Читать книгу Claudia Carroll 3 Book Bundle - Claudia Carroll - Страница 14

And the day from hell rolls relentlessly on.

I’m now sitting in a poky little waiting room outside the principal’s office at the Embassy PreSchool, where Lily has been a pupil for about three weeks now. The emergency call came through from the principal, one Miss Pettifer, to say I needed to get here urgently – but as soon she’d reassured me that Lily was neither sick nor had been in an accident but was safely at home with her nanny, I calmly told her that I was on my way to a board meeting and it was a bad time for me to talk. Elka, I told her in no uncertain terms, would call her ASAP and troubleshoot whatever storm in a teacup was going on. So I’d just get her to do what she was being paid to do, while I obeyed the royal command to haul my arse up to the T. Rexes in the boardroom above, right away.

But Miss Pettifer was having none of it.

‘I’m terribly sorry if there’s any inconvenience Miss Elliot,’ she told me in no uncertain terms, ‘but I’m afraid this is a matter for the parent and the parent alone, which I can’t simply delegate out to a childminder. I realise that you’re a busy woman but I can assure you, I am too. Now, we close for the day in just under an hour’s time and as this matter is of some significance, I strongly suggest that you come in here immediately. Surely you agree that the welfare of your child is more important than any board meeting?’

No more information forthcoming about what in the name of God could be so pressing anyway, or why the antics of a little girl now had her principal acting like the child had tried to set fire to the place or else gone into her preschool brandishing a shotgun. And if Lily’s okay and not sick or anything, then what in the name of God could it possibly be?

‘Ah, Miss Elliot, please come in; so sorry to have kept you waiting.’

I look up from where I’m impatiently perched in the waiting room and there she is, the famous Miss Pettifer. We’ve never actually met before; a few months ago, when I stuck my head in the door to vet the place and see if I could enrol Lily as a pupil, I was dealing with her assistant and of course, ever since then, Elka brings her to and from preschool. So apart from writing humongously inflated cheques for their services, to my shame I’ve next to nothing to do with the place. Or with Miss Pettifer, who’s now holding out an outstretched hand and beckoning me into her tiny little office, decorated with dozens of kids’ class photos and cute little drawings done in coloured pencil dotted all around the brightly painted walls.

She’s early fifties, I’d say, holding middle age tenuously at bay, with more than a touch of the Aunt Agathas from P.G. Wodehouse about her; grizzly grey hair that looks like it could be used for scouring pans tied back in a no-nonsense bun, clipped speech and dressed like she’s about to referee a hockey match any minute. Stern and stentorian; I instantly get an image of her parading up and down past a line of toddlers inspecting their finger paintings and checking for runny noses. A bit like the Queen doing a meet and greet on a visit to a toilet roll factory.

She invites me to sit down on a coloured plastic chair opposite her desk, which immediately wrongfoots me; normally it’s me on the far side of a desk, the one who’s about to initiate a meeting and take charge.

‘Miss Elliot, may I call you Eloise?’

I nod mutely, thinking, please for the love of God, just cut to the jugular and tell me what this is all about. No time for preambles here. No time for anything.

Mercifully, she’s a woman who seems not to believe in sugar-coating things and comes straight to the point.

‘Eloise, I’m afraid we’ve been having problems with Lily, which I strongly feel you need to be made aware of. And so, it’s my duty as principal here to ask you, let’s just say a few personal questions.’

Okay, now I’m staring dumbly back at her, thinking, ehhh … What exactly can a little girl who’s not even three years old have got up to that merits the bleeding Spanish Inquisition?

‘Fire away,’ I manage to say, calmly as I can, given that the mobile on my knee is switched to silent and hasn’t stopped flashing up missed calls from the office ever since I got here.

Miss Pettifer instantly cuts across my stream of worry.

‘Eloise, I’m afraid I need to be perfectly frank with you here. You’re a single mum, I know, and a very hardworking one at that. You single-handedly carry out an incredibly demanding job. I’m an avid reader of the Post every day, you know, and greatly admire your editorials …’

I nod mechanically, pathetically grateful for the bone she’s just thrown me.

‘But leaving your career aside, being a single parent is probably the toughest job in the whole world. May I ask if you have help of any kind? Apart from your nanny, do you have family support? Your parents, perhaps?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Because you know there are any number of wonderful one-parent support groups locally that I’d be more than happy to recommend to you …’

One-parent support groups? I find myself looking at her numbly. What does this one think I am anyway, on welfare?

‘I feel they might help you to cope with a lot of the demands laid on any busy working single mum. They could help. You see, I have some most unwelcome news to tell you, I’m sorry to say. A problem for us, which sadly could represent an even bigger problem for you.’

Involuntarily, I throw a look of pure panic across the desk at her.

Tell me, just tell me quickly before I pass out with worry …

‘There was a deeply regrettable incident earlier here today, which is why I’ve had to call you in.’

Okay, now I’m on the edge of my seat, palms sweating, breathing jaggedly, bracing myself for what’s coming next. ‘What happened?’

‘Lily, I’m afraid to say, got into a heated row with Tim O’Connor, another little boy here in preschool. There were tears, there was screaming, and worst of all, Lily resorted to smacking him until he cried …’

‘She WHAT? Are you sure?’

‘I wouldn’t have called you in here if I weren’t,’ she says, looking evenly at me.

‘But that’s outrageous! Lily has never behaved like that before!’

I’m on the verge of spluttering indignantly at her that I’d surely know all about it if she did, but then, with a sudden, sharp stab of guilt have to remind myself … How exactly would I know? These days, when do I ever get to see or spend quality time with the poor child anyway, barring our precious Sundays together? The only way I know if there’s trouble at home is if Elka tells me, and lately Elka’s been telling me nothing, just whinging about how late I work and how there are no KitKats in the fridge and how we’re out of Cheerios. And these days I’ve been working so late, even she mostly communicates with me via Post-it notes stuck on the door of the microwave.

So instead of opening my mouth, I sit quiet and listen to the sound of the blood whooshing through my brain while Miss Pettifer relentlessly goes on and on.

‘… Which of course is behaviour we simply can’t put up with. We have a strict policy of zero tolerance, you see, with any kind of unruly behaviour. We expect children to attend having already been taught the rudiments of basic manners and social skills around others.’

‘But … why did Lily smack him? Do you have any idea what the row was about?’

‘Ahh, you see that’s where it becomes delicate and personal. And believe me when I say I hope this doesn’t cause you any offence, but it was over the question of Lily’s father.’

Suddenly, after all my panic and stress and shock … I find myself without a single word to say. And now there’s silence. Horrible, awkward, bum-clenching silence.

‘You’re rearing Lily on your own and believe me, I know how difficult that can be, Eloise,’ Miss Pettifer says to me, sounding almost gentle now, which, in the state I’m in, I’m oddly grateful for, ‘but may I ask you a very personal question?’

I nod mutely.

‘Do you have any contact at all with Lily’s dad?’

Lily’s dad.

Oh shit and double shit. I can’t believe she just asked me that. And worse, is now looking expectantly back at me, waiting on an answer.

‘Well, not exactly …’ is the best I can manage, totally thrown at being caught on the hop like this.

‘It’s just that, in years to come, it’s highly likely that Lily will want to know more about him and to spend time with him too. Which is only right and fair, of course. In an ideal world, children should grow up knowing each of their parents, even if they happen to live in a single parent family. They have a right to know both parents equally well, regardless of circumstances. We have several other children here who all come from wonderful one-parent families and although they may not live with Mum and Dad, they at least have regular contact with each. Unlike Lily, I’m afraid.’

I’ve absolutely no answer to that so I just stare back at her, as calmly as I can.

‘I’m so sorry to have to persist, Eloise, and I appreciate that this is uncomfortable, but it’s your daughter I’m thinking of and so I really do need to ask you these questions. You see, even if you have no dealings whatsoever with this man, he still is the child’s father and as such he does have rights.’

‘Yes … I know that, but you see …’

And the best of luck finishing that sentence, I think to myself.

‘I know you must feel very strongly about not allowing him access to Lily, and undoubtedly you have your own personal reasons for this, but really, I’ve seen all this happen more times than you can possibly imagine in the past and I can assure you it’s inevitable. Remember, if he wants to see her, he can easily go to the family law courts and request visitation rights and no judge in the land would deny that to any father. Trust me, you don’t want to have to deal with Lily when she becomes a teenager accusing you of never allowing her to see her dad. It just wouldn’t be right, not to mention it’s completely unhealthy for her. I know it’s none of my business, but I would beg you to take my advice; build bridges with this man, no matter how difficult it is for you. Because mark my words, if you don’t, the day will come when Lily will.’

‘No she won’t.’

She looks over the desk at me in dull surprise, probably unused to being contradicted.

‘Excuse me?’

‘What I mean is, Lily won’t be able to track down her father.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not with you.’

‘She won’t be able to find out who he is or where he is, because I couldn’t even tell you that myself. I was never in a relationship with him. That is, I don’t know his name or where he is or … In fact the truth is … I don’t know anything about him at all.’

Then I suddenly backpedal and have an urge to clamp my hand over my mouth, realising that makes me sound like some spray-tanned, bleach-headed tarts who got up the duff after a one night stand with a bloke whose name they now can’t even remember.

And now Miss Pettifer is peering curiously at me over the rims of her glasses, and I can practically read her thoughts. God almighty, never would have had this one down as someone who’d be a bit of a goer of a Friday night on the town, after a few shots of vodka and Red Bull. Hard to imagine Miss Prissy newspaper editor in a pair of leather trousers and a cropped-top bra, falling drunk out of some nightclub at five a.m., draped round some unknown fella she’s only just met and is about to drag home for a quickie one night stand.

