Perfect Daughter

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Nanny! Look what I got!’ Maggie pulled Jacks from her memories as she called out, swirling round in a long, pale blue dress with what looked like a bridal train, and her matching tiara.

  ‘Ooh, you look beautiful, Mags!’ She laughed.

  Jacks went out into the garden to give Pete some cake. ‘What you doing out here on your own?’ she asked.

  ‘I was just thinking about your mum and dad actually. What would they have made of all this, eh?’ He gestured at Gideon and Martha’s house. ‘They’d be so proud, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘They would, love.’ Her mind turned to her poor old mum and her imperfect dad; two normal parents.

  Pete smiled as he bit into the pink-topped sponge. ‘This tastes lovely and I think Moggie’ll love it!’ He stood behind her and cupped her bottom in his hand as he kissed the back of her neck.

  ‘Pete!’ She shrank away from him. ‘Jonty’s around!’

  ‘Can’t wait till tonight when he’s on his own floor, miles away…’ He kissed her again and she giggled.

  ‘What’s miles away?’ Jonty asked. Neither of them had heard him approach.

  ‘The moon,’ Pete answered, quick as a flash.

  ‘I know. About a quarter of a million miles, in fact. But you can still fit it behind your thumbnail, can’t you, Mum?’

  Jacks looked at her son as he held up his thumb and closed one eye.

  ‘Yes, yes you can.’ She nodded, thinking for the first time in a long time about Sven and feeling… nothing but a warm glow as she pictured her old friend. She pictured the moment they had told Martha and handed her the letter. She had surprised them both with her stoicism, her maturity. ‘I have the best dad in the world, that’s all I need,’ she commented, as she folded the paper back into its envelope and threw herself into Pete’s arms.

  ‘And I ain’t never going anywhere Miss Martha,’ he had managed to say through his tears. That had been quite a day, when Martha finally understood Jacks’ need for her to succeed and her desire to try and stop history repeating itself.

  Jonty ambled back inside the house.

  ‘I wonder what else she’ll do, that girl of ours,’ Pete said. ‘She’s having one hell of a journey.’

  ‘She is,’ Jacks agreed. ‘Bit like us. We did it all so young, so now we’re like an old couple even though we’re only just in our forties!’

  ‘Yep, that’s our one good thing, girl – our history, what we’ve been through. I wouldn’t change a single thing. And we’ve still got a lot of living to do.’ He smiled at his wife.

  ‘You’re right, Pete. One thing I know for sure is that life is what you make it. No one can make it for you. You have to grab it and run with it or you’ll sink, and sinking is the easy option. You have to work hard and fight for better. That’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, girl. It is.’

  ~

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  A Mother’s Story

  Jessica’s wedding was like a fairytale. She looked radiant in a dress strewn with crystals. Her Dad conquered his nerves and made a tearful speech. And her gorgeous husband Matthew declared himself the luckiest man alive. Together, Jessica and Matthew feel like they can take on the world.

  But when their beautiful baby girl is born, Jessica is gripped with panic and fear. She can’t tell anyone how she feels. Even when her life starts to spiral out of control…

  This is her story. A mother’s story.

  Can’t wait? Buy it here now!

  ‘I wouldn’t have felt so alone, so frightened knowing I was in a club of many thousands, rather than a club of one. The scariest thing has always been how it crept up on me, throwing its dark cloak over my head so I couldn’t see what was happening.’

  Prologue

  There was a small camera winking at the duo as they waited to be let in. A woman half stood, raising her hand in recognition of Dr Boyd. She pressed a buzzer out of view and the door whirred open, admitting them to a large square hallway. The woman sat at a pale wood reception desk that curved round in an arc, with a large row of pigeonholes on the wall behind it. The decor was simple: mainly white walls, with brightly coloured accessories on the desk – red files, green pen pots – and a large yellow clock on the wall that ticked loudly. The place had the false gaiety of a children’s hospital.

  Without being told the drill, Dr Boyd signed a book for them both and waited. A heavyset woman of indeterminate age appeared, her demeanour telling anyone who cared to notice that this was not where she wanted to be. She ignored them and bustled past with an armful of files.

  A smiley nurse then appeared. She searched Jessica’s overnight bag and patted down her clothing. Jessica was quiet and polite; her earlier misgivings disappeared. She felt a sense of relief that she was going to find some peace in here. It wasn’t as scary as she had anticipated, so far. The nurse seemed kind and business-like. ‘We’ll get you settled in your room, Jessica, okay?’

  She nodded. Dr Boyd went into an anteroom off the reception area and she didn’t see him again. She was taken deeper into the bowels of the building. Beyond the hospital-like reception, the facility looked a bit like a cheap hotel, the only difference being that instead of carpet tiles, the floor was grey linoleum. Chocolate-box-style pictures were screwed to the walls, depicting meadows abundant with flowers and the sun peeking over rolling hills. The nurse linked arms with Jessica as though she were elderly or infirm. This made Jessica smile. Despite being neither, she had to admit it was a great comfort to have this woman to lean on as they made their way to her room.

