Melbourne, June 1993
Winter had arrived early. It was only five o’clock, and already the night sky had settled black over the city. Trams rattled across the junction, churning up a slipstream of chip wrappers and dust. The air smelled of diesel exhaust, and faintly of the ocean.
As the streetlights blinked on along Dandenong Road, I hurried up the footpath towards the Astor Theatre. On the bill tonight was a Hitchcock double feature. Rear Window I had seen a thousand times, but Rope was new to me. Critics deemed it Hitchcock’s masterpiece and I was abuzz to see it.
A short balding man in his sixties with a shaggy beard stood near the entryway stairs at the tail end of a queue. He wore jeans and a cardigan, and clutched a beaten old briefcase. The cold evening air had flushed his ears pink. I wanted to run to him, fling myself into his arms the way I’d done as a little girl, smother his round cheeks in kisses. Instead, I trod silently up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
He whirled around and beamed, but then his face fell. ‘Lucy, you look terrible.’
I gave him a quick hug. ‘Thanks, Dad. It’s great to see you, too.’
He peered into my face. ‘Been getting enough sleep?’
‘It’s only jetlag. I’ll be fine.’
‘How’s Adam?’
I tried to sound cheery. ‘He called last night, he’s good.’
‘Has he changed his mind about joining you?’
I gazed along the street and forced a smile. ‘He’s flat out at work, otherwise he’d be here. Don’t worry, he’s still keen to meet you.’
Dad shook his head and sighed. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s more to the story than you’re telling?’
I dug my hands into my pockets, thinking of the letter. It had been on my mind since I received it back in London a month ago. It was more a cryptic note really, hastily scrawled in my grandfather’s shaky hand. I have something for you, he’d written. It will explain everything, but I can’t post it . . . Any chance of a visit?
Now was not the time to tell Dad about it. There would be a row, and he’d try to stop me seeing the old man. I would tell him after, I decided. After I had visited my grandfather and learned what this mysterious ‘something’ was.
‘Missing him already, are we?’ Dad said.
Backtracking, I realised he was still talking about Adam. ‘Hmm,’ I said noncommittally, and then nudged his arm as we shuffled forward in the queue. ‘The place is packed. I hope we get good seats.’
Dad narrowed his eyes. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Stop fussing.’ Regretting my sharpness, I tried to make amends. ‘How’s the new book?’
Dad brightened. Sliding a bundle of papers from his briefcase, he gave it to me. ‘Finally finished. I managed to turn a deaf ear to Wilma’s nagging today and get the ending written. I hope you like it.’
‘Wow, Dad.’ The letter and Adam both forgotten, I turned the manuscript over in my hands. Suddenly I wanted to be at home, curled in a comfy chair, a pot of scalding tea by my side as I lost myself in the warped and wonderful world of my father’s latest creation. ‘Let me guess, Rumpelstiltskin?’
Dad nodded, latching his briefcase. ‘I couldn’t resist turning him into the love interest. He got a rum deal in the original. He helps a damsel in distress and then they weasel out of paying him.’
‘He wanted their firstborn,’ I pointed out.
Dad shook his head. ‘A deal’s a deal, Luce. If you can’t afford to lose, then don’t gamble.’
‘Trust you to tell the gritty side of the story.’
He scratched his beard, eyes twinkling. ‘The underdogs of the fairytale kingdom always get a bad rap. The so-called evil stepmothers and wicked witches, the trolls under the bridge – they were only doing what they thought was best. Tell me, why are baddies always so misunderstood?’
‘Umm,’ I bit back a smile. ‘Because they’re bad?’
Dad’s round cheeks glowed. ‘Everyone’s a hero in their own story. Even the crooks. They’re all struggling to get along in life, find a measure of happiness, just like the next guy.’
I couldn’t help smiling as we went up the Astor’s wide front steps into the entry foyer. I had missed our talks. London was on the other side of the world, and although Dad and I talked on the phone most weeks, the physical distance had brought back the hairline fractures in our closeness.
I hugged the parcel to my chest. ‘It’s good to be back.’
Dad gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Things aren’t the same without you, kiddo. I’m glad you’re here, but the next month will fly. I wish you and Adam would move home.’
‘London is home for Adam.’
‘But not for you.’
