‘Sylvie? Dan? Are you coming in for tea?’ A cheery voice hails us and we both jerk round in shock to see the birthday girl’s mother, a woman called Gill, waving at us from the door of the party room. ‘We’ve got nibbles for parents, Prosecco …’
‘Maybe in a minute!’ calls back Dan politely. ‘By which I mean, “Can’t you see we’re busy?”’ he adds in a voice that only I can hear.
‘Don’t be like that,’ I say reprovingly. ‘She’s offering Prosecco.’
‘I don’t want Prosecco, I want you. Now.’ His eyes are running over me with a greed I haven’t seen in years; an urgency that makes me shiver. He grips me by the hips and he’s breathing hard and I think he would have me right here, right now. But we’re in Battersea Park, at a children’s party. Sometimes I think Dan forgets these things.
‘We’ve got another sixty-seven years and some,’ I remind him. ‘We’ll find another moment.’
‘I don’t want another moment.’ He buries his face in my neck.
‘Dan!’ I bat at him. ‘We’ll get arrested.’
‘Fine.’ He rolls his eyes comically. ‘Fine. Let’s go and drink our Prosecco. You could wash your face, too,’ he adds as we start slowly walking up the balloon-decorated path. ‘Not that “blood-stained zombie” isn’t a good look.’
‘Or else I could scare the children,’ I suggest. ‘I could be the slasher zombie clown.’
‘I like it.’ He nods, and reaches a hand to ruffle the nape of my neck. ‘I like this, too. I like it a lot.’
‘Good.’
‘A lot.’ He can’t seem to remove his hand from my shorn neck and his voice has descended to a kind of dark growl, and I suddenly think: Oh my God, was Dan a short-hair guy all the time and I never even knew?
‘The girls hate it, of course,’ I tell him.
‘Of course they do.’ Dan looks amused. ‘And Mrs Kendrick?’
‘Hates it too. Oh, that’s the other thing,’ I add, ‘I’m thinking of leaving my job.’
Dan stops dead and stares at me incredulously.
‘OK,’ he says at last. ‘Where is my wife and what have you done with her?’
‘Why?’ I meet his gaze head-on; challengingly. ‘Do you want her back?’ I have another sudden image of the princess-haired, bubble-Sylvie that I was. She already feels a lifetime ago.
‘No,’ says Dan without missing a beat. ‘You can keep her. This is the version I like.’
‘Me too.’ He still can’t keep his hands off my bare nape and I don’t want him to stop. My whole neck is tingling. My whole me is tingling. I should have cut my hair off years ago.
We’ve reached the party building by now. I can hear the shrieks of children and the chatter of parents and all the conversations that will swallow us up as soon as we enter. Dan pauses on the doorstep, his fingers resting on the back of my neck and I can see a deeply concentrating, scrubcious look pass over his face.
‘It’s not easy, is it?’ he says heavily, as though coming to some almighty conclusion. ‘Marriage. Love. It’s not easy.’
As he says it, Tilda’s words come back to me, and they’ve never seemed so true.
‘If love is easy …’ I hesitate. ‘You’re not doing it right.’
Dan looks down at me silently, and even though I’m not psychic Sylvie any more, I can see emotions jumbling through his eyes. Old anger. Tenderness. Love.
‘Well then, we must be fucking masters.’ He suddenly pulls me to him and kisses me hard, almost fiercely, like a statement of intent. A vow, almost. Then, at last, he releases me. ‘Come on. Let’s get that Prosecco.’
EIGHTEEN
The house is all alone on a cliff, with huge glass windows framing the sea view and a vast linen wrap-around sofa, and beautifully scented air. I’m sitting on one end of the sofa and Lynn is sitting facing me.
Jocelyn, I mean. I know she’s Joss. That’s what I call her, to her face. But as I stare at her, all I can think is: Lynn.
It’s like looking at a Magic Eye picture. There’s Joss. Famous Joss Burton, founder of Maze, whom I’ve seen on book covers and in magazine articles, with her trademark white streak of hair and dark, intelligent eyes. And then, glimmering underneath, there’s Lynn. Traces of my Lynn. In her smile, especially. Her laugh. The way she crinkles up her nose in thought. The way she uses her hands when she talks.
