Читать книгу Driving Home For Christmas - Jenny Oliver, A. Michael L. - Страница 9

Chapter Two

September 2001

‘Megan, you’re acting like a child.’ Her mother’s voice was cold.

‘But I’m tired!’ She sighed, resting her head on the table. She’d finished school, had been handed a cereal bar in the car as she went on to her French lesson, her ballet and jazz class, and then advanced art. She was aching, exhausted and her mum just didn’t seem to get it.

‘Tired!’ Heather snorted, clanging things around the kitchen. ‘Do you know how lucky you are that we can provide these classes for you? Your father works hard so we can give you everything, and I arrange all these things, and drive you all over the place to secure you a better future…’

‘I know,’ Megan said softly, not lifting her head up. There was no point arguing. They’d been here before, many times. Megan McAllister was on her way to Cambridge University, whether she wanted to or not. That had been decided long before she’d been able to speak her mind. And now it didn’t matter what she said.

‘I would have loved to have done these things as a child!’ her mother continued, and Megan felt herself zone out, hovering on the edge of sleep, mentally protecting herself. It was nine pm and she still had homework to do. And it was only Tuesday. Tomorrow was gymnastics and physics and piano lessons. There was something planned every day, every hour, for the rest of her life. Until she left to go to Cambridge, where she would study every hour, until she got a job and worked all the time. Megan did a mental calculation…so she’d have no free time until she was twenty-five? That didn’t really seem fair.

‘I just can’t believe how selfish you’re being,’ her mother’s voice was grating, running up a high scale until it echoed its disapproval.

Megan lifted her head up to look at Heather, who was glaring at her, pausing to check her appearance in the reflection of the glass windows. Her mother was wearing her usual array of designer clothes, though she hadn’t been anywhere that day, as far as Megan could tell.

‘I’m sorry,’ Megan said.

‘Well, that’s not good enough.’ Her mother inspected her perfectly manicured nails. ‘Your ballet teacher said you were in another world today, and you can’t just blame lack of dedication on tiredness. Don’t you think every other person applying to Cambridge gets tired? They just decide to be better than that, and you can too.’

‘I know,’ Megan replied, in that moment realising that she did actually, truly, hate her mother, and that’s what the acid in the pit of her stomach was. She shook the thought away before it took hold.

‘In fact,’ Heather clapped her hands, ‘this is a good learning opportunity, I think. If you’re so tired, you probably don’t need to have dinner, do you? You should probably just go up to your room now and sleep.’

Megan didn’t have the energy to argue, just stared at the pot of mashed potato sitting on top of the stove, her stomach growling. There was no point even begging once Heather had decided that Megan was being difficult.

‘You’re right, Mum, it won’t happen again.’

‘I should hope not,’ Heather replied, the glow of a parent who knows they’re right emanating from her. Megan knew she’d relay the whole account to her dad when he came in, and he’d congratulate Heather on such excellent judgement. ‘Now off you go.’

Megan trudged upstairs, thinking that she wished people had to pass a test before they could become parents. Half the time it felt like her mum was just repeating things she’d heard parents say on TV.

She glared at the cabinet on the landing, heaving with trophies and medals and certificates. Never enough. It was never, ever enough for them. She walked into her room and flopped onto her bed face first, hand rooting about under the bed for her secret stash. Inside her box of trainers, and actually inside the shoe, was a sandwich bag, containing the remains of the posh chocolates her Auntie Anna sent from London. They’d at least get her through the English assignment she had to write for tomorrow.

She lay back and thought about leaving home, about packing her bags, and living somewhere quiet and calm, where she could just breathe. Where it was okay to do nothing once in a while, to sit with your thoughts, and just be. Freedom. One day.

***

‘Anna, I think this is the worst idea ever,’ Heather McAllister pleaded with her sister, ‘she’s never wanted to come back. She hates us!’

‘Now darling, you know that’s not true,’ Anna said, sucking on her thin cigarette, ‘Christmas is a time for family, and it’s been long enough now, don’t you think?’

