‘I used to talk to you every day,’ I say, my hands wrapped around a cup of Maze chamomile tisane. ‘I used to tell you my problems. I used to lie in bed and conjure you up and just … talk to you.’
‘Was I helpful?’ Joss smiles in that way I remember: warm and just a little bit teasing.
‘Yes.’ I smile back. ‘You always made me feel better.’
‘Good. More tea?’
‘Thanks.’
As Joss pours fresh tisane into my cup, I glance towards the stunning view of a cliff top giving way to endless pale-grey December sky with churning sea beneath. I’m deliberately testing myself and, to my own satisfaction, my heart remains quite steady. I’ve had a full course of therapy and lots of practice – and while I’ll never be the type to dance merrily across a tightrope, I’m a lot better with heights now. A lot better.
And I still see the counsellor who helped me. Once a week, I knock on her door, looking forward to the session, knowing I should have done this years ago. Because it turns out she’s pretty good at talking about issues other than heights. Like fathers. Imaginary friends. Old alleged affairs. That kind of thing.
Of course, I’ve read everything now. First I read Through the High Maze, cover to cover, twice over, searching for clues; reading between the lines. Then I went into Avory Milton and read Joss’s whole account of the episode with Daddy. It took a morning, because I kept breaking off. I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. I did believe it. I hated myself for believing it.
It was weeks before everything properly shook down in my head. And now I think …
What do I think?
I exhale as my thoughts describe the same circle they have done constantly, ever since that day I went to see Mary Smith-Sullivan.
I think Joss is a truthful person. That’s what I think. Whether every single detail is accurate, I can’t know. But she’s truthful. Mary Smith-Sullivan isn’t as convinced. She keeps saying to me: ‘It’s her word against his.’ Which is right, and it’s her job as a lawyer to protect her client and I understand that.
But the thing is, it’s Joss’s words which feel true. As I read her story, little details of what he’d said and how he’d behaved kept jumping out at me. I kept thinking: That’s Daddy. And: Yes, that’s just how it was. And then I found myself thinking: How would our sixteen-year-old holiday neighbour know Daddy so well? And it led me logically to one place.
I came to that conclusion four months ago and went to bed feeling numb. I couldn’t even talk to Dan about it. But the next day I woke up with my mind totally clear, and before I’d even left for work, I’d written a letter to Joss. She phoned me up as soon as she got it and we spoke for an hour. I cried. I’m not sure if she did, because she’s one of those very tranquil people who has found their way through the maelstrom. (That’s a quote from Through the High Maze.) But her voice shook. Her voice definitely shook. She said she’d thought of me a lot, over the years.
Then we met in London and had a cup of tea together. We were both nervous, I think, although Joss hid it better than I did. Dan said he was happy to come as moral support, but I said ‘no’. And actually, if he’d been there, I would never have had that amazing chat I did with Joss. She told me that Dan, all along, had been the one positive force in the whole matter. She said he’d persuaded her that the affair with my father wasn’t necessary to the powerful story she was telling in Through the High Maze, and it might even detract.
‘Do you know?’ she said then, her eyes shining. ‘He was right. I know he was trying to defend your father, but he made a good point, too. I’m glad I didn’t make that book about my teenage self.’
There was a pause, and I wondered if she was about to say she wouldn’t ever tell that part of her story and I needn’t worry any more. But then she pulled out a huge bound sheaf of papers, and I could see the wary look in her eye and I instantly knew. ‘This is the proof of the new book,’ she said. ‘I want you to read it.’
And so I read it.
I don’t know how I did it so calmly. If I’d read it a few months ago, with no warning, it would have freaked me out. I probably would have thrown it across the room. But I’ve changed. Everything’s changed.
‘Sylvie, your last email troubled me,’ Joss says as she puts down the teapot. She has a way of talking which is very calming. She says something and then pauses and lets the words breathe, so you actually think about them.
‘Why – what exactly?’
Joss cradles her own cup and gazes out to sea for a moment. She’s calling her new book Into the Wide Open Air and right now I can’t think of a better title.
‘You seemed to be assuming culpability. Feeling guilt.’ She turns and fixes me with a clear look. ‘Sylvie, I am not saying and I never will say that your father caused my eating disorders.’
‘Well, maybe you’re not.’ My stomach twists up in a familiar gnarl of bad feelings. ‘But surely—’
‘It’s far more complex than that. He was part of my story, but he wasn’t the cause of anything. You must understand that.’ She sounds quite firm, and just for a moment she’s sixteen and I’m four, and she’s Lynn, magical Lynn, who knows everything.
‘But he didn’t exactly help.’
‘Well, no. But you could say that of so many things, including my own personality quirks.’ Joss’s eyes crease in that kind way she has. ‘It’s hard for you. I know. It’s all new. But I’ve been processing all these events for years.’
My eyes travel around the room, looking at the huge, flickering candles everywhere. Those candles cost a fortune – they’re big-ticket presents in south-west London – yet she has eight of them on the go. I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes and already I feel almost hypnotized by the scent. I feel soothed. I feel finally able to address the subject looming between us.
‘So, as I said in my email … I’ve read the whole thing now,’ I say slowly. ‘The new book.’
‘Yes,’ says Joss. And it’s only one syllable but I can hear the increased alertness in her voice and see how her head has tilted, like a bird’s.
‘I think it’s … powerful. Empowering. No …’ I can’t find the right word. ‘I think I can see why you wanted to write it. I think women will read it and see how you can fall into a trap and maybe it’ll stop them falling into that trap.’
‘Exactly.’ Joss leans forward, her eyes glowing intensely. ‘Sylvie, I’m so glad you realize … this isn’t supposed to be a sensationalist book. And I’m not trying to expose your father. If I’m exposing anyone, it’s me, my sixteen-year-old self, my hang-ups and my misconceptions, and the wrong thought patterns I had. And I hope a new generation of girls can learn from them.’
‘I think you should publish it.’
There. The words are out. We’ve been dancing around this for weeks. I’ve been dealing with Mummy and the lawyers and Dan and my own terrible confusion. I’ve been trying, first, to have my voice heard – then trying to work out what I really think.
It was only when I actually read the proof that I realized what Joss was doing; what she was saying; how she was trying to set out her story as a tale to help others. Mummy couldn’t see beyond the mention of Daddy. Dan couldn’t see beyond wanting to protect me. The lawyers couldn’t see beyond doing their jobs. But I could see Lynn. Wise, kind, humorous, talented Lynn, taking a negative situation and turning it into something inspiring. How can I silence Lynn?
I know Mummy thinks I’m a traitor. She’ll always believe that Joss is a liar; that the whole story is malicious fiction designed to upset our family and nothing more. When I asked her if she’d actually read Joss’s words, she just started ranting at me: ‘How can it be true? How can it be true?’