45

MRS SPARKS’ ride was a white two-door Mercedes, six-speed manual with black interior. I estimated it cost more than I earned in a year. Felicity drove it like someone unused to the idea of forward motion. We jerked and kangaroo-hopped for five hundred metres before I said stop. ‘What the hell, Felicity.’

‘I can’t drive a manual. Don’t tell my mum. She thinks I’ve had lessons.’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Manuals are hard.’

‘You wuss.’

She shrugged.

‘This is hopeless,’ I said. ‘Take the car home. I’ll get a taxi.’

‘No, you drive it. It’ll be quicker.’

I’d have to take Felicity home afterwards, which was a drag, but she had a point. We needed to hurry. I couldn’t believe he’d leave Marigold alone in his studio. Brophy had been distracted lately, but that was negligent.

I drove the fancy ride like I drove my old Mazda, and like the Mazda, it went like the clappers. Unfortunately, the trip was spent in traffic and the whole sports-car experience was wasted. Maybe on the open road this thing would be fun.

‘You took your time,’ Marigold greeted me in the Narcissistic Slacker gallery with her hands on her hips. She stepped back. ‘Oooh, look at you, all dressed up.’

‘Is Brophy still not back?’

‘Your face is a mess, girl.’

‘I know. Is Brophy here?’

‘See for yourself.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Chill, yo. You seriously need to chill.’

I found some paper and scribbled a note to him saying I had his child and was taking her home. That, I figured, would get his attention.

‘Okay, Marigold,’ I said. ‘Let’s go. Downstairs. Now.’

‘Um …’

‘What is it? I’m not in the mood.’

‘Don’t leave that note.’

‘Why?’

‘Dad doesn’t know I’m here.’ She sounded as close to contrite as I’d ever heard her.

Her clear blue eyes blinked at me. She was hiding something. ‘Tell me.’

‘I broke in. You can get in from the car park at the back, there’s an old ladder that goes to the roof, then I climb down the hole and I’m in. It’s easy.’

‘Sounds like you’ve been breaking into your dad’s studio a lot.’

‘I get bored at home. Mum’s boyfriend’s a flog. She’s all lovey-dovey, but I can’t stand him. You should see the way he chews his food, the noises, ugh.’

‘Where does your mother think you are?’

‘At a friend’s. When Dad comes back, I sneak out through the roof and go down the ladder. Don’t tell. Please.’

‘We’ll talk about this later. For now, you better come with me.’

‘Can’t I just stay here?’

‘No, now move.’

She didn’t like this turn of events, and petulantly stomped her brand-new Doc Martens on each step. I knew nothing of parenting, but I imagined the way to deal with this child was to say no to everything, take away all electronic devices, and feed her on gruel for a week.

When she saw Felicity’s mother’s car, Marigold whistled. ‘Sweet ride.’

Felicity pulled a lever, and the front seat shot forward.

‘Nuh uh!’ Marigold said and folded her arms. ‘I call shotgun.’

‘Get in the back or so help me I’ll give you the first proper hiding you’ve ever had.’

‘A proper what?’

‘Get the fuck in!’

‘Whoa, Stella, seriously. You need to chill.’ She-who-must-have-the-last-word crawled into the backseat and put on her seatbelt, and, thankfully, shut up.

I checked the time. If I took Marigold to her mother’s, there’d be enough time to drop Felicity home and take a taxi to Phuong’s.

I headed for Marigold’s mother’s place, and on the way gave her a lecture about not talking things that didn’t belong to her. Of course, I felt like an A-grade hypocrite for haranguing Marigold. I knew something about taking things that didn’t belong to me. Thousands of gangster dollars to be precise. Not to mention that today was not the first time I’d done something like that. I was pleased to discover that it was considerably less harrowing the second time around.