Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey

by Cathy Cassidy

  I take a deep breath in. ‘Is Mum there?’ I ask. ‘Can I speak to her?’

  ‘She’s out with Paddy,’ Skye says, ‘at a fortieth birthday party in Exeter. They’re going to stay over. They don’t know about this yet, but I’m going to tell them, Honey. You’ve gone too far this time!’

  ‘Skye, listen,’ I plead. ‘Somebody has control of my SpiderWeb page. They’ve been trolling me for weeks. I’ve tried to delete my account but it just comes straight back. You have to believe me!’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ my sister says, and I wish with all my heart I didn’t have a reputation as a rule-breaking drama queen who never lets the truth get in the way of a good night out, because maybe if I didn’t she’d believe me now.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ I repeat. ‘Take a look at my page and see what’s on there.’

  ‘We’re still blocked,’ Skye says. ‘Are you lying to me, Honey?’

  I think of the shattered mirror, the fragments of glass glinting in the window. I think of my laptop and mobile lying at the bottom of the swimming pool, of how this time yesterday I wanted to be at the bottom of the swimming pool too.

  ‘I’m not lying, I swear,’ I say. ‘I thought I could contain it … sort it. I didn’t want you to know I’ve messed up yet again. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I’ve told Dad, but he was tired and I didn’t explain it properly and he didn’t listen. I’m scared, Skye. Really scared.’

  ‘It’s really not you?’ my sister asks.

  ‘It’s really, really not. I swear on my life.’

  ‘So … what if we report your posts, tell SpiderWeb you’ve been hacked?’ Skye suggests, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. She believes me.

  ‘Do that,’ I reply. ‘And have a think, Skye. I need to know who’s doing this, who hates me so much they want to ruin everything I have – and lash out at the people I love most. It must be someone close to me, someone who knows me well.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mum as soon as she gets back tomorrow,’ Skye says. ‘She’ll know what to do. We’ll work it out, Honey, I promise.’

  ‘I love you,’ I tell my sister. ‘And I’m sorry, Skye. For everything.’

  I put the phone down, numb. Skye says Mum will be back in the morning, but ‘morning’ at Tanglewood is still ten or twelve hours away. I’m not sure I can survive that long. What made me think that coming to Australia would solve my problems? I carry my troubles with me wherever I go, an especially toxic kind of hand luggage. And if one set of problems gets sorted, I just conjure some more out of thin air.

  It’s a skill.

  Right now, though, self-pity is fast being replaced with a slow, simmering rage. Tormenting me on SpiderWeb is one thing, but nobody, nobody touches my sisters. If I could see my stalker right now I would tear them to shreds, but of course, an Internet troll is sneaky and secretive, hiding behind a spider’s web of lies and fakery. A weak person, a mean person, a cowardly person.

  I want to throw chairs across the kitchen, smash plates, hammer my fists against the wall until they are raw and bloody, but none of that will help. I swallow back my fury and storm out of the house, but instead of turning towards school I head in the opposite direction. I walk towards town, and every step keeps me from screaming out loud at the nightmare that is my life.

  All around me, people are going about their lives; I am detached from it all. I hold my head up high and keep walking, following signposts, asking directions, one foot in front of the other. It takes me over four hours to walk to Circular Quay, and by the time I get there I have blisters on my feet and sunburn on my nose. I buy a cold lemonade and walk up through the botanical gardens, retracing the path I took with Dad and Emma that very first day in Sydney when I still thought everything was going to work out.

  Australia is beautiful, but I don’t belong here … not now. I need to speak to Dad, make him listen and understand. I need to go home, to be with my mum and sisters – if they’ll have me. Too late, I worry that ‘last chance’ could mean just that.

  I recognize Dad’s office block in the distance and walk right in through the revolving doors. I try not to meet the eyes of the business-suited men and women travelling skywards with me as I take the lift to the tenth floor, and when I get to reception, I ask to see Greg Tanberry.

  The woman at the desk shakes her head. ‘Sorry, you’ll need an appointment; Mr Tanberry is out to lunch,’ she says. ‘I can book you in for next week, perhaps?’

