‘Is there any …’ I swallow hard. ‘Is there any … truth in what she says?’
‘Of course not.’ Mummy’s voice is harsh again, making me flinch. ‘Of course not. Of course not.’
‘So why—’
‘We had to leave Los Bosques Antiguos.’ Mummy turns her head away, staring at the corner of the room. ‘It was all so unpleasant. Unbearable. The girl told her parents her story, and obviously they believed her lurid tale. Well, you can imagine how they reacted. And they spread such vicious rumours among our friends … We couldn’t have that kind of … We had to leave.’
‘So you sold the house.’
‘I expect we would have sold anyway.’
‘And you told me Lynn was imaginary. You messed around with the mind of a four-year-old.’ My voice is pitiless.
‘You kept asking about her, Sylvie.’ Mummy has developed a twitch in her left eye and she smooths it away repeatedly. ‘Always asking, “Where’s Lynn?” Singing that wretched song.’
‘“Kumbaya”,’ I say quietly.
‘It drove your father mad. It drove both of us mad. How could we put everything behind us? It was your father’s idea to tell you she was imaginary. And I thought, what would it matter? Real … imaginary … you were never going to see her again. It was a harmless white lie.’
‘A harmless white lie?’
I feel incandescent with rage. I’m replaying a million moments from my childhood. I’m remembering Daddy’s bristling, silent fury whenever Lynn came up. Mummy hastily glossing over the moment and changing the subject. But then, that’s been her life, hasn’t it? Glossing over the moment.
There’s silence in the room. I can’t stay but I can’t bring myself to move either. For some reason I’m fixating on Mummy’s sofa. It’s large and cream, with fringing and lots of bespoke cushions in pink velvet and damask and linen prints. It’s beautiful. And she looks so blonde and pretty, sitting there in her pink suit. The whole picture is adorable. On the surface.
And that’s what Mummy has always been to me, I realize. Surface, all surface. Shine and reflection. Bright smiles, designed to deflect. The pair of us have echoed the same lines to each other, over the years, never pausing or examining them. ‘Lovely skirt.’ ‘Delicious wine.’ ‘Daddy was a hero.’ When did we last have a deep, empathetic conversation that actually went somewhere?
Never.
‘What about Dan?’ I say flatly.
‘Dan?’ Mummy crinkles her brow as though perhaps she’s forgotten who Dan is, and I feel another flare of anger at her.
‘Dan who’s been working his socks off for you. Dan who’s in Devon right now, trying to protect Daddy’s name. Again. Dan who is the hero in all this, but you treat him like … like …’ I flounder. ‘Like … a joke.’
As I say the word, I realize it’s exactly right. Mummy has never taken Dan seriously. Never respected him. She’s been polite and charming and everything else, but there’s always been that slight curve to her mouth. That slight pitying air. Poor Dan.
‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous,’ says Mummy crisply. ‘We all feel for poor Dan.’
I don’t believe it. She’s doing it again. ‘Don’t call him “poor Dan”!’ I snap. ‘You’re so patronizing!’
‘Sylvie, darling, calm down.’
‘I’ll calm down when you treat my husband with respect! You’re as bad as Daddy. I saw his emails to Dan and they were rude. Rude. All this time, we’ve been behaving as though Daddy’s the saint. Daddy’s the star. Well, Dan’s the star! He’s the star, and he hasn’t had any recognition, any thanks …’
Anger is spilling out, but it’s anger at myself, too. I feel hot all over with self-reproach, mortification. I’m remembering the number of times I defended Daddy to Dan. The assumptions I made. The unforgivable things I said: ‘You can’t stand that Daddy was rich and successful … You’re so bloody chippy, and I’m sick of it …’
I called Dan, who patiently put up with all that shit, chippy.
I can’t bear it. I can’t bear myself. No wonder he got all tentery. No wonder he felt pinned in a corner. No wonder he couldn’t stand us watching the wedding DVD, wallowing in the Daddy show.
Shame keeps crawling over me. I thought I was so clever. I thought I was psychic Sylvie. I knew nothing.
And even now, Mummy won’t see it. She won’t acknowledge any of it. I can tell it, from her distant gaze. She’s reordering events in her mind to suit herself, like some algorithm, placing Daddy and herself in the centre and everyone else just floats to the sides.
‘You sat here in this very room,’ I continue, ‘and you said Dan’s “hardly the life and soul, is he?” Well, he is the life and soul.’ My voice gives a sudden wobble. ‘He’s the genuine life and soul. Not flashing around, not showing off … but being there for his family. You’ve underestimated him. I’ve underestimated him.’ Tears suddenly prick my eyes. ‘And I can’t believe how Daddy just took him for granted. Swore at him. Treated him like—’
‘Sylvie, enough of this!’ snaps Mummy, cutting me off. ‘You’re overreacting. Dan is very lucky to have married into this family, very lucky indeed.’
‘What?’ I stare at her, not sure I heard that right. ‘What?’
‘Your father was a wonderful, generous, remarkable man. Think what he achieved. He would be distraught to hear you talking of him this way!’
‘Well, too bad!’ I explode. ‘And what do you mean, Dan’s lucky? He hasn’t touched a penny of my family money, he’s provided for me and the girls, he’s put up with watching that bloody wedding DVD every time we come here, watching Daddy steal the show … Lucky? You and Daddy were lucky to gain such a fantastic son-in-law! Did you ever think of that?’
I break off, panting. I’m starting to lose control of myself. I don’t know what I’m going to say next. But I don’t care.
‘Don’t speak about your father like that!’ Mummy’s voice rockets shrilly through the room. ‘Do you know how much he loved you? Do you know how proud he was of you?’
‘If he’d loved me, he would have respected the man I love! He would have treated Dan like a proper family member, not like some … underling! He wouldn’t have lied about my imaginary friend because it was convenient for him!’ I stare at Mummy, my breath suddenly caught, my thoughts assembling themselves into a pattern which makes horrible sense. ‘I’m not even sure he loved me as a person in my own right. He loved me as a reflection of him. As part of the Marcus Lowe show. The princess to his king. But I’m me. I’m Sylvie.’
As I speak, I glance into one of Mummy’s gilt-framed mirrors, and see my reflection. My waist-length blonde hair, as girlish and wavy and princesslike as ever. It was Daddy who loved my hair. Daddy who stopped me cutting it.
Do I even like long hair?
Does long hair even suit me?
For a few moments I just stare at myself, barely breathing. Then, feeling heady and unreal, I walk to Mummy’s writing desk and reach for the handmade scissors I bought her for Christmas one year. I grab my hair with one hand and start to cut.
I’ve never felt so empowered in my life. In my life.
‘Sylvie?’ Mummy inhales in horror. ‘Sylvie. Sylvie!’ Her voice rises to a hysterical shriek. ‘What are you doing?’
I pause, my hand mid-snip, a length of blonde hair already on the floor. I look at it dispassionately, then raise my head to meet her eyes.
‘I’m growing up.’
SIXTEEN
I get through the rest of the day on autopilot. I pick the girls up from after-school club and try to laugh off their dismayed exclamations: