Not My Daughter

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘Liberty’s in a band? That’s cool.’

  ‘Not cool, Nick. Not cool at all. Her father is in the music business.’

  Nick frowns. ‘Lorna, what’s the story with this guy? Don’t you think it’s time you told me?’

  ‘Nick, please just move. Please.’ My eyes flick to the road. ‘I’ll tell you his name, how about that?’

  ‘Who cares what his name is?’

  ‘He’s famous. Okay? Crazy famous. Like, Grammy award-winning millionaire famous. If I tell you who he is, will you move out of my way?’

  Nick grips the steering wheel. ‘If that’s the best I’m going to get right now.’

  ‘Liberty’s father is Michael Reyji Ray.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Nick stares. ‘You’re kidding me. Michael Reyji Ray?’

  ‘She’s gone to his house and I’m going after her.’

  ‘You know where Michael Reyji Ray lives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  I hesitate. ‘Not far from here. Huntingdon Woods. He owns them.’

  ‘Huntingdon Woods? But … that’s … like a half-hour drive.’

  I nod, eyes looking past him.

  ‘Why, Lorna?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘You could have lived anywhere. You’re a US citizen. You could have lived in the States. But you chose to live less than thirty miles from the guy, for Christ’s sake. Why?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain.’

  Nick’s eyes harden. ‘Try.’

  ‘Nick. Right now, I just need to get Liberty out of there. Will you stay here? Someone needs to stay here. In case she comes back.’

  Nick’s shoulder’s sag in resignation. ‘I’ll stay. But I’m struggling to get it, seriously. Really struggling. We live so close to the guy … why not live the other side of London at least?’

  ‘This is her father’s world,’ I say. ‘Don’t expect anything to make sense from now on.’

  Once upon a time …

  ‘I feel bad about my sister,’ I told Michael as he carried my battered rucksack onto the tour bus.

  ‘Stop thinking so much,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll sort all the rent and bills. Your sister will have the whole place to herself. She’ll be okay. Trust me.’

  ‘Okay isn’t the same as good.’

  ‘She has her own life to live, just like you have yours.’ Michael kissed my hand. ‘Welcome to your chariot, my lady. The passion wagon.’

  I laughed. ‘The passion wagon?’

  ‘We’re gonna have some fun times on this bus. Just you wait and see.’

  Leaving Dee was a selfish choice. But as a dumb sixteen-year-old cancer survivor who thought herself in love with a rock star, nothing was going to stop me. I climbed right onto that magical, gleaming tour bus, with its fridges of cold beer and lounging rock stars plucking at guitar strings.

  This was what heaven looked like, right?

  The bus pulled away and I waved goodbye to my sister and sanity.

  If only I hadn’t walked up those steps. But then again, I wouldn’t have Liberty. That’s a thought I cling to.

  And so we hit the road.

  For the first couple of gigs – Washington DC and Atlanta – everything was perfect. I hung out with Michael, the band and crew, being the pretty little tour bunny mascot. Michael gave me tight Crimson T-shirts to wear, and his assistant bought me tiny shorts, tight black jeans and kitten heels.

  ‘You look sexy in those clothes,’ he told me. ‘Like a supermodel.’

  The compliments made me miss something important: I was no longer making decisions about my own clothes. Michael was now in charge of my wardrobe.

  At night, Michael and I would head to the bus bedroom, crazy in love, naked, staring into each other’s eyes, sex all night. Like any good manipulator, Michael made sure he put in a lot of the good stuff up front. He always told me how sexy I was, how beautiful I looked, how madly in love he was, how I was his soul mate, the girl of his dreams. This, to my inexperienced sixteen-year-old self, was what a great sexual relationship looked like.

  As the tour bus hopped from state to state, things got wilder. Michael wanted new things. I didn’t like all of it, but it was okay because I was still getting what I really wanted – Michael’s encouragement and approval.

  You’re so sexy, Lorna. You’re an amazing girl. We’re wild, aren’t we, the two of us? A pair of rebels. My wife would never do this. We push boundaries. You’re doing that just right …

  Michael’s good opinion meant everything to me, so ‘no’ was not in my vocabulary.