‘And no, I promise, it’s not what you’re thinking either,’ I tell her with a heartfelt sigh, knowing I can’t circle around this any longer.

The time has come for the truth.

Hard to blurt it out though; this is not something I ever talk about, barely even think about most of the time. Aside from my family, no one really knows the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, which is exactly how I like to keep it.

But seeing Miss Pettifer looking expectantly at me, waiting for my answer, I know I’ve no choice but to tell her.

‘I had Lily by artificial insemination.’

I try my best to say it evenly and without embarrassment. For God’s sake, haven’t I been putting up with all sorts of rumours and sly stories circulating round the office about Lily’s parentage, ever since the day I first announced my pregnancy? All widely exaggerated and laughably wide of the mark.

Because the truth was this; almost three years ago now, dating right back to that dismal night when I turned thirty, I made one life-altering decision. Not to rush into marriage, or find a significant other to share my life with and take away the loneliness; I didn’t mind being on my own and was never particularly bothered about being single. Unlike a lot of my contemporaries at work, I was never emotionally double-parked and in a mad, tearing rush to meet someone. Singledom held out no threat for me whatsoever.

As far as I was concerned, the road to love was far too full of potholes and roadblocks to be even worth the hassle. And on the rare occasions when I did date, I’d pretty much been able to see the end of every single love affair right from its very beginning. I was someone who actively preferred my own company to that of any guy brave enough to ask me out, and who didn’t want the mess of relationships, thanks; that was my sister Helen’s department and not mine. In fact, my heart was so untroubled by emotion that it might as well have had a big ‘do not disturb’ sign permanently hanging from it.

I’d dated in the past, of course, and like everyone else could boast of having my heart smashed to smithereens back in college by ‘the one that got away’. Who’s married with two kids now and who recently rang me up out of the blue, saying he’d just been made redundant then asking me for a job. In spite of no experience whatsoever in the paper business; this guy was a chemical engineer. Mortifying, for us both, on so many levels. And certainly before I had Lily, from time to time I’d go out on the odd date. But they always seemed to me to end up like a job interview where no one ever got hired. My overall verdict on my chances of ever finding a life partner? Meh.

No, it wasn’t that I was ever lonely … Besides, how could anyone who worked a sixteen-hour day ever call themselves lonely? But dating back to that night of my miserable, pathetic thirtieth birthday, I was filled with a dark and inexplicable horror of ending up alone. Because there’s a world of difference between the epic loneliness I was so frightened of and being alone, as I was terrifyingly beginning to see.

And that’s when I absolutely knew for certain. Whatever else the future might hold for me, and even though there were times when I felt crushed under the sheer weight of it, there was one thing that I didn’t want the chance to miss out on, and that was to become a mother. That was without a doubt, the one, personal thing that I wanted out of life for myself more than anything else. A child of my own. No head space for the inconvenience of a man in my life, thank you very much, I just wanted a baby, full stop. And once I’d made the decision, it was like a tight iron band had been lifted from round my heart. No question about it, this wasn’t just the right thing to do, it was the only thing.

And okay, so I might not exactly have had close female friends to confide in – or indeed, any mates at all – but believe me, I’d heard enough horror stories circulating round the office to know precisely the best plan of action open to someone like me. I’d overheard bloodcurdling tales told in whispered conversations by the watercoolers, heartrending sagas about women who’d had kids with partners who suddenly became ex-partners and then spent years dragging the mother of their child through the family law courts demanding access rights. Which always and inevitably seemed to be granted.

Overnight access seemed to be the first step, followed by weekend access … Quite enough to send a shiver down my spine. Shared parentage, I just knew, would never be an option for someone like me, so instead I just went for the next preferable option.

Namely, a sperm bank, where I was successfully inseminated and successfully managed to conceive on my very first go, astonishing just about everyone at the clinic. To this day I can still remember my mother quipping at the time that even my ovaries, like the rest of me, were high-performing and anxious to get on with it.

And now here she was, my little Lily Elizabeth Emily, representing the one single personal thing I actively wanted out of life for myself and for no one else. And not for one second do I ever regret the decision I made. Lily’s the single best thing ever to have happened to me and as far as I’m concerned, let people gossip about who her dad is all they shagging well like. Because she’s my soulmate, the real love of my life. Lily’s my reason for running home every night and our precious Sundays together are what I live for, the highlight of my whole week.

There’s a long, long pause as Miss Pettifer digests this, nodding thoughtfully.

‘I see. Well, thank you for telling me. And does Lily know this?’

‘Well, no … But then she’s not even three yet. Hardly an appropriate conversation to have with the child, is it?’