Heather sighed. Of course she wanted her daughter back, she wanted to meet the little genius whose pictures she’d seen hundreds of times, wanted to hear her voice, see how she laughed. But there was a dark little part of her that shivered every time she thought about Megan, and the night she ran away, and she thought it might have been shame. Shame at Megan, shame at what the neighbours might think. And then later, shame because she couldn’t do the one thing a parent was meant to do: support your child no matter what. Shame that the neighbours might find out that Heather McAllister was the sort of woman who wouldn’t talk to her daughter for ten years.

‘I just…I don’t want everyone upset,’ Heather said staunchly.

‘Between you and me, darling, one of Megan’s colleagues’ parents died recently, shook them all up a bit. Made her realise how short life is, you know? We’ve found a crack in the wall, let’s let the light in now, shall we?’

‘I’ve always hated your bloody analogies,’ Heather grumbled at her sister.

‘You just hate when I’m right,’ Anna laughed. But that wasn’t really it. She hated Anna for getting to see them grow up and change, for getting to look after that tiny grandchild of hers, for being part of their life when she’d never been able. But like everyone had told her, that was no one’s fault but her own.

‘Tell them to stay for longer,’ Heather said suddenly, ‘stay for a week.’

‘Going for the storming and forming approach?’ Anna said, thinking back to their days as summer school counsellors when they were girls. Always had to have a storm for friendships to form, the camp guide had shouted each time they worried about a brawl or argument.

‘Something like that,’ Heather McAllister said, thinking that she was not going to lose her family again.

***

‘Please tell me you’re not working tonight?’ Megan begged Jeremy as he walked into the kitchen.

‘If I were I’d look a whole lot more sparkly by now. Takes a lot of preparation, being fabulous!’ Jeremy winked salaciously, then shrugged. ‘What’s up?’

‘I need chocolate and wine, and ice cream, and you to be here for a massive bitching session,’ Megan whined. She was really only whiney with Jeremy, she’d noticed. Somehow, it was allowed with him, but no one else. Everyone else had to see strong, capable Megan, who was handling everything.

‘And what has caused this necessary meltdown?’ he asked, filling up the kettle.

‘I’m going to my mother’s for Christmas.’

Jeremy stopped, turned the tap off and abandoned the kettle.

‘Why the fuck are you doing that?’ Occasionally, Jeremy’s Essex roots escaped, his eyes wide in incredulity.

Megan shrugged. ‘Reasons and stuff?’

‘Like the end of the world?’ Jeremy nudged her with his hip so she’d move out of the way of the cupboard, reaching for the wine glasses.

‘Life’s too short,’ Megan shrugged again, watching Jeremy nose through the wine rack for the perfect red. On his days off, Jeremy was your average guy, with his tousled blond hair and smiling eyes, padding around barefoot at Anna’s, reading intently, writing his play furiously, in all the hidden nooks and corners of the house. One day Skye found him in a cupboard, trying to write a monologue in the dark. Well, so not so average. But when you saw him on stage, he was this glittering dame, all sparkle and song, innuendo and sass.

‘It’s too short to be fucking miserable, that’s true,’ he nodded, pouring the wine and holding out a hand to stop Megan grabbing a glass, knowing she rarely waited for it to breathe before downing it in a few gulps. After a few moments, he handed the glass to her, watching with narrowed eyes as she sipped it delicately.

‘Lovely,’ she nodded, and he nodded back.

‘So…you’re freaking out,’ Jeremy stated, ‘understandably. But surely it’ll be great for Skye?’

‘She’s excited, and I’m glad she can meet my brother and his kid…but something about that village just feels toxic. Like I’m going to walk down to the cornershop for milk and someone will look at me and know that I’m that McAllister girl who got knocked up and ran away.’

Megan circled the rim of her glass.

‘I thought they chucked you out?’

‘Same difference, really, isn’t it? They wanted me gone, so I went.’ Megan felt like her primary form of communication seemed to be shrugging. She was regressing before she even got to Hertfordshire.

