Flinging open the front door, I almost fall on top of Charlie, hand extended about to insert the key into the lock. Over her shoulder, I see in the street below, not a police car but a black London cab.
‘Thank God you’re here.’ I throw my arms around her neck and give her a big hug. When she doesn’t respond, I hold her at arm’s length; she looks pale apart from the dark smudges under her eyes. ‘Are you OK, Charlie? I’ve been worried sick about you.’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’ll explain in a minute. I need eleven squids for the cab driver.’
I get my handbag from the newel post of the stair, where it always hangs when I’m at home, and accompany Charlie out to the cab. I lean through the window. The driver is a dark middle-aged man and his cab reeks of aftershave and disinfectant. I give him two notes, a tenner and a fiver. ‘Keep the change,’ I tell him. He nods and drives off quickly, in case I change my mind.
‘That’s much too big a tip.’ Charlie’s voice is cross.
‘Money’s the least of my worries right now. And he did bring you home.’
‘That’s what the eleven pounds was for.’
We glare at each other under the orange streetlight. ‘You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young woman,’ I tell her.
‘So have you.’ Charlie strides up the steps to our front door. The heels of her Doc Martens are scuffed. I follow her and shut the door behind us, rather too hard; we stand face-to-face in the hall.
‘Where have you been, Charlie?’
‘At Zoë’s flat.’ Charlie’s eyes will not meet mine but dart around the hall as if she is trying to find something more interesting.
‘I tried calling there about ten o’clock but there was no answer.’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to pick up the phone, was I? Like, get real, Mum, I wasn’t even supposed to be there!’
‘But why didn’t you call me? You must have known I’d be sick with worry.’ My relief mingles with fatigue that washes over me like a tidal wave. My legs give way and I subside onto the second step of the staircase. Charlie is home, I tell myself, that is the main thing. I must be calm; we must avoid a row; we are both too tired.
And there is Anthony waiting in the living room.
‘Don’t you start asking me why I haven’t done things,’ Charlie shouts in an uncharacteristic burst of anger. ‘This is your fault, you know, this whole thing is your fucking fault!’
‘How is that?’ My voice is icy cold, as if I can calm Charlie’s anger. ‘And don’t swear at me, Charlie. I don’t like it.’
‘You fucking didn’t tell me! You’ve never told me anything.’
‘Like what?’ I stand up again and clutch the newel post.
‘You lied to me. You said Dad died of a heart attack but he didn’t. He banged his head when he was doped up with drugs and alcohol and died of a haematoma. Whatever the fuck that is.’
Charlie’s voice reverberates around the stairwell and over these echoes I hear the blood pounding in my ears. I should have been the one to explain to her exactly how Jeff died. She’s learned about her father but not from me. Without thinking I open my mouth. ‘I can tell you what a haematoma is.’ It’s an effort to keep my voice unruffled. ‘It’s bleeding between the brain and the skull. It puts pressure on the brain.’
‘My mother, the fucking scientist. You always have a pat answer for everything.’
‘Not now, Charlie. Let’s not have a row. Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about it quietly.’
‘And Dad beat you up too, just like he did Zoë.’ Charlie shouts out these words, my calmness enraging rather than comforting her.
‘What gives you that idea?’ I half-shut my eyes and frown at her.
‘What do you think? I read it in newspapers in your college library. That’s what I was doing, checking through old papers on microfiche. The Guardian and The Times, in the year Dad died. Does that mean anything to you? What those blokes on the boat said was pretty useful. I know enough about cricket to work out when that test series must have taken place and that it seemed to coincide roughly with Dad’s death. And do you know why I had to do it that way? Because you couldn’t fucking bring yourself to tell me what happened!’
I look at the floorboards while wondering what to say. I should have told her about this long ago; instead of pretending to myself I was waiting for the right moment. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m really sorry,’ I cannot think of anything more to add. This is too sudden, too soon. And I cannot speak of this with Anthony listening.
‘I asked you what had happened to Zoë, didn’t I, Mum? Like, I asked you on the boat and you couldn’t tell me.’
‘Do you think I could begin to tell you what happened in front of a boat load of near-strangers?’
‘You could’ve said ask me later, couldn’t you?’
