by Rina Kent
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
AUTHOR NOTE
Chapter One
Michelle
10 YEARS AGO
I don’t like Tommy Heenan.
I don’t like his dad much, either.
“No, Shelly,” my mum hisses at me from above.
Tonight she’s wearing a bright red dress that shines in the spotlights, her fingers, neck and ears glittering with every move she makes in her polished high heels.
She’s not dressed like my mum, and she’s not acting like her. She’s on edge. I can see it in the way her darkened eyes urge me to listen, and I can feel it in the air. “You sit right in there between Tommy and his dad.”
I want to argue with her. I want to stamp my foot and tell them no. Tommy is a bad boy and his dad… his dad smells funny. Like smoke and beer and aftershave that isn’t the same one my dad wears. Unfamiliar. I hardly even know Tommy’s dad, and I don’t want to either.
The kid’s table in the far corner of the room looks fun. It’s the furthest away from my parents, and nearest the double-door which leads to the hall, which leads to outside — which is perfect for a game of hide and seek. Or hunt the… bad word that rhymes with hunt.
They’re playing the game slaps at the table right now, where you have to hold out your hands like a fishtail and avoid getting hit by the person you are playing. I like slaps. I’m good at it. Reflexes of a cat — at least that’s what my dad says.
I like dogs better, though.
Our table is boring in comparison. And it’s white. I hate white — it’s the easiest color to mess up. Nothing says ‘be careful’ like the color white. My mum and dad sit next to Tommy, and then there is the empty space where I’m supposed to be. All in a big line, all facing the round tables that line the dance-floor.
“I want to sit at the table with the other kids. Please, Mum,” I beg.
She doesn’t listen.
Instead, she puts her arms under my shoulders and physically walks me over to my chair.
When I’m right where she wants me, she bends down and puts her mouth close to my ear and says, “Now you sit there like a good girl, or else your father’s going to be really angry with you. I won’t warn you twice.”
I swallow and nod my head while my cheeks redden. I was right, she is on edge. You can always tell when it’s your own mum, and tonight she is one bit of nonsense away from blowing her lid.
I just wish she hadn’t said that right where Tommy can hear her. No one enjoys being told off by their parents in front of their friends.
Well, he isn’t my friend, but it’s the same thing really.
I glance over at him and see that he’s looking at me, clearly pleased that I’ve had a telling off and he hasn’t. He’s dressed fancy too, just like my mum, but he has his sleeves rolled up and his hair is all rough and he has this look about him that tells me he was just running around five minutes ago.
“Haha!” he whispers under his breath.
I should kick him under the table, wipe that smile right off his face. But that would just get me in even more trouble, and my mum specifically told me to be on my best behaviour today.
Everyone will be watching me.
Everyone is here to see me.
I don’t know why, but I’m guessing it’s something important. I have a new dress, and my mum made me sit for hours last night while she put my hair into coils and tied them tightly with rags. I looked in the mirror this morning and felt like one of the porcelain dolls she insists I need. I don’t like the look of the dolls and I don’t like the look on me either, but she said it was non-negotiable.
I wonder what could possibly be so important.
Dinner, that’s what.
Just when I’m about to crumble from the boredom of sitting here with nothing to do, the smell of roast chicken — my favorite — fills the hall and plates are being put down in front of us. Good. I’m starving.
I look over at Tommy and watch in surprise as he stabs his fork into the chicken breast and starts hacking it to pieces with his knife. Silver cutlery smashes down hard on the plate and the sound of it echoes around the room. His dad doesn’t even bat an eyelid. Did nobody teach him how to use a knife and fork properly? He stabs his chicken as if he’s angry with it and I stare at him, wondering why he is so strange.
“What are you looking at?” he snaps, his face turning angry like I’ve just slammed my fork into his knee.
It’s rude to stare, isn’t it? Mum always says that. Well people shouldn’t give people reasons to stare, that’s what I think. But I finish my dinner without paying him any more attention.
They clear away the plates and I’m restless. I swing my legs under the table while the grown-ups talk over my head.
Glancing over at Tommy, I notice he is flicking breadcrumbs off the table, one by one, and now I wish I’d made a mess with dinner just like he did, so I could have some breadcrumbs to flick too.
His dad stands up beside me and I try to look up at him, like everyone else is, but my neck gets sore quickly. He’s a big man, Tommy’s dad, with the blackest hair I’ve ever seen, and probably the biggest belly, too. I’ve always been tall for my age, but next to him I feel like an ant. Maybe that’s why I don’t like him? He starts rambling on about things I don’t understand and all I want to do is go over to the kids' table and not be bored anymore.
Then he stops talking, and everyone claps. What are they clapping about? He smiles down at me and holds out his hand. I look at it for a second, wondering why. The only logical reason I can think of is that he’s finally realizing we should be at the kids' table — just like I said in the first place. I wish people would listen to me more.
So I take it.
He leads me out to the middle of the floor and I stand beside him, holding his hand.
