Praise for Suzy K Quinn

‘Layers of intrigue and suspense, with a brilliant sting in the tale. Loved it!’

Mel Sherratt, author of Liar Liar

‘Just brilliant! Ridiculously addictive (I DID NOT put it down) and chock full of twists and turns’

Lisa Hall, author of The Perfect Couple

‘Suzy K Quinn is a born storyteller’

Erin Kelly, author of He Said/She Said

‘OMG! What a book! Brilliantly written and utterly chilling! Just wow!’

Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret

‘Creepy and addictive with a genuine shocker of a twist!’

Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice

‘A twist so unexpected I had to turn back to the beginning to see what clues I’d missed! I thought I’d spotted the magician’s sleight of hand, and all the time I was looking in the wrong direction. Bravo, Suzy K!’

Ruth Dugdall, author of My Sister and Other Liars

‘A twisty and menacing look at modern families. Fantastic; I loved it!’

Ali Knight, author of Before I Find You

‘Deliciously dark; had me gripped from the get-go’

Rebecca Tinnelly, author of Never Go There

A note from your author

I still can’t believe so many people read my books.

Each and every day I am grateful for you, dear readers.

Thank you so much.

If you want to ask me any questions about the books,

or chat about anything at all, get in touch:

Email: suzykquinn@devoted-ebooks.com

Facebook.com/suzykquinn (You can friend request me. I like friends.)

Twitter: @suzykquinn

Website: suzykquinn.com

Happy reading,

Suzy xxx

Also by Suzy K Quinn

Don’t Tell Teacher

Not My Daughter

Suzy K Quinn

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Suzy K Quinn 2020

Suzy K Quinn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008323196

Version 2020-05-21

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008323189

This book is dedicated to my twin sis, CS Quinn – an

amazing author and fantastic human being.

Contents

Cover

Praise

A note from your author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Lorna – Once upon a time …

Lorna – Sixteen years later

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Once upon a time …

Liberty

Once upon a time …

Lorna

Lorna

Happily ever after …

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Lorna – Once upon a time …

There was once a woman who had long in vain wished for a child.

– RAPUNZEL

‘Lorna Miller?’

I want to stand up, but I can’t move.

My sister Dee gives my shoulder an urgent shake.

‘Come on, Lorna,’ she hisses. ‘You’re here now. Too late to back out.’

‘Ms Miller?’ The registrar calls again, looking over the room of couples and their new-born bundles. It’s very beige in here. I suppose people don’t want too many stimulating colours when they’re registering births. It might wake the babies.

My bony legs, bare in denim cut-offs, stick to the fake leather seating. Like they’re glued.

It’s warm today. Warmer, I’m told, than usual for the UK this time of year. And it’s spring here. A time of new beginnings.

Dee loses her patience. ‘Miller,’ she says, standing. ‘Lorna Miller. That’s us.’

‘You’re Lorna Miller?’ the registrar asks.

‘No,’ says Dee, placing a hand on my shaking shoulder. ‘She is. I’m her sister.’

Everything feels weird and slow. I’m under warm water and all I can feel is baby Reign’s warmth against my chest and the weight of Dee’s chubby hand.

Dee’s voice becomes urgent. ‘Come on, Lorna.’ She reaches to take the baby.

‘NO.’ My arms lock in one tight muscle and the whole room widens its eyes. ‘Just … give me a second.’

In one swift ‘pulling off a Band-Aid’ movement I get to my feet.

The registrar smiles. ‘It’s okay. Registering a birth isn’t an interrogation. Just a bit of form-filling.’

Dee puts an iron-bar arm around my shoulder. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster – the part where the ride starts and you can’t get off.

The registrar leads us into his office. There is a UNISON mug on his desk and a half-eaten Trio bar beside it. Two segments left. Trio bars are a peculiarly British sort of candy; too teeny-tiny to ever be popular in the States. I feel homesick, suddenly, for giant Charleston Chew bars.

‘The father couldn’t be here today?’ the registrar asks. ‘Or …’

‘There’s no father,’ says Dee.

My hands make fists around the baby.

There are chairs either side of the desk – sort of like a police interview room. The window overlooks a half-empty parking lot and a green fir tree.

I drop into the chair, feeling baby Reign against my chest, our heartbeats finding each other – hers like a fluttering leaf, mine like a tribal drum.

‘So you have your forms with you?’ the registrar asks.

‘Here.’ Dee shoves our envelope to the registrar like it’s a biting animal. Her hand drops on my shoulder and I feel she’s shaking too.

The registrar opens the folder and flicks through. He makes a clucking sound. ‘You’ve cut this very fine. If you’d left it any later …’

I nod, but my throat is too tight to reply.