‘Just…’ Jeremy rested a hand on hers, ‘make an escape plan just in case, and you can always come back here and join me and the Elderly Poets Society on Christmas Day. I’m sure one of them is going to try to do a solo seated on the piano, fall off and break a hip. It’ll be an entertaining night.’

‘You’re awful.’

‘Well, why can’t they get old gracefully and let the rest of us claim some of the spotlight?’ Jeremy grinned. ‘Besides, it’ll be me flapping about fetching their drinks and hearing all about theatre back in the day.’

‘And you love every second of it,’ Megan pointed out.

‘I do indeed,’ Jeremy grinned, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘You’re not that McAllister girl who got knocked up and ran away. You’re that McAllister girl who made an amazing life for herself and her kid. Even if you are a bit of a moany cow.’

***

December 24th 2004

‘You’re lying,’ her mother spat, ‘you’re annoyed because you’re not the centre of attention and you’re lying to us. It’s pathetic.’

Megan closed her eyes, drawing on some reserve of calm that she didn’t even know she had. She’d said it once, the worst was over. She could say it again.

‘I’m not lying. I’m pregnant.’

Her mother’s face, for once, had become ugly. Twisted with every emotion that she never let herself express, for fear of the ageing lines that might mar her complexion if she laughed.

Her father stood there anxiously, twisting his hands but saying nothing. Like a dog waiting for his owner’s command. His face was pitying, but as Megan had always expected, he was more concerned about Heather’s response than anything to do with Megan. What would her mother do next, she wondered, narrating it in her head like a gameshow. Ladies and gentlemen, which way will Heather McAllister go next? Will it be fury, a fainting spell, or a stream of cursewords? Find out next week on ‘Our Daughter is a Failure.’

‘Whose is it?’ Heather croaked, eyebrow raised. She was looking for a reason to bring Lucas into this, Megan could tell.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘No point protecting him. It’s Lucas, isn’t it? Of course it is. So you can end up just like his mother, with two kids out of wedlock, an alcoholic father who spends his days God knows where –’

‘Mum, that’s not fair –’ Megan started.

‘Fair? You think any of this is fair?’ Heather started getting hysterical. ‘We sacrificed everything for you. You think Cambridge takes knocked-up sluts? You’ve ruined everything we worked for!’

‘We? We worked for?’ Megan felt her voice rising, her hands trembling, and tried to stay calm, tried to scramble back to that place of calm, of certainty. ‘You worked me like a fucking show pony my entire life! But you’ve never given a shit about me! And I always knew the minute I stopped winning ribbons you’d put me out to pasture!’

Heather’s eyes looked like they were about to bulge out of their sockets. ‘You ungrateful little bitch. You think you can do a better job parenting? You think you’ll do a better job with this bastard child of yours?’

Megan looked to her dad, beseeching, holding his gaze in the hopes that he would give her something, a word, a hug, a movement. Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, his only response a small shrug, his eyes wide and panicked.

Heather paced back and forth for a few minutes, then took a deep breath. Megan was almost amused, watching her mother move onto the next stage of grief. Bargaining.

‘Okay,’ Heather said, arms out, ‘here’s what we do. We take Megan to get rid of it. She never sees Lucas again. She keeps her head down and Cambridge will never know.’

She nodded certainly, her brown bob swaying as she folded her arms. Deal done. That was the answer.

‘I’m keeping it.’

The silence that followed seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

‘You’re not.’

‘I really am.’

Megan’s father cleared his throat, moving towards her, arm outstretched. His hand didn’t quite touch her arm, but hovered there, centimetres from her skin, as if he could go through the motions and it would have the same effect.

‘Now, Megan, I think what we’re saying here is that we don’t want this to ruin your life,’ Jonathan started delicately, a lot of throat-clearing and hmm-ing.

‘And it will,’ Heather added vehemently.

‘You have a whole life ahead of you, and this, well, this will change things,’ Jonathan said seriously. Then he nodded and stepped back, as if he felt he’d said everything he needed to say.

