by Holly Hart
“Listen, Tilly,” I mumble, chewing my lip. “There’s something I need to tell you…”
Tilly glances at me, and I meet her gaze. She’s got the same eyes as me: gray, except hers have a hint of hazel as well, sparkling like shards of glitter. She’s so freaking young and innocent, my heart feels ready to explode.
“Is this the same thing you were going to tell me on Face Timevvvvvvvvvvv?” She asks.
“Did I ever tell you you’re a smart kid?” I reply, dancing around the question.
“All the time, daddy,” Tilly says. “Now spill. We don’t keep secrets, remember…”
I let my head tip back onto the seat rest. A little hiss of air escapes my lips. I don’t know why this is so hard. I can sit in a boardroom and make decisions that affect the lives and jobs of thousands, yet struggle here, when it’s just me and my daughter.
“Tilly, I –”
I pause.
I’ve had all the time in the world to figure out how I’m going to say this, but still I come up short. Because in truth, what can I say? “Tilly, I’ve moved a woman into the spare bedroom. You can call her mom…”
No, I didn’t think so.
“I think I know what’s going on,” Tilly interrupts.
I frown. “You do?”
Tilly nods seriously. She’s got an intense look on her face, and she mirrors my frown. “Yes. You’re dating someone, aren’t you? That’s what you want to tell me. Well, daddy…”
I hold my breath.
“… It’s about time!” Tilly beams.
I croak, mouth suddenly dry. “Wha – What?”
“I mean it. I’ve been telling you to start dating for ages, haven’t I? You need to. You’re only in your prime for so long, you know, daddy?” Tilly nods seriously. “If you let it go too long, it’ll be too late…”
I cough, and splutter all over the steering wheel.
“My ‘Prime’?” I say. “What are you talking about? Who told you about all this?”
“I’m eleven, daddy,” Tilly says. “I’ll be dating soon; that’s just how it is. It’s not like how it was in your day…”
My mouth is now almost permanently stapled in an open, shocked position. I’m going to need to talk to Tilly about what she just said. There’s no way she’s about to start dating – over my dead body! But first thing’s first. I’ve got to deal with the Penny situation before anything else.
“Listen, Tilly,” I say. “You’re –”
“Right, I know I am,” Tilly smiled. “What do I win?”
“You’re kind of right,” I say, directing her. “But there’s a whole lot more to it than that.”
“Like what?” Tilly frowns.
I sigh. “I wish I didn’t have to talk to you about this,” I say. “It’s not fair. You’re too young.”
Tilly sets her jaw, and presses her lips together obstinately. “I’m eleven, daddy,” she repeats. “Not nine. And besides, we tell each other everything – don’t we?” The look she gives me fizzles and crackles with intensity.
As if there’s a difference. No matter how tall Tilly grows, she still looks as tiny to me as she did the moment I first held her in my arms.
“We do…” I groan. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
And I do.
Everything.
I don’t hold back, and the intensity of the emotion surprises me when it pours out. I talk the whole way down the highway, all the way back to 220 Central Park. I’m still talking when I step out of the limousine, when I tossed my hat and keys to the doorman, Frederick, and toss him a tip.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask, crouching down in front of the bank of elevators. I hold Tilly by her shoulders, and look her directly in the eyes.
I’ve met women four times my daughter’s age, and I’ve still to find anyone nearly so mature. She took the news about Penny like a champ. She understood exactly why I did what I did.
And why – if anyone asks – she needs to tell CPS that Penny’s her mom.
“I’m sure, daddy,” Tilly says for the thousandth time. If anything, she’s beginning to look bored by having to repeat it. “You don’t have to keep checking, you know. I’m perfectly grown-up.”
“I know,” I groan. “And I hate it.”
The elevator pings open, and Tilly steps in, grinning wickedly at me. “Let’s go meet her, then,” she says. “I hope she’s as pretty as you say.”
111
Penny
I flinch.