Then the corners of the registrar’s mouth drop down. ‘You’re only seventeen. You have some support here, do you? Your mother?’

‘She’s in the States,’ I say. ‘And she’s not much of a support wherever she is.’

Dee manages something like a laugh, but her hand is still tight on my shoulder.

There is a pause, then the registrar says, ‘You had a home birth?’

I nod, my voice leaving me again.

He squints at the form. ‘And your sister …’

‘She … uh … witnessed the birth.’

‘Yes,’ says Dee.

‘It was just the two of you at the birth? The father—’

‘He’s not in the picture,’ says Dee.

The registrar hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he wants to ask something else.

This is it. The part where I break down and lose this baby …

I risk a glance at Dee. She won’t meet my eye.

And then it happens.

The registrar writes my name in neat black ink.

Mother: Lorna Miller.

I feel Reign’s warm body in my arms and dampness from Dee’s palm.

The registrar’s pen moves to the next box.

Father: unknown.

It was that easy. Who’d have guessed it would be so easy?

‘You’re entitled to benefits,’ says the registrar. ‘Worth looking into. There’s no shame in getting benefits. Especially at your age.’

‘It wouldn’t feel right,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here originally. I grew up in the States.’

‘What about healthcare?’ Dee asks. ‘My sister … she had cancer, sir.’

I make urgent eyes – what are you doing? Dee makes apologetic I had to ask eyes back.

‘You’ll be entitled to free healthcare,’ says the registrar. ‘What kind of cancer did you have?’

‘Bowel,’ I say, just as Dee says, ‘Breast.’

We look at each other.

Dee clears her throat. ‘Um … she had both.’

‘I’m fine now,’ I insist. ‘Really. Not worth talking about.’

The registrar glances at me for a moment, then moves to the next box.

‘What’s the baby’s name?’ he asks.

There’s a long silence. Too long. My mind is wrestling with itself. Trying to pin down thoughts.

I can’t call her Reign. It’s too distinctive. Why didn’t I think of this before?

‘Liberty,’ I decide. ‘Like the Statue of Liberty. Freedom.’ And then more words tumble out. ‘She’ll have a middle name too. Liberty Annalise.’

Dee’s hand clenches my shoulder, her nails digging in. ‘Are you sure you want that name? Annalise? I mean, really?’

I nod.

The registrar looks between us. Then he hands me a pen to write the names. Next comes the hard thunk of an official stamp.

As we walk out of the registrar’s office, I kiss the baby’s soft head over and over again.

Liberty Annalise Miller.

It’s official.

Dee won’t look at me.

That afternoon, I buy a heavy-duty safe with one-inch-thick steel sides. It costs £150 and takes twenty minutes to carry upstairs.

I put Liberty’s birth certificate inside the safe, along with all my medical records and lock it up tight.

The documents are still in there now.

Lorna – Sixteen years later

‘Well, well,’ said the old woman, peering out with a crafty look. ‘Haven’t you got a sweet tooth?’

– HANSEL AND GRETEL

Why isn’t Liberty home?

I’m in my workshop, legs crossed in paint-stained yoga pants, gluing tiny hairs into a foam-filled werewolf head.

Yoga pants? Leggings, Lorna. Leggings. You’ve been in this country seventeen years now. Butt is bum. A knob isn’t always a door handle. And never say ‘move your fanny’ unless you want to cause offence.

The workshop door is open and I can see our front gate, thick as a fist, the wood warm in the sun.

Warm.

Not hot. It’s never hot hot in this country.

I grew up under scorching California sun, but I’ve learned to love these softer British summers. Diet summer. Summer lite.

You know Liberty will be late today. All the students will be talking about their mock-exam results.

These werewolf hairs are a bad job to do while I’m waiting for Liberty. Way too fiddly. But filming starts next week and this guy needs to be ready. It’s ironic that I make monsters for movies, given my past. As ironic as my occasional bacon sandwich with Liberty’s vegan spread. But life never goes like a fairy tale, right? Maybe these teeth could do with more saliva.

I tap my laptop. The screen shows me the photoshop version of Michael, my nickname for this flesh-ripping, vicious beast. A moment later, the screen turns sleeping black and shows me something even tougher than the werewolf.

Me.

Once upon a time, I was skinny, sickly and quiet.

Not anymore.

My eyes, which my sister used to call cornflower blue, are now steel grey, like the weights I lift. Long hair – once short and naive sandy brown – dyed jet black. Arms no longer bony rods but toned and strong and covered in sleeve tattoos. I’m gym-fit and sturdy. Not the frail cancer survivor I was once upon a time.

