Читать книгу The Man Who Saw Her Beauty - Michelle Douglas - Страница 8

BLAIR peered into the mirror with the kind of fierce concentration she normally reserved for casting judgement on her Blair Mac designs for Spring Fashion Week. She didn’t take in her entire face. She fixed only on her left eye.

She held it wide and very carefully attached the false eyelashes. She blinked. She repeated the procedure for her right eye. As a model, she’d learned how to do this twenty years ago. She hadn’t expected to need it now she was no longer in front of a camera or parading down a catwalk, though.

It just goes to show.

Next she attached the false eyebrows. That was a newly acquired skill. Unlike the lashes, they wouldn’t need to be removed every day. If she took care they should remain in place for several weeks.

Her eyebrows had always been fair, but full. She’d used to get them tinted.

Once upon a time.

She pushed the thought away. No point mooning about the past.

She reached for the wig, removed it carefully from its stand and ran a hand down the long length of blonde synthetic hair. Even a trained eye would find it hard to tell the difference between this wig and her old hair. Her friend Dana, hairdresser extraordinaire, had warned her that the wig was too long, but Blair had chosen it anyway. She’d found comfort in the fact that it looked so much like her old hair.

She pulled the wig on over her scalp, tugged it into place, and then turned back to the mirror to make whatever adjustments were necessary. Adjustments that would help her look normal. Adjustments that would help her look whole and healthy. Adjustments that would hopefully ensure people started treating her like a fully functioning adult again.

Finally she stepped back and viewed her face in its entirety. She reached for her pot of blusher. More colour on her cheeks wouldn’t go amiss. She applied another coat of tawny-pink lipstick with its advertised stay-put power, and once again gave thanks for the skills she’d learned as a model.

She stepped back again, viewed her face—first from the left side and then the right—and then nodded at her reflection. Her heartbeat slowed. Finally she could recognise herself. When she ventured outside today no one would be able to tell.

And no one was here now to see the way her hand shook as she capped her lipstick, or the trouble she had screwing the lid back on to the pot of blusher.

You have a lot to give thanks for. Chin up!

She averted her gaze from the mirror as she undid her wrap. She snapped her bra and prosthesis into place and pulled a T-shirt on over her head as quickly as she could.

Problem was, she reflected as she tugged on her jeans, it wasn’t gratitude that was in her heart. It was fear. Fear that life would never feel normal again. Fear that Glory would never stop fussing, would never stop being afraid for her. Fear that her beloved aunt would worry herself into an early grave.

Glory was talking about selling up and moving to Sydney to be closer to her! Blair dropped to the bed and pulled on her boots. Glory had lived here in Dungog her entire life. She’d hate the city.

Blair glanced at the mirror again. She put a hand under her chin to physically lift it higher. She owed Glory everything. She had to put her aunt’s mind at rest. She had to. That was why she’d come home. Blair was out of danger. She was healthy again. Once Glory realised that …

She leapt up to toss her cosmetics into her make-up bag. The make-up bag she took everywhere. Just in case. For touch ups. Emergencies. Once she’d succeeded in convincing Glory she was better… Well, then they could all get back to normality.

And that was what she really wanted—normality. Her motives weren’t purely altruistic.

She paused to grip her hands in front of her. Bluff. That was the answer. If she could bluff her way into winning the Miss Showgirl quest twenty years ago, bluff her way into a modelling career and then bluff her way into fashion college, surely she could bluff everyone into thinking she was healthy again?

She pulled in a breath. ‘Piece of cake.’ The mirror proved that she could still present herself to the best possible advantage. Looking at her, nobody would believe that she was anything but healthy and whole.

You are healthy.

‘Oh, Blair, look at you!’ Glory said the moment Blair entered the kitchen. ‘You look fabulous. As if …’

‘As if I’d never been sick,’ Blair finished for her.

‘Well, yes, but …’

Bluff! She twirled on the spot for good effect. ‘I’m as good as new.’ She kissed her aunt on the cheek before taking her seat and pouring muesli into a bowl. Bluff had not got her through surgery and chemotherapy. Glory had done that.

‘Tea?’ Glory lifted the teapot.

‘Yes, please. And stop looking at me like that, Aunt Glory. The last few months have been … hard.’

‘Hell on earth,’ Glory growled.