  He would take my palm, find my twisted life line and tell me that was the two of us – knotted together by destiny. And he would listen. To everything. How unsafe I’d felt as a kid. How Dee had taken on the motherhood role, and how there were times when I thought she resented me. How abandoned I felt by the father I’d never met, and how only Dee came to see me in hospital.

  ‘I love you,’ we’d say, in unison, and then burst out laughing. Michael talked about all the things we had in common. Our hair colour. Our star sign. Foods we both liked. He put in all that work at the beginning to lodge the hook firmly in my mouth. So when the good stuff stopped coming, I was stuck. Wanting more. Chasing after it.

  The European leg of the tour – that’s when things started to change. As a matter of fact, I remember the exact moment when Michael showed his bad side for the first time. We were flying to Paris, sitting on huge, cushiony first-class seats and drinking champagne and whiskey shots.

  I was reading The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen on that flight – not very grown-up, but one of the few books I had with me. I kept telling Michael how sad the story was.

  ‘It’s nothing like the Disney version,’ I told him. ‘The mermaid dies at the end.’

  ‘What are you reading that rubbish for?’ said Michael. ‘We live in the here and now. Not fairyland.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful story,’ I murmured, closing the book. ‘She sacrifices herself for the prince.’

  ‘Would you sacrifice yourself for me, my little punk princess?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘You’re all mine. Forever and ever. And you’ll never leave me because I’ll come find you.’ He folded me into his arms.

  I felt ecstatic.

  ‘I love you, Michael.’

  ‘I love you too. Listen.’ Michael rested a hand on my bare leg. ‘We’ll be staying in a hotel right in the centre of Paris. A lot of press. We’ve got to hide you a bit better, okay? The European press are crazy. It’s not like in the US.’

  ‘Hide me?’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on. You’re not stupid. Diane and I are still married.’

  That hit me like a punch in the face. ‘But you’re separated. And we’re together now. The press are going to find out about us eventually. You just said … I mean, we’ll be together forever, won’t we?’

  ‘Don’t make a drama out of it,’ said Michael. ‘I told you right at the start, I’d have to keep us quiet. We just have to keep you on the down-low. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of sneaking around. Why can’t you just tell the press you and your wife have split up? People separate all the time. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘You have to be able to handle this, Lorna,’ said Michael, topping up my champagne glass. ‘Drink this down, there’s a girl. When all is said and done, I’m a married man.’

  ‘But if we’re together—’

  ‘Diane and I … it’s complicated. I told you from the start I was still married. If you can’t handle this stuff, then I’ll fly you back home right now.’

  ‘You said you and your wife weren’t together. Do you still love her? You must do if you want to hide me away.’ Tears came and I tried to get up, but Michael grabbed my arm and pulled me down.

  ‘Jesus, Lorna, calm down. What are you, a drama queen or something? A hysteric? If I wanted one of those, I’d have taken my wife on tour. You
wanted to come on the bus. You wanted to be one of the big girls. If you can’t handle being a grown-up, go home. This is no place for kids.’

  ‘I don’t want to sneak around and hide. If you and your wife are really separated—’

  ‘Christ, Lorna, do you even have a brain?’ He tapped my forehead sharply. ‘Is everything firing okay in there? One of our biggest songs right now is “Fever Few” and everyone thinks I wrote it about Diane. No one can know we’re not together. It would kill our record sales.’

  ‘Did you write it about her?’

  ‘I write a new song every day. I don’t know what or why I’m writing the words half the time. It might have been about you, for all I know.’

  ‘You wrote it five years ago.’

  ‘I had a feeling that someone like you was coming along.’ He hit me with a mesmerizing stare. ‘Listen to me. Diane will be humiliated if photos of you and me come out in the gutter press. Would you put the poor woman through something like that? She’s a Catholic girl at heart. Divorce is a sin. She doesn’t understand the world like you do.’

  ‘So … what? You’re never going to divorce her?’

