by Terry Tyler
@MumNotMum—Cheryl—was extremely helpful. I got in touch with everyone she mentioned, and expected nothing.
In my heart, I knew I'd lost her.
Chapter 8
Tara
2048 ~ 2051
Being a pretend Bettencourt wasn't easy. When we attended the frequent family get-togethers, I was aware that I didn't fit in. Some of the kids were scared of me, others looked at me like I was an intruder. There were the snobs and the silly little rich kids, but the most obnoxious was always Jerome. He still called me 'Hope Skank' whenever Marilee and Clinton weren't around. He boasted that Clinton wanted to officially adopt him, which was a Massive Thing because it meant becoming heir to his fortune.
"Long as Zia proves herself at college she'll be offered the same, which is okay, but I'm not sharing all that dosh with a Hope Village dirtbox!"
He'd moved into his own flat, also in the gated community, and I wished he'd stay there, but he was forever popping in to show off about something. Marilee and Clinton were über-proud of him; he'd jacked in his job at Nutricorp and taken a mid-level position in the Department of Social Care, which he secured by smarming up to Ezra Bettencourt (Clinton's second cousin twice removed, or something), who worked for the Under Secretary.
"Our boy will be PM one day, I guarantee!" said Clinton, too often.
Ezra was gay, but uncomfortable with it. He was plump and sweated a lot, particularly when the handsome Jerome cosied up to him at family gatherings.
I thought it odd that someone as self-centred as Jerome would want to work for the Department of Social Care.
Back then, I didn't know its real purpose.
I didn't know that 'care' had very little to do with it.
By the time I started my two-year HCE course to qualify for college—I hoped to go to MC15 Art and Design College on the Cornish coast―Zia was getting ready to go to MC9 University, to study journalism. I thought that was sad, because she'd wanted to be an actress so badly when we were younger.
When I asked her why she'd given up the idea, she just said, "Most people who do drama end up doing a normal job because they can't make the grade, so I thought I may as well study for something else from the outset."
Seemed a bit defeatist, but it was her life.
Just before term started, I spent a great day at the Retail Village with Marilee looking for cute new autumn clothes, and I thought how much more cool the outing would have been if Zia had come with us. The old Zia. I mentioned this in passing to Marilee.
"Yes, that would have been lovely," Marilee said, with her big sparkly smile, "but she's got such a lot of prep to do before she goes off to college; have you seen her reading list?"
Fobbed off with adult-to-kid reasons again. Like they thought I was stupid.
"Marilee."
"Yes, dear?"
"Why d'you think Zia's changed so much? She's not interested in clothes any more, she's stopped wearing make-up, and she hasn't been out with a boy for ages."
"I imagine her priorities have changed," Marilee said. "MC9's journalism course only takes the cream of the crop, and she's extremely fortunate to have got in—I imagine the last thing on her mind is boyfriends. I won't deny that Clinton pulled a few strings, so she doesn't want to let either of us down." She picked a fabulous mustard, drop-shoulder jumper from the rail. "You would look gorgeous in this! Shall we add it to the pile to try on?"
Okay, so Zia needed to spend a lot of time studying, but that didn't explain why she walked about in baggy clothes, with a bare face and her hair scraped back in a ponytail. We used to love doing our hair and make-up together.
She left for MC9 on the following Friday, six days later. Nothing of note happened during that week, but in later years I saw it as the last one of my childhood.
Once Zia had gone, it was the end of 'before'.
'After' began one Saturday afternoon, the day after Zia left. Marilee had gone out to organise some charity do with a friend, and Clinton was in his study, working. I was at home, unusual for me on a Saturday, but some of the clothes I'd ordered the week before would be arriving that afternoon.
When Delia called up that they'd been delivered, I dashed down, scooped them up, ran back upstairs and threw them all on the bed, tearing open the cellophane. Neat little skirts, gorgeous tops―I had a great time trying out different combinations, parading in front of the mirror in my walk-in open closet area. I'd just zipped up my new green and black houndstooth skirt―short, figure-hugging and so cute―when there was a knock on the door.