Megan rolled her eyes. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d stayed silent instead of stating the fucking obvious. She could do a better job at raising a child than these two. At least her child would be loved unconditionally. Her kid would be loved even if she was crap at ballet and rubbish at physics and just wanted to climb trees all the time. That had to be a better start than these two.

‘Look, Megan, no one needs to know. We’ll go get it taken care of, and you come back and you stay quiet, and life will go on as normal,’ Heather said reasonably.

She took a deep breath, her eyes meeting her mother’s fully for the first time in what felt like forever. Like she finally was truly being seen. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I hate our normal life?’

Heather blinked. ‘So you thought acting like a little slut would change things up a bit? Well, congratulations! Megan got the drama she wanted!’

Minnie the dog whined gently in the corner, watching her owners carefully, trying to discern where the danger was. Megan put a hand on her head to calm her, and the black and white fluffy mass stood beside her like a protector. Her only friend.

‘Look –’ Jonathan started.

‘No!’ Heather advanced on her daughter. ‘You listen carefully to me, young lady. You can’t have this baby. You can’t even do your own washing. You can’t survive without us. You try and you’d be running back to us a day later on your hands and knees begging us to forgive you.’ Heather’s grin, so sure of herself, her ace in the hole, her truth. She had the money, so she had the power.

‘I guess we’ll see, won’t we?’ Megan said simply, as she picked up her backpack and coat, and left without a backwards glance, closing the door behind her.

She made it to the church yard, five minutes down the road, before she burst into tears. Huddled on the cold stone tomb, trying to get her breathing to slow, she knew there was one more person she wanted to see before she went. She waited for fifteen minutes to see if anyone walked past, if she saw her parents’ cars trawling the streets, if they regretted their actions, if they loved her enough to ask her to come home.

No one came, and so her decision was made.

***

Anna had insisted they take the car, bumbling and prone to breakdown as it was. So on the sixteenth of December, they piled up their stuff into the old red 2CV, and decided to get there. Skye had spent most of the time deciding what books to take with her, whilst Megan had spent pretty much every morning up until they went trying to hide her consistent vomiting. Which was similar to the situation when she’d left them. At least there was no chance she’d be pregnant again.

She wrapped her thick cardigan around her, slammed the boot shut, worrying about the presents piled up in the back seat. What do you get for your parents when you haven’t spoken to them in a decade? She’d settled for her mother’s unchanging Chanel No.5, a book on World War One for her Dad, some dorky things for Matty who she was sure, regardless of his job and wife and child, would not have changed at all. And obviously, all of Skye’s stuff.

Skye sat in the front seat, expectant and excited. She’d brushed her hair over and over that morning, scrubbed at her teeth with vigour, practising her smile in the bathroom mirror. She wanted to please them, these phantom grandparents. Megan’s heart broke just a little, and she swore to herself that if her parents weren’t delighted with Skye, she was leaving that instant.

‘One minute and we’ll get going,’ Megan told her, turning up the hot air in the car, and running back to the front door, where Anna was waiting.

‘It’ll be fine, right?’ Megan asked, desperate for comfort. ‘It’ll be good?’

Anna’s face creased with the large smile she gave her niece, pulling her in for a hug. Anna always smelled like nicotine and coffee, with the barest hint of some expensive musky perfume, something rich and overwhelming.

‘It will be wonderful,’ she said, ‘you just have to give it a chance.’

‘One chance,’ Megan said with determination.

Anna raised an eyebrow. ‘Knowing you and your mother, how about three chances? Just for luck.’

Megan held her hand, squeezed and nodded. Then she reached into her pocket, bringing out a square present wrapped in silver paper, an opalescent ribbon tied in a bow.

‘Before I forget, I wanted to give you this. Wanted you to have it for Christmas Day.’ She shook a finger at her aunt. ‘No sooner, I know what you’re like.’

Anna rolled her eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder who the adult is in this situation.’

