18

Hearing the noise of a car engine outside, I peered out of the window to see the Peugeot backing into a ‘residents only’ bay close to the communal doors. I grabbed the permit from the coffee table and picked up my handbag.

“She’s here,” I called to Zara, who was in the bathroom. “I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay, honey, have a good time,” came Zara’s voice from the bath.

Helena opened the driver’s door and got out of the car as I walked out to greet her. She was wearing a stylish and expensive-looking long-sleeved black mini dress with sequins and padded shoulders and matching black suede and leather high heeled ankle boots. Her long legs were bare, despite the cold. I’d never seen her look quite so stylish and feminine.

“Wow. You look amazing,” I commented.

Helena grinned, obviously pleased. “Stella McCartney,” she said.

“Another Christmas present?” I asked.

Helena reddened a little. “He said he had quite a few years to make up for.”

“Of course. I suppose he has.” I revisited my resolve not to say anything negative about her father. I couldn’t risk alienating her again.

She added, “And he said that, with Lindsay gone, he had no other woman to spoil.”

I glanced at her. I wasn’t sure if she was accusing me again, or simply justifying Martin’s generosity. I resisted the strong urge inside me to tell her about my conversation with Lindsay, to tell her that Lindsay had left the house on the Monday morning with a black eye, and that the person who had been frightening her hadn’t been me. But I knew that it would be futile, and even counter-productive. Helena had clearly softened towards me a little, but she’d be horrified to hear that I’d gone to Cambridge and searched out her father’s ex-partner. She’d be unlikely to check out my story for herself. Even if she did, Lindsay clearly didn’t want to get involved and would probably refuse to talk to her about what had happened, for fear of Helena going straight back to Martin and confronting him with it. I needed to keep my powder dry. I was teetering on the brink of inclusion back into my daughter’s life and any shots fired by me at Martin’s halo would inevitably bounce back and blow up in my face.

“Well, you must be the best-dressed student – with the newest car – in McLaren House,” I smiled.

We walked up towards Angel and onto Upper Street, chatting about Helena’s course at Uni and about my work. Helena was studying anatomy this term, and we swapped interesting facts about our individual research as we walked, finding an unexpectedly easy and interesting common ground.

I had decided to leave it to Helena to raise the subject of what had happened between us, and surmised from her silence, on that front, that she hadn’t changed her opinion about me and what I’d done – my stalking of her father, my lying to her, my decision to keep her from him for all these years – but that she’d decided to forgive me anyway and, hopefully, to move on. I decided to go with that. I had little control over the situation anymore, I knew that. Just seeing her and being with her again was enough for me, and I was happy for the evening to be spent in any way that she wanted it, and on her terms.

The restaurant was French and was tucked away off the main street behind Chapel Market. It was one that Zara and I had discovered by chance just a week or two ago and the food was delicious. I’d booked it again deliberately, with the vague notion that Helena might be so bowled away by it that she’d become instantly nostalgic for home and would decide to come back with me for Christmas after all. I didn’t hold out much hope of that happening, but I knew she’d love the food and the ambience as much as I did, in any event.

We were seated at a lovely table by the window. We chose our favourite bread, goat’s cheese, and olives to start, and Helena chose a nice bottle of red wine.

“This is fantastic!” she said, her eyes shining. “What a lovely place to bring me.”

“It’s my pleasure. And my treat,” I added. “Though I have got you a little something else as well. I didn’t think you’d want to carry it, so I’ve left it back at Zara’s. You’ll come back for a coffee afterwards, on your way home, won’t you? There’s some stuff of yours that you might want to have a look at, too, while you’re there.”

“I’ll definitely come back,” she said. “But I haven’t really got any room for anymore stuff.”

“Neither have we,” I sighed. “Especially now that Zara’s new man is spending all his time with us and leaving his things lying around. If you don’t want it or need it now, I’ll take it back to France or something.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Thanks. So come on, dish the gossip. What’s he like, then, this new man of Zara’s?”