I’ve been waiting for the distinctive ding-hiss sound of the elevator arriving all day, and still, I flinch. This is it. I’m about to meet Tilly Thorne for the first time. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to act.
I stand in front of the elevator doors, twisting my fingers around my left wrist with anxiety.
Tilly Thorne steps out.
She’s a beautiful kid. That much is obvious right from the get-go. I’ve seen her pictures all around Charlie’s penthouse: photographs that chart her progress from a red-cheeked baby through to now; playing tennis in summer; hockey in winter. But they don’t do her justice.
Not even close.
I’m tongue-tied. What’s the right way to act in a situation like this? Maybe a high-society girl would know how to react, but I’m no high-society woman. I’m from the streets, about as low as it gets.
“Penny…” Charlie says, “This is my daughter, Tilly.”
Tilly Thorne wipes her palms on her purple-hemmed school skirt and steps forward. Her school uniform is messy, her shirt untucked. She gives off every sign of being a normal kid, except when she looks at me.
Her eyes are just like her dad’s, except hers glitter; but they share the same fiery intelligence, the same burning curiosity.
I know she’s only eleven years old, but she seems older: much older. Tilly regards me with the kind of maturity I’m not even sure most girls my age are capable of.
“She is pretty,” Tilly says, glancing at her father. “You did good, daddy.”
Charlie keeps his mouth shut: the traitor. If I survive Tilly’s inspection alive, I’m going to have words with him for that!
“Thanks…” I murmur. “I guess.”
Tilly takes three strides forward, on legs that are just about too short for her body. I stifle a smile. At her age, I had the same awkward body. Like Britney said: not a girl, but not quite a woman. She’ll grow into it in time.
Tilly thrusts out her hand. “I’m sorry. Daddy calls me precocious.”
Charlie’s eyebrow arches. “Precocious? That’s not exactly what I called you, Tills. Besides, I wouldn’t use a word like precocious. You know me better than that…”
Tilly shrugs with a wicked – precocious – smile on her face. “I know, daddy. I was trying to be kind.”
I’m stuck in no man’s land. I peer at Tilly’s outstretched hand as though it belongs to an alien, and suddenly realize I’m supposed to shake it.
“Sorry,” I say, my heart racing. “I’m not used to all this yet, I guess.”
Tilly shrugs again, as we shake. “Who is; right?”
“Right,” I say, withdrawing my hand: shakily.
I hate how awkward I’m acting. It’s like one of those moments at school when you hang around on the outskirts of a huge group. I’d been in that situation so many times when I was in school. I wasn’t exactly a popular kid; that was impossible to do, what with my cast off sneakers and tattered clothes.
But this is worse.
This isn’t just a group of popular kids in school: this is Charlie and Tilly Thorne. It’s been just them against the world for eleven years now. Now there’s me. Stumbling in, trying to break up their family dynamic.
I’m tying myself in knots.
Tilly cocks her head slightly, and narrows her eyes. The whites disappear beneath a thicket of eyelashes. “So, like, are you my mom now?”
The idea punches me in the gut. My face goes white, drained of blood: I feel the skin freezing as I stand.
I want to double over, vomit, then run somewhere and hide.
A peal of laughter splits the penthouse’s lobby. Charlie rolls his eyes, and then looks at me, and mouths an apology for his daughter’s sense of humor. I don’t blame him: he told me how much of a prankster his daughter was. I just wish I’d believed him!
“I’m just kidding,” Tilly says when she regains control of herself. “Oh my God, you should have seen the look on your face.”
She hits her thigh. “Darn, I should have recorded you guys for Snapchat…”
“Tilly,” Charlie chides his daughter. “You know you can’t do that. We’ve got to be –”
“– ‘secret’, I know,” Tilly says.
“– Under the radar,” Charlie finishes. He shrugs, rolling his eyes for a second time. “Your way works too, I guess.”
“Better,” Tilly winks. “It works better.”
She claps her hands together, and a smile – a smile I think I might learn to fear – creeps across the face. “So …what’s the plan?”