She reached across to clasp her aunt’s hand. ‘And it’s beyond wonderful to have the opportunity to spend a month mooching around here. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to it.’

‘I can’t tell you how good it is to have you home.’

Glory’s bottom lip quivered and Blair wanted to kick herself all over again for going back to work so soon, for fainting, for worrying everyone anew. She knew how much her aunt loved her. She knew how much her aunt had feared losing her. She knew what her aunt had gone through.

It was why she’d given herself this month off as a holiday.

She swallowed the hard knot in her throat. ‘Aunt Glory, they got all the cancer. They blasted me with chemo to make sure. I’m getting stronger every day. I’m practically as healthy as any other woman my age. I’m going to live a long and fulfilling life. No more kid gloves, okay? It’s time for things to get back to normal.’

‘No more kid gloves?’ Glory murmured, but she shook her head as she said it.

‘That’s right. So drink your tea before it gets cold.’

Blair waited until her aunt had eaten a piece of toast before saying, ‘You said last night that you have a meeting of the Agricultural Show Society today?’

‘Ooh, yes.’

The enthusiasm in Glory’s voice gladdened Blair’s heart. ‘With the show in three months’ time, I’m guessing this is the first official planning meeting?’

‘That’s right, love, and everyone will be there.’

‘Fabulous! Count me in.’

Her aunt’s teaspoon clattered back to its saucer. ‘Oh, but, Blair …’

She tried not to wince at the anxiety that strained her aunt’s voice. She’d lain awake last night, thinking of ways she could prove to Glory that she was okay again. Being seen out and about in the community, and functioning fully and normally was the best she’d been able to come up with. ‘It’ll be lovely to catch up with people I haven’t seen in a while. And surely there’ll be some small thing or two that I can help out with for the next month or so?’

‘You should be resting!’

‘Oh, I’ll be doing plenty of that too.’ She stretched her arms back behind her and grinned. ‘I’m on holiday—I plan on being lazy and having some fun. The show-planning will be fun. I always loved this time of year when I was a girl.’

‘I remember.’

The wistful note in Glory’s voice had Blair’s throat thickening all over again.

The show meeting was every bit as gruelling as Blair had expected.

There were all the expected stares that made her flinch and cringe inside, and lots of ‘My, aren’t you looking well?’ comments, and genuine surprise that helped ease all that flinching and cringing. She had no intention of being an object of pity.

Oh, poor Blair. It’s so terrible to lose your parents at such a young age.

She’d grown up with that refrain and she’d hated it. There was no way she was adding, Oh, poor Blair. It’s terrible to lose a breast so young, to the litany.

Even if it was terrible.

Even if she couldn’t look at herself in the mirror naked any more.

Nobody else needed to know that.

So she chatted and laughed, drank tea and ate cake, and took a seat at the table when Joan, the chair of the Agricultural Show Society, called the meeting to order. She listened intently as the meeting progressed, and even made an occasional suggestion.

‘Rightio—let’s move on to …’ Joan checked the agenda ‘… the Miss Showgirl quest.’

Blair shifted on her seat. The Dungog Miss Showgirl quest was part-beauty-pageant, part-charity-fundraiser, and part-public-speaking contest, and had been part of the town’s history for as long as anyone could remember.

And twenty years ago she’d won it.

Perspiration prickled her scalp as inevitable comparisons bombarded her. Her body had been perfect once, and she’d never fully appreciated it. Now, it was …

She swallowed and blinked hard. She didn’t want to remember how perfect her body had been twenty years ago and how imperfect it was now. Her hands clenched against the assault of grief. She didn’t want to be reminded of all she’d lost. She risked a glance at Glory. Could she sneak out of the meeting unobserved?

As if sensing Blair’s pain, Glory swung round.

Blair schooled her features. ‘Ooh, what fun!’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘How many contestants are there this year?’

‘Girls?’ Joan called down to the end of the table where a group of teenage girls were gathered. ‘How many of you are entering for the quest?’ She counted the raised hands. ‘Ten? Lovely.’

There’d been a dozen in Blair’s year.

‘Now, we do have a bit of a problem.’

Aware of her aunt’s gaze, still surveying her from the other side of the table, Blair kept her face clear and her attention squarely on Joan.