  I didn’t think I might need an appointment to see my own dad, but hey, I’m way down on his list of priorities, I know that much. I am sick of waiting for Dad to see me, to listen to me, to notice I’m even alive. I could shout and yell and let the world know that my dad hasn’t spared me more than an hour or two of his precious time and attention in years, but where would that get me?

  ‘I have an appointment,’ I say with authority. ‘A lunch appointment, with my father. I assumed we’d be meeting here, but …’

  The receptionist looks flustered, checking through her appointments book. ‘I see. I’m so sorry. Well … there’s nothing in the book, so perhaps you were meant to be meeting at the restaurant? I made a reservation for him, for one o’clock, at the Blue Orchid Bistro.’

  It’s past two by the time I get back down to Circular Quay. The Blue Orchid is one of those expensive places set right on the bay, and I see Dad the moment I step inside; he is in the corner, at a table for two, his back to me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a waiter asks, frowning slightly at my blue school dress, my Converse, the look on my face as I push past. I see Dad lean forward, laughing, stroking the hand of his woman companion, feeding her forkfuls of dessert from his own plate. She’s younger, of course – younger even than Emma. Her lips are painted scarlet and her dangly silver earrings shimmer as she leans forward, ruffling Dad’s hair, trailing a finger along his jaw.

  I feel angry for Emma, angry for Mum; but most of all, I feel angry for myself. Dad is not the person I thought he was – cool, charming, charismatic. He’s a cheat. And he’ll never change.

  Dad’s companion notices me staring, and her face registers shock, worry. Then Dad turns, and I see a fleeting glimpse of pink stain his cheeks and wonder if that signifies shame or anger.

  ‘Honey!’ he says, fixing on his widest grin. ‘What a lovely surprise! What brings you here?’

  I shake my head, blinking back tears.

  ‘I need your help, Dad,’ I say. ‘I need to talk to you, but I can see it’s not a good time. I can see you’re busy. I guess I’ll just call the office and see if I can get an appointment.’

  ‘Honey, don’t be ridiculous,’ Dad says. ‘We’ll talk later. Nothing’s so urgent it won’t keep, eh? I don’t know what you’re doing out of school, but I suggest you calm down and go back right now. This is a client meeting, obviously, but I’d rather you didn’t mention it to Emma. She can be quite irrational –’

  I laugh. ‘That’s funny,’ I say, ‘because I can be irrational too. Maybe Emma and I have more in common than I thought!’

  I take the edge of the white tablecloth in my fingers, stroking the expensive handmade lace trim. And then I yank the whole thing towards me, scattering cutlery, dishes, glasses and condiments all over the shiny parquet floor.

  ‘So. Nice to meet you,’ I say to Dad’s companion. ‘Glad you got your earring back. Bye!’

  I turn on my heel and walk out of the restaurant, picking my way carefully through the broken glass and china.

  Hey Honey,

  I waited at Willowbank for you this morning, but you didn’t turn up and I had to go to class. Tara and Bennie say you weren’t in all day, so I thought I’d call over, but you’re not here. We’re all worried sick about you.

  I’ll be at the cafe till 6 p.m., if you can get there?

  Stay safe.

  Ash xxx

  25

  I take the bus home and call Mum from the landline, and when I hear her voice I fall to pieces. Skye has
shown her the spammed SpiderWeb pages and told her what’s been happening, and she doesn’t doubt or blame or criticize, she just listens quietly and lets me spill it all out. I tell her everything, every sleazy detail, every spiteful status, every threatening text. I cry until there are no more tears left, and Mum listens and makes soft, soothing noises and tells me she loves me.

  ‘I want to come home, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘I’m scared, and I want to come home.’

  ‘It’s OK, Honeybee,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll sort it. I promise. Get packing.’

  By the time Emma gets home from work, I’m almost done, shorts and T-shirts and crumpled dresses all flung into the case together.

  ‘Honey?’ Emma says, taking in the scene. ‘What’s going on?’

  I look at her face, bright and hopeful and kind, and I wonder if she knows her whole life is a sham. My dad ruins everything he touches, just like me.

  ‘Everything’s wrong,’ I say. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you for days. Someone’s hacking my iPhone and my laptop, threatening me, stalking me, turning everyone against me, even my own sisters! I have to go home, I want to go home … so I skipped school and went into town to see Dad, only he was out to lunch and when I got there …’

  I shut my eyes, swallowing back more tears because it turns out that I am not all cried out after all, not yet.