I shouted 'hang on!', but Clinton walked straight in.
I hadn't got a top on, just a black sports bra, and my immediate instinct was to clutch something in front of me, but he'd seen me in a bikini all summer, my bra was no smaller than a top I might wear at the gym, and it would have been kiddish, like I was embarrassed. So I just did a silly pose, and said, "Like my skirt?"
He folded his arms, grinned, and whistled. "What're you going to wear that with?"
I held up a black lacy jumper. "This, probably."
"I approve!" He nodded, and said, "And which shoes? Or boots?"
I reached for some clumpy, wedge-heeled ankle boots, on my shoe rack. "These."
Clinton came up behind me and put his hand on my bare back. It felt big, strong, cold. I could feel his torso against me as he leant over to pick up a pair of calf-length, stiletto-heeled boots with laces up the front.
"Try these. They'd really set it off."
He didn't move away. He carried on standing close to me as I bent over to put on the boots. I could feel him looking at me, and it didn't feel right. I kept telling myself, it's only like Marilee being here, he's my guardian, that's all. I didn't want to show him I felt awkward, so I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and said, "You like?"
To my extreme discomfort, he crouched down and ran his hands up the boots, then further, up to my knees and a little bit above; he stopped, his hands a few inches above my knees, stroking the insides of my legs with his thumbs.
"Very nice," he said, "very alluring."
I caught my breath. This wasn't right. I stepped back and said, "Well, this is for school, so I'm more bothered about comfort."
He stood up, and put his hands on my bare shoulders, and to my annoyance I shivered, from nerves rather than cold, but I think he took the shiver to mean that I liked his touch, because he looked into my eyes and stroked my skin with his thumbs, like he had before.
"You look great whatever you wear, Tara," he said, softly. "You're a woman now."
I swallowed hard. "I'm sixteen."
"You are indeed," he whispered, "and you're beautiful." And he bent down to kiss my shoulder. I began to get scared. We were in the house alone, apart from Delia. What the fuck was he doing?
His hands left my shoulders and ran down the sides of my waist, down to my hips, and I froze, terrified, my eyes tight shut. He bent his head to kiss my shoulder again and I unfroze.
I pushed him away and grabbed the black jumper, pulling it on.
"What's the problem?"
"You're-you're like my parent. You're my guardian. You don't do that!"
He smiled at me, like I'd amused him. "You don't call me 'Dad', do you? You call me Clinton. We're not related. We're two adults, that's all."
I hugged myself, hiding as much of my body from him as I could, backing away. "It's not right. You know it's not."
"No? Well, I admit to being a little confused here; you paraded in front of me in bikinis all summer. I remember you and Tallulah at Jeff and Livia's luau party. Dancing in tiny grass skirts and bra tops made out of nothing but a few flowers. Not so modest then, were you?"
"We were just mucking about—"
"Oh, come on. You kept swivelling your hips at me. Don't pretend otherwise."
"I did not!" But all sorts of crazy shit ran through my mind—had I given him the come on, without realising it? I didn't see that this was exactly what he wanted me to think. That it was my fault
. I'd only ever seen him as a sort of uncle—not a father, but—no, this was bang out of order. Even if he wasn't my guardian, he was thirty years older than me, and married.
He put up his hands, and backed off. "Okay, okay. So you're not ready. That's okay. I can wait."
Anger fizzed through me. "You can wait as long as you like, nothing's going to happen. You're married to Marilee, you're my guardian—it's disgusting!"
He'd reached the door; he turned, and smiled that slick smile at me, once more. "Don't mind spending my money, though, do you? Oh, and you really should wear that skirt with those boots. You look knockout."
And then he was gone, leaving me standing there, shaking.
I felt violated, and … dirty.
My door didn't have a lock on it, but I shoved a chair up against the handle, tore my clothes off and jumped in the shower, scrubbing myself from head to foot, washing off all my make-up. I pulled on old pyjama trousers and a hoodie, then sat on my bed, in between the pillows, my back against the headboard, hugging my knees.