‘Lexxie Hamilton, who is normally mentor to the contestants, is unfortunately unable to take up the role this year. So we are going to need a new mentor. Would anyone like to volunteer for the role … or put someone’s name forward as a suggestion?’

Nobody said anything.

Joan turned to Blair. ‘Blair, honey, for how long are you in town?’

Out of the corner of her eye she saw her aunt shake her head at Joan. She pushed her shoulders back. ‘I’m here for a whole month and I would love to help out.’ She was aware of Glory stiffening and shaking her head again, and of Joan’s gaze flicking to Glory before moving back to Blair. She lifted her chin and smiled brightly. ‘I would love to be the Miss Showgirl mentor for the next month.’

Joan cleared her throat. ‘We should hate to put you out, Blair. We all know what you’ve been through—’

‘Put me out?’ She snorted, and then deliberately beamed at Glory. ‘From memory, I meet with the showgirl entrants for two hours a week, yes? That’s not putting me out at all. It’ll be fun.’

Glory bit her lip. ‘Fun?’

‘You bet.’ While she had control of the floor she glanced to where the entrants sat. ‘Do Thursday nights—six-thirty till eight-thirty—suit everyone?’ Ten hands instantly shot into the air. ‘There—done! And that gives you a whole month to find a replacement for when I go back to the city.’

Joan glanced at Glory again. ‘Well … I …’

Blair smiled at her aunt with deliberate blitheness, as if unaware of her aunt’s objections, effectively preventing Glory from shaking her head at Joan again.

‘Um … thank you, Blair. That will be a great help.’

‘Blair, honey?’ Glory caught up with Blair at the refreshments table after the meeting had ended. ‘I’m going to be held up here for another couple of hours. You must be tired. Why don’t you go on home ahead of me?’

‘I’m not tired.’ The denial sprang from Blair automatically. She immediately tempered it with, ‘But I wouldn’t mind dropping by the newsagent’s and grabbing a couple of fashion magazines. I think I need to swot up.’

Glory huffed out a sigh. ‘I’m vexed with Joan for putting you on the spot like that. Are you sure you really want to take on the role of mentor? I can have a word with her and—’

‘Not at all! I’m looking forward to being involved.’

‘But you’re on holiday! I don’t want you overdoing things.’

Like she had when she’d gone back to work too early? She seized a plate and loaded it with a couple of small triangle sandwiches and piece of sultana cake. ‘Aunt Glory, I’ve learned my lesson. I promise. Besides, two hours a week is hardly going to be overdoing anything.’

‘Well … I guess not.’

‘And you’re more than welcome to join in the fun as assistant mentor.’

‘Me?’ Glory blinked. ‘What on earth do I know about fashion? You know I never understood it. I sent you to school either with skirts too long or too short. And if ankle socks were in I’d buy you knee-high or vice versa.’

Blair laughed. Really laughed. And she couldn’t remember the last time in three or four months when that had happened. ‘I loved growing up with you, Aunt Glory. You know that.’

‘Yes, I do. But a fashion expert …’

‘You’re not,’ Blair finished for her.

‘Those girls are lucky to have you. Promise me you won’t overdo it.’

‘I promise. Now, I don’t want you overdoing things either. You’ve hardly eaten a thing all day. I’m not leaving until you’ve had a cup of tea and eaten that.’

She handed her surprised aunt the plate, poured her a cup of tea and proceeded to outline her plans for the Miss Showgirl meetings. ‘We’ll talk hair and make-up and clothes and deportment and all good things—what could be more fun than that?’

Fun? She had to bite back hysterical laughter. Hair and make-up weren’t fun for her any more. They were essential tools that stopped people staring at her, pitying her. Hair and make-up stopped her looking like a freak.

‘You always did have a knack for those things,’ Glory allowed. She eyed her niece, setting down her now empty plate. ‘Fun, you say?’

She pasted on her brightest smile. ‘Absolutely.’ She hugged her aunt and then wished she hadn’t as the prosthesis that was now masquerading as her right breast pressed again the scar tissue of her chest, reminding her afresh of all the ways she’d changed. ‘It looks like your next meeting is about to start. I’ll leave you to it and see you back home.’

She set off towards the back entrance of the showground office building, reminding herself that Rome hadn’t been built in a day. It would take more than a day to quieten all of Glory’s fears.

As she neared the door voices drifted in from outside. Her steps slowed. She obviously wasn’t the only one using this particular shortcut to access the nearest side street. She hesitated, but only for a moment. She might be all socialised out and ready—make that more than ready—for some downtime, but she hadn’t come back to Dungog to go into hibernation. She forced her feet towards the wide double doors—one of which was closed.

‘You are going to make such a fool of yourself, Stevie Conway, so don’t say you weren’t warned! You know you’re not pretty enough to be Miss Showgirl. Our advice …’ A collection of titters salted the air and brought Blair up short. ‘Quit now while you still can, before you become a laughing stock!’

Blair saw red. In an instant. And the red of anger felt fantastic after the blacks and greys of fear.

With a flash of strength she thrust the heavy wooden door open so hard that it banged against the wall behind. Four girls at the bottom of the stairs spun to face her.

‘I want each and every one of you girls to listen to me very carefully.’

She strode down the steps, there were eleven of them, and used her catwalk stride—a high lift of her knees, a sway of her hips, and a haughty angle to her chin—to ensure that she had their complete attention. She stopped one step short to maintain the height advantage. She deliberately placed her hands on her hips to look as big as she could; she leant forward so it would appear to them as if she loomed.

‘Miss Showgirl is not some trifling beauty pageant. It’s about learning life-enhancing skills that will take you forward in life while raising money for a worthwhile cause. It’s about learning to make the most of yourselves—physically, spiritually, and intellectually.’

Nobody said anything. Instead of feeling helpless and feeble, just for a moment Blair felt powerful again. And that was beyond fantastic.

‘I wasn’t the prettiest entrant the year I won. Go back and look at the photographs. Monica Dalwood was.’ Monica had been a gorgeous redhead with a crippling shyness she hadn’t been able to master.

She met and held each girl’s gaze. It took her less than five seconds to work out which of them was Stevie Conway, and it wasn’t because Stevie wasn’t pretty. She was. She was lovely. She was also an archetypal tomboy—jeans, short-cropped hair, not a scrap of make-up or a single item of jewellery in sight. She made a complete contrast to her three rivals.

Blair pushed her shoulders back. ‘If the only thing you girls are interested in is who’s the fairest in all the land, then I’ll give you a score out of ten now.’

She’d give each of them ten out of ten. She could see, though, that her assertion disconcerted them. They didn’t like being judged on their looks alone and the discovery pleased her.

‘But if you choose to know the score then know this—I will not accept you into my Thursday evening meetings. So, girls, what’s it to be?’

There was a round of murmured ‘Thursday evenings, miss.’

‘Good. Now, one final thing. If I ever hear any of you make a comment like the one I heard as I was coming out through that door then we will have serious words—understand?’

Nods all around.

‘Excellent.’ She dusted off her hands. ‘Now, I’m sure you ladies have much better things to do than hang around here all day.’

They didn’t need any further encouragement. Three of the girls shot off in one direction. Stevie took off in the other.

‘Stevie, wait.’

Stevie stopped, stiffened, and then whirled around. ‘You heard it all, didn’t you? And you know I’m Stevie because I’m not as pretty as they are.’ She waved a hand in the direction the three other girls had gone.

‘I didn’t hear it all,’ Blair countered, ‘but I certainly heard enough. And I know you’re Stevie because you’re walking on your own while the others took off together.’

The younger girl’s shoulders unhitched a fraction.

‘I really hope you didn’t pay any attention to what those girls said. You have as good a chance of being Miss Showgirl as they have.’

‘It’s not true, though, is it? Not even my dad thinks I have a fighting chance of winning!’

It took all of Blair’s strength to prevent her jaw from dropping. Any father worth his salt would be trying to build his daughter’s confidence, not undermining it.

Stevie flung an arm in the air. ‘No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to look like those other girls.’

‘Good Lord, why would you want to?’

She was rewarded when Stevie’s chin shot up. ‘What?’

She held up a finger. ‘When you are speaking in public or being interviewed it’s always: I beg your pardon. Not, What. And, sure, those girls who were teasing you are pretty, but they’re blonde clones. It’s hard to tell them apart.’

Stevie choked. ‘You’re not allowed to say that.’

‘Why not?’ Blair steered them towards the gate in the fence. ‘I’m blonde, and some would say pretty, but believe me, if you saw me first thing in the morning before I’d had a chance to fix my hair and make-up you’d get a right fright.’

Wasn’t that the truth!

Exactly how true it was had nausea rising up through her. She swallowed it back. ‘You work with what you have, and, Stevie, you have a lot—the most wonderful olive skin and gorgeous hair.’ Stevie’s hair might be short, but it was shiny and dark, and full and thick. ‘Your eyes are the most amazing colour.’ Blue-grey. ‘Miss Showgirl will be awarded to the contestant who stands out, who proves herself. It won’t go to blonde clones the judges can’t tell apart.’

Stevie thought about that for a moment. ‘But if one of the blonde clones can make herself stand out, if she proves herself …’

‘If she’s worked that hard,’ Blair said gently, ushering Stevie through the gate, ‘then she might deserve to win.’

Stevie stopped. Blair stopped too. ‘You really, truly think I have a chance and you’re not just saying that because you’re our mentor and that’s what you’re supposed to say?’

‘I really, truly mean it.’ Blair crossed her heart. Then she frowned. ‘Is winning that important to you?’

The younger girl shook her head. ‘I just want to know that I have as good a chance as the others, that’s all.’

She sensed there was more. ‘And?’

‘Sometimes I want to be … just more than jeans and T-shirts!’ she burst out. ‘My mum died when I was little so I don’t have anyone to show me how to do all that girly stuff, and when I try I just look stupid!’

No mother? And a father who didn’t think she was pretty? Blair’s heart started to throb for this lovely girl. ‘Scarves,’ she suddenly pronounced.

‘Wha—? I beg your pardon?’

‘I don’t think frills and lots of jewellery are your kind of thing, Stevie. You’d probably find them too fussy. But you can add the most gorgeous feminine touch by using a scarf. And if you wake up in the morning and don’t feel like doing feminine you can change the scarf to something funky or something classic instead. With your lovely cheekbones and long throat you’d look great in a scarf. I’ll do a class on them.’

Stevie stared. ‘Really?’ she breathed.

Something inside Blair’s chest flickered. ‘Sure, why not?’

Stevie continued to stare as if Blair had just given her the secret to the universe. Blair cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Stevie, you want to know my secret?’

The younger girl leant forward, suddenly eager. ‘You mean your secret to winning Miss Showgirl?’ she breathed.

Blair nodded. ‘Bluff.’

Stevie’s face fell. ‘Bluff?’

‘Pretending, play-acting, fooling everyone into believing what you want them to believe—that you’re smart and pretty and confident. If you act like you think you’re pretty and smart and have something to offer the world, if you walk and talk and meet people’s stares head-on with that kind of confidence and belief in yourself, they’ll start to see that you really are something special. And they’ll treat you with respect. It’s not easy to begin with,’ she warned. ‘It’s really, really hard. But it works. And eventually you’ll realise that you’re not pretending any more. You’ll discover that you really are pretty and smart and confident.’

And then, sometimes, something happens that takes it all from you again.

She tried not to flinch at that thought. She tried to banish it to a place where it couldn’t batter her shattered self-esteem further.

‘Bluff?’ Stevie said as if testing the word out.

Blair lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. ‘Bluff.’ And if she said it a little too strongly then so be it. ‘So, will I see you on Thursday?’

Nick slammed his brakes on the moment he saw Stevie. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. What on earth …? She’d told him she was spending the day baking with her best friend Poppy and Poppy’s mother.

So what was his daughter doing here at the exit to the showground, talking to some woman he’d never seen before?

The showground …?

The Miss Showgirl quest?

Nick bit back a groan and rested his head against the steering wheel for a moment before pushing himself out of the car. He dragged a breath into a chest that hurt. ‘Stevie?’

Stevie spun around and her face fell. Almost comically, he noted, only he didn’t feel the least like laughing. Her chin shot up as he drew near. ‘Hey, Dad.’

She said it as if nothing were amiss, but he sensed her defensiveness and it made his hands clench. She said it as if she hadn’t been lying to him. His chest ached harder. ‘What are you doing here?’ He tried to keep his voice even, but he knew his suspicions were about to be confirmed and that made evenness impossible. ‘You told me you were spending the day at Poppy’s.’

