She looks up from the running water, studying herself in the mirror. Her eyes meet mine. Pulling her shoulders back, she makes no attempt to cover her breasts.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I knocked. You didn’t hear me.’
‘Obviously.’
She goes back to sponging her blouse. ‘I should have worn an old shirt,’ she explains. ‘This is my favourite blouse and now it’s ruined.’
‘Maybe you could soak it,’ I suggest.
‘Are you an expert on removing paint stains?’ She has a slight lisp when she pronounces her ‘s’s. ‘You can come in, Joseph, I’m sure you’ve seen a woman in a bra before.’
It sounds like a question, but I can’t think of anything to say.
Miss Robinson laughs and holds up the blouse to the light, sighing. ‘I’ve been painting the sets. I had a free period and thought I’d get it finished today, but it might take another session.’
‘I thought the musical had been postponed.’
‘Yes, but we’re still hopeful. The show must go on - as they say.’
She slips the blouse over her arms and turns to me as she does up the buttons.
‘So what else can I do for you today - apart from giving you a cheap thrill?’
‘You were talking to Julianne about Charlie.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she having problems?’
‘One of her teachers found her crying in a classroom. I thought it might help if Charlie talked to someone.’
‘A therapist.’
‘The school recommends a very good one.’
I’m fascinated by her mouth; watching it move as she speaks. Her top lip is shaped like a stylised bird drawn by a child. Her bottom lip is fuller. I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips. They have stopped moving and are slightly parted. Her head is cocked at an angle.
‘You’re staring at me,’ she says, covering her mouth self-consciously.
‘I’m sorry. I do that sometimes.’
‘It’s very unnerving.’
‘Can I ask you something, Miss Robinson?’
‘Only if you call me Annie.’
‘Has Charlie talked to you about the separation? You see, she hasn’t spoken to me or to Julianne. I thought maybe she was keeping a diary, or a scrapbook full of angry conversations in cartoon bubbles.’
‘She didn’t say anything to me.’
‘It was just a thought.’
‘Have you asked her?’
I make a sound that could be a sigh or a murmur of agreement. ‘We don’t have long conversations any more.’
‘Maybe you should think about the therapist.’
‘Maybe.’
Annie waits.
‘Was Sienna Hegarty seeing a therapist?’
‘I’m not allowed to talk about other students.’
Businesslike, she makes her arguments about privacy and confidentiality. A counsellor must build trust, respect personal space, protect confidences . . .
‘I respect all of that, Annie, but Sienna is a murder suspect. The police think she killed her father. I know she was cutting herself. I strongly suspect she was being sexually abused. If Sienna was seeing a therapist, the police will want to talk to him.’
Annie lowers her eyes, no longer certain what to do.
‘Why are you here?’ she asks.
‘I’m trying to help her.’
‘Why?’
There is an accusation in her tone, a scepticism that makes her less attractive.
‘Because I think Sienna is damaged and because she’s my daughter’s best friend.’
‘It’s more than that.’
Her eyes are fixed on mine, searching.
‘Sienna was always at our place - staying for dinner or overnight, spending her weekends with us. Now I think she was avoiding going home. I should have realised.’
As the words leave my lips I realise how they echo an inner voice that has been whispering to me ever since Zoe Hegarty’s visit. It’s as though I have a soundtrack playing in my head, along with images of a child waking each morning without seeing a world full of excitement and possibility. A child who didn’t go skipping down the stairs to greet each new day; who didn’t wear the bright, eager expression that said, ‘Hey, isn’t it great to be alive!’
Annie steps closer, touching my shoulder. ‘You’ll go mad if you try to blame yourself for this.’
There is a ripple in the space between us, when I imagine kissing her or her kissing me. And I can see my hands running over her naked skin and her small dark nipples.
She steps away, faintly abashed. Whispers. ‘Such a ghostly girl, so pale and quiet.’
‘Was Sienna seeing a therapist?’
She nods.
‘Did her parents know?’
‘No. She wouldn’t come to see me unless I promised I wouldn’t tell them.’
‘Did she tell you what was wrong?’
Annie shakes her head. ‘She confided in one of the other teachers, Gordon Ellis, who urged her to talk to me.’ She looks around. ‘Gordon should be here soon. You could talk to him.’
The school bell is sounding. Charlie will be getting out of class.
Annie turns back to the mirror, checking her hair and tugging at the collar of her blouse.
‘I think her parents may have found out,’ she says.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Her father came to the school and made a complaint to the headmaster.’
‘What about?’
‘I’m not allowed to discuss it.’
Excited voices drift from outside, the raucous clamour of students collecting books from lockers, preparing to go home. Annie looks at her watch. With a flourish, she picks up her paintbrush and tin of paint, heading back towards the stage.
‘If you talk to Sienna, will you . . . will you . . .’ She can’t think of what to say. ‘Tell her we’re missing her.’
Charlie tosses her schoolbag in the back of the car and slides into the passenger seat. Her cheeks are pink with the cold and strands of hair have pulled from her ponytail. Without warning, she ducks down.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
A boy walks in front of the car. His gelled hair sticks up at odd angles and his trousers hang so low on his hips I can see his brand of underwear.
Bless my little x-chromosome for giving me girls.
Charlie raises her head. Checks that he’s gone. Sits up.
‘Who is he?’
‘No one.’
‘He must have a name.’
‘Jacob.’
‘Is Jacob a good or a bad thing?’
‘Drop it, Dad.’
‘So you like him?’
‘No!’
‘Then why were you hiding?’
She rolls her eyes. Clearly I don’t understand teenage love, which is obviously more complicated than adult love.
On the drive home I try to make conversation - asking about her day - but her answers come in single syllables. Yes. No. Good. Fine.
Finally she utters a complete sentence. ‘Did you see Sienna?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is she?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She can’t remember everything that happened.’
‘Is that amnesia?’
‘Sometimes the mind blocks things out . . . as a defence.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Maybe not yet.’
There are so many questions I want to ask Charlie. Why was she crying at school? What’s making her unhappy? Is it the nightmares? Why won’t she talk to me?
‘Did you know Sienna was cutting herself?’ I ask.
Charlie doesn’t respond.
‘You knew?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘She couldn’t really explain.’
‘Was she unhappy?’
‘I guess.’