She’s Lynn. My made-up Lynn, come to life, never imaginary at all. It’s like seeing Father Christmas and my fairy godmother, all wrapped up in one elegant, real-life woman.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen her as an adult. We met up for the first time a month ago. But I’m still finding it surreal, being here; being with her.
‘I used to talk to you every day,’ I say, my hands wrapped around a cup of Maze chamomile tisane. ‘I used to tell you my problems. I used to lie in bed and conjure you up and just … talk to you.’
‘Was I helpful?’ Joss smiles in that way I remember: warm and just a little bit teasing.
‘Yes.’ I smile back. ‘You always made me feel better.’
‘Good. More tea?’
‘Thanks.’
As Joss pours fresh tisane into my cup, I glance towards the stunning view of a cliff top giving way to endless pale-grey December sky with churning sea beneath. I’m deliberately testing myself and, to my own satisfaction, my heart remains quite steady. I’ve had a full course of therapy and lots of practice – and while I’ll never be the type to dance merrily across a tightrope, I’m a lot better with heights now. A lot better.
And I still see the counsellor who helped me. Once a week, I knock on her door, looking forward to the session, knowing I should have done this years ago. Because it turns out she’s pretty good at talking about issues other than heights. Like fathers. Imaginary friends. Old alleged affairs. That kind of thing.
Of course, I’ve read everything now. First I read Through the High Maze, cover to cover, twice over, searching for clues; reading between the lines. Then I went into Avory Milton and read Joss’s whole account of the episode with Daddy. It took a morning, because I kept breaking off. I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. I did believe it. I hated myself for believing it.
It was weeks before everything properly shook down in my head. And now I think …
What do I think?
I exhale as my thoughts describe the same circle they have done constantly, ever since that day I went to see Mary Smith-Sullivan.
I think Joss is a truthful person. That’s what I think. Whether every single detail is accurate, I can’t know. But she’s truthful. Mary Smith-Sullivan isn’t as convinced. She keeps saying to me: ‘It’s her word against his.’ Which is right, and it’s her job as a lawyer to protect her client and I understand that.
But the thing is, it’s Joss’s words which feel true. As I read her story, little details of what he’d said and how he’d behaved kept jumping out at me. I kept thinking: That’s Daddy. And: Yes, that’s just how it was. And then I found myself thinking: How would our sixteen-year-old holiday neighbour know Daddy so well? And it led me logically to one place.
I came to that conclusion four months ago and went to bed feeling numb. I couldn’t even talk to Dan about it. But the next day I woke up with my mind totally clear, and before I’d even left for work, I’d written a letter to Joss. She phoned me up as soon as she got it and we spoke for an hour. I cried. I’m not sure if she did, because she’s one of those very tranquil people who has found their way through the maelstrom. (That’s a quote from Through the High Maze.) But her voice shook. Her voice definitely shook. She said she’d thought of me a lot, over the years.
Then we met in London and had a cup of tea together. We were both nervous, I think, although Joss hid it better than I did. Dan said he was happy to come as moral support, but I said ‘no’. And actually, if he’d been there, I would never have had that amazing chat I did with Joss. She told me that Dan, all along, had been the one positive force in the whole matter. She said he’d
persuaded her that the affair with my father wasn’t necessary to the powerful story she was telling in Through the High Maze, and it might even detract.
‘Do you know?’ she said then, her eyes shining. ‘He was right. I know he was trying to defend your father, but he made a good point, too. I’m glad I didn’t make that book about my teenage self.’
There was a pause, and I wondered if she was about to say she wouldn’t ever tell that part of her story and I needn’t worry any more. But then she pulled out a huge bound sheaf of papers, and I could see the wary look in her eye and I instantly knew. ‘This is the proof of the new book,’ she said. ‘I want you to read it.’
And so I read it.
I don’t know how I did it so calmly. If I’d read it a few months ago, with no warning, it would have freaked me out. I probably would have thrown it across the room. But I’ve changed. Everything’s changed.