She gave a bored shrug and his hands clenched tighter. Where on earth had his madcap, full of laughter, full of fun daughter gone? When had she morphed into all this … attitude?

He didn’t address the unknown woman who’d been talking to Stevie. He didn’t even look at her. This was between him and his daughter. ‘Well?’ He tapped his foot—not that it helped to release much of the tension that had him coiled up tight. ‘Well?’ he demanded again.

Stevie tossed her head. Just for a moment something flickered behind her eyes—something he almost recognised—before her face became an ache of resentment. ‘I’ve just signed on for the Miss Showgirl quest.’

Suspicion confirmed! He hauled in a breath. ‘I told you I would not countenance you taking part in that contest.’

Countenance? When in his life had he ever used that word?

Stevie’s eyes flashed. ‘I decided not to take your advice.’

His control finally slipped. ‘It wasn’t advice. It was an order!’ Stevie enter some stupid beauty pageant? Over his dead body!

He was in charge of his daughter’s moral wellbeing. Letting her get involved in some shallow sham of a contest that objectified women and led young girls to believe their looks were more important than anything else? He snorted. He’d seen what that kind of obsession had done to Sonya. Those weren’t the kind of values he wanted to instil in Stevie. Family, commitment, the long haul—those were things worth pursuing.

‘You can haul your butt back in there and unregister yourself. Now! You are not taking part in that contest!’

‘No.’

The single word chilled him. And it made him blink. Stevie had never openly defied him before.

‘I’m sixteen.’ She planted her hands on her hips. ‘In another two years I’ll be allowed to vote. I have a right to make some decisions about my life and I’m making this one. I’m entering Miss Showgirl whether you like it or not. Whether you support me or not.’

For a moment he could barely think. A part of him even acknowledged that she might have a point.

‘And, regardless of what you think,’ she suddenly yelled at him, ‘Blair Macintyre thinks I have a chance!’

With that she turned and fled in the direction of home.

Blair Macintyre? The name flooded his mind, freezing him. Blair Macintyre? He wished to God that woman had never been born. Or at least that she’d been born and had grown up somewhere other than Dungog. For the life of him he couldn’t remember her, but the constant refrain he’d heard during the course of his marriage to Sonya had been, Blair Macintyre this and Blair Macintyre that. Here she was on the cover of some glossy magazine. There she was on the catwalk in Paris … London … New York. Wherever!

If Blair Macintyre can do it then so can I!

And Sonya had. But that world had destroyed her. He would not let that happen to Stevie. He would do anything to protect his little girl.

The sound of a throat being cleared snapped him to. Damn it, he’d forgotten all about that unknown woman. He turned towards her. ‘I’m Nicholas Conway, and I’m sorry you—’

Everything inside him clenched up tight when he finally came face to face with the woman. He swore once, hard. Then he laughed—only the laughter wasn’t real laughter, it was bitterness. ‘Blair Macintyre, right?’

He might not remember her, but Sonya had shoved enough pictures of Blair beneath his nose for him to recognise her. She was beautiful … gorgeous. Perfect. Magazine-cover perfect. And he knew it was a lie, because no real woman could look this good. She was the kind of woman who would fill a teenage girl’s head with all sorts of unrealistic expectations about herself and her body. With her perfect pout and thick, lush lashes, her perfectly arched brows and her long blonde locks.

He was thirty-four. She had to be at least thirty-six. But she didn’t look a day over twenty-five. More lies.

And yet, to his horror, his body responded to all that perfection. White-hot tendrils of desire licked along his veins, sparking nerve-endings with heat and hunger. Warmth flushed his skin. One knee twitched. His fingers literally ached to reach out and touch her cheek to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. What would she taste like? What would she feel like if he held her close? What would—?

He snapped off the images that bombarded him; thrust them out of his head. He was an experienced adult. If she could manipulate him like this, what kind of impact would she have on an impressionable sixteen-year-old?

Her lips suddenly twisted. ‘Let me guess. I don’t look any different, right?’

The words drawled out of her, their husky notes caressing his skin. She raised one of those perfectly shaped eyebrows and his body reacted with heat, his tongue reacted with anger. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

For some inconceivable reason she seemed to brighten at that.

It disappeared a moment later when he leant towards her and snapped, ‘Stay away from my daughter.’