I smiled. “What do you think? Let’s just say that it’s a relationship based on their anatomical differences. Like you, Zara has a huge interest in the subject.”

Helena giggled.

“I have to say, you look really well,” I told her. “Student life must really suit you.”

She beamed at me. “It does. There’s a lot of work but it’s really fun and interesting. And there’s a lot of Phys Ed too, so what with the swimming and the running, and the gym, I think I’m fitter than I’ve ever been.”

“You’re not missing your fencing sword and your riding boots, then?” I smiled. They were part of the pile that was still cluttering up a corner of Zara’s living room, along with her riding hat, a box full of CDs and some clothes that were now clearly no longer quite fashionable enough for my stylish daughter.

“No.” She shook her head and I made a mental note to pack them up and take them back to France, if I could carry them. Or maybe I’d just leave them in the boot of the car, out of the way.

“So, when do you leave for France?”

“Saturday morning. I get into the Gare du Nord at eleven something. I’ll stay until sometime after New Year,” I added, thinking that she might decide to come and join me there later, if not for Christmas Day itself.

Helena picked up her knife and cut a piece of her steak. “I’m going to spend Christmas at my dad’s,” she said, without looking up. “It’s just that, he’s on his own, you know? Without Lindsay, or any other family? You’ll have Christian, at least. You won’t be on your own, like him.”

I nodded. I cut up a piece of my own steak and popped it into my mouth, not trusting myself to speak for a moment as I envisaged her hugging and exchanging presents with him (there were bound to be more designer clothes coming her way) and laughing and wearing silly paper hats from crackers. The pig, Martin, and my beautiful daughter, there together in his little house, on Christmas Day. The thought made me sick to the stomach. I chewed my steak, swallowed and breathed deeply. I realised Helena was now watching my face, and I smiled at her. “A bit tough,” I said, referring to the steak, though it was actually this situation that we were in that was very much tougher, for her as well as for me, I knew.

Though, in one way, I supposed, it was probably for the best that she wasn’t coming back to France. I had no idea what Christmas was going to be like this year between me and Christian, or how things were going to turn out between us. I wasn’t planning on telling Helena about Oli – not now, not yet. Yet again, I didn’t want to risk alienating her, and I didn’t know myself where I was heading with that. We’d walked to work together on Friday morning and had dinner again on Saturday night. After that, we’d seen each other in the office for brief periods of time each day this week, but I’d avoided helping in clinic and I hadn’t stayed with him again. I needed some time to gain some kind of distance and perspective over the situation before I arrived back home at the weekend.

“What about Sky?” I asked. “What’s he doing for Christmas?”

“He’s coming too.”

I frowned. “So, Catherine’s going to be on her own?”

“She’s going to her mum’s, I think. She said it’s okay. Sky’s never spent Christmas with his dad. Well, not since he was a kid. She said she understood.”

Helena said this last sentence rather pointedly and I nodded and added hastily. “Well, yes, of course. It’ll be nice for him. And for you. You’ll be able to drive up together in your lovely new car.”

Helena smiled, encouraged by my words. “We’re going up on Christmas Eve,” she said. “So that we can wake up together on Christmas morning.”

I looked up, horrified, and Helena laughed and said, “Not actually together, Mum. I didn’t mean that. I usually have the spare room and Sky sleeps on the sofa.”

I was stung by the word ‘usually’; it was so familiar. It made it sound as though they’d all known each other all her life. I was now picturing Helena on Christmas morning, standing in her father’s kitchen in her dressing gown, right there where he’d attacked me. I could see the kettle and the worktop. I could see her walking across the floor where I’d lain, pinned to the ground and struggling with her father, while he’d tried to remove my jeans. I could see her rinsing out her cup and putting it on the draining board, next to the knife that was no longer a police exhibit, and which would now be lying there, washed and clean, or sitting back in the rack above the sink.

“So, who’s cooking?” I asked, brightly.