‘It is now,’ I murmured, then instantly regretted how bleak my words had sounded. Dad seemed on the brink of commenting, but the queue progressed suddenly towards the ticket booth and, to my relief, the moment was lost. Our odd little silence reminded me that things between us hadn’t always been so sweet. We still skirted around certain topics – my grandfather, for instance – and we still knocked heads over my decision to live in London. For the most part, though, we were stable – all thanks to Dad’s stories. His publisher marketed his novellas for young adults, but he had fans of all ages, from five to ninety-five. He rewrote fairytales, turning the classics on their heads: a wicked Thumbelina who climbed into little boys’ ears and drove them to evil deeds, a kindly Bluebeard who locked himself in the cellar to escape his henpecking wives, Red Riding Hood as a shape-shifting villain. I loved Dad’s topsy-turvy world. My happiest moments were always those I spent bringing his twisted fairytales to life with pen and ink.
We had been a team for almost a decade, since I was seventeen. One day, cross with Dad after another of our rows, I had defaced one of his manuscripts with angry little sketches, which he later found. He’d begun to cackle and soon he was laughing full-belly.
‘You caught it,’ he marvelled, wiping his eyes. ‘Damn it, Lucy, you caught the ogre’s expression exactly. Talk about funny! And look at the prince’s feeble chin, it’s perfect.’
A few weeks later, his publisher called, asking to see a folio of my work. I had sketches from my art class at school, and other doodles I’d done in my textbook margins. To my surprise, they loved them. When Dad’s next book came out, his legion of young fans were overjoyed to discover it illustrated in full colour. That edition did so well the publisher commissioned me to illustrate the new editions for all Dad’s earlier books. Almost overnight, it seemed, my father and I had become a team. For the first time in years, we had common ground. The arguments petered out; our silences gave way to discussions about character sketches and colour palettes. Dad seemed to regard me through more appreciative eyes.
We bought our tickets and made our way up the grand staircase. We were early. The first film didn’t start for twenty minutes. Still time to settle ourselves, grab a bite to eat and locate our favourite seats.
‘Uh-oh,’ Dad muttered as we reached the upstairs foyer. ‘Here’s trouble.’
I followed his gaze. At first I didn’t recognise the striking young man on the other side of the circular balustrade. He was standing with a group next to the chandelier, and when he turned to acknowledge one of his companions, the light caught the side of his face.
My stomach knotted. Coby Roseblade had filled out in the past five years. His chronic skinniness was gone; he’d clearly been working out. The snug fabric of his pullover left just enough to the imagination to make any red-blooded girl’s mouth water. He’d cropped his hair short, which accentuated his broad cheekbones and square jaw.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Dad said.
I swallowed. ‘No doubt he’s come to see the double feature, like us.’
‘I’m sorry, Luce. If I’d known he was a Hitchcock fan, I’d have suggested we do something else tonight. Want to leave?’
I shook my head. ‘I was bound to run into him eventually. He wasn’t the reason I left, you know.’
Dad didn’t look convinced. ‘You realise I’ll have to go over and say hello.’
‘It’d be rude not to.’
‘You coming?’
‘Actually—’ I gazed around for a suitable excuse, and spied the queue of people at the kiosk. Digging out my wallet, I forced a bright smile. ‘I’ll get us both a choc top before they sell out.’
Dad looked back at me. His face softened. ‘Since Wilma’s not here to witness my depravity, you’d better grab a packet of chips as well.’
I stood in the kiosk queue for an eternity, fighting to control the butterflies swarming my ribcage, determined not to let my attention stray over to the group near the chandelier. My gaze didn’t wander, but my thoughts did. The first time Coby Roseblade declared he wanted to marry me, we were nine. He was a skinny freckle-faced boy, newly fostered and insecure, in need of a friend. I’d shrugged and told him, ‘Sure, why not?’ The second time he asked, five years ago, I’d been twenty-one. I’d made my feelings clear in the only way I’d known how: I packed my bags, and without explanation booked myself on the next flight to London.
I collected my chips and ice cream, relieved to see that my father had returned to our spot near the stairs. On my way back, a woman crossed my path. A tall, beautiful woman with sleek dark hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. She stopped abruptly in front of me, covering her shock with a smile.
‘Hey, Lucy.’
My stomach flipped. ‘Nina.’
She looked radiant. Her cheeks were rose-petal pink, her full lips stained dark red. She had always been striking, but in the five years since I’d seen her she’d transformed into a goddess.
‘I was hoping to run into you,’ she said warmly. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘Only a few weeks. I’m housesitting for one of Dad’s friends.’
