Whitworth’s office is one of those places with more glass than wall; that expensive, impenetrable glass with the lightest green tinge. Where there are walls, they’re high, reaching to vaulted ceilings, and made of plain old-fashioned concrete blocks, re-invented as hip and trendy. The floors are slippery polished concrete, and a concrete counter, shiny enough to see your face in, separates the receptionist from the riff raff. Co-ordinated with the office interior, the receptionist’s outfit is perfect news anchor Barbie. Adam wonders if she knows that a real-life Barbie would be a total freak, measuring over two metres.
‘Um, excuse me?’ Skye says. ‘I’m looking for Michael Whitworth.’ Here, in this place, she looks small and fragile. Adam feels a sudden qualm. Maybe they were wrong to come? Shaking off the feeling, he looks over the counter. On the other side, Barbie is reading a Harlequin paperback. The spine is folded backwards, and there’s a ruler wedged in the seam holding the pages open. Dragging her attention from the heroine’s wistful sigh, Barbie acknowledges Skye with expert economy, only her eyes darting upwards.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Oh, but... I didn’t think... I didn’t realise we’d need one.’ The receptionist looks up, properly this time, with her entire head. A wave of acknowledgement crosses her face, as if she’s remembered something.
‘Oh, you must be friends of Katie’s? From school?’
‘Yes,’ Adam says immediately. ‘We’re Katie’s friends.’ He puts his hand in the small of Skye’s back, willing her to play along.
‘School Workday time again then, is it?’
Adam throws his eyes to the ceiling, then nods slowly. He should have taken drama instead of physics because Barbie is completely taken in.
‘Well, at least you get a day off.’ Adam feigns a grimace. ‘Look, why don’t you take a seat over there...’ she waves at a seating area where two or three impossibly low backless benches are arranged around the blob of plastic doubling as a coffee table ‘... and I’ll page Mr Whitworth for you.’
‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
Adam notices Skye sits on her hands, the backpack with her overnight gear stowed by her feet. She shakes her left leg, the brushing sound of her jeans against the bag accentuated in the cavernous lobby. Beside her, Adam puts his hand gently on her knee, holding it still. He can understand her feeling apprehensive. The first time she’s met her dad. Pretty momentous. Adam hasn’t thought much about what Michael Whitworth will be like. He wonders if he’ll turn out to be anything like Skye imagined him. Adam hopes he measures up.
In a few minutes, a man enters, a black document folder in his chubby fingers.
Skye’s dad.
Christ, he’s got a wicked receder, like an upside-down letter W. Looks as if he’s eaten plenty of roast dinners too, with a comfortable paunch tucked away under his lilac shirt and casually unbuttoned suit. But his eyes are the same soft green as Skye’s.
‘Look, I’m sorry about this, kids, but I really don’t have time to interview you today. Katie should have told you that right now I’ve an important—’
‘I’m Skye...’ Skye interrupts. On Whitworth’s face, there’s a flash of recognition, then his expression clouds over. Suddenly, whatever important appointment he has organised can wait.
‘Come through to my office.’ He turns on his heel with just the smallest squeak of his shoes. ‘No interruptions, Juliet, please,’ he snaps.
‘But what about Mr Ruttersmith... from the Carlsford Development?’
‘Tell him to wait. No, better call and cancel.’
He doesn’t wait for a reply.
‘Excuse me a minute.’
Whitworth steps into the adjoining bathroom, and Adam can hear the tap running. Skye wrings her hands.
‘It’s okay,’ Adam says. They sit down in two white leather chairs opposite Whitworth’s black executive one and wait. A leather key fob bearing a silver trident sits on the desk—only the second one Adam’s seen. Whitworth comes back, wiping his hands dry on his suit pants. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
‘I’m your—’ Skye begins, but she’s cut off.
‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. Look, you two don’t actually know Katie, do you?’ Katie: the name Barbie at reception used. ‘I asked if you knew my daughter?’
‘Your daughter?’