  ‘Marriage is just a piece of paper. What we have is so much bigger than that, right? We’re soul mates.’ Michael took my hands. ‘Help me out, okay? And help Diane out – she’s already heartbroken, poor girl. Let’s not make it any harder for her.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of sneaking around.’

  ‘It won’t be for long. But listen, I’m thinking of you too. You don’t want the press in your face, writing stories about you, the marriage wrecker.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  Michael laughed again. ‘So says the naive little idiot who’s never had the press come after her. You’ll care when they tear you apart. I’m telling you. Trust me on this, Lorna. Come on, now. I love you. You’re my soul mate. My little punk princess soul mate. None of this stuff with Diane matters.’

  ‘You mean it? That you love me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Michael pulled me into a tight hug. ‘Now stop being an idiot. Okay? And do as you’re told.’ He kissed my head and laughed. ‘Or I’ll send you back to that sister of yours who never wanted you around.’

  I let the hurt be hugged out of me. ‘Dee did want me around. She took me in when—’

  ‘She resents you. You told me yourself. Lucky you found me. The one who loves you like no one else ever will. When you’re not being a hysterical female.’

  ‘I’m not a hysterical female.’

  ‘Then stop acting like one. You’re going to be my merchandising girl for this part of the tour, okay? You’ll put on a crew T-shirt and pull the suitcases.’

  ‘You want me to pretend to be your staff member?’

  Michael hugged me tighter. ‘Oh, yeah. And if you’re lucky I’ll give you a big bonus tonight when you finish your shift.’

  The tour bus pulled up on a wide Parisian street. It was afternoon. Bright and sunny. The buildings were dull in colour but still an artist’s dream. The Louvre and the Pompidou Centre … I felt crazy excitement at the thought of all the creative pilgrimages Michael and I could do here.

  Two artists in love and in Paris.

  But first, I needed to wheel the suitcases.

  Just as Michael said, press snapped away as we stepped off the tour bus. Michael pushed on sunglasses and marched into the elegant, thick-carpeted hotel lobby, while I trotted behind like an obedient little puppy. My own rucksack was stuffed into one of the black suitcases, hidden away like my identity. I was getting more lost by the second.

  When we reached our penthouse suite, Michael said, ‘Put the luggage in the bedroom.’ Like I was a bellboy.

  ‘Where’s my tip?’ I asked.

  Michael turned then, hair sweaty from the hot bus, black eyes furious. ‘What?’

  ‘My tip. If you’re talking to me like the hired help, you should be tipping me.’

  ‘Just put the bloody bags in the bedroom, Lorna, would you?’ Michael opened a polished, antique-looking drinks cabinet and poured himself a huge measure of whiskey in a crystal-cut glass. ‘Christ, maybe I should take Diane back. If you’re going to be giving me all the backchat after we’ve been travelling for hours.’ He knocked it back in three large gulps then vanished into the shower.

  For a moment I just stood, gripping the suitcases. Then I pushed them both over.

  ‘Put your own suitcases away,’ I said. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

  Michael’s damp head popped out of the shower room. His shoulders were hunched, eyes black. It was a side of him I’d never seen before.

  ‘Do not leave this hotel room, Lorna. Don’t you dare leave this room.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I said so, that’s why.’

  ‘Are you going to apologize?’

  ‘No, I’m not going to fucking apologize. Sit down.’

  ‘Do you still love your wife?’

  ‘You leave Diane out of it,’ said Michael, voice scarily low. ‘You’re staying here.’

  I hesitated at the door. ‘You said you wanted to go back to her.’

  ‘I said Diane never gave me any backchat. You could learn a thing or two about that.’

  I felt sick to my stomach. ‘Do you still love her?’

  ‘Diane was my childhood sweetheart. She’ll always have a place in my heart.’

  ‘And what am I?’

  ‘You’re my girl right now.’

  I left then, slamming the door behind me.