Of course, I’m like every other tough-looking woman – soft as a marshmallow in the middle. Someone hurt me once. So I got strong. No choice really. It was either that or fade away.

As I reach for silicon glue, I hear footsteps outside the gate.

Please let this be Liberty …

But it’s not my daughter. I know this because Skywalker, our German Shepherd, watches the gate like a mafia boss, body stiff, ears pricked. Skywalker doesn’t do the guard-dog stuff when Liberty comes home; he gets excited, leaping up and down, pawing at wood.

So this must be Nick.

The lock buzzes and my eight-foot wooden gate swings open, making a big, light hole in the safe little world of our house and grounds.

I call out from my workshop, ‘Hey, future husband.’

Nick sidesteps through the gate in his gym gear, biceps bulging with hessian bags of shopping.

‘Hello, future wife.’ Nick bounds into the workshop and kisses my hair. ‘I found everything. Everything on the list. Even cashew nut cheese. I have a good feeling, Lorn. A really good feeling.’ Nick has a Yorkshire accent, which makes his boyish optimism sound even more naive.

Should I tell Nick that my teenage daughter might hate him less if he didn’t try so hard?

No. Nick is who he is. The man I love. Not with obsessive, fake teenage love. Real, sincere, honest love. It happened slowly, like real feelings should. Not overnight, like …

Michael.

Don’t think of him today.

I look around the workshop, mentally naming objects to switch my mind off bad thoughts.

Silicone glue. Silicone paint. Mould. Plaster of Paris. Movie script.

Skywalker trots into the workshop, sniffing the shopping bags.

‘Hey, pup.’ Nick reaches to pet him, but Skywalker barks and runs off.

I give Nick a sympathetic smile. ‘Baby steps, right? Listen, let’s start dinner. I need a distraction.’

‘She’ll be home any minute,’ says Nick. ‘When I was sixteen—’

‘I know. You were hiking alone in the Peak District.’ I lift the shopping bags of sourdough bread, tofu and asparagus. ‘How did that girl of mine get to like all this fancy food? When I was a teenager, all I ate was hot dogs and noodles.’

‘It’s great Libs eats mindfully,’ says Nick. ‘I’m proud of her.’

I bristle at the word ‘proud’ because I know Liberty would. It’s hard, this stepfamily stuff, and somehow Nick always manages to say the wrong thing.

I kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks for getting the groceries, honey.’

‘Anything to get into Liberty’s good books. Do you think she’ll get the results she wants today?’

‘Oh, sure. I never worry about Liberty in the smarts department. She’s so clever.’

Like her father.

I shake the thought away.

‘Anyway, they’re only mock exams,’ I continue. ‘No big deal.’

‘Well, she’s had plenty of time to study,’ says Nick.

‘Oh, yeah,’ I laugh. ‘I never let her out.’

I mean this as a joke, but it comes out sort of sinister.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to let Liberty out in the evenings?’ Nick asks. ‘She’s old enough. I was working at her age.’

‘We have different parenting styles, Nick. I parent Liberty my way, you parent Darcy yours.’

‘We’re supposed to be a team. Teams work together. We have two kids between us. We should parent them both together. Like a family. And we do parent Darcy together. It’s just Liberty—’

‘Look, I know the principle is a good one. But the kids are different ages.’

‘Why can’t I be a dad to Liberty? You’re amazing with Darcy. Better than her own mother sometimes …’

‘God, don’t say that, Nick. Darcy’s mom is doing her best. It’s a tough job raising a little girl with special needs.’

‘Yeah, okay. But you have to admit, Michelle doesn’t get Darcy like you do. The special needs thing doesn’t fit with her image.’ He makes a face. ‘You’re different. You don’t care if Darcy screams her head off in public. And Darcy loves you for that, Lorna. She feels safer here than she does at Michelle’s house. If you can parent her, why can’t I try with Libs?’

‘Liberty’s sixteen.’

‘Exactly. Sixteen. Don’t you think it’s time to loosen the reins and let her live a little?’

‘Sleeping Beauty had a really bad year when she was sixteen.’

I head into the house with the groceries, throwing a backwards glance at the gate, willing Liberty to buzz herself in.

She doesn’t.

I hate this part of the day.

‘She’ll be back any minute. Okay?’ Nick gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘You worry way too much.’

I nod, but I’m not reassured.

Inside, I dump groceries on the counter and watch the front gate through the kitchen window.

I never thought I’d live in a house like this – a little piece of English history. Growing up in America, my mother called the many different 1950s homes we lived in ‘antique’. Around here, most of the homes are four hundred years old.