‘Sylvie, your last email troubled me,’ Joss says as she puts down the teapot. She has a way of talking which is very calming. She says something and then pauses and lets the words breathe, so you actually think about them.
‘Why – what exactly?’
Joss cradles her own cup and gazes out to sea for a moment. She’s calling her new book Into the Wide Open Air and right now I can’t think of a better title.
‘You seemed to be assuming culpability. Feeling guilt.’ She turns and fixes me with a clear look. ‘Sylvie, I am not saying and I never will say that your father caused my eating disorders.’
‘Well, maybe you’re not.’ My stomach twists up in a familiar gnarl of bad feelings. ‘But surely—’
‘It’s far more complex than that. He was part of my story, but he wasn’t the cause of anything. You must understand that.’ She sounds quite firm, and just for a moment she’s sixteen and I’m four, and she’s Lynn, magical Lynn, who knows everything.
‘But he didn’t exactly help.’
‘Well, no. But you could say that of so many things, including my own personality quirks.’ Joss’s eyes crease in that kind way she has. ‘It’s hard for you. I know. It’s all new. But I’ve been processing all these events for years.’
My eyes travel around the room, looking at the huge, flickering candles everywhere. Those candles cost a fortune – they’re big-ticket presents in south-west London – yet she has eight of them on the go. I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes and already I feel almost hypnotized by the scent. I feel soothed. I feel finally able to address the subject looming between us.
‘So, as I said in my email … I’ve read the whole thing now,’ I say slowly. ‘The new book.’
‘Yes,’ says Joss. And it’s only one syllable but I can hear the increased alertness in her voice and see how her head has tilted, like a bird’s.
‘I think it’s … powerful. Empowering. No …’ I can’t find the right word. ‘I think I can see why you wanted to write it. I think women will read it and see how you can fall into a trap and maybe it’ll stop them falling into that trap.’
‘Exactly.’ Joss leans forward, her eyes glowing intensely. ‘Sylvie, I’m so glad you realize … this isn’t supposed to be a sensationalist book. And I’m not trying to expose your father. If I’m exposing anyone, it’s me, my sixteen-year-old self, my hang-ups and my misconceptions, and the wrong thought patterns I had. And I hope a new generation of girls can learn from them.’
‘I think you should publish it.’
There. The words are out. We’ve been dancing around this for weeks. I’ve been dealing with Mummy and the lawyers and Dan and my own terrible confusion. I’ve been trying, first, to have my voice heard – then trying to work out what I really think.
It was only when I actually read the proof that I realized what Joss was doing; what she was saying; how she was trying to set out her story as a tale to help others. Mummy couldn’t see beyond the mention of Daddy. Dan couldn’t see beyond wanting to protect me. The lawyers couldn’t see beyond doing their jobs. But I could see Lynn. Wise, kind, humorous, talented Lynn, taking a negative situation and turning it into something inspiring. How can I silence Lynn?
I know Mummy thinks I’m a traitor. She’ll always believe that Joss is a liar; that the whole story is malicious fiction designed to upset our family and nothing more. When I asked her if she’d actually read Joss’s words, she just started ranting at me: ‘How can it be true? How can it be true?’
I wanted to retort, ‘Well, how can my imaginary friend be real?’ But I didn’t.
Joss bows her head. ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly, and for a while we’re both silent.
‘Do you remember going out on the Mastersons’ boat?’ I say at last.
‘Of course.’ She looks up, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, Sylvie, you were so sweet in your little life jacket.’
‘I so wanted to see a dolphin,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I never did, though.’
I’ve always kept snatches of that day in my memory. Blue sky, glittering water, sitting on Lynn’s lap, hearing her sing ‘Kumbaya’. Then of course it turned into an ‘imaginary’ memory, and I clung to it all the harder. I invented conversations and games. I built up our secret friendship. I created a whole fantasy world of Lynn and me; a place where I could escape.
The irony is, if my parents had never told me Lynn was imaginary, I probably would have forgotten all about her.
