‘Look at you!’ I say, unable to keep the depth of feeling out of my voice. There she is on the couch, dead on time, her hair shorter, less straggly, a pair of black cords skimming her newfound curves. She’s nearly fifteen now: womanliness suits her.
‘OK, calm down. I’m not ten years old, Mia.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, standing before her. She smiles at me, tentative now, then gets up. We pause a second, and then we hug. It’s sharp, intense – brief. Brendan’s pretending not to track us, but his eyes keep darting upwards from his computer screen. He’s seen me duck out of my room about one hundred times to see if she’s arrived early.
Gemma throws a careful gaze around the room before she sits down, reorientating herself. I wonder if it seems almost insulting; nothing’s changed, and yet everything’s changed.
‘This isn’t a session,’ I say, partly to acknowledge that fact. ‘I’m really glad that you wanted to come and see me though.’ I pause, let us both settle. ‘I’ve thought about you so much.’
She looks down at the rug.
‘Have you?’
‘I’ve always told you the truth, Gemma. I meant what I said that night about keeping you in my heart.’
She looks up at me, her grey-blue eyes like lasers, searching my face for truth in the way they always did. I’d forgotten that gaze, so peculiar to her. The gaze that sees so much.
‘That guy you told my mum about – the other therapist. He’s got a beard.’
‘Michael Fassbender’s got a beard. David Beckham has a beard. Nothing wrong with beards.’ She gives a little eye-roll, a friendly one. ‘Has it helped, having him to talk to?’
‘Yeah, a bit.’
‘I’m glad. I know nothing can take it away.’ Her body hunches in on itself, and I remind myself to stay the right side of the line. I’m not her therapist. I’ll have to say goodbye to her in less than an hour: I don’t want to open a trap door, then leave her in the dark. ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Gemma.’
She clamps her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes cloudy and damp. She doesn’t cry.
‘He’d hate my school,’ she says. ‘And I’m doing drama for GCSE, not maths.’
‘Are you? I thought all those props you’d made were so cool. I’m glad you’re doing a subject you really like.’
‘Yeah, when you were snooping,’ she says, a big grin on her face. The fact I went over there, the fact I tracked her down – she loves the proof it gave her. A win.
‘I’m just glad we got you back,’ I say, but she’s not listening. She’s staring at my left hand.
I splay it outwards so she can get a better look at my twinkly little diamond. It’s so new that I can’t stop staring at it. An unexpected surprise on our first anniversary, which, according to Patrick, dates back to the night of the ‘horse piss wine’. I thought about taking the ring off for today’s meeting, but I decided that the truth might set us free.
‘I knew it!’
‘You did. You’re no fool, Gemma, but it wasn’t true when you first said it. And I never, ever put him before my care for you.’
‘Was true for him,’ she says, smirking. ‘At least he doesn’t have a beard.’
‘It’s true. He’s a beard-free zone.’
‘Mum’s got a boyfriend too,’ she says, a flicker of pain in her face. ‘She keeps saying’ – she affects a grumpy voice – ‘“He’s just a friend, Gemma,” but I can totally tell.’
‘Does it feel weird?’
Poor Annie. For all the lies and collusion, I still can’t help thinking she deserves a chance of romantic happiness. They’ve moved out of the big house, rented a small flat in Wandsworth. Maybe escaping the gilded cage has had some unexpected benefits.
‘Yeah, well. I’ve got one too.’
‘You’ve got a boyfriend?’ She nods, grinning. ‘I hope he’s worthy of you,’ I add, a little too fast. I feel a squeeze in my heart, a sense memory of how very long it took me to learn the difference. I have to trust that beardy therapist – a man whose credentials I checked with the zeal of Homeland Security recruiting an operative – can guide her through that minefield.
‘Jeez, Mia, you talk like it’s the eighteenth century sometimes.’ She pretends to doff what I’m sure is a three-cornered hat. ‘Forsooth!’
‘Forsooth indeed!’ I say. ‘It’s only because I care about you.’
‘We’re doing Top Girls,’ she says, seemingly ignoring me, her eyes telling me she’s taken it in. ‘At school. Me and Caitlin and Leyla.’ She smiles as she says it – a real smile, that says real friends, before reaching into her bag. The rucksack’s long been consigned to an evidence log, Stephen’s life sentence under way. This new bag is black leather with gold studs, two smart pockets on the front. ‘I brought you a present. Is that allowed under the rules of our Ann-ual Vis-it?’
I cock my head.
‘Er. Depends how much I like it.’
It’s wrapped in pink tissue paper, a wonky green bow tied on top, like one of Saffron’s more outlandish up-dos. I open it gingerly, instantly regretting my joke. What if I don’t like it? She’ll know: she always does.
It’s a fine wool scarf, large enough to wrap right round me, a grey-blue colour that matches her eyes.
‘I thought you looked cold sometimes,’ she says softly. ‘In your big fat chair.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice cracking now. ‘I love it.’
‘Thing about me is, I’ve got excellent taste,’ she says, her eyes never wavering from mine.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Bye, Mia. See you next year. Better start thinking about my present.’
And with that, she stands up and gathers her coat, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.