Skye looks as if she’s been hit full in the face with a bucket of water. That’s when Adam notices the black and white photographs behind Whitworth’s desk. There are six of them, and they’re mounted in sleek silver frames arranged in a line. Each photograph is of a smiling girl, around the same age as Skye, and with the same startling eyes. A half-sister.
‘But I’m...I don’t know, didn’t know about Katie.’ Adam’s heart wrenches. He gives her hand a squeeze.
‘But when Juliet paged me, she said—’
‘Skye wanted to meet you,’ Adam interrupts. ‘When the receptionist mentioned Katie, we just agreed. We don’t know your daughter, sir.’ Adam pauses. ‘Your other daughter.’
‘Right, that’s okay, then.’ There’s an awkward silence, which Whitworth seems keen to fill. He waves vaguely at the photographs behind. ‘Katie’s just sixteen,’ he goes on, ‘but she’s a bit of a bright spark. She’s off to university next year—early entry,’ Whitworth boasts. Now that he’s certain Skye and Adam don’t know Katie, he seems perfectly happy to tell them about her. Skye says nothing. Her face is pale.
Adam says, ‘Skye’s hoping to go to university too. She wants to study science.’ Whitworth ignores him, addresses Skye.
‘Did she send you, then? Aroha?’ Skye looks up sharply.
‘No!’
‘Because I told her that first day, if she wanted to go ahead with it, she’d have to do it without me. It’d be her kid, not mine.’
‘S-she d-doesn’t even know I’m here,’ Skye stammers. ‘It’s not why... I thought that maybe we could, we could—’
‘Look, I imagine you kids thought you could waltz in here, and after a joyful teary reunion, we’d all play happy blended families.’ He looks away. ‘But that sort of thing only happens on television. I’m sure Aroha’s invented all sorts of fanciful romantic stories about me. The way she told it, I was the love of her life. But it was just a bit of fun, you know? Nothing serious. I told her then I wasn’t interested in playing Daddy to her Mummy, and I’m still not. I’m sure you’re a nice kid and all, but if you’re looking for a father, I’m not it.’
‘But...’ Skye looks crushed.
‘For all I know, you might not even be mine. Your mother—’
‘Hey!’ Adam slams his hand on the desk, startling himself with the force of the blow. He hopes the noise is enough to make Whitworth back off because in a fight Whitworth’s extra weight will make mincemeat of him. Whitworth looks hard at Adam.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Adam Creighton.’
‘And you’re with Skye because?’
‘I’m her friend.’ Whitworth makes a small sound in the back of his throat and turns his attention to Skye. ‘Listen, maybe you didn’t intend to make trouble. I can see Aroha’s done a great job raising you, but my wife and daughter aren’t aware you exist. And I’m sure you’ll agree that they don’t deserve to be hurt by some stupid mistake I might’ve made in my twenties. They’re just decent people trying to live their lives.’
‘But Skye doesn’t want—’
‘Good!’ Whitworth cuts Adam off. ‘So we understand each other. What my family doesn’t know can’t hurt them.’ Adam and Skye are quiet. This hasn’t turned out at all as they expected. A small tear collects at the corner of Skye’s eye. Adam stifles an urge to reach over and brush it away with the back of his finger.
Whitworth stands up, pushing his chair back. The interview is over.
‘Look, seeing as you’re here, what do you kids say to a night on the town? You could take in a show and have a dinner in a nice restaurant. My treat. Have a grand old time on the Gold Coast before you go home.’ He gets a couple of one hundred dollar notes out of his wallet and flings them over the table. Skye’s face looks as crumpled as those notes. Adam burns to up and hit him. But Skye has her hand on his knee, her fingernails digging into Adam’s jeans...
‘No, thank you,’ Skye says carefully. ‘It was... good to meet you at last.’ She fixes him with a level look. ‘You’re just as I imagined you would be.’ Then she flees.
Left behind, Adam’s about to turn on his heel when he remembers the key fob. A Maserati: Whitworth’s ride is a Maserati. Not short of a bob, then. His eyes fixed on Whitworth’s, Adam scoops up the notes and dashes after Skye.