I stayed there for a long time, just thinking. I heard Marilee come home; they were talking and laughing downstairs. She called to me to come down, and I jumped off the bed, not knowing how I could face Clinton, or her; I stood in front of the mirror and tied my pretty, beaded braids back in a knot, hoping that I didn't look in any way attractive enough for Clinton to think I was giving him the come-on.
Wanting to look like a kid.
Which was when the penny dropped.
Zia, dressing in shapeless clothes. Leaving off her make-up. Scraping her hair back.
I needed to talk to her. Badly.
That night, I threw the houndstooth skirt and the lace-up boots into the charity box, the one that Marilee kept for Hope Villages. I also bought a lock for my bedroom door.
A fly on the wall at our family breakfast the next morning might have admired the perfect picture of a happy family. Jerome was there; he usually dropped in on Sunday mornings to share the feast, and looked even more pleased with himself than usual that day, because Clinton had an announcement to make.
He even got Zia up on holochat to be a part of it.
The big news? He and Marilee had adopted Jerome, officially. At the age of twenty-four.
"Yes, I'm now a real Bettencourt!" he said, winking at me. "I resisted for years, because I wanted to make my own way, but then I thought, what am I doing? I've been with them since I was ten, I've taken their surname—why not?"
Nothing to do with making sure he inherited their millions, then.
Zia pretended to be delighted, he and Clinton did all that back-slapping shit, Marilee glowed, and I tried not to vomit.
During the meal Jerome teased me, as he always did, his taunts nasty enough to let me know he despised me, but not so mean that he couldn't pretend to be joking. Just another Sunday breakfast, which I usually raced through so I could go upstairs and get ready to go out with my friends. On Sundays we met up late morning in our favourite café, Cacoffanee, to have post mortems about whatever we'd been up to the night before.
This week though, I'd spent Saturday night in my room, on my own. I couldn't face anyone. The moment breakfast was officially over, I zoomed upstairs as usual—I had a call to make, before I got ready to go out.
Zia.
I tried her twice before she answered, and she declined interface.
"Hey."
"Hey," I said, trying to sound bright and cheerful. "What d'you think about Jerome, then?"
I could almost hear her shrug. "Whatever."
"That's what I thought! So, how's it going?"
"Well, I've only just got here, haven't I? I'm doing some reading."
"Good?"
"Yes."
Shit, how did I broach this? I summoned my inner Hope Village toughie, who didn't mince her words.
"Zia, I need to talk to you."
"Yeah?"
"It's about Clinton."
"Mm-hmm?"
"Yesterday, he came into my room while I was trying on some clothes, and he tried to touch me. Like, in a way that wasn't right."
Silence.
"He said it was okay because we weren't related, and we were just two adults."
Still she said nothing.
"Zia? Did you hear what I said?"
I heard her draw in her breath. "I did, yes. That's awful."
That told me everything I needed to know. She should have been horrified. Like, screeching you fucking what? Instead, she sounded as though she'd been expecting it.
"Is that all?"
"What?"
"Is that all you've got to say?"
Silence.
"I don't really know what—I'm not living there now."
"How about, bloody hell, that's terrible, what a disgusting shithead, you need to tell Marilee or a teacher, and are you okay?"
"Well, yes. You should tell someone. If you're absolutely sure. I mean, if he wasn't just being Clinton."
"The fuck's that supposed to mean? Just being Clinton? As in what, trying to touch up sixteen-year-olds?"
"No, I meant—you know, just joking, larking around, pretending—"
"You what?"
Silence again.
"Zia?"
"What?"
Swallow hard. "Did he ever do that to you?"
Silence.
"He did, didn't he?"
Silence.
"Zia, talk to me!"
That sharp intake of breath again. "Look, I'm sorry, I can't get my head round this right now, I've got so much going on here—can you talk to Tallulah, or something?"
"No! No, I can't tell her this—you know I can't! She might tell someone—Zia, please, did he do this to you? Please tell me, I won't say anything else about it, just please be honest with me!"