  ‘Oh, Emma,’ I sob. ‘He was with a woman. I think he’s seeing her. I don’t know if I should be telling you this … I don’t know what to do!’

  Emma puts her arms round me and holds me tight, stroking my hair as I cry, and we stay like that for a long time, until I am calm.

  ‘Shhh,’ Emma says, taking my hand and leading me through to the kitchen. ‘It’s not the end of the world! We’ll get this sorted, I promise you. We’ll report the hacking, tell the authorities, find the culprit. I feel awful. I could see you weren’t yourself, but I thought it was a flu bug. I had no idea. I’ve been a little preoccupied, and I should have seen … should have known something was wrong. I let you down, Honey.’

  I blink, amazed. ‘You didn’t let me down, Emma,’ I say. ‘I should have trusted you, told you. But … didn’t you hear what I said?’

  ‘Of course!’ she says, her smile a little too bright. ‘If you want to go back to Somerset, then we can sort that too. You’ve coped amazingly well, Honey, but fifteen is very young to be apart from your mum and sisters.’

  ‘Mum’s going to sort a ticket,’ I say. ‘But that’s not what I meant. Emma, what about Dad? Don’t you understand? I saw him with another woman!’

  Emma turns and strides into the kitchen, filling the kettle and ransacking the cupboard for teabags. ‘Tea,’ she says. ‘Hot, sweet tea makes everything better, doesn’t it?’

  She sits down beside me, shoulders slumping.

  ‘I know about Greg,’ she says. ‘I’ve known for a while. The late nights, the phone calls. I know the signs.’

  My eyes open wide. ‘You … know the signs?’ I echo. ‘He’s done it before?’

  Emma laughs, but there’s no humour in it. ‘It’s just Greg,’ she says. ‘It’s what he’s like. He’s a good-looking man, and he thrives on attention. He’s had flings before, but that’s all they are. He loves me; he comes back to me. We have a good life here, a lovely house, nice holidays. It upsets me sometimes, of course it does, but why rock the boat over something like this?’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  ‘Thing is, I haven’t been a hundred per cent honest with you,’ Emma says. ‘Truth is, I did start seeing Greg when he was still married to your mum. I’m not proud of that, but Greg has a way of drawing people in, making them feel like they’re the most important person in his universe …’

  I nod. I know all about that. Dad reels people in with his charm and they glow golden under his attention: friends, family, business contacts, even shopkeepers, waiters, buskers in the street. He makes everyone special, just for a moment or two, and then he moves on and we’re left wondering what we did wrong.

  Emma’s eyes shine with tears. ‘Your mum couldn’t handle it,’ she says. ‘She finished things. But when Greg moved in with me, I knew what I was taking on. Men like Greg are hopeless, always falling for the latest conquest. But it never lasts. Why make a fuss? It’s easier to ignore it, wait for it to pass.’

  Her hands are shaking as she dabs at her eyes, leaving smudges of mascara across her perfectly powdered cheeks. The luxury lifestyle she’s hanging on to looks thin and tawdry now, and Emma just seems lost, trying to tell herself everything’s fine when clearly it isn’t. As for Dad, he has let me down over and over; I can’t pretend any more that it doesn’t hurt.

  ‘How can you forgive him?’ I whisper. ‘I don’t understand! You say you don’t want to rock the boat, but can’t you see? It’s all just lies!’

  Emma is defensive now, distressed. ‘You think I’m wrong to turn a blind eye?’ she challenges. ‘You think I’m stupid, weak? Even Charlotte forgave him the first time. She ignored his first fling, the one before me. Of course, she didn’t know how serious it was, didn’t know about the baby –’

  She stops short, aghast. Her hand flies up to her mouth as if she can stop the words slipping out, but it’s too late, of course. Way, way too late.

  ‘What baby?’ I say.

  There’s a silence. I can see Emma working out how to backtrack, but the secret is out and it can’t be buried again, not now.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say, my voice cold, determined. ‘You have to tell me everything.’