‘I kind of did, Charlie. Don’t you remember? I said I’d talk to you later.’ My voice sounds too reasonable, possibly even patronising. Yet this rationality is not what I am feeling. I want to hug Charlie. I want to explain everything to her, but not with Anthony standing in the room next to us.
My apparent calmness inflames Charlie’s anger again. She takes a step towards me and I think of Jeff. Charlie is Jeff’s child; sometimes I forget that Charlie is Jeff’s child too. I flinch and turn my head to one side. Shutting my eyes, I wait for her to deliver a physical blow.
‘Open your eyes and look at me, Mum,’ Charlie says, more quietly now. ‘You can’t tell the truth about anything, can you?’ Her eyes appear emerald green against the flushed red of her skin. She thinks I’ve betrayed her trust. She has a right to be angry. I should have told her something of my past. Our past. She continues, more calmly although her voice is clear and carrying: ‘You’ve hidden your boyfriends from me. You’ve never brought them home, your toy boys that Zoë’s told me about. Use them then lose them!’
‘I know you’re very upset, Charlie.’ I find it hard to speak; my mouth is dry and my voice shaking, and only by carefully enunciating each word can I marshal my thoughts. ‘But now you’re being silly.’
‘Not as silly as you’ve been,’ Charlie says. The worst of her anger is over, and I can see her eyes filling with tears. For the first time since getting home she looks into the living room and sees the Scrabble game spread out on the coffee table. And there is Anthony standing with his back to us looking out of the front bay window. No way out for him, Charlie and I are blocking the exit. His whole body language expresses discretion.
‘Who’s that?’ she hisses.
‘Anthony.’
‘The Blake bloke,’ says Charlie loudly. ‘The clone drone. Trapped in the living room. He knows all our little secrets now.’
Anthony turns, right on cue, and walks towards us. His face is a mask that reveals nothing. There is no trace of embarrassment, no sign of awkwardness. ‘Charlie, how nice to meet you,’ he says, as if they have been introduced at some drinks party. ‘Anthony Blake,’ he adds.
‘I’ve met you,’ says Charlie, glowering. ‘On the phone. Doesn’t that count? The countless times the clone drone’s phoned.’
Anthony ignores her rudeness and puts out his hand as if to shake hers. For some reason she find this comical and bursts into hysterical laughter. Anthony appears unfazed however. But Charlie doesn’t shake his hand.
‘Your mother’s been frantic with worry. I’m so glad you’re safe.’ He looks at me and smiles. ‘I think I’ll make some tea.’ He clatters noisily down the stairs to the kitchen. Glad to get away, I expect.
‘That was incredibly rude, Charlie,’ I say, when Anthony is out of earshot.
‘Who cares?’ she says, scuffing her boot on the wooden floorboards. ‘Like, I’m fed up with all this pretence.’
I hold out my arms to her but she pushes past me and races up the stairs two at a time. As she passes I catch a faint whiff of spirits on her breath; Zoë’s cognac, I suppose. Next I hear her bedroom door slam.
I look at my watch. Half three. This will get rid of Anthony. This will remove him from my life. Like my toy boys, as Charlie said. She has been talking to Zoë behind my back. I am unable to commit to anyone. Just like Zoë. My life is out of control. I hesitate in the entrance hall, wondering whether to go upstairs or down.
I decide to give Anthony a way out first and afterwards deal with Charlie. I run downstairs. Anthony is filling in time by unloading the dishwasher, piling all its contents on the bench as if he’s preparing for a garage sale.
‘She’s home,’ he says, his face expressionless. As if I didn’t know.
‘She’s overwrought. I’m going upstairs to talk to her in a minute.’
‘She’s had a shock,’ he says. But he does not mention his own.
‘Yes.’ There is so much to say that I feel there is nowhere to begin; the prospect of telling Anthony of what has happened fills me with dread, like the thought of beginning to cart away a mountain with a small hand trowel. Anyway I have to speak to Charlie first. I feel tired, drained. Anthony and I stand there in the kitchen like two strangers not knowing what to say to each other.
‘I’ll go home now,’ he says at last.
And he leaves. He does not kiss me goodbye.