Charlie cocks his head. “Plan?”
“What are we doing today?”
Charlie frowns. “I thought … I thought you might be tired after the flight.”
Tilly’s face scrunches up. “It was ‘business class’, daddy, not prison. I slept the whole flight.”
My mouth drops open. I don’t know why this surprises me, not after everything I’ve seen, but it does. The idea of two dozen eleven-year-old schoolgirls all flying business class… I wonder if the teachers get to ride up front, as well, or whether they fly ‘coach’.
Tilly’s eyes breeze over me without stopping. Am I imagining things, or do I detect another wink? I can’t be sure.
“Okay, kiddo. Then what do you want to do?”
Tilly pouts. “That’s your job, daddy. I’m only eleven. I can’t do everything for you.”
“Don’t you daddy me,” Charlie grins.
I know he doesn’t mean it. His face lights up every time Tilly calls him that. I can’t help but think forward – years – to when Tilly’s all grown-up. Will she still call him that?
“Why –” I swallow. “Why don’t we go and do something, Tilly? Together.”
The room goes quiet. I start to wonder if I said the wrong thing. Charlie’s eyes pass from me to his daughter. He looks at her with such love I wonder if he’ll ever feel the same way about me.
It’s hard to imagine. Still, a girl can hope.
“Tilly?” Charlie prods.
She nods – slowly. It’s as though she’s judging me, picking me apart. “I think I’d like that.”
Tilly flies out of her bedroom. She puts the brakes on just in time to avoid colliding with the hallway wall. I catch the whole affair from the corner of my eye. This kid’s a bundle of energy. I’ve never seen anything like it, like her. She’s her father’s daughter, that’s for sure.
I’m so out of my depth it’s not even funny.
“Ready?” She says, jogging toward me. She’s wearing her hair in neat pigtails, finished with red hair bands that perfectly match a Little Red Riding Hood-style thin spring coat.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say in a voice that betrays my nerves.
“Come on,” Tilly says, punching me lightly in the arm. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Stick in the mud? When were you born, the fifties?”
Tilly grins. “I’ve just been to England, remember? The whole country’s stuck in the 50s.” Her forehead knits together. “Not that I would know, I guess.”
I grin, and it feels like the first rays of spring sunshine are thawing the ice between us. “Me neither. Your daddy on the other hand…”
Tilly grins back. “Right!”
“So what’s the plan, kiddo?” I say. “Anything you’ve been dying to do while you were away?”
I see Charlie emerge from his – our? – bedroom. His tight-fitting white shirt is untucked, and he’s not wearing socks. He walks toward us slowly. I can tell he doesn’t want to disrupt the conversation. He’s letting us get to know each other.
Tilly nods. She hasn’t caught sight of Charlie yet. “Ice-skating,” she says. She sounds innocent and childlike for the first time since I’ve known her: excited; excitable.
“Skating?” Charlie grins, crouching down and pinching his daughter’s cheek; “without me?”
“You can come if you want?” I say, breathless. Suddenly I’m nervous of taking Tilly out alone. For my whole life, I’ve only had to look after number one. The responsibility of taking care of someone else dawns upon me like a hammer smashing against an anvil.
Charlie hops up and shakes his head. “Hell no: I know better than to interfere with a girl’s day out.”
“Swear jar, daddy,” Tilly chides.
“I know, I know,” my husband grimaces. “Sorry, kid.”
“Just don’t let it happen again.” She looks at me. “Are you ready to go?”
“Why don’t you meet Penny at the elevator, kiddo,” Charlie says.
“You’re going to kiss her, aren’t you,” Tilly groans. “Gross!”
We both watch as Tilly scampers off. I can’t help but think that she’s one of the most intelligent young girls I’ve ever met; precocious doesn’t even come close to describing Tilly Thorne. I’m going to have a hell of a job on my hands this afternoon…
“Are you feeling up to this?” Charlie says quietly. He reaches out and grabs my hands.
A lump the size of an apple seems to appear out of nowhere in my chest. “I guess I’ll have to be,” I say.