Her dimples came out as she smiled. ‘A soon-to-be married woman,’ she said with a husky little laugh. ‘Who would have thought?’
I found myself smiling back. ‘Least of all me.’
‘I’m dying to meet him. Adam, isn’t it?’ She peered over my shoulder. ‘Is he here?’
I shook my head. ‘Still in London, I’m afraid. He works for Amnesty, and his hours are horrendous.’
‘What a shame. He sounds interesting.’
I shuffled my shoes. ‘Dad told me you finally set up your shop. How’s it going?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Remind me never to start a business again while the country’s going broke. I had a bumpy start, but things are slowly picking up. Thank goodness.’
‘I wish I could sew. Your clothes are amazing. I know you’ll do well.’
She seemed taken aback, her eyes suddenly shiny. We stood that way for a moment, as though unsure how to proceed. Then I took a breath.
‘How’re things with Coby?’
Nina hesitated, but then smiled and wrinkled her nose. On anyone else, the expression would have looked silly, but Nina Gilbert, my one-time best friend, managed to look even more adorable. ‘We’re great, never better. He’s following Morgan’s footsteps into uni, a history major. I’m really proud of him.’ There was an uncomfortable beat, and then she leaned nearer and asked quietly, ‘Is it too weird? You know, that Coby and I hooked up so soon after you left?’
‘Maybe a little.’ Then I sighed. ‘Of course not. It’s not weird at all. Coby and I were never together, you know that. Besides, it was me who ran off.’
She brushed her fingers down my arm. ‘He misses you, Luce. So does Morgan.’
I tensed and drew back. A shadow crossed Nina’s beautiful face, and she smiled with such sadness that it tore my heart. I hadn’t meant to flinch away, to react so strongly to the mention of his name. Morgan, I thought bitterly. Coby’s foster father. The man who’d come between us in the end. I felt a shiver starting and rubbed my arms. Morgan’s role in my sudden departure for London might have been unintentional, but it didn’t make him any less to blame.
Suddenly, I wanted to tell Nina everything. The real reason I’d left, the real reason I’d stayed away for so long. The real reason I’d abandoned her and Coby, my two closest friends. I wanted to grab her by the hand and drag her out into the cold air of the street, and tell her the whole long sorry story.
‘How are you?’ I said instead.
Her smile was luminous. ‘Really good. Amazing, in fact.’ She moved her hand protectively to her midriff, and something made me glance down. She’d gained weight, I saw, taken a small step from the realm of voluptuous, into fleshier territory. But as I admired the sapphire–blue vintage dress that clung to her hourglass figure, I noticed how the folds under the bodice gathered delicately over her belly . . . her rather swollen belly.
‘Oh,’ I blurted.
Nina blushed – not the sort of harsh veiny redness that afflicted me, but a pretty flush of colour that danced lightly on her cheekbones.
‘Yeah, who would have thought? Me having a baby, insane isn’t it? A little girl,’ she added with a hitch of excitement. Patting her bulge, she smiled warmly into my face. ‘We’re thrilled. I’m so looking forward to holding her for the first time, can you imagine? And Coby’s really stoked, he’s—’
She caught herself, and pressed her lips into one of those smiles that said, I’ve gone and put my foot in it, haven’t I?
‘Coby always wanted kids,’ I said quietly.
‘Tons of them,’ she agreed, widening her eyes. Then she added wistfully, ‘Family equals security for him. Nine years in the foster system will do that to a person.’
‘He’ll make a great dad.’
Nina grasped my hand. ‘Oh Lucy, it’s so good to see your face.’
This time I squeezed back. ‘Yours, too.’
Then she grimaced. ‘I really have to wee. Will you promise me something?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be a stranger. Come and visit. Please?’
‘Sure.’
‘Hey, Sunday’s curry night at our place – what do you say?’
‘Sounds good. I’ve missed your curries.’
‘Great! Come at six, we’re early eaters. Lucy, it’s amazing to see you. I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures. And all about Adam,’ she added with a gleam in her eye. Dipping towards me, she placed a butterfly-soft kiss on my cheek and then hurried away. Knots of people stepped aside for her, opened their little groups to allow her fleeting access, and then watched her with admiring glances.
A sticky trickle of melting ice cream leaked onto my hand. I headed back to where Dad and I had been standing near the balustrade. As I shuffled around the perimeter of a tightknit group, something made me look across the foyer towards the chandelier. Coby tilted his chin, a cautious acknowledgement. I lifted my hand in a wave, and then hurried back to Dad.
