Give Me the Child: the most gripping psychological thriller of the year. Mel McGrath
than Freya she already knew things, sad, troubling things that had yet to darken Freya’s horizons. I was familiar with what knowing too much too soon could do to a kid’s spirit because I’d been one of those kids who’d had to grow up too fast. Unless you were very careful or just plain lucky, a background like that could make you cynical, angry and preternaturally old. I sensed that with Ruby the damage had already been done. You might be able to apply a few sticking plasters but you could never erase the scar. I didn’t want that happening to my girl.
I got up and padded out to the landing in my nightdress. Pudge the cat let out a greeting, but otherwise everything was quiet. Tom had decamped to the sofa bed in his study in the early hours, disturbed by my restlessness. The girls’ bedroom doors were closed and the house was still thick with sleep. I went back into the bedroom, pulled on my running gear then slipped downstairs to make breakfast.
The coffee wasn’t yet brewed when Tom appeared, looking maddeningly sexy. He’d flung on some cargo shorts and a T-shirt and was leaning on the kitchen worktop, the lean lines of his body visible beneath the fabric. I knew he wouldn’t want to continue last night’s conversation. Not really. If I allowed it, a few days would pass and I would bring the topic up again and we’d start afresh, as though the earlier discussion had never happened.
‘Did you get some sleep?’ I said.
Tom grunted.
‘Sorry about my fidgetiness.’
I watched him flex his shoulders and stretch out his arms, then I bit my lip and looked away, my anger rising at what he’d done and at myself for wanting him in spite of it.
He yawned and pulled the Weetabix towards him. ‘It’s all a bit of a head fuck,’ he said, with some understatement. I checked the clock. There really wasn’t enough time to have a proper discussion. It would have to wait. I told Tom that I had to go into the institute but I’d ask for a couple of personal days and we’d carve out a few hours to talk then.
‘You’ll let me know how your chat with the grandmother goes, won’t you?’ I had forgotten her name. I guessed my old therapist would have found some kind of meaning in that.
‘Of course. I want to sort this out as much as you do.’
There came the sound of feet on the stairs and our daughter appeared, followed, moments later, by Ruby Winter. On any normal day Freya would have come over and given me a kiss but today she waited for Ruby to choose a seat then pulled out the chair beside her.
‘Morning, girls.’
‘Can we have pancakes?’
I looked at Tom who shrugged a ‘why not?’
They were getting the pancake batter together when the phone rang. I picked up. It was Shelly Frick, our neighbour. When we were alone together Tom always referred to the couple as the Pricks. Shelly Frick was one of those uptight, insecure women who spends her life competing with other women but only ever looks to men for validation. When I’d been in hospital she’d fussed about Tom as if he were a toddler, then, when I was back home again, crowed about how well she’d ‘looked after’ him. One night not long afterwards she came round to supper and expressed surprise when I flipped on a playlist that I wasn’t more into hip-hop. Because, what? I’m brown? In other words, she was a basic bitch. Nicholas we saw less often but whenever we did he was braying about the amazing deal he’d just pulled off on the derivatives markets, which made Tom want to poke out his eyes. Not our kind of people. But Charlie Frick was a sweetheart, Freya was very fond of him, and we figured it was good for her to have a younger kid to play with.
Shelly said she’d called to warn us that the builder was about to start hollowing out their basement and also to remind us about Charlie Frick’s seventh birthday party at the weekend.
‘I wanted you to know that you’re all welcome. Including the new arrival, obviously.’ There was a moment’s pause which Shelly was clearly hoping I’d fill with some gossipy titbit and when I said nothing, she added, rather desperately, ‘My goodness, what amazing hair she has, doesn’t she? Just like a tiger.’
I muttered something about seeing her on Saturday and hung up, waiting until the girls were absorbed in their pancake making at the stove before ushering Tom over to the table.
‘Did you say something to Shelly?’ I felt unsettled that Tom had told her anything before we’d had a chance to talk through an official story. Was it unreasonable to expect to at least have control of who knew what and in what manner?
‘She came over,’ Tom said flatly, as if it were of no consequence.
‘I wished you’d discussed it with me first,’ I said.
Tom’s eyebrows rose. ‘You didn’t return my call.’
‘I was busy at work.’
‘Oh yeah,’ he hissed. ‘Your work.’
At that moment I happened to glance over at the oven and saw Ruby whisper something in Freya’s ear, before my daughter nodded and, turning to us, said, ‘Will you help us toss the pancake, Dad?’
With an expression of enormous relief on his face, Tom got up and went towards the oven.
‘Of course I will, darling.’
The heat in the office later that morning brought on an instant headache. Or, perhaps it wasn’t the heat so much as the stress – or just tiredness from two disturbed nights in a row. Whatever the cause, it left me feeling out of sorts as I sat down to my morning’s work. I’d been in the office an hour or two when my mobile started up the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’, which signalled a call from my little sister. I’d left a message last night asking Sal to get back to me urgently. It was now nearly twelve hours later but in Sallyland this was what was known as an emergency response.
‘Hey, Cat, sorry, late night. What’s up? I’m in a cab.’ She sounded her usual upbeat, flirtatious self. Since starting in fashion PR six or seven years ago, Sal had stopped going anywhere. Instead, she nipped and popped and Ubered her way around the most stylish parts of the capital, looking fresh and straight out of the box. Living with our lush of a mother and the great disappearing act that was our father had left her fragile, but she made a spectacular show of hiding it and for that I loved her. Of all the responses among friends and family about the news of Ruby’s arrival, Sally’s was the one I dreaded least. She might say something flaky and funny but she wouldn’t judge and I could at least rely on her not to be horribly earnest.
I recounted how it had happened, at least in Tom’s version, then described how Ruby had arrived in the middle of the night after her mother’s death. When I’d finished, Sal gave a low whistle.
‘God, Cat, I bet you’re raging at Tom. Except you don’t do rage. Smouldering, then. I bet you’re smouldering at him.’
‘I could bloody murder the bastard, but I’m not going to let the kids see that.’
Sal absorbed this for a moment. Then she said, ‘A whole girl, though. Is she cute?’
I laughed. ‘Since you ask, she’s, well, quirky. Loads of red hair. Nothing at all like Tom.’
There was a pause while Sal thought this through. ‘And sooo…?’
‘This isn’t really the time to start asking for DNA tests. Tom’s on the birth certificate and he seems a hundred per cent sure.’ I had wondered why, if Tom was listed as Ruby’s father on the birth certificate, the authorities hadn’t been in contact with him about child support, but I didn’t really know anything about the rules. Maybe Lilly Winter had wanted to go it alone?
Sally piped up: ‘How is darling Freya?’
‘She seems fine. Well, fine-ish. A bit in awe. Her half-sister’s big on street smarts. There’s something slightly odd about her.’