‘You wonder? It’s always been me.’ Megan grinned and pecked her on the cheek before running back to the car. ‘Merry Christmas!’

Anna’s present hadn’t been a problem at all. It was ten years since she’d taken them in, and Megan was in a good place now. She’d bought her a replacement for that vintage compact gift the first Christmas they spent together. This one was really vintage, with a history, gleaming pearls and restored to glory. Anna would love it. And she deserved it.

Megan couldn’t help but feel everything had an equal and opposite reaction. The more grateful she was to Anna, the more angry she was at her parents. But now was not the time, she thought as she turned in her seatbelt, checking Skye’s was adjusted properly. It was time to let Skye meet her family, and she could decide if they were worth sticking around for.

The little old tin can car trundled off the drive and out into Highgate village. Megan signalled carefully, checking her mirrors, irritated by the way the presents were piled up at the back.

‘Mum…when was the last time you drove?’

‘It’s been a while,’ Megan admitted, ‘but it’s fine. It’s just driving this old clunker that’s the problem. I’m going to have a leg injury from the power needed to break!’

‘That’s very good to know.’ Skye rolled her eyes and started fiddling with the radio, its tinny hiss over Christmas songs setting her teeth on edge. ‘Do you think it’ll snow?’

‘I bloody well hope not!’ Megan said, focusing on the traffic, her hands clamped around the steering wheel.

‘Not now, I mean, at Christmas. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Christmas Day where it properly snowed.’

Megan thought back. ‘There was, when you were five. We tried making a snowman and when it melted later in the day you thought one of us had done it.’ Megan made a face. ‘You’ve always loved a good conspiracy.’

Skye smiled, shuffled in her seat. ‘I think this will be good practice, going to Grandma’s.’

‘Practice for what?’

‘For my detective skills, of course! Detectives have to be able to read people, to understand the difference between what they say and what they mean. And I never get to meet new people, really, so this is good practice.’

Megan sighed. ‘Believe me, darling, with my parents, they always say what they mean.’

‘Everyone’s got secrets, Mum,’ Skye said, with such mystery and satisfaction that Megan started to laugh.

‘Well, I look forward to seeing your case notes, Detective McAllister.’ She frowned. ‘That radio’s driving me nuts – look in the glove compartment for a tape to play, would you? I think Jeremy used the car last, might be something fun in here.’

Skye grabbed a tape that simply said, The Mix - 2003 and popped it in. Megan recognised it immediately. Lucas had made it. They’d made it together, back when he used to drive that rubbish little Micra that always veered to the left. He’d spent so much time and money making it safe to drive that he couldn’t afford a CD player, so Megan had spent hours with her parents’ old stereo, taping individual songs from their CD collection. Later, it had become their little ritual, each month, taping new songs, updating the collection. Dark, heavy things for Lucas to brood along in the car to, and rock anthems for them to belt out together. This was softer though, more relaxed. The Smiths, Belle and Sebastian. She’d been educating him, she remembered with a smile, she’d been trying to say that the lyrics could still be angry if the music wasn’t. He’d never quite believed her, but he used to smile when she sang along anyway, tapping away on the steering wheel as they drove around town, not doing much but being together.

Skye bopped along, recognising a few of them, The Beatles, Elvis, a little bit of everything. Then the track changed and Megan felt her stomach drop. It was a lot of twinkly guitar, heavily reverbed, and an echoing voice sang those words: We keep making those same mistakes, over and over and over again. It’s always the same it’ll never end…

‘Mum…is that you?’Skye looked delighted, turning up the stereo, nodding her head. ‘This is brilliant! It sounds like you, when you sing in the shower! Or that time at New Year’s when Jeremy got you to do karaoke!’

Megan nodded, but felt strangely tearful. It wasn’t her, it wasn’t her any more.

***

December 2004

The posters were up for their gig on Boxing Day. Nothing special, the local pub had let them have the space because Danny, the drummer, was working the Christmas rush. Pulling pints didn’t make much, and gig space was limited in their little town.