‘You look peaky,’ he said as I delivered his ice cream. ‘How was Nina?’
‘She’s pregnant, actually.’ My words came out stiffer than I’d intended. ‘I guess it must have slipped your mind?’
Dad winced. ‘Sorry about that, kiddo. I was scared you might jet off again if you knew.’
I sighed. ‘It’s okay, Dad. Coby and I were never really an item . . . He thought we were, but it wasn’t that way with us. You know?’
‘I know he had a hell of a time after you went AWOL. Morgan said he stayed in his room for six months brooding to Metallica.’
My cheeks burned. I felt hot and weak again. Tearing the cellophane off my ice cream, I cracked the hard chocolate topping with my teeth and devoured the cold sweetness in a couple of bites. The sugar hit revived me.
‘Nina wants me to visit,’ I told Dad.
‘I think you should. She’s missed you, you know.’
I busied myself crunching through the last of my cone.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s with you tonight? You usually wait until the movie starts before you even take off the wrapper.’
Balling the cellophane, I sighed. ‘I was hungry.’
Dad took the rubbish from my fingers, gave me his hanky, and scouted around for a bin. When he came back, he looked at me.
‘You won’t like hearing this, but I have to ask. Are you certain you’re not rushing into this? Marriage, I mean. You’re only twenty-six, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’
I frowned at him, mystified. ‘Why the sudden grilling?’
‘You don’t seem quite yourself. And it’s not jetlag. Not getting cold feet, are you?’
‘Why would I? Adam is a really lovely guy.’ I wiped my hands on his hanky and passed it back. ‘He’s got all your books. You’ll like him.’
Dad sighed. ‘I’m sure I will.’
I glanced towards the bright spot near the chandelier. Coby and Nina and their group of friends had moved along. My encounter with Nina had left me feeling as if I’d found something precious that had been lost, and now it was gone again. I twisted the ring on my finger, Adam’s ring, its big square-cut diamond warm from my skin. I was more like Coby than I cared to admit. I understood his hunger for security. More than anything else, I craved a safe harbour, a place to drop anchor and drift quietly through life, knowing I was sheltered from any storms that might blow my way. Adam, with his soft-spoken humour and gentle strength, was my harbour. There was no fiery passion between us, no tempest that might blow me off course, but rather a solid alliance built on loyalty and respect. For me, that was enough.
‘Did I tell you about Morgan?’ Dad said suddenly.
I regarded him warily. ‘Umm . . . no.’
‘He and Gwen finally got divorced.’
A rush of heartbeats, a vaguely giddy sick feeling overtook me. I forced myself to focus on Dad’s face, forced myself to sound natural.
‘What a shame. They were married forever.’
‘Almost two decades,’ Dad agreed. ‘They’re still friends, although Gwen’s living in Canberra now with her new partner. Funny,’ he added wistfully, ‘how things turn out, isn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Gwen and Morgan were always firm friends, but there was never any real spark between them.’
I wondered if he’d overheard my thoughts, and felt my defences prickle. ‘What’s so bad about that? Sparks are overrated. They don’t last.’
Dad looked at me. ‘You used to light up when Morgan came into the room, you know.’
I shot him a warning glare. ‘I was a kid.’
‘Crazy, isn’t it? Young Coby falling for you, when it was always his father you liked.’
‘Foster father. Besides, I didn’t like him. It was just hero worship.’
Dad scratched his beard and smiled. ‘You and Morgan always had a bond. As a kid, you thought the sun shone out of him. Then when you were older, I seem to remember a crush. These days you’re barely on speaking terms with him. What happened?’
My words came out harsher than I’d intended. ‘I grew up.’
‘Did I tell you he’s been helping Wilma at the historical society? He restored their photo collection, all those old prints from the war. Did a superb job. He blew up copies for the Red Cross auction, they were a huge hit.’
‘Great,’ I murmured.
‘He printed off a snap of your mother, too. Taken that last summer, while she was sitting under the big old tree at . . . Well, you remember it. A pity,’ he added, almost to himself, ‘I haven’t had a chance to get it framed.’
