the cheek, not the lips.
Almost in the same breath she hesitates, looking over my shoulder.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’m not sure.’
I follow her gaze. A man is standing on the corner, looking towards us. Pale and blade-faced, his dark oiled hair is combed back in vertical lines that cling to his scalp like the contours of a map. The tattoos on his forearms have faded with age into blue and black smears, but the most startling markings are ink lines drawn vertically down his cheeks like twin channels for his tears that extend from his lower eyelids to his jawline.
Usually, I study people instinctively, reading their body language, their clothes, their fleeting expressions, trying to understand who they are or what motivates them and what they’re capable of. This time it is different. I don’t want to notice this man. I want to look away. I want to ignore him.
Julianne is staring at him.
‘He was in court,’ she says. ‘I saw him sitting in the gallery.’
‘Today?’
‘Every day.’
The school grounds are empty apart from a gym class running around cones on the playing fields with batches of students in the goal squares and on the halfway line. I ask at the main office for Annie Robinson and am directed to her office. The note pinned to the door says she’s in the hall, painting sets for the musical.
Following a covered walkway, I pass several classrooms in the science block. Groups of students are wearing safety glasses and stand clustered around benches working with Bunsen burners and test tubes.
The main body of the hall is in darkness. There are lights burning backstage. Nobody answers when I call. Climbing the side stairs, I step over cables and paintbrushes soaking in jars. Props are leaning on sawhorses and a large backdrop shows a Manhattan skyline with the skyscrapers in silhouette. Modern Millie meets the Big Apple.
A dressing-room door is ajar. Racks of costumes are lined up along the wall. A movement is reflected in the mirrors. Miss Robinson leans over a sink sponging paint from her blouse. Her black skirt contrasts sharply with the paleness of her skin. I can see the outline of her nipples, small and dark, through the lace of her bra.