Why is everyone staring at me?
Then I see my dad, and he has Tommy beside him. He leads Tommy from the table until we’re standing face to face, a few inches apart.
I look at Tommy and he looks at me.
He’s a little smaller than I am, and I reckon that must be why he doesn’t like me so much. We’re the same age, and with him being a boy he should be taller.
He should be faster too, but he’s not.
“Go on then,” my dad says, nodding his head at me. “Kiss him.”
Kiss him?
Why would I do that?
But my mum’s words ring in my ear. I have to be good or else Dad will be angry.
Why do I need to be the one to kiss him though? He told me to do it, and surely that’s not fair. I look over at my mum and she’s telling me with her eyes to do it.
I’ve never kissed a boy before, but I have seen The Little Mermaid. I close my eyes, pout my lips, and lean in to where I think his face should be, tilting my head down slightly.
I plant a single kiss on his lips and stand back, opening my eyes and hoping to see my dad smiling.
I did it; I was good.
No nonsense from me.
“Ugh!” Tommy makes a sound like he’s about to throw up and wipes his mouth right along his shirt.
His dad laughs beside me.
My dad laughs.
They all laugh.
I look around the room and they’re laughing at me.
Who does he think he is? And why do I have to be good when he is allowed to be bad?
I don’t even think twice.
I take a step forward, raise my arms up to his chest and I push him.
I push him so hard that he stumbles back and falls, landing on his bottom with a thud.
“HAHA!” I tell him, just like he told me earlier.
If the grown-ups were laughing before, then they’re laughing even harder now.
I smile, pleased with myself that I’ve got one up on him. I’m bigger, and you shouldn’t annoy people who are bigger than you.
His face turns red.
He fixes his eyes on me and jumps up, fists clenched at his side.
He comes bounding towards me and I take a step back, but my dad is on it instantly. Dad holds him back while he thrashes.
“We don’t hit girls, son,” his dad tells him, shaking his head and laughing.
Ha! Let him. Let him try to hit me! I’d hit him right back, twice as hard, and then he’d be sorry.
That’s what I’m thinking when his dad turns around to face the room and says, “A marriage of passion already… god help the both of them!”
They all start laughing again. Why? It wasn’t even that funny what his dad just said.
And what was that about marriage? I’d never get married to Tommy. Not for all the ice cream in this world. Not if you paid me two-hundred pounds.
Or even a gazillion.
I don’t even like Tommy Heenan.
Chapter Two
MICHELLE
Taking a good look at the chocolate box for the last time, I glance down at the shoebox in my hands. The shoe box, with its bashed corners and discolored cardboard, so at odds with the pretty chocolate box in front of me.
The Chocolate Box.
That’s what you call a house that’s so conventionally pretty it could be painted on to a metal tin and given to a loved one as a Christmas gift.
Our house is that house. Quintessentially English, which makes absolutely fuck-all sense, because we’re Scottish.
To the left, a wall with an arch is draped in hydrangea, and although it’s too early in the year for the white flowers to bloom, it’s still charming.
When I was little, charming wouldn’t be the word I’d have used. Magical. That’s what I thought of the leafy archway that led to the garden, the one filled with wildflowers, meadow-grass, and the unkempt willow trees that nature placed on this earth for climbing.
I look down at Dollar who must think there’s something exciting in the shoebox, the way she’s sitting to attention. She would have loved that old garden. She wasn’t around back then, which is probably a good thing.
Back then was before everything went to shit and my mum changed. We needed to be perfect. We needed to be pretty. We needed to be better than Mr and Mrs Jones next door. And the unruly, enchanting field at the back of our house was turned into manicured lawns and raised beds of roses.
The trees were chopped to make way for patios, with rattan sun-loungers for sipping margaritas and the most expensive propane fired barbecue money can buy, for it to be used only once. I still remember that day, best sausages I ever tasted, and I would have traded a lifetime of those sausages to get my favorite tree back.
It’s the pretty chocolate box that makes me shudder when I look at it. The shoebox, made of cardboard, ugly and worn and falling apart, is more real than the brick and mortar box in front of me.
Years worth of effort have gone into filling this little shoebox.
Dad, can I have fifty quid for dinner and a movie with my friends? Dad, can I have money for a new gym kit? Dad, could you give me thirty pounds for Ada’s birthday present?
Dad, Dad, Dad.
Money, money, money.
But I don’t feel a single ounce of remorse about any of it. Dad owes me more than the scraps I’ve had to collect over the years. It’s because of me that my dad has most of what he does, and so I never felt any guilt when I found new schemes to take it from him.
I used to wonder how he slept at night, how he could live with himself… but I think me constantly asking for money, and him never saying no, helped him with that.
As if everything was all worth it.
As if I wanted it, and I’m happy with the situation I’ve been forced into.
Except, I’m not happy with it and I never have been. The money stuffed inside this shoebox, well that was always about helping me run.