“Oh, my dad,” she said. “He’s a really good cook, actually. We’re going to have lunch early and then we’re going banger racing.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Banger racing? On Christmas Day?”

Helena smiled. “Yes. It’s a family tradition.” She paused, and corrected herself. “Well, that’s what he and Lindsay always used to do. He said we could carry it on, make it our thing.”

I swallowed and nodded. “That sounds like a good ‘thing’.” I hoped that my voice wasn’t giving away my true feelings. Pretending to be happy for her was much harder than I’d expected it to be.

The waiter stacked up our plates and asked if everything had been okay. “My mum’s steak was a little tough,” said Helena, before I could stop her.

The waiter looked concerned. “I’m very sorry, Madame. It was medium rare, as you asked, was it not?”

“It was fine,” I said, “Really. And the salad was delicious.”

The waiter nodded and took the plates out to the kitchen.

I could hear the sound of a phone ringing.

“Sorry,” Helena said, pulling it out of her bag.

The waiter started to walk back over to us with the dessert menus. I looked up and quickly caught his eye and shook my head. He hadn’t been informed of the surprise I had planned for Helena. I’d been delighted to discover it yesterday in a little French cake shop near Goodge Street, when I’d walked down to the UCL building off Tottenham Court Road to collect a package for Oli.

I hopped out of my seat as Helena answered her call.

“Toilet,” I mouthed and she nodded.

I ran over to the waiter. “I brought a cake with me,” I told him. “The manager said it would be okay. It’s a special occasion.”

“Ah,” the waiter lifted a finger and nodded. “Of course, La Bûche de Noël. I had forgotten, I’m sorry. It’s in the refrigerator. It is very beautiful, Madame. A good choice.”

“Thank you,” I smiled. “Give it ten minutes if you wouldn’t mind. She’s on the phone. Teenagers.” I rolled my eyes and the waiter rolled his own by way of reply.

I slipped back into my seat as Helena said, “Alright. Yes. I’ll see you in a minute then. Text me when you’re outside.”

I frowned. “See who in a minute? Who was that?”

Helena placed her phone on the table where she could see it and looked up at me guiltily. “Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry. I’m going to have to rush off.”

My heart sank. “Really? Why? What’s happened?”

Helena patted my hand across the table. “I’m really sorry,” she said again. “That was my dad. He’s on his way to collect me. He’s just five minutes away. We’ve got a competition tomorrow in Bristol, apparently. He didn’t realise. He’d got the dates wrong. He says we need to leave tonight and stay over, to beat the traffic and get some training in first thing. He’s just picked up Sky and we’ve still got to get back to McLaren House and get my swim stuff. He doesn’t want to get there too late. He’s paying for us all to stay in a hotel down there,” she said, excitedly.

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

“But, we’ve had most of the meal, haven’t we?” she smiled. “I’m not bothered about dessert anyway, if you’re not.”

“No,” I said, wrinkling my nose. I looked down and patted my waistline, and attempted a smile.

Helena smiled back. “We’re good now, aren’t we, Mum? Everything’s okay between us?”

“Yes,” I smiled and nodded. A week ago, I hadn’t been sure if I’d ever see my daughter again. Now, here I was in a restaurant with her. She was back to her old self, holding my hand across the table and smiling at me. There had been no recriminations, no further accusations, and no discussion about my violent tendencies or my need to see a doctor. We appeared to have put that behind us and I was grateful for that, at least.

Helena’s phone bleeped and she leaped up and picked up her bag.

“Oh. Wait. What about your Christmas present?” I asked.

“I’ll get it after Christmas, Mum.” Helena wobbled slightly on her new high heels as she pushed back her chair and wriggled out from behind the table. “We’ll meet up as soon as you get back, shall we?”

I nodded. “Oh, yes. Let’s do that. That would be really nice.”

“Great.” She leaned over and kissed me. “Gotta go,” she said. “Dad’s outside.”

