45

Cass wasn’t sure she liked seeing her picture in the paper. It was definitely a flattering shot, and she was sad enough to care that that was the case, but it was just that she looked a little desperate, a bit like a wannabe. Like one of those kiss-and-tell girls, or a fame-starved Big Brother contestant. It was odd seeing her name too. Cassandra Richards printed there for all of the paper’s however many millions of readers to see.

The interview hadn’t been part of her plan. After she had turned up at Jen and Jason’s house (God, that had been scary – her heart had been pounding out of her chest when she sat on the wall, anticipating Jen’s reaction when she arrived home), she had waited, breath held, heart fluttering, for news.

She had been in no doubt that Jen was going to have to tell at least Jason, even if not the others, about her existence after that. She had shown that she could expose Charles’s secret any time she liked. Not, to be honest, that she had had any intention of doing so. She held no ill will towards Jen. She liked her, hoped that one day they would all feel like family. She was never really going to blow it all apart herself. She just wanted to give Jen a nudge. Let her handle it how she wanted to, but hint that she ought to do it sooner rather than later.

Then, the next thing she knew, her dad was telling her mum that the whole family knew. That his other three children weren’t speaking to him. She knew that her mother had waited, just as she had, for his marriage to fall apart, for his secret to be made public. For him to beg to come back and be a family with the two of them again.

Nothing. Nothing had happened.

He had stayed at home in Twickenham with his doormat of a wife. She had thought perhaps Jason, or one of the others, might get in touch with her. Curiosity, if nothing else, would surely drive them to seek her out. She could hardly stand the suspense. Waited, thinking every day that today was going to be the day.

Nothing.

She had thought about getting back into contact with Jen, but she had the feeling her approach wouldn’t be welcomed. Her dad seemed unhappy and angry and she knew that, whatever had happened, however his story had come out, it had not been a happy experience. And then she had heard via Charles that Jason and Jen’s marriage had broken down, and she knew she should keep well away. She’d felt bad, she honestly had. Jen hadn’t deserved for it to rebound on her.

Only once did she and her father talk about what had gone on. He had phoned her, not even waiting to exchange pleasantries before getting straight to what was on his mind. ‘Did you get in touch with her? With Jen?’

She had known he would be angry, would think that she had acted as a catalyst somehow, so she had avoided giving a straight answer.

‘She contacted me,’ she had said. ‘She came down to Brighton to confront me.’

He had left it at that, seemingly not up to the fight, and she had been grateful.

Now, of course, things were different. Since the article had come out in the paper, he had avoided her completely. All of her colleagues now knew about their relationship – that had been an embarrassing Monday morning – so he couldn’t really fire her, but she knew that their closeness was over. At some point, she was going to have to think about looking for another job, or maybe she should just use this opportunity to set up on her own as she had always wanted to? He would never forgive her for this.

She didn’t really know why she had done it, why she had picked up the phone and called the number the paper gave out for people wanting to pass on bits of gossip. It was the anticlimax. The deathly calm after the storm. She had been so sure that everything was going to change, that she would be able to begin the undoubtedly long and slow process of getting to know her siblings, that when she was confronted with a blank wall, a sea of nothing, she had felt cheated.

As soon as she had done it, had said the words to the person on the other end, who had gone from sounding bored to practically salivating when she had spat out why she was calling – Cass would have sworn she could hear the drool hitting the receiver – she had had second thoughts. But, by then, it was too late. She had alerted the tabloid media to the fact that Charles Masterson was a fraud – and a fraud with a love child, at that. She hated that phrase. ‘Love child’. As if the only children born of love were those whose parents were sneaking around while their partners’ backs were turned. She didn’t have to go through with telling the story herself, but it would be out there now, regardless.

She had thought, probably foolishly, that at least by agreeing to do the interview she could make sure the piece wasn’t too unsympathetic to Charles. She could do some damage limitation. Make sure they made a note that he had always been a kind and loving father, all things considered.

When she had read the finished article, there didn’t seem to be much mention of that. Charles came across as a hypocritical Lothario, while she was made out to be, it seemed to her, pathetic, needy and bitter. The scorned daughter looking for revenge.

Her mum, who she had not warned until the day before, had been furious. Splashed across the Sunday press as a stealer of another woman’s husband. To be fair, Cass thought, trying to make herself feel better, that was exactly what Barbara was. Not that she had ever told the neighbours that, of course.

She had quite enjoyed talking to the journalist, at first. It had felt cathartic to get the whole story off her chest, to have her point of view heard, for once. They had met in a little cafe in Hove, after the pictures had been taken in a small hotel room that the paper had arranged. Someone to do her hair and make-up. A stylist who persuaded her into a dress that was considerably shorter than one she would ordinarily wear. They all kept telling her how great she was going to look. And she, like an idiot, had fallen for it.

The reporter – a woman in, probably, her mid-fifties, with a neat black crop and her glasses dangling from a chain round her neck – had been super friendly at first, praising Cass’s bravery in coming forward, telling her that her father would thank her in the end, because living a lie must be like living a kind of hell. As the interview had gone on, it had become obvious that this was going to be some kind of a hatchet job, though. The woman – Angie, that was her name – had kept asking Cass for sleazy details about her parents’ relationship, how often Charles had stayed over, did he ever buy her mum underwear, that kind of thing. Cass had tried not to answer, but Angie would always sidle up to the same subject again, putting words into her mouth, choosing to read silence as acquiescence.

By the time it was over, she had felt lower than she had ever felt before. There was nothing she could do now but wait for the story to come out, the shit to hit the fan, the grenade to go off.

She had bought a bottle of wine and taken it home. She hadn’t even invited Kara over to share it with her.