‘Okay, so how do we cook this stuff?’ says Nick, looking at the ingredients.

‘Um …’ I glance at the kitchen window. ‘Not sure.’

‘Just playing devil’s advocate,’ says Nick, ‘but what if Liberty gets bad grades in these mock exams? What’s the plan? I mean, we can’t ground her, can we? Since you don’t let her out of an evening.’

‘Just as long as she tried her best.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’m going to give her until 4.30 p.m. Then I’m calling the police.’

Nick laughs. ‘They’re going to lock you up for wasting police time. You’re always overreacting. Liberty will be with her friends, probably writing songs or something. She’s okay. Don’t you remember being sixteen?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘But mostly I try and forget.’

Once upon a time …

The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand and said that she, above all others, was his dance partner.

– CINDERELLA

The year was 1996. The band were Crimson. The lead singer was Michael Reyji Ray.

I’d never known a high like it. The heat, the noise, the rush.

A multicoloured sea of arms waved in the air, Celtic armband tattoos and wrists jangling with thin Indian bangles and knotted cotton friendship bracelets.

Michael, Michael, Michael …

The girls wore light summer dresses with spaghetti straps and DM boots. The boys wore Michael Reyji Ray ‘Psycho-Delia’ T-shirts, ripped jeans and Vans trainers.

The stadium smelt of beer, incense and CK One perfume.

‘There are no strangers here,’ Michael boomed into a golden microphone. ‘Only friends you haven’t met.’

For 13,000 teenagers, Michael Reyji Ray was God that night. We worshipped him.

The world had never felt so real. So awake. I heard the roar of the crowd, felt tribal drum music under my feet, saw colours everywhere. Rainbow flags fluttering on parachute silk.

Michael had short, bleached white hair and wore a black T-shirt, jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses. His feet were bare, despite the cold night, because, he told us, he wanted to feel the beating heart of the earth.

To me, this statement was beautiful and artistic.

‘He thinks he’s Jesus,’ Dee croaked as Michael spread his arms on stage. She had a cold that night and was a begrudging chaperone.

‘Music has power,’ Michael boomed. ‘And tonight, we’re going to change the world.’

‘Oh, wow.’ I grabbed Dee’s arm, blinking back tears as we jostled against the cattle bars. ‘He is incredible. And he’s looking right at me, Dee – do you see it? Tonight is destiny. Michael Reyji Ray saved my life, Dee, I swear to God. It was his music that got me through cancer.’

My sister was less than impressed. ‘He doesn’t even write his own music – the rest of the band are the talent.’

‘He writes all the lyrics and they’re the amazing part,’ I gushed. ‘It was destiny I found that first Crimson album, Dee. I swear to you. And now I’m so close to him.’

On stage, Michael downed a beer. I took a large gulp from my own bottle.

‘Lorna, go easy on that stuff,’ said Dee, taking a bite from her hot dog and adding a chewed, ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’

‘I am,’ I insisted. ‘It’s six months today since they gave me the teen-cancer-girl all-clear. Exactly today. Profound, right? On the very day I see Michael sing live for the first time.’

As the night went on, I danced and screamed like a lunatic, downing beer, singing, holding up a light to the slow songs and putting my arms around complete strangers while my big sister looked on pityingly.

Dee didn’t get it. She wasn’t a Ray-ite. She didn’t get the depth and meaning and poetry of Michael’s lyrics. Those of us who did swayed and cheered and sang together.

It was beautiful. I felt like Michael was looking right at me, singing the words to me.

Live your life, little one. You’re a survivor …

When the concert finished and the crowds emptied, I needed to stay and get near the stage. It felt special – the spot where Michael had stood. I climbed right over the cattle bars at the front, watching the empty stage with big moony eyes.

Eventually a female security guard approached.

‘Girls,’ said the security guard. ‘Time to leave.’

‘We should go home,’ said Dee from the other side of the cattle bars. ‘Lorna, it’s cold. I have an excess fifty pounds to keep me warm. You’re skinny as a twig right now and still in recovery.’

‘You go home. Go. I’ll catch a cab later. I’m gonna hang out and wait for Michael and the band to leave.’

‘I can’t let you—’

‘Dee, he’s in this venue somewhere. I might meet him. Michael Reyji Ray.’

‘Never meet your idols, Lorna,’ said Dee. ‘I bet he’s even shorter than he looks on stage.’

‘I have to try.’

Dee shakes her head. ‘Come on, Lorna. I can’t stay out late. I’m teaching kids tomorrow.’

‘Then go.’

‘As if I’d leave my little sister. Come on. We need to get back.’