I tried to stop myself but I couldn’t manage it: I looked out of the window and watched as she ran out of the restaurant and opened the door of a black BMW that had pulled up by the bus stop a few metres back from the restaurant door. I could see Martin’s head bobbing around behind the front windscreen. Sky got out of the passenger side and gave Helena a playful poke in the stomach. She laughed and gave him a gentle shove backwards before opening the car door and getting into the front seat, next to her dad. I instantly pictured Helena’s long bare legs, stretched out next to Martin’s hand on the gear stick and my heart froze with fear. Surely he wouldn’t... would he? He was her father, after all. Just because he was violent, someone who would force himself on a woman, it didn’t mean that he’d do that to his own flesh and blood. Would he?

What could I do about it, anyway? There was no-one to whom I could voice my fears. The police hadn’t believed my account of what happened at Martin’s that day. If they had, he’d have been prosecuted. They wouldn’t listen to me; they’d say that my concerns were unfounded. I looked back at the car. Sky was banging on the passenger window and making faces at Helena, while Martin waved at him to get in. To anyone else observing them all from the restaurant, they would look like a handsome, happy, close-knit family, having an evening out together. I would be the one who was either sick or crazy for even thinking of such a thing.

The car moved off. Thankfully, Martin’s face was obscured by the bus stop as they passed. I couldn’t have borne another look like the one he’d given me outside my flat that time all those years ago, the time when he’d whisked Catherine away after telling her a pack of lies about me; the look that had said, loudly and clearly, ‘I win’.

But I had no doubt that this was what this last minute, ‘forgotten’ competition was all about: it was a ploy to cut short my evening with Helena. And whilst Helena would have no inkling of that, no reason to believe for one minute that this was any kind of mind game on Martin’s part, Martin knew that I wasn’t stupid and that I would see it for what it really was. What’s more, that would be exactly what he would want me to see.

“Madame?” The waiter’s voice broke into my thoughts.

I turned to see him standing in front of me, the Bûche de Noël looking intricate and beautiful on a tray in his hands. A single lit candle was burning out of the top of the robin’s head.

“I didn’t know exactly what it was, the celebration,” the waiter said, “So I put just one candle. But may I wish you a Très Joyeux Noël.” He placed the cake on the table.

The restaurant was crowded by this point and, to my embarrassment, a sea of faces turned to watch, all these people wondering themselves, no doubt, what was the special occasion for this woman in her forties who was sitting at a table on her own with a great big cake in front of her. Some kind of Slimming World milestone, maybe? Oh God, I look ridiculous, I thought. I quickly blew the candle out.

The waiter glanced at the empty seat opposite me and frowned. He obviously hadn’t seen Helena leaving the restaurant. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I waited for ten minutes, as you asked...”

“It’s fine,” I replied, forcing a smile. “And thank you. I hope you have a very Happy Christmas too.”

When I opened the door to the flat, I could tell straight away that Zara was out. I wanted desperately to phone Oli and ask him to use his special powers to avenge my arch-enemy, who had driven my daughter away for Christmas in a black BMW. But it wasn’t fair on him. I’d told him I needed some time; I couldn’t keep dipping in and out of his life as I pleased, and it wasn’t fair to Christian either. I needed to have put some distance between me and Oli before I arrived back in France in a few days’ time, although that distance would be negligible and probably meaningless to Christian when I told him what had happened. How on earth was I going to do it? It would break his heart.

I picked up my mobile and dialled Catherine’s number. She answered on the first ring.

“Hi, hon. What’s up?”

“Oh Catherine,” I wailed. “I’ve got a beautiful great big French chocolate cake and no-one to eat it with. Everything’s a mess.”

“It doesn’t sound that bad to me,” she said.

“Trust me. It is.”

“Well, as luck would have it, I’ve just been to see a film at the Barbican. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Brilliant. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Oh. And Lizzie?”

“Yes?”

“We’ll need two spoons. Put the cake in the middle of the table. And no matter how bad things are, don’t you dare start without me.”

“Okay. Promise,” I agreed.