And the little shoebox, now tatty with age, that’s the best 18th birthday present I could have given myself.
I learned a lesson ten years ago, almost to the day. We don’t get choices in this world. There are no choices, not really. There’s just shit that happens, and then there’s how you react to it.
I take the shoebox and stash it in the space at the bottom of the car boot where the spare wheel should go, then I pick up the bag and throw it onto the backseat.
I’ve not packed much at all. I have about a weeks worth of clothing and a few thousand in cash, enough to get me across the sea to Ireland and to pay for a month's rent while I find a job. I don’t need much. When all you’ve thought about since the age of eight is freedom, you learn that material shit just isn’t that important.
There is one thing I can’t take with me though, and she’s looking at me right now like she wants to play. I’m wearing a dress that insists I went braless and heels that make my toes scream, and as much as I’d love to kick a ball around the garden with her one final time, I’m not capable of it in this outfit.
I crouch down on the grass so I’m at eye level with her — she’s a mix of German Shepherd and Husky, so not that low, really — and rub her ears. “Where’s my good girl?”
I like dogs. I like all animals in fact, much better than I like humans. Animals live on instinct. They’re just surviving, like me. They’re not plotting things ten years in the future or selling their daughters. They’re simple. They’re loyal. Dollar is loyal, and leaving her now has a lump in my throat the size of a £2 coin.
There’s only one photo I’ve allowed myself to keep, a picture of me holding Dollar on my 9th birthday, when she was 9 weeks old. It used to sit at the side of my bed and now it’s sitting at the top of my bag. I have a new phone, one without internet and applications that track your location. I can’t risk being found, or worse, drunk calling my friends and being tempted to come back. So that means no phone numbers, no social media, and no photos.
The worst part of all of this is that she doesn’t even know, and she’ll never understand. I could promise her I’ll come back for her, but that won’t happen.
I put Dollar back in the house and get in the car before I risk having second thoughts.
I just need to get this party out of the way, like I’ve been planning for the last six months. This seemed like the best time to do it. At the end of the night, everyone will be drunk. I should be able to slip away and they won’t notice that I’m gone until the morning.
By that point, I’ll already be driving my car onto a ferry.
If everything works out, I’ll be free of the collar that’s been around my neck for ten years.
Starting the engine, I kick my heels off and throw them in the passenger footwell. I’ve always driven in bare feet since my dad taught me to drive the summer I turned 12. My legs were probably too short for the car and shoes just seemed to get in the way of finding the pedals.
And maybe I guess I just enjoyed being in control of something.
I’m sitting here waiting for my Bluetooth to connect so I can get some music on when I realize that’s a luxury I’m no longer afforded. There is no music on my phone and definitely not any Bluetooth. Fiddling with the radio, which I’ve never had to use before, I find something half-decent and shift the car into gear.
Then I let the car roll over the crumbly gravel of my driveway for the last time.
The Water Lily sits in the middle of an open reservoir, accessible only by a long paved walkway with glass sides. The car park is so far away that my toes will be screaming in pain come morning — cursing this trek — but as long as they’re firmly on Irish soil I won’t give a shiny shit.
I park the car and wrestle my feet back into my heels.
The sun is almost setting and the water reflects the sky, pastel tones of pink, orange and blue. I head along the
walkway and pass a little wooden pier, wrapped in blue fairy lights and extending out into the colorful water. The lake is still, the only movement the ripples made by the team of ducks paddling and quacking and living their best duck life.
Through the windows I can see that guests have already arrived.
It’s a circular building, with 180 degree full height glass. Reminds me of a giant fishbowl, the fish inside unaware they’re being observed. That has to be the worst type of cage, one where you can see the outside so clearly but you’re still enclosed by walls. It wouldn’t even feel like a cage, to most people.
But despite the gilded cage fluff, the Water Lily is a beautiful place, falling somewhere in between modern and magical. Perfect for a wedding — that’s what all the brochures will tell you. It’s where my own wedding is booked for the next month. Tommy turns eighteen next weekend, and the following month was the first date they had available.
Shame I will never see it.
I roll my eyes… Aye, right then.
To my left and up a hill, I see the silhouette of the Canadian imported log cabin, the one where we’re supposed to spend our wedding night. The thought of spending more than a second alone in a room with Tommy Heenan makes me shudder.
When we were younger, after the sham ‘engagement party’ our parents held, Tommy would take every chance he could to tease me. For being too tall. For being too boyish. He had all of his friends calling me Michael for years, just because he thought it would annoy me. Hilarious.
Luckily though, he didn’t go to my primary school. Tommy went to the Catholic primary, and I went to the non-denomination one, so his attempts to intimidate were reserved solely for parties and gatherings.
Then we turned twelve, and in our town there is only one high school. I reckon at this point he hit puberty and realized there were more interesting things to do than bully me. Like… putting your cock inside other girls, for example. Whatever it was, he mostly ignored me during the early years of high school.