‘You might just be very surprised at what they’re able to understand at that age. The regrettable incident which happened here earlier being a case in point. Miss Simpson was doing a little exercise with the class where each child had to tell the others what they’d all done at the weekend. So of course, they all spoke about going to visit grandparents with Mum and Dad, or else going to feed the ducks in the park, again with either Mum or Dad. Miss Simpson told me that Lily became agitated at all the other children talking so openly about their fathers. The poor child didn’t seem to understand what was going on. Then things became exacerbated when Tim O’Connor quite rudely accused Lily of not having any dad at all and asked her why; was it because her dad was dead?’

‘And what did Lily say back to him?’ I ask in a tiny voice, throat completely dried up now, dreading the answer.

‘From what I can gather, Lily stoutly told him that yes she did have a dad and that one day he’d come for her. This is when Tim provoked her, calling her a liar and saying that everyone else in class had a dad, bar her. So then Lily lashed out at him; kicking, screaming, punching, the whole works. It really was the most awful scene and deeply distressing for the other children to witness. Now in Lily’s defence, Tim’s behaviour was also completely out of line. He absolutely should not have carried on the way he did, but believe me, his parents have been notified about this incident as well. Bad behaviour of any kind isn’t tolerated here.’

I’m too dazed by what I’ve just heard to even bring myself to answer her. The words Lily used keep floating back to me. That she did have a dad and that one day he’ll come for her. Is that really what’s been going through her little mind?

And for how long, I wonder?

Suddenly I’m now finding it hard to breathe, my chest is that tight and constrained. This actually feels like taking a bullet. The same sharp, sudden, hot, searing flash of deep, flesh-ripping pain.

Because never before has Lily even asked me about her father; not once, ever. Maybe because she’s been so shielded ever since she was born, always at home or else with a nanny; it’s only since she began at preschool that she must suddenly be aware that other kids have two parents coming in to drop them off and then collect them later on. Something that she so obviously doesn’t. And what does my little girl have instead? A mother she only sees properly one day a week and Elka, one in a steady stream of nannies, who’s now about to desert her in just a few days’ time.

I do have a dad and one day he’ll come for me.

I can almost hear her little singsong, baby voice saying that, proudly, defiantly and the blow it gives me right to the solar plexus is physically making me nauseous.

I knew, of course I knew, that one day I’d have to have the awkward chat with her, that I’d have to tell her why I’m a single mum by choice – I just had no idea that it would creep up on me this fast. And how exactly do I explain to an innocent little child that I never even met her father? That he’s in fact some nameless, faceless Petri dish in an industrial estate out in Sandyford? All I know about him really is the basics; his height, eye colour, hair colour, occupation and IQ. That’s it. And worst of all, that he’s never going to come for her, because how can he? He doesn’t even know of her existence. Or of mine.

Christ alive, what chance has the poor kid got? No father and, judging by the not-too-difficult-to-read subtext of what Miss Pettifer’s telling me, an absentee mother to boot. I look across the desk at her and can almost see a cartoon thought bubble coming out of her brain saying that there are probably undiscovered terrorist cells in the mountains of Afghanistan more nurturing that I am.

The worry swirls round my brain now, dull and nauseating, over and over again. No getting away from it, I am a horrible parent whose child doesn’t even know the truth about her own parentage. A child, to my shame, that I barely see at all. And now my Lily, my little strawberry-blonde angel, is acting like Damien from The Omen and taking pot shots at her little classmates for accusing her of not having a dad … Oh God, now the guilt feels exactly like heartburn.

I’m just wiping away tiny beads of worry-sweat, wondering how in hell I’m going to fix this, when Miss Pettifer cuts into my thoughts as if there’s more – worse – to come.

‘So you see why I had to call you in Eloise.’

‘Yes, of course I do, and thank you for letting me know …’

With jelly legs, I make to get out of my chair, but she holds her palm up to stop me.

‘And there’s something else too,’ Miss Pettifer says.

I look dumbly up at her, dreading the next sentence. But she must realise the deep, nightmarish turmoil I’m in and second guesses me, actually coming round from behind her desk and perching right beside me, taking my hand and speaking to me quite kindly.

‘Come on Eloise, I know all of this has been awful for you to hear. It was difficult for me to tell you too, though I wouldn’t have been doing either you or Lily any favours if I hadn’t. But you have to believe me when I say that you’re not a bad mother. You’ve just been run off your feet, that’s all. And essentially, Lily is an adorable little girl who we’re all very fond of. Just remember though, these precious years with your child are very fleeting and will all be over in a blink. Before you know it, she’ll be an independent little lady who won’t need you any more. So please, before it’s too late, take this advice from me. Explain to her about her father. She’s crying out to know why her life is different from the other children’s and I know that once you do, you’ll never regret it. Otherwise, when she’s older, she might track him down for herself and possibly even end up resenting you for not being more open on the subject with her before.’

I look up at her, pathetically grateful to her for not making me feel any worse than I already do.

Miss Pettifer stands herself up straight, mercifully indicating that our meeting is over, and instantly resumes her straight-backed, sergeant major pose. I manage to stand up beside her and am just scooping my handbag off the floor with trembling hands … And then, just when I think I can take no more, comes the killer blow.