The rawness in his eyes threw me off guard. He was doing his best, I reminded myself. My mother, Karen, had been his soul mate, his great love. Sixteen years had passed since we lost her, but it seemed like no time at all. Dad had fallen into a black depression after she died, his grief an entity in itself, a shadow-creature living right there in the house with us. I spent my early teenage years tiptoeing around him, running and fetching to keep him happy, hiding in my room when rage and despair drove him to seek oblivion in the bottom of a wine cask. Years later, after the breakdown that sent him to Banksia House, Wilma came on the scene and everything changed. We began to rub along as a family. Dad rediscovered his smile, and we found the common ground of his stories and my illustrations. Yet the shadow lingered, mostly ignored, a dark whisper of reproach wedged subtly between us.
I took a deep breath. ‘You were telling me about Morgan.’
Dad nodded. ‘He’s a professor now. A brilliant one, too. Hard to believe he started out as a skinny, half-starved kid who didn’t even finish high school.’
I stayed silent. I’d known Morgan since I was four. Dad met him at university when Morgan was a down-and-out history student, and Dad a disillusioned lecturer. They’d recognised each other as kindred spirits, struck up a friendship, and had remained close over the years, through the hard times, and then as both their lives took turns for the better. Morgan had no family of his own – or so I’d assumed when he started coming home with Dad for the holidays. He never spoke about his past, at least not to me. My mother took him under her wing and he became the son she’d always longed for.
The year I turned eight, Morgan announced he was getting married. My parents were beyond thrilled. They insisted he bring the lucky girl over for dinner. Gwen Larkin was another one of Dad’s students. She was tall and slim, as pale as a moonbeam, a staunch women’s libber with a passion for saving the environment, the underdog, the downtrodden. She was everything I aspired to be, and I might have been as smitten by her as everyone else was, but for one glaring flaw: she was about to marry the man I adored.
Dad looked at me. ‘He’s always had a soft spot for you, Lucy. Now that he’s single, maybe . . .’
I held up my hand, wiggling my fingers so my engagement ring – my very expensive diamond engagement ring – twinkled conspicuously. ‘I’m already spoken for. Besides, Morgan’s too old for me.’
‘Ouch. You young people can be really cruel sometimes.’
I couldn’t hold back a smile. ‘Your choc top’s melting.’
Dad examined his ice cream. Condensation bubbled on the hard chocolate coating and threads of cream snaked over his hand. Taking out his rumpled hanky, he mopped the leaks thoughtfully.
‘I just want you to be happy, kiddo.’
‘I am happy.’
Dad looked dubious. ‘If you could have anything at all, what would it be?’
‘Or wish on a star. Yeah.’
I blinked. That was a no-brainer. I’d wish for what everyone else wished for: a perfect body . . . a million dollars . . . a life that wasn’t a shambles. Gosh, where to begin?
I tucked my diamond ring away from sight. ‘I’ve got everything I need,’ I told my father crisply. ‘What about you? What’s your burning desire?’
He smiled wistfully. ‘To hear my little girl laugh more often. It’s such a pretty laugh. Not to mention how damn cute she sounds when she snorts.’
I frowned. ‘It’s not like you to be sentimental.’
‘I’m just getting the vibe that your life isn’t as rosy as you want everyone to think. I mean, why are you here alone? You’ve half-blinded me with that diamond a dozen times, but the man himself is conspicuous in his absence. What’s really going on, Luce?’
I couldn’t meet his eyes. The air in the old theatre seemed suddenly stale, unbreathable. I gazed towards the stairwell, wanting to be out on the windy street, breathing the damp night air. Wishing I were back at the house, propped in bed with hot cocoa, pondering the mystery of my grandfather’s letter, or losing myself in Dad’s most recent manuscript.
Instead, I flashed back to the time before. Before I ran away to London. Before I stuffed things up so badly I could no longer bear to show my face. Before I severed ties with everyone I loved. I’d been different then, bright-eyed and quicker to smile, not so guarded. Life had seemed straightforward, ripe with opportunity. I’d believed that all you had to do was identify what you wanted and then just reach out and take it. Although, of course, that particular bubble of naivety had quickly popped.
Heat crept into my cheeks. My ears began to burn. I braced myself for Dad to continue prodding.
He must have sensed my defeat, because he said nothing more. A moment later, the gong sounded. The first feature was about to begin. I did a quick scan of the foyer and, satisfied Nina and Coby were nowhere in view, I linked arms with Dad and steered him towards the welcome darkness of the theatre.
Elegant golden curtains slid back from the screen and the film began. As the opening music flooded the auditorium, I settled back in the seat and retreated inside myself to brood over my father’s words.
