“You’re absolutely sure Poppy isn’t covering for her?” I traced my finger along the edge of the arm of sofa, digging my chipped nail into the fabric. My eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Nearly 10 p.m. Part of me had been sure that Teigan would turn up by nine and would apologise for putting me through this and for causing a commotion. But so far, nothing.
“Suzanne, I know this must be so hard. I couldn’t bear to be in your position, but, trust me, I know my daughter. She isn’t lying. She’s very worried about her.”
I’d always got on well with Poppy’s mother, Jo, which came in handy when the girls had become best friends. But now I was filled with a deep resentment. Why me? Why not Jo?
“But, I really don’t know where else she’d be. If it were a few months ago, I’d say she was with Krystal, but obviously they’ve moved back to Nigeria now.” As I said it, a spark of conspiracy lit in my chest. Had Krystal convinced her to go out and visit without my consent? No, of course not. Teigan couldn’t afford a flight to Nigeria — she could barely afford to get to Yarmouth.
“Maybe she’s with a boy?” Jo spoke carefully, as if figuring out the best way to phrase herself. “Poppy mentioned that she and Krystal used to hang out with these older guys. Poppy felt rather excluded for a while, actually.”
Her tone sparked my protective instinct. Jo had made a few comments at the time, suggesting that Teigan was a fair-weather friend, choosing popular Krystal over Poppy. “This isn’t about Poppy feeling left out,” I snapped. “This is about Teigan’s safety. Who were these boys Poppy talked about? Has she said?”
“No, she didn’t meet them. They never told her anything about them. As I say, she was very much cast aside. Anyway, it isn’t for Poppy to have all the answers. You’re her mother, Suzanne. You should know who your daughter has been hanging out with.”
For a moment, I wanted to lob my Samsung Galaxy across the lounge, just to be rid of Jo’s snarky remarks. I gathered my remaining patience and spoke through gritted teeth. “Look, I understand it was a rocky few months for their friendship. But they’re teenagers, Jo, it happens. And they’ve clearly worked through things. Please, if Poppy does know anything, you have to get it out of her.”
I heard Jo sigh with pity down the phone. “Of course, I will, but she doesn’t know anything.”
I hung up on her and stared at the screensaver on my phone. A montage of pictures of Teigan and me. Most of them were more recent, but I’d taken a picture of an old photo from when she was threestanding in her matching yellow wellies and anorak in a puddle, a grin from ear to ear. My heart sank as I realised I hadn’t seen that big, carefree smile for a while. And now I had no idea when I would next get a chance.
I stood up from the sofa and tried calling her, yet again, but it went straight through to voicemail. There was no point leaving any more messages. I’d left six already. Along with eleven texts and seven What’s App messages.
Jo’s words niggled at me. Clearly she thought Teigan had done a runner with some older bloke she’d been secretly seeing. Was it possible? I knew she’d spent a lot of time with Krystal, and that sometimes it was as part of a group, but the idea that she was sneaking off to see an older guy all on her own … It just wasn’t the Teigan I knew. She was a little madam at times, yes, but she was a sensible girl. She knew the risks of that sort of thing. Right?
My daughter’s face stared back at me as I looked at the pictures on the mantelpiece. If she had run off with someone, there’d be something, surely, some hint of where she had gone. I charged upstairs to her bedroom,not sure if I was hoping to find something or not.
Teigan’s room was as she had left it. It was a decent size, which she had filled with all things girly. Countless selfies taken with friends all blue-tacked to the walls, handbags piled up in the corner, a shoe rack filled with high heels that looked like they should belong to someone in their mid-twenties, various pots of nail varnishes and lipsticks all over the place. A shiver crept down my spine. Had all this been to impress some guy? I thought she was just of that age, where she was taking an interest in all those “grown up” girl things, so I’d allowed it occasionally. But maybe it was all to impress some manipulative guy with an agenda. The thought of it made me feel sick.