‘But you do understand that naturally you and I must put Lily and what’s best for her first. As you know, we’re completely full up here, with a very long waiting list; I was only able to squeeze her in at all because you were so very insistent.’

I nod, remembering that I practically had to donate a spare kidney just to get them to take Lily on in the first place. And even then, I could only get her in on a monthly trial basis.

‘However, it’s a strong principle of mine that if a child isn’t happy or for any reason doesn’t settle in with us, then the parent really should look elsewhere. Of course, perhaps in time we many look into taking her back here …’

‘What do you … Hang on; did you just say taking her back?’ I splutter, confused.

‘But you have to understand that, with regret, we just don’t feel that at the moment it’s working out for Lily here as a pupil. It’s your daughter I’m thinking of, you must understand. So I wish you and Lily all the very best in future, Eloise. But I’m afraid you have to understand that at this point in time, I’ll have to offer her place to another child.’

Ten minutes later, I swing my car into the driveway outside my house, blatantly ignoring the flashing of my mobile as yet another angry missed call comes through and remains unanswered. I glance down at the phone; thirty-five missed calls is the total to date and twenty-eight voice messages, all from the office. And that’s not even counting the number of emails that have landed in my inbox. Christ, I think impatiently, I’ve barely been out of the place an hour and now they’re acting like the whole building is about to blow up any second?

But on the principle that I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I make an executive decision to ignore each and every one of their so-called urgent calls. I’ll think of something to tell them all when I get back. I’ll improvise wildly, I’ll fib shamelessly, but I’ll wriggle my way out of it somehow. I’ll plead my hitherto impeccable record if I have do, I’ll stay there till two in the morning to make up the time … But there’s something else, something far more important I need to do first.

And so, for the first time in the best part of a decade, I’m actually home during daylight hours, pulling my car through the gates and parking in the tiny, gravelled driveway. I bought this house not long after I was made editor, thinking that I’d get to actually spend a reasonably decent amount of time in it, poor misguided gobshite that I was back then. It’s a neat, terraced little Edwardian redbrick in lovely, leafy Rathgar, two storeys over a basement, with a study that I never go into (no time, I’m only ever really in this house to sleep), a pretty, landscaped garden at the back that I’m never in (ditto) with a sunny little patio area that I once dreamt of sitting outside having a civilised breakfast in.

Breakfast? Who, may I ask, has time for breakfast? I’m doing well if I get to stuff a banana into my face while driving to work at dawn – and that’s on a good day when I’m not driving and having to hold a meeting over the phone at the same time.

Then there’s a lovely, sash-windowed, high-ceilinged dining room that I never entertain in. Entertain? Are you kidding me? When, exactly? Not only that, but I forked out a small fortune for a stunning Victorian dining table and chairs that comfortably seats twelve and to date, has only ever been used once. I’ll never forget it; for a mortifying attempt at a dinner party that I gave as a house-warming, where the guest list included a few of the T. Rexes and their wives, plus one or two from the office, that, if not actual friends, were at least people who seemed not to actually despise me. And of course in the end, it was one of those awful, excruciating nights where no one really had a non-work related thing to say to anyone else and where everyone started asking me for the name of a good local taxi company … at half ten. Anyway like I say, I’m rarely home before the wee small hours and as I trip up the stone steps to the front door, stick my key into the lock and kick my way inside, the first thing I’m instantly hit by is the sheer state of the place. Now, I fork out good money for a cleaning lady to come in every morning, but never in a million years would you think it if you saw the manky hellhole I’m looking at right now. My jaw physically dangles open with the sheer astonishment of it.

A box with a half-eaten pizza in it lies plonked on the bottom of the stairs, like someone was eating it there, then decided they’d something better to do and just abandoned it and walked off. Meanwhile, a big pile of washing lies abandoned outside the living room door, with loose, dirty knickers strewn all round it, none of which are mine and certainly not Lily’s either. Then just as a stale stench hits me I realise I’m standing beside two stuffed-to-the-brim black binliners just inside the hall door, miles away from the outside bin where, judging by the stink off them, they should have been dumped hours ago.

Not unlike the Marie Celeste, there’s no one in sight. No one hears me, no one knows the boss has unexpectedly come home on a stealth mission. Slowly I make my way down the hallway, to the soundtrack of Adele’s Someone Like You blasting out loud and clear from the very top of the house.

Elka.

But I let that slide for the moment and on I go, on what’s now become something of an evidence-gathering mission, down the elegant cream-carpeted staircase at the very back of the hall that leads down to the basement. I’ve converted the whole downstairs area into one supersized family room, kitchen at one end opening out onto the patio, family room at the other. Which, needless to say, I neither cook in, eat in, nor get to see my family in, but there you go.