The posters were up around school, Megan standing proudly at the front with a smirk on her face, her typical Camden rock girl outfit – leather jacket, black top and skirt, stripy tights. Her newly dyed fire-engine-red hair. Lucas was to her side, pouting. Danny was further back, and next to him, Keith, who was about thirty and had a beard that none of the boys were even close to growing. But man, could that guy play bass guitar.

Megan and the Boys, the poster proclaimed, Boxing Day, The Old Nag’s Head.

‘Not going to be Megan and the Boys much longer, is it?’ Belinda came up behind her, staring at the poster.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well,’ Belinda faux whispered, staring at Megan’s stomach, ‘it’ll be Megan and the Toys soon, right? Or Megan and the Bump? Which do you prefer?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied stonily.

‘Yes you do, it’s obvious.’ Belinda was enjoying herself, too much. ‘And the thing is, once Lucas knows, do you really think he’s going to want to have anything to do with you? You think he’s not going to look at you with a sigh of relief once the whole school knows?’

‘I think that if he’s stupid enough to fall for your shit, then I hope he gets whatever STD you have and his dick falls off,’ Megan said pointedly, turning towards Belinda and backing her up against the wall. ‘You don’t frighten me, bitch. You don’t know my life, you don’t know my deal. So how about we ignore each other until I go off to uni, and you go off to become a failed model with a rich husband, okay?’

Megan walked away, jaw locked in place, unsure of whether she wanted to cry or scream. She was going to have to give up the band, she realised. She hadn’t considered just how much that was going to hurt.

Belinda couldn’t know, not really. Maybe Megan had put on weight, her mother had certainly mentioned it enough. Stress eating doesn’t solve a problem, Megan, only weak people eat their feelings. Megan realised that was because to her mother, strong people didn’t have feelings at all. Just goals.

She didn’t know which secret her mother would find more horrific: that Megan was pregnant, or that she hadn’t got into Cambridge. She got the rejection letter weeks ago. Didn’t even make it to interview. All those years of classes, those missed Sunday mornings in bed, the netball in the rain, the tennis, the French lessons, the Cambridge hoody they’d bought her for her eleventh birthday – it was all for nothing. And it was nothing Megan had done. It was just that what her parents had created hadn’t been good enough.

She almost felt sorry for them. At least now they’d never have to know. They could blame it on her getting pregnant, and they’d always know they’d done the best they could. She could give them that, at least.

***

It didn’t take long to get to Whittleby Cottage. She’d always hated that her parents had to name the house. Before, it had just been Number 43. But no, they had to have the grandeur of a named building. It had made getting any post ridiculous, and visiting friends could never find the right place. She drove the little 2CV onto the muddy path up to the house, stopping just before they reached the driveway.

‘That’s it,’ she said to Skye, who was making her detective face (pouting and squinting) and ‘hmm’ing significantly.

It didn’t look any different. In fact, it looked exactly the same as the day she left. It was cold and grey. The willow tree to the side of the house was still hanging on for dear life, managing to remain upright through sheer force of will. The house looked Tudor, with those black beams across the front, the roof designed to look like it had been thatched. Everything about the house was meant to be warm and inviting and twee. Megan could see the light flickering in the living-room window, where the tree was up, twinkling. It looked like they had a log fire going, and she had to admit, the smoky smell of wood would be a welcome nostalgia. Plus her feet were freezing from the dodgy heating in the car.

‘Mum?’ Skye prodded her. ‘Are we going in?’

Megan sighed deeply and looked at her daughter. She took in Skye’s dark hair, shiny and long, arranged neatly over her shoulder. Skye’s eyes, the same as hers, and her mother’s, and Matty’s, so light a brown that they might have been tiger’s eye stones, with flecks of gold and green. How could they not love her? It was impossible, right? It was impossible for her to bring them this smart, beautiful, kind-hearted, curious child, and for them to disregard her, wasn’t it? Megan shook her head, shuffled in her seat.