  ‘Is Matthew coming here later?’ she asked, realising that she hadn’t said goodbye properly.

  ‘No. Not tonight.’ The nurse patted Jessica’s arm.

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  The nurse didn’t answer. Jessica wondered if she had heard.

  ‘Will he come and see me tomorrow?’ she repeated, this time a little louder.

  The nurse blinked quickly, but remained quiet. Jessica swallowed, wondering if she had said the wrong thing. She couldn’t remember where Matthew was or why he wasn’t with her, but judging from the nurse’s silence, she felt it best not to mention him.

  The woman’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked as they made their way along the glossy linoleum. Jessica stopped and gasped as a deafening wail of distress hit her ears. She gripped the nurse’s hand.

  ‘It’s okay, Jessica. It’s just someone calling out. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ The nurse smiled and squeezed her hand, which helped a little.

  The nurse pulled at a swipe card that was anchored to a spring-loaded cord and held it against a small black panel by a wide door; the door swung open outwards. Jessica found herself in another section of corridor. The strip-lighting overhead was too bright and the artificial glare made her eyes squint in defence. Jessica noticed the glass-fronted cabinet set high in the wall, full of phials and syringes; she tried not to think of when they might be needed and what they might contain.

  They stopped abruptly. The woman again pulled on her card and swiped the panel by the side of another door. Jessica noted the little window near the top of the door. She wandered into the small room and cast her eye over the melamine-topped chest of drawers and the single bed in the corner. The window had bars over it and pale grey vertical blinds that reminded her of an office block. She sat on the bed and ran her hands over the blue blanket that was the kind she had only ever seen in hospitals; it was tucked neatly under the mattress and sandwiched between white sheets that were folded over at the top to form a thick white border. Here too, the flo
or was squeaky and dust-free. She liked how clean everything was, uncluttered. It made it easier to think.

  Another woman came bustling into the room. She was less smiley than the first one and was holding a clipboard. She sat on the orange plastic chair, which creaked under her weight, and put the clipboard on her lap. ‘I need to ask you some questions.’ Her mouth was set in a sneer, as if she was irritated or in a hurry.

  Jessica nodded.

  ‘You know where you are, do you?’ She spat the words.

  Jessica nodded again.

  ‘Go easy,’ the smiley nurse whispered to her colleague.

  ‘Go easy? You do know what she’s done?’ she fired back.

  Jessica felt her body shake.

  ‘Have you in the last twenty-four hours had any suicidal thoughts?’ The woman stared at her in a way that made her feel very uncomfortable.

  Jessica shook her head and looked down into her lap.

  ‘Feel free to speak up, Jessica. We are here to help you.’ Nice nurse spoke softly, kindly, in spite of the disapproving twist of her colleague’s mouth.

  Jessica had a sudden flashback to her wedding day. She remembered standing and trying to make Jake, and Matthew’s other mates, be quiet so Matthew could speak. ‘We all knew Jess wouldn’t be able to resist getting involved during the speeches, right? Apparently the trick for me is going to be how to get her to shut up, not just today but throughout our married life. Roger has very kindly given me these for use in extreme emergencies!’ She pictured the ear defenders her dad had supposedly given him.

  But now it was as if she had stopped owning her own life. A decision had been taken without her consent, arrangements made without her involvement; people had started talking about her in hallways and into phones with palms cupped over the mouthpiece. From that moment, she had no longer been responsible for herself. At first she’d felt quite relieved and a little petrified. As time went on, she’d felt less relieved and more petrified. Because if she wasn’t responsible for herself, then how could she control what happened to her? And the answer to that was that she couldn’t.

  Her tears came quickly and without warning. She stayed silent, as her hot distress tumbled down her face and clogged her nose and mouth.

  ‘Where have I gone, what has happened to me?’

  1

  It was a beautiful May day. Orange-tipped butterflies danced in the clear blue sky, kissing the sunny yellow flowers on which they rested. The apple trees were in full bloom, abundant with pink and white blossoms, some of which had fallen to form a floral carpet across which the guests tramped.

  The crisp, clear sound of a fork hitting the side of a glass echoed around the marquee. Conversation levels dropped to a burble and those who had migrated to other tables, crouching on the coir matting to chat to their friends, made their way back to their own. Clusters of girls rushed back from the loo arm in arm, holding sparkly clutch bags and with perfume freshly spritzed. Three pretty waitresses navigated their way through the maze of tables, distributing chilled flutes of fizz in readiness for the toasts. Jessica felt a current of joy travel through her. Her day was perfect.

  It was the kind of wedding she had seen in magazines, the kind of event that featured in movies – a million miles from what she had envisaged for a girl like her. Jessica, whose mum and dad thought pasta was an exotic food, who had grown up in a world of coupons, saving stamps and thrift, whose school uniform came from the second-hand shop and who had received a book token for every birthday as far back as she could remember. She was at the most exquisite wedding she had ever attended and she was the bride! It was, as her mum had reminded her earlier in the day, like a blimming fairy tale.