I see Lily before she sees me. She’s all alone, plonked on a bright pink bean bag in the family room right in front of the TV, still in her little pinafore that she wears to preschool and twisting one of her strawberry-blonde ringlets round a pudgy finger, with the same pasty, expressionless face of someone who’s been listlessly watching telly for God knows how long. And as ever, I almost well up at the sight of this precious bundle that’s mine, all mine.

In a million years though, you would never put Lily down as my daughter, nor me as her mother. Because she and I are absolutely, one hundred per cent, nothing alike; in fact, there’s not the slightest scrap of a single physical resemblance between us. Whereas my build is wiry and lean, Lily is chunky and cuddly, with thick strawberry blonde, almost reddish, curly locks and bright blue eyes, in total contrast to my thin, dark hair and black eyes. Then, whereas my skin is grey and pasty looking most of the time, Lily has freckles all over her full little round face; cuteness personified.

I neither look nor have ever felt particularly Irish, ever once in my life. My skin doesn’t go bright red after thirty seconds of sun exposure (mainly because when am I ever in the sun?), nor do I drink Guinness (eughhhhh …), enjoy GAA (oh please … do I look like a culchie?), vote Fianna Fail or go to Mass (perish the thought). But looking at Lily, with her reddish curls, freckles and plump, potato-fed little body with chunky white legs, there’s no nationality that the child could possibly be, other than Irish.

In fact, she and I are so physically unalike that way back in the early days when I could snatch a bit of time to take her for strolls outside in her buggy, no one ever assumed she was my daughter. ‘What a gorgeous little girl,’ people would tell me as I’d swell up with maternal pride. ‘Who are you babysitting for?’

A box full of expensive educational toys from the Early Learning Centre – toys that Elka is supposed to be playing with alongside her – lies untouched and ignored, while Lily gazes listlessly at the screen ahead of her. The same TV which I explicitly told Elka was barred and banned during daylight hours in this house.

My heart physically twists in my ribcage at the sight in front of me.

Lily looks tired, bored, neglected; enough to make any mother want to crawl into a hole and die quietly of guilt before social services come to take the child away. But instead, a white-hot anger starts out as a swell inside my chest, then spreads over my body till my fingers tingle with pure, undiluted rage. Now ordinarily, I have a good, clear brain that can be relied on to filter the emotion out of anger, but not here and certainly not now.

I shell out a fortune for Elka to take proper care of Lily during the day; she’s supposed to take her out for walks and fresh air, she’s supposed to take her to the park to feed the ducks or else stay home with her, keeping her engaged, amused and entertained at all times, always. She’s meant to be working on Lily’s reading with her and developing her vocabulary, while feeding her healthy, organic food and most importantly of all, never ever letting the child out of her sight. And if she looks as washed out and tired as she does right now, then Elka is under strict instructions to put her down for an afternoon nap; pretty much the only time she’s ever allowed to leave the child alone.

But that’s not all. What’s making me physically see stars in front of my eyes with near-blinding rage is that this is what Elka has been telling me she’s been doing all day, every day with Lily.

On my father’s grave, I will strangle that lying, conniving, over-paid and under-employed little chancer when I get my hands on her; I will physically do harm to her. Right now I’m in danger of crippling her.

Sweet Jesus, if social services saw this, they’d take one look and throw away the key.

‘Mama!’

Suddenly Lily looks up and my heart almost breaks at the sight of her little pink face lighting up with pure, undiluted joy as soon as she sees me. A second later, I’ve scooped her up in my arms, marvelling at how heavy she’s got and clinging to her so tightly that I think I might squeeze the air out of her tiny lungs.

‘Mama, you home!’ She squeals delightedly and buries her tiny white freckly face into my shoulder, fat little arms tight locked round my neck.

‘Yes, I’m home bunny …’

Then suddenly, her expression changes in a nanosecond, from pure joy to shifty, shame-faced guilt.

‘Is it ’cos I was naughty in pwe-school?’

I pull her down on the sofa beside the TV and sit down beside her, arm still tight around her.

‘Well, partly pet.’

‘I HATE pwe-school. NEVER going back. I’m never going back and you can’t make me!’

And seeing how her expression goes from remorseful to thunderous with such sudden ferocity makes me almost want to laugh. She’s folded her arms now and jutted out her bottom lip and is glaring at me defiantly, heels dug in.

Did she get that stubborn streak from me? Is that the only characteristic of mine she did inherit? I think, guilt suddenly magnified tenfold.

‘Now Lily, you know I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, love …’

‘Miss Pettyfour is mean and I hate her too but the one I really HATE more than vegetables, more even than bwoccolli is …’

‘… Let me guess … A little boy in preschool called Tim O’Connor. Would that be right, love?’ I say softly.

An angry, furious nod, then suddenly she starts to wriggle awkwardly beside me, like she knows what’s coming next and is physically trying to get out of it. Such, it would seem, is the cognitive reasoning process of a small child; run away from the confrontation and it’ll just go away all by itself.

