‘Hello, lovely,’ Julia greeted her, as Claire went into the day room in search of her father. ‘We’re a bit late tonight, aren’t we?’ Walking across to her, she checked her watch. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Aware that she probably looked more than a little flustered, Claire forced her face into a smile. ‘I had a bit of trouble getting a babysitter. I didn’t want to bring Ella along now that Dad’s… you know, becoming more unpredictable.’
Julia nodded understandingly. ‘I know that scenario well. It took me forever to find a decent babysitter,’ she said, going to the table where endless cups of tea were served. ‘Does your sister not help out then?’
Her sister? Claire’s stomach lurched. How could she possibly know about…?
‘She seems like a nice girl.’ Julia smiled, oblivious to Claire staring at her stunned.
Sophie had been here? She’d actually come to see him, despite Claire asking her not to?
‘Always dashing in and out, though,’ Julia went on. ‘You’d think she was the one with children. She doesn’t have any, does she?’
‘No,’ Claire managed, panic rising inside her as she realised Sophie must have been here more than once. Her gaze went to her father, who was sitting in one of the armchairs, his gaze fixed on the television and looking the picture of innocence. ‘She’s busy moving house.’
‘Ah. To somewhere nearer?’ Julia enquired pleasantly as she carried a cup of tea across to one of the residents.
‘That’s the idea,’ Claire said, following her across the room. ‘How is he?’ She nodded towards her father.
‘Cantankerous as always, hey, Bernard?’ Julia called good-naturedly across to him. He arched an eyebrow in reply, unimpressed. ‘He was a bit muddled after your sister left. I think he gets the two of you mixed up.’
Claire would bet he was. ‘Did she come today then?’ she enquired, attempting to keep her tone casual.
‘Early this morning,’ Julia clarified. ‘You could probably have given it a miss tonight.’
Claire sighed demonstratively. ‘I could have, couldn’t I?’ she said, thinking it was a bloody good job she had come. ‘Ah well, I’m here now. I’d better go and say hello.’
Her smile now plastered in place, she veered off to walk across to him. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said brightly, positioning herself between him and the TV. ‘It’s Claire.’
Since he couldn’t avoid her, Bernard looked up at her. ‘Hello, dear,’ he said, smiling uncertainly.
‘I hear Sophie’s been to see you?’ she went on chattily. ‘That was nice of her, wasn’t it?’
Bernard scanned her eyes, his own seemingly uncomprehending and his forehead creased into its usual puzzled frown. ‘Has she?’ he asked.
He wasn’t pretending he knew nothing of her existence then. Fury burned in Claire’s chest. He’d always known she existed. Despite his failing memory, there was part of him functioning, she was growing more certain of that. He was still capable of the lies that had destroyed the woman he was supposed to have loved. The deceit that had stolen Claire’s childhood. She might be wrong, there was always that possibility, but she very much doubted it.
‘Did you have a nice chat?’ she asked him, dumping her bags on the floor, perching on the arm of his chair and taking hold of his hand.
Bernard looked her over, the wheels of his mind seeming to turn as he tried to place her. ‘Yes thank you, dear,’ he said eventually. Was his confusion real? Or was it manufactured to avoid him being found out? I know! Claire wanted to scream at him. I know what you did. Everything! But she didn’t know everything, did she? She would never know the answer to the question that really haunted her: Did you hit her? Did you cause my mother to fall to her death?
‘That was nice for you, catching up with her.’ Smiling encouragingly instead, she squeezed his hand. ‘So, what did you talk about? Old times, I bet.’ Cathy? she wondered. The woman whose unimaginably horrific death might never have happened if not for him.
The furrow in his forehead deepening, he appeared to contemplate her question. Claire watched him. Might he finally confide in her, she wondered, his legitimate daughter?
But, ‘I don’t really remember,’ he said flatly, causing the knot of anger in Claire’s chest to tighten. She stared hard at him, willing him to look at her, to see her, see the pain he was causing. The guilt she carried, because of the promise she’d made him.
Bernard, though, looked away.
‘How are we doing?’ Julia asked, coming across to them. ‘I was about to help him get ready for bed,’ she told Claire. ‘I’m off duty soon. You could go up once he’s ready, if you like.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You get off. I’ll do it.’ Claire smiled reassuringly and got to her feet. ‘I’ll just drop my things upstairs and then I’ll be right back. Won’t be a sec, Dad.’
Picking up her handbag and the plastic carrier containing chocolate biscuits and choux buns – his favourites – she headed for the door. Tears welled in her eyes, distorting her vision as she glanced briefly back at him. Was he really the monster she was imagining he was?
Once in his room, she pushed the door to and leaned against it, her chest heaving as she gulped back her sobs. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. He wasn’t capable, surely, of cutting her out of his life, out of his will, in favour of his fucking love child. God! Realising she only had minutes, she tore herself away from the door, dropped her bags on the bed and glanced around the room. Her eyes travelled to the top of the dressing table – and her heart skittered to a stop in her chest. Her mother’s photograph was there, where she’d left it. But it was laid flat.
Bastard. Her chest tightening painfully, she walked across to it and righted it, then yanked the drawers of the dressing table open, quickly searching through them. She still didn’t know what she hoped to find. It wouldn’t be so obviously hidden. Deviousness required an amount of cleverness, and he’d certainly been that over the years.
Shoving the drawers shut, she flew to the wardrobe, to find his shirts and trousers hanging in colour-keyed rows. His jackets, two of them. Swiftly Claire searched the pockets, finding nothing but his expensive Montblanc fountain pen, a comb and an out-of-date credit card.
Frustrated, she closed the wardrobe door, her eyes flicking once again around the room. What was she doing? He might not even have taken it. It might genuinely be simply mislaid. The house had been in upheaval, after all, with her and Luke moving in, her father moving out. The stress of all that had happened was causing her to lose her mind.
She stopped, attempted to take stock. He’d tried to be there for her since her mother’s death. Business trips aside, which she cared not to dwell on, he’d done the absolute best that he could to be both mother and father to her. Whatever had happened between her parents, whatever he’d done, it was in the past. She needed to stop this. She needed to move on. If she didn’t, it would shape the rest of her life.
Feeling a little calmer, she went back to the bed to collect her bags. She’d been tempted not to leave him the things she’d brought him, but even knowing now how imperfect a father and husband he’d been, she couldn’t deny him the few little luxuries he still had left in life. Was anyone perfect, at the end of the day? Retrieving the cakes and biscuits from the carrier bag to place on the bedside cabinet, her gaze fell on the drawer in the top of it.
She almost resisted opening it. Almost. When she did, it took a second for comprehension to dawn.
She’d never even considered it, the fact that her father might still be able to sign his own name. Her stomach clenching coldly, she lifted out the notebook and stared incredulously at it. Apparently he could. Over and over he’d scrawled it. Page after page, filled with his signature, shakily written with his expensive Montblanc pen. Now why would he do that – Claire felt something harden inside her – unless he was planning to sign something? An official document, to replace one that was missing.
Bypassing the day-room door, Claire slipped quietly out of the care home. Would she grieve for him? she wondered as she walked to her car. Would she carry around the same aching loss inside her she had for her mother? Learning what she had about his past, she’d been devastated. Now, she felt as if a piece of herself had died. She was numb inside. Detached almost.