Emma took hold of the decorative balustrade on the mezzanine with both hands and wiggled at it. The ornamental railings were loosening nicely in their concrete beds and would soon be more of a danger than a safety feature. God help the stumbling drunk who might one day lean upon it for support. Emma smiled to herself and continued to watch Miranda.
Her mother hit the side of the table with the rolled up morning paper, making the Spode cups rattle in their saucers, the milk shiver in the matching jug. Emma’s father flinched but said nothing. Emma could imagine the little muscle in his jaw twitching, one beat short of a facial tic. It was as if there was something lurking there just under his skin, bursting to get out. He reached for a paper napkin and placed it under his cup to absorb the slops.
‘You’ve got to do something, Christopher! I can’t take much more of this—this not knowing. Have you any idea what it’s doing to me?’
‘Miranda, I told you, everything’s fine. It was just a temporary cash flow problem; we’re back on track now.’
Compared to his wife’s hysterical shriek, her father’s voice sounded calm and slow, though Emma could tell by the twitch and by the clenching and unclenching of his fist on the table, how close he was to snapping.
‘Aidan said—’
‘You shouldn’t be listening to Aidan,’ Christopher interrupted.
‘He said we might have to sell the house.’
‘That stupid nouveau prick doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Just leave everything to me, it’s going to be fine.’
‘That’s no way to speak of your oldest friend,’ Miranda pouted. ‘ And our accountant—if anyone should know, he should.’
‘ Your oldest friend, Miranda; not mine.’
Christopher said no more, refusing to be drawn into a conversation about Aidan Stoppard. Funny, he never listened to Emma either, when she tried to tell him what her godfather was really like; it seemed he never listened to either of them any more.
Miranda bided her time, drumming her long fingernails on the breakfast table, clicking them like metal balls on strings. Emma knew the signs; her mother was dredging for something else to hurl at her husband.
At last she seemed to find it. ‘That man was hanging around outside the agency again the other night,’ Miranda said. ‘I told you to do something about him. I’ve not been sleeping; my nerves are shot to pieces. You’ll have to give me another prescription. Imagine if he tried to do something to one of the girls?’
Emma had to stop herself from laughing out loud; Miranda was even dumber than she thought. You’d think that after fifteen years of marriage, she would have realised the only thing that got Christopher Breightling flustered was money; money and Aidan Stoppard, which were one and the same thing really.
‘When was it you saw this man?’ Christopher asked calmly.
Miranda lifted her chin. ‘Monday.’
He took several measured sips of coffee before answering her. ‘I spoke to him weeks ago, I told you that.’
‘Well it can’t have done much good, whatever you said. He was hanging around outside the agency again, ogling the girls, just like before. And you’re off to your stupid conference in Queensland this afternoon. What do I do if he comes back?’
‘I’ll only be away a couple of days. Get Julian to talk to him if you’re worried.’
‘Huh, some help he is.’
‘Are you sure it was the same man? What did he look like?’
‘It was dark, so I couldn’t see his face but he was smallish, and thin, and he was wearing a hooded windcheater.’
Christopher paused with the coffee cup halfway to his lips. For a moment he appeared to stare right through Miranda. Then he gave a slight shrug. ‘There are always men hanging around waiting to get a glimpse of the girls, and he sounds like a different man to me. I’m sure the one I spoke to won’t be coming back.’ After some deliberation he said, ‘Maybe you should just go to the police.’
Emma was sure she saw the hint of a smile on his face—yay, one for the old man at last. After Miranda’s last disastrous contact with the police, he’d have to know she wouldn’t dream of involving them in this.
Emma turned back into her room, stopping when she reached her desk to gaze at the photo on the pin up board. The picture showed a small dark-skinned boy standing in front of a mud shack, grinning. His name was Josef, he lived in Morocco and he was her World Vision sponsorship child. She rummaged in her school bag and plopped yesterday’s lunch money in the tin under the photo. Then she kissed her finger and tapped the small boy’s face with it. Every morning Christopher gave her money to buy lunch and every morning she put it in her tin and made her own lunch after he’d left for work.
She selected her wardrobe for the day, an old pair of school track pants with torn knees and saggy waistband. The other girls would doubtless be wearing their sexy pleated sports skirts. This was the thing she liked the most about her state school, the compulsory school uniforms—not.
In her pink en-suite bathroom, designed by her mother to keep her out of hers, she brushed her long dark hair one hundred times. Then she bent over and mussed it all up again. Satisfied with the unkempt look, she went downstairs to make some toast for breakfast, planning on taking it back up to her room to eat as she scanned her morning’s email.
The tension between her parents had eased by the time she joined them in the large open plan kitchen which merged into the family area. Her father was crunching cereal, her mother reading the newspaper horoscope.
‘Huh,’ Miranda scoffed as she read her stars aloud. ‘A work colleague might surprise you.’ Maybe it means Julian will at last come up with the photos for the catalogue. God know, he’s had the proofs for weeks. I can’t stall Hartley Macs for much longer. Before we know it, they’ll be hassling me for the autumn shots.’
‘Sack him,’ Christopher said dispassionately. ‘He’s already got you into enough trouble as it is.’
‘That’s easier said than done. Good photographers are almost impossible to find these days.’
‘Do you need a lift to work?’
‘No, I’m fine; Julian’s picking me up. Or so he said.’ She glanced at the watch on her wrist. ‘He’s late of course. I can’t believe how long the panel beaters are taking with my car. It was only the smallest of dents.’
Miranda rattled the newspaper and Emma caught a glimpse of the headlines, something about a missing girl. The few words she read made her breath jam in her chest. She cocked her head and tried unsuccessfully to peer at the front of the paper as it quivered in her mother’s hands above her breakfast grapefruit.
Then the phone rang.
‘Always at meal times, guaranteed,’ Christopher grumbled as he picked up the phone, quickly switching to the unctuous cheer of his bedside manner. Emma had once overheard one of his professional colleagues saying that despite what he might once have been, these days Christopher Breightling had the bedside manner of a vet. Emma didn’t understand the comment; vets were usually nice.
He listened for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, certainly, here she is.’ He held the phone out to Emma without looking at her, his attention already back on his breakfast.
‘Hello Emma, my name’s Stephanie Hooper,’ the voice on the end of the phone said. ‘I live quite close to you in Hill View Terrace. I’ve been speaking to Mrs Carlyle—apparently you babysit her twins when she goes shopping.’
‘Uh, yes, that’s right,’ Emma said.
‘Mrs Carlyle is very impressed with you and thought you might be looking for more babysitting work. I was wondering if you might be interested in doing some after-school care for me? I have a six year old daughter who goes to your school. It would be a case of walking her home from school and staying with her until her father or I get home. It’ll be regular for a week or so until my mother comes back from holiday, then just occasionally after that. I’m a police officer, so my work hours are a bit erratic.’