  Matthew’s childhood had been very different. Jessica was marrying a man whose parents nipped to France in the way hers nipped to the supermarket. They were the sort who knew which wine to drink with fish, and at the supper table they made jokes about the cabinet of the day and shared amusing snippets they had picked up from Radio Four. It was a world away from her home life. When she’d been introduced to his family for the first time, she’d felt awe and fear in equal measures. One year on, both had subsided, a little.

  Polly hurried round the back of the top table and placed her head on her best friend’s shoulder. Her large green fascinator sent feathery fronds up the bride’s nose, which Jessica snorted away. She could smell the boozy fumes that wafted from her friend’s mouth. This was not unusual for Polly: since their teens, both girls had lived by the mantra ‘it’s wine o’clock somewhere!’

  ‘There is something you need to know, Jess,’ Polly said in a solemn whisper.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jessica was intrigued.

  ‘We probably should have discussed it before now, but the fact is, now that you are a married woman, your husband might want to do S-E-X with you.’ The s-word was mouthed, not spoken.

  ‘Really?’ Jessica placed her hand over her mouth and widened her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ Polly nodded. ‘It’s what married people do. My parents have done it twice, as I have a sister, and I don’t think your parents have done it for a while.’ Both girls glanced at Mr and Mrs Maxwell, sitting further along the table in their finery, and giggled.

  ‘Stop laughing, Jess. This is very importatant, impor… tatant. Importatatnt.’ Polly tried but failed to get the word right, making Jessica giggle again. ‘Whatever! Doesn’t matter.’ Polly waved her hand in front of her face. ‘The rule is: just lie back and think of England. Don’t say a word, don’t move and it should be over before you’ve managed to sing the second verse of “Jerusalem”. In your head, of course – not out loud, that’s a no-no. Got it?’ Polly straightened up and kissed her friend on the cheek.

  ‘I think so…’ Jessica bit her lip. ‘Is the second verse the “Bring me my bow of burning gold” one?’

  ‘Yep. You might want to practatise.’ Polly winked.

  ‘Because it’s importatant?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Zactly!’ Polly fired imaginary pistols at her mate as she backed away from the table.

  Jessica laughed at her dear, sloshed friend, who had in fact, as a young teenager, been a mere two park benches away from her when she’d had her first sexual experience after a rather flirtatious game of rounders with the choir of St Stephen’s. Things would have got a lot more steamy had it not been for the intervention of Reverend Paul, who had shown up at a crucial moment, shushing them from the park like an agitated giant crow, just in time to save their souls and their reputations.

  Polly teetered across the dance floor in perilously high heels. Jessica watched as she sucked in her stomach and jutted out her ample chest as she walked past Matthew’s boss, Magnus, who she had a crush on. The fact that he was older than her father, married and rather arrogant didn’t seem to deter her. Jessica loved Polly like a sister. Only last night they had sat in their pyjamas in Matthew’s parents’ spare bedroom and written a list of all their sexual conquests, each fondly remembering the lamest of victims that the other had conveniently chosen to forget. Rather embarrassingly, they realised that there were at least two shared names on their lists; this had sparked a fit of uncontrollable laughter, which even the smallest of things was prone to do. Polly, who jumped from job to job and was currently temping as a PA, made Jessica laugh like no one else could. So much so that sometimes Jessica barely made it to the bathroom in time, much to her shame.

  Jessica patted her tiara, making sure the delicate headpiece and her perfectly curled chocolate-coloured locks were just so. Swallowing her nerves, she touched the pad of her middle finger to her bottom lip, which was still slightly sticky with gloss, meaning her mouth would shine during the close-ups that would inevitably be snapped during the speeches.

  Looking at her mum, Coral, who sat a few seats away on the top table, Jessica tensed her cheeks and pulled a wide mouth, indicating both excitement and nerves. Coral winked at her daughter and took a deep breath. She too was trying her best to hide her anxiety. Jessica felt a wave
of love for her mum, who she knew had been anticipating this day with trepidation, fretting over her outfit, her hair and what the rest of her family might do or say to embarrass them. It was a minefield. Jessica had tried to reassure her that if Uncle Mick did decide after a couple of glasses to do his fart trick, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Both she and her dad had been sent into a tailspin wanting to contribute financially and yet not wanting to set a budget that might thwart Margaret’s grand ambitions for her only son. Jessica had watched them trying to navigate the unfamiliar world of canapés, wedding favours and linen samples and knew it took all of her mum’s strength not to suggest that she could make the buttonholes, write the place cards and knock up a platter or two of sausage rolls to save a few quid.

  Jessica had, during the process of planning the wedding, learnt how to communicate with her mother-in-law. Quite unlike her own mum, Margaret didn’t want to be bothered with detail; she simply wanted her decisions approved so that she could rush them into action with gusto. She raced everywhere, as though time was always in short supply, and she always, always looked neat. She was fastidious about her appearance, her little waist often emphasised by a huge tan leather belt that wouldn’t have looked amiss on Lennox Lewis. Coral was the exact opposite, pausing often, sometimes lumbering and frequently distracted. She worried about whether a bow would sit right and whether Aunty Joan could manage to last all day with her dodgy hip, but the bigger questions left her in a state of flux, nervously chewing her nails.