‘You know Lily,’ I tell her, gently pulling her back then folding my arms around her so she can’t toddle off. ‘I’ve just been to see Miss Pettifer and she told me all about what happened.’

The blue saucer eyes look worriedly back up at me, like a little puppy that’s just weed on the carpet, and knows right well it’s in trouble and there’s no backing out of it.

‘So honey, would you like to tell me your side of it? Don’t worry, Mama’s not angry,’ I tack on, pulling a stray, scraggy red hair back off her freckly face and biding my time, waiting for her answer.

‘Tim said I had no daddy,’ she eventually tells me sheepishly. ‘He said every other kid had a dad ’cept me. He said all I had was a mummy and a minder who collected me. So I smacked him and he cried and cried and then Miss Pettyfour made me go on the naughty step till bweak time …’

‘Lily,’ I say gently, ‘you know it’s very wrong to smack anyone, especially other children?’

A small, guilty nod.

‘I’m sowwy Mama.’

‘I know you are bunny.’

‘Won’t do it again.’

‘There’s a good girl.’

Then the little arms fold defiantly and the chin thrusts out.

‘But I’m still never going back to smelly pwre-school. EVER. ’Kay?’

‘That’s absolutely fine. No one, and especially not me, is going to make you do anything you don’t want to.’

She thinks for a second, then seems happy enough with this. So now that she’s not in trouble any more, she flashes me a gap-toothed smile and snuggles tight into me, warm and heavy and woozy with sleep, smelling of milk and plasticine.

I let her cuddle tightly into me as my thoughts race. Because how best to bring up that other, far more delicate subject? Her earlier words, the ones Miss Pettifer quoted back to me, are swirling round my brain now.

I do have a dad and one day he’ll come for me.

How in the name of arse am I supposed to explain this to a small child?

‘Lily?’ I begin slowly, gently.

‘Mmmmm?’ she says, sounding groggy now after all the drama in her little day, her sleepy, heavy head buried deep under my arm.

‘You know all families are different, don’t you? Some families have a mum and dad, whereas some just have a dad and then there are families like us, where the mummy is the one in charge.’

And just like that, she’s bright-eyed, alert and awake again.

‘But I DO have a dad. I DO. All kids do. Tim says you can’t be born unless you have a mummy an’ a daddy.’

Shit. Deep breath, try again. Try better.

‘Well, that’s true, but only up to a point.’

‘What’s uppa point mean?’

‘It means that some families have a dad who lives with them, and that’s fine. But plenty of families, like us, don’t live with their dad and that’s fine too.’

‘But where is my dad? Where’d he go? Did someone bold steal him?’ She’s looking intently at me now, little freckly face now frowning with worry.

‘He mus’ be somewhere Mama!’

‘Of course he’s somewhere love, but the point is, we don’t know where and we don’t need to know.’

‘Is he hiding? Like in a game? Is he playing hide and seek with us, Mama?’

Bugger. I’m making a right pig’s ear of this.

‘No pet, you see he doesn’t exactly know that we’re here. But then, that’s not really important, because we don’t need him, do we? We’re fine without him, aren’t we?’

‘But where did he go Mama?’ she pleads, looking dangerously close to tears now. ‘Why doesn’t he come to see me? It is ’cos I was naughty?’

My almost-three-year old looks at me with puzzled, monkey eyes, desperately wanting answers that her mother can’t give. Please, please, please, I find myself absently praying to a God I don’t believe in, send me the right words to explain this inexplicable situation to the tiny, precious bundle that’s cradled in my arms, looking up at me with absolute trust in my judgement. Please, just once, please Allah, Buddha, Santa, anyone up there who’s listening, steer me through this icky conversation in a way she can grasp.

Another deep breath.

‘OK Lily, let me put it to you this way. Before you were born, I wanted you so, so badly, that I had to go to a very special hospital to get you. And they planted you in my tummy and nine months later, out you came. Tiny and perfect and so good you rarely cried, ever.’

‘So …’ she says, frowning, concentrating hard and scrunching up her tiny, freckly nose ‘did you pick my daddy out when you were in the ’pecial hospital? Did you meet him there?’

Not for the first time, I’m totally taken aback at just how bright the child is; at the fact that she can grasp something so vague and inexplicable. With great pride, I cuddle her closer and she slips her thumb in her mouth, plump little arms locked tight round my waist.

‘No darling, I never met your dad either. Sometimes mummies don’t need to, you see. And that’s OK you know. mums and dads don’t always need to know each other or even be friends, just so mummies can get babies.’

A long silence as she tried to digest this.

And then it comes.

‘But … but I wanna see him Mama. I wan’ him to be my fwiend. I wanna see him. I wan’ him to play with me and give me piggy back rides and … and … I want my dad to take me to the park and the movies, like the other dads in pwe-school all do. Can we just find him and say … Hello?’