‘I’d love to meet your children,’ says Joss, breaking the silence. ‘Please bring them to visit.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘We sometimes get dolphins here,’ she adds, twinkling. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I ought to go.’ I get to my feet reluctantly. Devon’s a long way from London and I need to be back tonight.
‘Come again, soon. Bring the family. And good luck on Saturday,’ she adds.
‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t invite you …’
Seeing Joss on my own is one thing. Having her in the same room as Mummy would be a step too far. Mummy does know that I’ve been in touch with Joss, but it’s firmly in the category of things she won’t acknowledge.
Joss nods. ‘Of course. I’ll be thinking of you, though,’ she says, and draws me in for a tight hug, and I feel that, out of all of this, something good came. A new friendship. Or a new-old one.
A real one.
And then, in a blink, it’s Saturday and I’m getting ready. Make-up: done. Dress: on. Hair: sprayed. There’s nothing else I can do with it. Even flowers or a jewelled comb would look ridiculous.
My hair is even shorter than it was when I first hacked it off. I went to the hairdresser and after gaping in shock, my regular stylist Neil pointed out how jagged it was, and how he’d need to ‘really go in there’ to even it up. He calls it my ‘Twiggy’ look, which is sweet of him because I don’t look anything like Twiggy. On the other hand, it does suit my face. That’s the general view. Everyone who blanched when they first saw it is now saying, ‘You know, I actually prefer it this way.’ Apart from Mummy, of course.
I’ve tried to talk to Mummy a lot, over the last six months. Many times, I’ve sat on that sofa of hers and tried to bring up different subjects. I’ve tried to explain why I cut my hair off. And why I flipped out. And why I can’t be treated like a child any more: shut out while the grown-ups confer. I’ve tried to explain how wrong the whole ‘Lynn’ thing was. I’ve tried to explain how mixed up my feelings are about Daddy. I’ve tried over and over to have a proper, empathetic conversation, the kind I feel we should be having.
But everything bounces off. Nothing lands. She won’t meet my eyes or acknowledge the past or shift position an inch. For her, Daddy is still the golden, untouchable hero of our family, Joss is the villain, and I’m the turncoat. She’s locked in a kind of ossified reality, surrounded by her photos of Daddy and the wedding DVD, which she still plays when the girls visit. (I won’t watch it any more. I’m done with it. Maybe I’ll revisit it, in ten years’ time or so.)
So the last time I went round
for brunch – just me – we didn’t even talk about any of it. We talked about where Mummy might go on holiday with Lorna, and she made Bellinis and I bought a set of stacking rings – so versatile – at the special one-off price of £39.99 (normal price for all five items: £120.95). And at the end, she said, ‘Darling this has been so lovely,’ and I think she really meant it. She likes the bubble. She’s happy there. She’s not interested in bursting it.
‘Mummy!’ Tessa comes running into my room, dressed in her chosen outfit – Chelsea top, tutu skirt and glittery trainers. There was just a nano-second when I considered laying down the law and forcing her into the adorable, dusty pink Wild & Gorgeous dress I’d seen online. But then I stopped myself. I’m not going to force my girls into dresses, or hairstyles, or thoughts that aren’t theirs. Let everyone be who they want to be. Let Tessa wear her Chelsea top and Anna her Gruffalo costume. They’ll make perfect bridesmaids. Or whatever they are.
‘Daddy says, “See you there,”’ she announces.
‘OK.’ I beam at her. ‘Thanks.’
We haven’t done the whole ‘spend the night apart’ thing – I mean, this is a renewal of vows, not a wedding – but we decided to arrive at the venue separately. Keep some magic, at least.
And Dan hasn’t seen my dress, either, so he doesn’t know that I’ve splashed out on the most elegant, strapless pale-grey Vera Wang concoction. At least, it wasn’t me who splashed out. Mummy offered to buy me a big-ticket dress for the occasion and I agreed without hesitation. It’s Daddy’s money that’s paid for it. I reckoned he owed us.
Dan and I had a bit of a money conversation, a few weeks after I cut my hair off. I admitted I’d thought for a long time that he was prickly about my father’s wealth, and he shrugged, looking uncomfortable.
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