She started the car again, trundling up to the paved driveway, and delicately steered the car under the willow tree, somehow thinking it might lend the poor tree some strength, or at least stop it from falling too far to the ground.

Skye unbuckled and jumped out immediately, stretching, looking around the front garden with interest.

‘Mum,’ she stage-whispered as Megan tiredly opened the boot of the car, ‘are they really rich?’

Megan had no idea how to answer that. For all her daughter’s talk of socio-economic status, Megan was very careful with money, and didn’t spend it easily. That said, they lived in a beautiful house in Highgate with a rich Dame who drank Laurent Perrier like it was water. What was rich or poor really?

‘They…they work very hard to have nice things, bub. But maybe no questions like that to start with. Secret detective, not the kind at a murder scene, right?’

‘No interrogating,’ Sky nodded, thinking she’d save that for after they inevitably upset her mum and they had to drive back to Auntie Anna’s. Which was fine with her. As long as Disneyland was still on the table.

There was a soft mumbling sound behind her, and Skye turned to find a sad old collie, her head tilted as she watched her. The dog seemed to want to bark, but wasn’t really sure whether to be upset or not. So she whined a little, and sat in front of Skye, waiting.

‘Um…Mum?’ Skye pointed at the dog.

‘Minnie!’ Megan grinned, bending down towards the dog, who used what little energy she had to jump up, her suspicions confirmed. She barked loudly and joyfully as Megan rubbed behind her white and black ears, hands lost in her fur.

‘Skye, this is Minnie, you don’t have to be scared.’

‘I’m not scared,’ Skye frowned, but stayed back all the same.

‘You sure?’

Suddenly a door opened, and a small lady was shouting, ‘Minnie, come on now!’ before she realised she had guests. ‘Oh. Oh!’

Somehow, the lady wasn’t what Skye had been expecting. She’d thought her grandmother would be more like Anna. In this posh house that called itself a cottage, wearing jewels and drinking champagne. This woman had on stretchy dark green trousers and a big knitted jumper with a reindeer on the front. She looked…well, she looked older, but in a different way to Anna. This woman looked warm and healthy, with her dark hair pinned up in a bun, with straggly bits around her face, and her glasses perched low on her nose.

‘Jonathan!’ the woman called, her voice wobbling, ‘they’re here!’ She walked out to greet them, her fluffy boot slippers surely getting wet on the ground. She seemed to stare at Skye a little too intensely, and Skye moved behind her mother, just a little. Detectives had to be safe, after all. She was just assessing the situation.

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said, ‘we were trying to cook a turkey, as practice for the big day, and we forgot about it, and the stuffing went funny, and the fire alarm went off…’ She exhaled, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. She shook her head. ‘Not that any of that matters.’

The woman looked so anxious, her wide brown eyes just like her mum’s, that Skye felt sorry for her. She looked at Megan, who nodded, and walked over to the woman. She smiled her big white smile, the one she’d been perfecting in the mirror all week.

‘Hi!’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Skye, you must be my grandmother.’

The woman half-laughed, and looked to Megan with a raised eyebrow. Megan looked back seriously, and nodded at her daughter, as if to say, ‘Well answer the girl then.’

‘I am! I am your grandmother, and I’m so pleased to finally meet you!’ Heather McAllister held Skye’s hands with both of her own, tears in her eyes. She shook her head. ‘Come on, come on. Leave the bags in the car, let’s have some cake. If I haven’t burnt that as well.’

Megan stayed put, her hand in Minnie’s fur, listening to the quiet, comfortable panting of her dear pet. It was sad to see her so old, hard of hearing and slow to move. But she was something to hold onto, something safe and steady going back into that house. Her mother looked different. Shockingly so. Her hair pinned up haphazardly, wearing comfy clothing, looking like a normal person instead of an ideal on a pedestal, so much better than ordinary people. Her mother had once told her that ‘comfort was for the weak’ and that making an impression was always the most important thing. Where was that woman now? Maybe things had really changed in ten years. Megan took a deep breath, held her head high, and crossed the threshold.