  Emma bites her lip, then raises her chin and begins the story. ‘It was a long time ago, back when you were a toddler,’ she begins. ‘The twins would have been babies, I think. The woman’s name was Alison Cooke – I know because I worked for your dad back then and I helped to arrange a big financial pay-off for Alison, to look after the child in the years ahead. Greg wanted it all hushed up – he didn’t want Charlotte to know. She was pregnant with Coco, if I recall.’

  ‘This baby,’ I ask, my head whirling with all of this information. ‘Was it a girl or a boy?’

  ‘I never knew the details,’ Emma admits. ‘Alison lived in London, that’s all I know. She started trying to contact Greg again two years ago, and he panicked, thought she must be looking for another payout. It was one of the reasons he took the Australian contract. He didn’t want his past catching up with him.’

  I’m stunned. This is Dad all over – one big disappearing act. I just never guessed how many secrets he’s been hiding. He loves me, sure; he just isn’t much of a father, or much of a man. He leaves a trail of destruction behind him, just as I seem to do.

  Emma is sobbing now, afraid that Dad will be furious with her, and the roles reverse as I put my arms round her. I didn’t want to share my dad with anyone, least of all the girlfriend who triggered his divorce from Mum, but Emma has never been anything other than kind to me. Right now, seeing her struggle to deny there’s any problem with Dad’s latest affair, all I can feel for her is pity.

  I promise Emma I won’t tell. It’s an easy promise to make – right now, I don’t much care if I never speak to Dad again.

  I take my secret and go back to my packing, still shell-shocked, feeling the impact of it all unfurling inside me. Somehow it feels better to know the truth – it is easier to live with than a pipe dream of a happy-ever-after that can never happen.

  Somehow, amazingly, I have a brother or sister, around the same age as Coco. As the idea settles, the initial shock and horror fade, replaced by a mixture of awe and hope. Dad may not want anything to do with this other family, but surely the rest of us have a right to know, maybe even get the chance to meet our half-sibling?

  It’s like finding a missing piece of jigsaw, the bit I need to complete the picture. A few months ago I couldn’t see the picture at all; now I know that being a family is about much more than the names on a birth certificate. Maybe I can find Alison Cooke and trace my half-sister or brother; I will try my best to repair some of
the damage Dad has done.

  I slip my paintings carefully into the lid of the suitcase; the self-portraits are a visual diary of a girl in meltdown. I’ve been breaking apart and putting myself together again over and over, but finally I have stopped trying to re-make that perfect version of me that fell to pieces when Dad walked away. It wasn’t so perfect anyway, I know that now.

  I am changing the pattern, changing my expectations, changing the story to make something new. It’s like shedding a skin, and finding that the real me was there all the time.

  I get to the beach cafe just as Ash is handing over to the evening shift. His face lights up and I run into his arms and hold on tight.

  ‘Where were you?’ he demands. ‘I’ve been so worried! Tara and Bennie went to Miss Bird anyway, and she’s going to investigate. She’s sending a letter to your dad.’

  ‘Good old Tara and Bennie,’ I say.

  Ash takes my hand and we walk out across the boardwalk and on to the dunes, and after a while we flop down on the sand, looking out towards the ocean.

  ‘So,’ Ash prompts, ‘did something else happen?’

  ‘I guess things stepped up a level,’ I say. ‘My sisters’ SpiderWeb pages were spammed. I walked into town to talk to Dad –’

  ‘Walked?’ he echoes. ‘It’s, like, ten miles to the city centre!’

  ‘I have blisters to prove it,’ I say. ‘I was angry. Walking helped. When I got there, they said I needed an appointment, but I blagged my way into the restaurant where Dad was having lunch and found him smooching with his mistress. Nice, huh?’

  ‘Oh, Honey,’ Ash sighs.

  I squeeze his hand. ‘I called Mum and talked to her about the hacking, and I told Emma I’d seen Dad with another woman. Emma got upset and told me some stuff she shouldn’t have …’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like I have a half-brother or sister somewhere back home,’ I say. ‘My head’s kind of all chewed up, just thinking about it. It seems like all this happened when I was a toddler, and Mum never knew. Dad just paid the woman off and hoped she’d go away. And then a while ago she got back in touch, and Dad panicked and took the Sydney job. He really is a great dad, huh?’