Gwen and Morgan were always firm friends, but there was never any real spark between them.
The divorce had been a long time coming, I mused. They had always been an on-again, off-again sort of couple. Gwen was stubborn, and Morgan quick to storm off; tension simmered between them even during their good times. They had done their best to keep it amicable for Coby’s sake, but he always seemed to get caught in the crossfire. As Nina said, family was everything to Coby and it had troubled him that his own was so often unstable.
The year I turned twenty-one, Morgan and Gwen separated yet again. Coby had been devastated, and we began spending more time together. Not dating, at least not in my mind – just hanging out, listening to records, or walking for endless hours along the esplanade while Coby talked his parents’ latest split out of his system. We grew closer, much closer than we’d ever been.
The night of my birthday party, Morgan had seemed distant. While I danced away the hours with Nina and Coby and our group of friends, I kept glimpsing him from the corner of my eye – talking to Dad and Wilma or replenishing the cooler, fixing a string of blown fairy lights. After my friends left, I found him alone in the garden. He was sitting in the shadows on an old timber bench, his back resting against the shed wall. His hair was raked about, his face craggy with tiredness, dark circles under his eyes. He must have heard me approach, because he looked around and smiled.
‘Who’s this gorgeous creature?’ he said with a wink. ‘What have you done with my little Lucy?’
When I didn’t say anything, his smile fell away. ‘You okay, sport?’
‘Dad’s going to kill me,’ I blurted.
Morgan cocked an eyebrow. ‘What’ve you done?’
I sat beside him on the bench. I wore my usual jeans, Doc Martens on my feet, my fair hair loose around my shoulders. Nina had helped me choose a short dress to wear as a top, a glittery red sheath with spaghetti straps and a low-cut neckline that made me look shapelier than I was. I let the lacy wrap fall away from my shoulders. It was November, the night warm. The garden was mostly dark, except for the fairy lights that Wilma and I had strung from the trees earlier that day.
In the gloom, I saw – no, not saw exactly, rather, felt – Morgan’s gaze linger on me. A slow, appreciative gaze that set my blood alight. Feather-soft, that gaze took in my bare arms and danced its way across the skimpy neckline. It trailed up my throat and then, as warm as honey, settled for one intoxicating moment on my lips. When his eyes finally met mine, a shadow crossed his face. His jaw tightened. Then he tried to mask the tightness behind a smile.
‘What have you done?’ he asked again, only now his voice was strangely soft.
‘I got a tattoo.’ I lifted my shoulder for him to see. The design inked into my skin was still a little inflamed, but no longer sore. ‘It’s kind of a birthday present to myself. What do you think?’
Morgan looked at my shoulder and whistled. ‘A little mermaid. She looks just like you.’ He smiled, and the garden seemed suddenly very dark, as though even the fairy lights had dimmed. The stars grew dull, the round face of the moon faded to a hazy thumbprint. Morgan, on the other hand, glowed.
‘I love you,’ I whispered. ‘I always have, Morgan. Always will.’
His smile faltered. He tilted his head, as though uncertain he’d heard correctly.
I was possessed, I must have been. The heat he had ignited in me with his lingering, appreciative glance must have short-circuited the logical part of my brain. As though watching from a distance, I saw my hand float towards his face. I saw my fingers gently cup his cheek. I saw myself lean against him, my face turned upwards like a sunflower seeking the light. I watched my younger self with a mix of mortification and dread, as I slid my other arm around his neck and pressed my lips against his mouth—
Jolting back to the dark cinema, I realised I’d spoken aloud. Not just spoken – I’d virtually yelled. My father shot me a startled look, but then must have assumed a tense moment in the film had taken me off guard. He smiled indulgently and settled his attention back on the screen.
I sank into my seat. My cheeks burned. I thought of Coby and Nina, somewhere in the dark theatre, perhaps sitting nearby. They would have recognised my voice, known the shout had come from me. I imagined them casting each other sideways looks in the flickering gloom, Nina digging Coby with her elbow, the two of them laughing a little and rolling their eyes.
I sank lower, resigning myself to sit out the rest of the film in shame. Then, from somewhere behind me, a woman cried, ‘Oh!’
The man on the other side of Dad jumped, and then gave a sheepish snort. A few people tittered.
‘Bloody Hitchcock,’ I heard Dad mutter. ‘Nightmares all round, tonight.’