I stood motionless in the middle of the room. Any mother would say that you go through different stages with your daughter. First the childhood stage, where you mean the absolute world to her. Then into the teenage years, when you start to lose her a little bit. They sink into self-esteem issues and obsess over their friends and potential boyfriends. It’s the classic “the world revolves around me” stage. But, finally, you start to break away from all the teenage strops and arguments, and you begin to become their friend again.
We were still in the teenage phase, of course, but every now and then I got a preview of what life could be like once she came out the other side — when she was a young woman and we were friends, as well as mother and daughter. Once she’d even confided some boy issues in me for the first time — how she’d actually fancied Jake first, but he’d chosen Krystal over her — the woes of a teen.
The niggling voice in my mind reminded me that her future might never come. I couldn’t even remember the last thing I said to her. What sort of mother did that make me?
I picked up the bright pink Hewlett-Packard laptop. I knew what to do.
By two o’clock in the morning, I realised that I didn’t know Teigan half as well as I thought I did. I had tried and failed countless times to guess the password for her Facebook account. The security questions after clicking “Forgot your password?” were even more stressful.
The name of your first crush? I tried Jake, but it didn’t work. It was a stupid question, anyway. Whatever happened to your mother’s maiden name or the first street you lived on? It was like these questions had been devised not to be broken by snooping parents. The irony wasn’t lost on me that only twenty-four hours before I’d been preaching to Nancy Thompson about trust and respect when it came to your teenager’s Facebook. But this was different.
I shivered from the night chill. I was still in my jeans and lightweight beige cardigan from earlier in the day. I even still had my ID badge on from work. I tried to remember Teigan’s primary school years. Oh, she’d been so adorable then, with her cute brown bob and fringe. She’d had a boyfriend when she was about seven — Year Three, maybe? A blonde boy with a sweet face … although, most seven-year-olds have sweet faces, so that didn’t really narrow it down. He was the sort of boyfriend even I could get my head around for Teigan. All they did was hold hands and play “It.” They never even met up outside of the school playground. Damn it, what was his name?
I pulled myself up from the desk chair and ran downstairs to the middle room, sure that my neighbours could hear me clambering down the thinly carpeted stairs. I started to rummage through the top drawer of the cabinet, the one with all the bills and rubbish dumped on it. I kept all the old school keepsakes in there: the tea towels with self-portraits from the schoolkids, the calendar Teigan had made with bits of felt and silk stuck onto scraps of card. The annual class photo — that was what I wanted. I found the one marked “Year Three” and scanned the pictures, easily finding the little blonde boy. He was one of the smallest children, sitting cross-legged in the front row with a beaming smile. I counted how far along he was and flicked through the names at the bottom.
Steven Belfont.
I sprinted back upstairs to the laptop — I should have just brought it down with me, but there was something haunting about the idea of removing anything from Teigan’s room. It was like messing with a shrine. I sat back down at her desk and bashed Steven into the answer box on the screen.
Your username or password is incorrect.
“Oh, fuck off, Facebook, just let me in. It’s not bloody Fort Knox!” I hit the desk with my fist, causing Teigan’s pencil case to fall onto the floor. I leant over to pick it up, the zip half undone, and noticed something silver within it catch the light. I tugged at the zip and gently pulled out the sparkly metal. It wasn’t silver. It was white gold. A white gold bracelet, with a heart hanging off it.
My brain went into overdrive. There was no way a fourteen-year-old boy could afford something like this. It must have cost about a hundred quid. Perhaps Jo was right. Maybe Teigan had been seduced by some older man and his money. I turned my focus back to the Facebook log-in page and the secrets I imagined it held within. I needed to get in. I held the bracelet in the palm of my hand and closed my eyes, picturing Teigan as a young child. How innocent she was back then, how easy it had all been. As the memories played out in my mind, the voice of seven-year-old Teigan emerged.
I’ve got a boyfriend, Mummy. He’s called Stevie.
Stevie. That’s what she called him. I placed the bracelet carefully on the desk and typed his name into the box, my fingers shaking as they did so. A moment later, dozens of pictures and messages flew onto the screen. Pictures of people I didn’t recognise, messages from names I’d never heard before. My daughter’s secret life. Now, after spending so long trying to get in, I wasn’t sure I was ready to know the truth.