“You’ll be fine,” Charlie says. He pulls my hand up and kisses the back of it. “She’ll try and get away with murder. Just remember – you’re in charge.”
“I should go. She’s waiting.”
Charlie releases me. He waits until I’m almost around the corner before he pipes up. “Crap – did I tell you about her allergies?”
Panic threatens to overtake me. How did I ever think that I was going to be cut out for this? A week ago I was just an untried con girl. Today I’m looking after a billionaire’s kid. And not just that – I think I’m falling for her father.
“Allergies!”
Charlie winks at me. “Yeah, she doesn’t have any.”
A wave of relief sweeps through me like a head rush. My mouth twists into a sour grimace, disguising the emotions under the surface. I turn and throw back, “Ass.”
“Swear jar…”
I don’t cast Charlie another look.
The skating rink isn’t far: just on the opposite side of Central Park.
“You think it’ll still be open?” Tilly asks. She’s already taken off her jacket, and it’s slung over her shoulder.
“The ice rink” I ask as I glance around? Early blooms are beginning to decorate trees all around, and I’m uncomfortably warm under the collar as well. “That’s a good point.”
“I’m full of them,” Tilly grins. “Hey – do you even skate?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I never got the chance as a kid. My parents never had the money.”
Tilly goes quiet for a few seconds. She looks so much like Matilda from the film, well, Matilda, that I think I’m seeing double: almost. Though, if I remember rightly, Matilda’s parents were broke crooks. Charlie Thorne couldn’t be more different if he tried.
“Shit,” I groan.
Tilly looks up, only to see what I’m seeing: an ice rink broken by puddles of melting water. “Swear jar,” she says automatically. Then, “oh…”
“Oh,” I agree. “What now?”
But Tilly doesn’t answer. When she finally speaks, her tone is so different from that of the energetic young girl I’ve come to know that I glance at her, frowning.
“Penny,” she says quietly. “Do you think I’m spoiled?”
“I don’t even know you, kiddo,” I say, parrying the question. There’s a park bench next to us, and I jerk my head at it. I’ve got a feeling this conversatio
n’s not done. “Come on, let’s it down.”
“But you’ve seen where I live, right?” Tilly mutters, chewing her bottom lip as we sit. “I mean, take the swear jar for example.”
“I haven’t seen it,” I say. My brow furrows as I try and picture a glass jar full of dirty pennies somewhere in Charlie’s stylish penthouse.
“That’s kind of the point,” Tilly mutters. “It’s a Swiss bank account.”
“A Swiss –”
“Yeah,” Tilly agrees. She’s wearing an almost apologetic look on her face. “Every time daddy messes up, he puts a few grand into –”
“– a few grand?” I choke.
“– A fund for building a school, or something,” Tilly finishes. Her serious Matilda-face is all wrapped up in knots. I get the feeling that she’s been asking herself this question for a long time – and now that she’s got the chance, it’s finally spilling out.
“Why are you asking me, Tilly?” I ask, even though I think I know.
Tilly’s face pinches. Her tongue – just the tip – darts out of the corner of her mouth. She’s considering my question to a degree I didn’t intend.
“Because you’re different,” she says.
“Different?”
Tilly’s gray eyes – the same gleaming, intelligent eyes as her father – glitter as she studies me. Suddenly I feel like I’m on trial, like I’m sitting a test for this girl. I try and remember what I was like at eleven: about to hit puberty; confused about my place in the world.
I probably dreamed of being a billionaire’s daughter. Figured it would be a life without care, without strife, without worry.
Maybe it is; or maybe there’s a different kind of struggle. A struggle to know who exactly you are, and what defines you, when you’ve known nothing but privilege. It’s not exactly starving in Africa, but for an eleven-year-old girl, already experiencing huge changes in her life, I get it.
“Different,” Tilly nods. “All my friends, their parents, they’re all the same. They all look the same, own planes and yachts. They all have the same opinions, you know?”
“I guess.”