"Honey, I'm really sorry, I've got to go. I've got so much reading to do—"
She ended the call. I knew I was right, but for whatever reason, she wasn't going to admit it.
I curled up amongst my pillows and thought some more.
Susu. The girl who ran away. Her too? I had no proof, but I knew it.
Nothing else happened for months after that, except that I often noticed Marilee's eyes dart from him to me, from me to him, kind of nervously. Like she knew. Or suspected. Or was scared of him chasing younger women, full stop. I could see that he was handsome, and I'd seen women flirting with him at Bettencourt parties, but even if he hadn't been my guardian he would have made my flesh creep.
Then Christmas was on the horizon, and they were both excited about Zia coming home, though I thought Marilee seemed nervous.
Did she know? Did she put up with it, in exchange for the benefits that went with the surname?
Zia arrived, and you should have seen Clinton's face. I wanted to laugh.
She'd cut off all her hair. Like, pixie cut short, except that it looked more like she'd hacked it off with the nearest scissors. She was thin, too. Before, she was nice and slim but well-covered; now her cheeks were hollow and her jumper and baggy cargoes hung on her.
Marilee couldn't contain her shock. The first thing she said was, "My goodness, darling, what have you done to yourself?"
And Zia just shrugged, like she didn't care; she pushed her way past Clinton and gave me a big hug.
"Good to see you, hon," she said; she smiled at me in the way she used to, and I understood. She was fighting her femininity and probably thought she'd won, though I thought she looked über-cool, in a junkie-chic way, she was so pretty that her features could take it. But I was angry. She'd had gorgeous hair, and I really fucking hoped he hadn't caused her to develop an eating disorder. Most of all, though, I wondered why she wouldn't talk to me about it.
I didn't find out why for some time.
And on New Year's Eve, Clinton tried it on with me again.
We were at the big family NYE bash. My friends at school got to go to brilliant parties, but because I was a Bettencourt I missed out on one of the best nights of t
he year. At Caleb and Freya's, the adults thought they were being so liberal by letting the under-eighteens have a couple of wine coolers and some champagne to see in the New Year, not realising that we’d hidden small bottles of vodka to be tipped into our non-alcoholic punch, and that we'd be having a secret blitzkrieg in one of the spare rooms. Marilee thought we were 'playing on our coms'. How sweet!
Zia huddled in a corner talking to a couple of older female Bettencourts who looked as though they couldn't wait to get their diamonds and satin off and slip into bed with cocoa and the telly. The silk and lace hung off her, though every time I looked at her she was eating creamy cakes, so maybe she was bulimic rather than anorexic. I knew a couple of girls at school who claimed to suffer from bulimia (it was trendy that year), but they were both on the plump side so I guess they did the binge-eating but ducked the throwing up bit.
Jerome appeared as Clinton Junior, with his sharp blond haircut and pale blue shirt; he 'worked the room', keeping Ezra and Caleb's glasses topped up and flirting with Freya. Marilee got stuck into the dirty martinis and talked trivial bullshit with her fake friends, and Clinton buzzed around, getting too friendly with waitresses and talking Bettencourt bollocks to Bettencourt bores.
As for me, I was wild. I'd felt myself careering out of control since Clinton did what he did back in September, drinking and doing blitz whenever I could get away with it, staying out past curfew, partying like the world was going to end, and neither Marilee or Clinton said anything, which freaked me out a bit. I kept up with my schoolwork, though, because I needed to get into college. Away, down to Cornwall, and somehow I'd work it so that I didn't have to come back to MC5 at holiday times, either. One year and eight months, that was all I had to get through.
That night I got off my face pretty quickly with a few teenage Bettencourts who thought they were super-daring for taking drugs. I remember the countdown; everyone standing in the palatial living room, shouting out ten-nine-eight-seven, etc, then the whooping, kissing and raising of glasses. I was cracking up laughing at something and spilled half my champagne; I grabbed a bottle off one of the waiters and necked it, straight down, and the stupid little rich kids were all cheering me—then I felt an arm go round my waist and a voice in my ear saying, "You're being a naughty girl tonight, aren't you?"