  Paris on a sunny afternoon was beautiful, but all I could think about was Michael and Diane. Did he still have feelings for her? Did he want her back? Was it because of me, how I’d acted? If I was sweeter, more compliant, would he love me better? He’d said Diane was his first love. How could I ever compete with that? Would I always be second best? Never as good?

  After a few hours I headed back to the hotel.

  I felt … nervous.

  I only went for a walk, I told myself as I knocked on the penthouse suite door. Big deal.

  ‘Michael?’ I called. ‘Michael? It’s me.’

  The door swung inwards with force and there stood Michael, face tight with rage, eyes bloodshot. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he seemed to fill the doorframe like a huge, raging demon.

  Without saying a word, Michael grabbed my arm and pulled me inside, slamming the door behind us.

  ‘You stupid, dumb little idiot,’ he raged, gripping my shoulders, eyes burning. ‘Never, ever call at the door like that. The press are everywhere. You do that again and you’re gone. I’ll fly you back on the next plane.’

  He was shaking me. Actually shaking me.

  My skinny body went rigid in his arms and I heard myself shouting: ‘Stop. Stop.’

  ‘You need to do as you’re told, Lorna,’ said Michael, releasing his grip. ‘It’s for your own good. I can’t have you here if you don’t do as you’re told.’

  ‘I just went for a walk.’

  ‘You can’t ever do that again. Just walk off like that. Ever, ever, ever.’

  ‘I want you to tell me you love me more than your wife,’ I said, starting to cry.

  Michael didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the drinks cabinet and poured us both large whiskeys.

  ‘Drink this down,’ he said. ‘You’re being hysterical. Didn’t I just tell you I can’t love a girl who’s hysterical? Why do you think I fell out of love with Diane?’

  I learned my lesson. For the rest of the European tour, I stayed in hotel suites and on the tour bus, a good girl waiting for Michael to come home. And he didn’t always come home now we were in Europe. Some nights I’d lay awake waiting for Michael, and he wouldn’t turn up until lunchtime the next day.

  ‘A late one with the boys,’ he’d say. ‘Christ, Diane would have nagged me like crazy for staying out. Such a relief to be with a cool girl like you.’

  So I never complained.

  It’s crazy to think I visited Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Ba
rcelona and so many other famous cities, but only saw the insides of luxurious hotel suites and the tour bus. Just crazy.

  By the end of the tour, Michael didn’t bother with the naked nights looking into my eyes anymore. He knew I’d still provide him with sex even if he shook me, screamed at me, kept me in a hotel room all day and stayed out all night.

  So I did what every vulnerable, naive teenage girl does in an abusive relationship – waited and waited for the good stuff to return. It would, I was sure, when the tour was finished. Michael was stressed. We’d be staring into each other’s eyes again soon, fascinated by each other, soul mates, madly in love.

  I convinced myself that Michael really, truly, was my Prince Charming. A rock and roll Prince Charming. A Prince Charming who, right now, could be moody. Sure, he had a temper. But I could handle it.

  The course of true love never runs smoothly.

  Liberty

  I clear my throat and practise saying the words out loud: ‘Helloooo. My name is Liberty and I’m your long-lost daughteeeeer.’

  This is so weird.

  I’m standing outside my real, live biological father’s house at 9 a.m. on a school day. There are huge security gates, like we have at home. Only these gates are wrought-iron railings, whereas ours are solid wood. The railing aspect is a plus because I can see through them into the grounds, the fir-tree woodland and strange mansion/castle house on the horizon. The minus is there’s no intercom here. Who lives so far from the front gate but has no intercom? We have an intercom and our grounds are only an acre.

  Skywalker sits by my leg, alert and waiting for instruction.

  ‘How crazy is this?’ I tell him. ‘My father has built a great big house that looks like a castle. In the middle of the woods. He’s got room for … what? Twenty visitors? Fifty? But no one can buzz to tell him they’ve come to visit.’

  Even though the sky is summer blue, this place has an eternal winter feel to it. If I were to sum it up in a sentence, I’d say: dark Disneyland.

  The huge house on the horizon was, for sure, built by someone who wants the world to know they are very grand and important.