‘Sweetheart … I don’t think that’s going to be possible …’

Now her face is getting pinker and the bottom lip is dangerously close to wobbling, a red-light warning sign that tired, cranky, exhausted tears aren’t too far off.

‘Mama PLEASE! Is it ’cos I was bold in playgwoup?’

‘No, of course not …’

‘I only want to meet him, that’s all! And I’ll be a good lickle girl. I pwomise!’

I sigh deeply. One the one hand, you should never make a promise to a child you can’t keep and on the other hand, there’s every chance she’ll have clean forgotten all about this by morning. But most of all, I never again want to see this level of disappointment in my daughter’s big saucery blue eyes. Again.

‘All right pet. I’ll try my very best.’

I’m rewarded with a toothy smile, then, as only small kids can, she puts the whole thing clean out of her little head, sticks her thumb in her mouth and cuddles back in tight to me, her worries banished as though they never were and all set for her afternoon snooze. I pull a cashmere throw off the back of the sofa and wrap it round her, tucking it tight in around her pudgy little legs and gently settling her down for her nap.

Then, just as I’m about to ease myself off the sofa without waking her, I hear the sound of footsteps click-clacking down the back stairs.

Ooooh, this’ll be good.

I stand up, arms folded, calmly waiting. The element of surprise, I feel, being the essential element here.

And sure enough, in trots Elka, wearing my silk dressing gown and with a sea-green facepack on her that looks suspiciously like the Crème de la Mer one sitting on my dressing table.

She nearly leaps six feet in the air when she sees me, standing nice and composed by my slumbering daughter, waiting like a praying mantis for her.

‘Eloise!’ she says, in her clipped, over-articulated English. ‘What are you doing back home? I did not expect you for a long time …’

‘You handed in your notice this morning, remember?’ I say coolly, voice even, fixing her with a steady, measured stare. One I save up for special occasions in the office, if I really need to terrify the bejaysus out of someone. Rarely fails me. Been known to reduce grown men to tears on occasion.

‘Eh … Of course I do …’

‘Well, I’ve got wonderful news for you, Elka. You can leave even earlier than you thought. Like – how about right now? And what’s more, you can take your manky laundry strewn across my hallway and your abandoned, half eaten pizza with you. Oh and by the way? I’d strongly suggest you don’t come looking to me for a reference. Trust me, it would be a really, really bad idea.’

In the end, of all people, my sister Helen ends up being my saviour, my messiah in this hour of need. In total and utter desperation, I put out not so much a distress flare as an SOS to her, and to my astonishment and eternal gratitude, she tells me not to panic, that she’ll be on the next train up to Dublin from Cork.

Miracle. It’s a bloody miracle. I feel huge gratitude, mixed with a pang of sharp guilt when I think of how dismissively I’ve treated her over the years. And now, here she is, in my hour of need, dropping everything and running just to give me a dig out.

Hours later, while I’m still at home dealing with the massive backlog of phone calls and replying to all my emails from the office, while simultaneously seeing off Madam Elka, my nagging conscience won’t let up on me.

Would I have done the same for Helen?

The answer’s obvious. Not a bleeding snowball’s chance.

Bad mother, bad sister … Soul searching is something I rarely have the luxury of spare time to indulge in, but somehow there’s just no avoiding it today.

And then there’s little Lily, snoozing peacefully on the sofa, clinging to her battered and almost threadbare comfort blankie, worn out after all the high-octane drama of her day.

She’ll forget all about that other matter, I think smugly to myself, feeling a cool, tigerish joy flood over me at the happy sight of Elka finally getting her arse out of here in a taxi. She’ll wake up shortly, all refreshed and happy after her nap and the whole notion of her father will all have been banished right out of her little head, as though it never was.

I continue to think that as I tidy the spare room to get it ready for Helen. I still think it when Lily wakes up, beams to see me still in the house, then immediately waddles upstairs to her bedroom.

She’s ages in there, and in between firing off an email to Seth Coleman and putting a clean duvet cover on the spare bed, I suddenly realise the child is gone suspiciously quiet, so I stick my head round her bedroom door to do a lightning quick check on her.

‘Look at me Mama!’ she squeals excitedly as soon as she sees me, twirling round in the outfit she’s just changed into. A pink leotard and a matching fluffy tutu with bits of diamanté all over it, along with sparkly little pumps in … what else? Bubblegum pink.

‘You look lovely sweetheart,’ I tell her distractedly. ‘Now come on downstairs, I want you to have some dinner.’

‘NO! I HATE dinner! And I’m playing dwess up!’

‘Later, you can play dress up later. Is this so you can wear something pretty for Auntie Helen?’

‘NO Mama!’ she yells at me, stomping her foot in a gesture that a silent movie actress would shudder to use. ‘This is what I’m going to wear when we go to meet my daddy. Like you pwomised. Wemember? You pwomised!’

With that, the mobile tucked into my suit pocket rang out loud and clear. And this time, I never even bothered checking to see who it was.