I pulled my trump card then. ‘Dee, meeting Michael Reyji Ray was on my list. The one I wrote in the hospital. Things to do before I die …’

Dee’s face faltered. ‘I’m responsible for a whole class of middle graders. I need to sleep—’

‘I’m telling you to go. I’ll be fine. There are no strangers here, right? Only friends I haven’t met. Come on, Dee, I’m sixteen. You moved out of home at sixteen.’

Dee sighed. ‘Okay, fine. Fine. But if you’re not back by 1 a.m. I’m calling the police.’

‘You’re the best big sister in the world. Always have been.’

‘Okay, okay. Stay out of trouble, little sis, and look after yourself. Take care of your body. Remember how lucky you are to be alive. You’re still crazy thin.’ She managed a tired smile. ‘Even so, you look a darn sight better than I did at your age.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the most beautiful person I ever met.’ And I meant it. My big sister always looked like an angel to me with her cuddly, curvy body and warm, smiling eyes.

Dee laughed. ‘And you’re my best little cheerleader. Enjoy yourself. Okay? You deserve a good time after everything you’ve been through.’

I know Dee still feels guilty about that night. If she’d have stayed with me, Michael might never have happened.

But it’s not her fault.

Men like Michael are predators. They’re experts at luring you in.

Lorna

Liberty’s still not home and I’m starting to panic, pacing back around the kitchen.

The griddle sizzles as Nick lays large, flat mushrooms on hot oil. He watches the pan intensely, glancing between the smoking mushroom and a little black kitchen timer.

‘Great job, Nick,’ I say, trying not to sound as distracted as I feel. ‘Smells delicious. Liberty is going to love this. A plant-based feast.’

‘Yeah, it looks good, doesn’t it?’ says Nick, voice cheerful. ‘I’m going to try Darcy on one of these mushrooms tonight. It would be great if she ate a vegetable. This yellow food phase is just going on and on.’

‘I’m not sure it’s a phrase,’ I say. ‘I think it’s just how Darcy is. You told the nursery that Bella’s mother is taking her home tonight, right?’

Nick snorts, still watching the mushroom, spatula poised. ‘I was a parent before you came along, Lorna Miller. Don’t worry. I told them.’

‘I’m giving Liberty one last call,’ I decide, taking out my cell phone. Mobile phone, Lorna, mobile, not a cell phone. You’ve lived in this country for seventeen years …

‘Lorna.’ Nick shakes his head. ‘She won’t answer. How many times have you called today?’

My flip-flops shuffle on the slate floor. ‘Three?’

This is a lie.

‘Hold up.’ Nick points at the window. ‘I think this is her.’

Skywalker is going mad, jumping around at the gate.

‘Oh, thank God.’ I watch our front gate swing open on its pivot, and my tall, slender daughter appears, army backpack hanging from one shoulder. Her skin is lightly tanned from the sun. Different to my pale skin. I’ve always been pale. The palest kid in California.

Liberty’s wearing a messed-up version of her school uniform, her tie the skinny way around, skirt rolled up and something else: an oversized denim jacket with band patches sewn on it. I’ve never seen the jacket before, and … what happened to her hair?

I feel Nick’s arm around my shoulder. ‘Whoa. Very rock and roll. It suits her.’

‘What has she done to herself?’ My voice is shaking.

Liberty’s long, chestnut brown hair has been cut to her chin, flicked over in a deep side parting and streaked an uneven blonde, some parts bright white, others orangey.

I put my hand to my own hair. It was short like that once too.

When Liberty comes through the front door, I accost her in the hall beside Nick’s ‘Steps, Achieve, Goal’ pinboard.

‘Liberty, what happened to your hair?’

Skywalker barks and barks.

Liberty raises a hand to Skywalker. He sits instantly, tail still and obedient. ‘I cut it. And bleached it.’

‘Where?’

‘At school.’

I watch as Liberty hangs her army backpack and the unidentified denim jacket.

‘Where did you get that jacket?’

‘A friend.’ Liberty clicks her fingers and Skywalker trots to her side.

‘Who? Male or female?’

‘Does it matter? Gender is fluid these days. Get with the times, Mama.’

‘What happened to your duffel coat—’

‘Abi has it. We swapped.’

‘For a jacket covered in music badges?’

‘What’s the problem with a couple of band badges? You’ve got tattoos all over your arms.’

‘Liberty, honey. Your hair. Your beautiful hair.’

‘It’s my hair. It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Hey Libs.’ Nick pops his head out the front door. ‘Your mother just worries about you, that’s all. We want you to be safe.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘Because you are not my legal guardian.’

‘I’m responsible for you, just like your mother is,’ says Nick.

‘Not legally,’ says Liberty. ‘You and my mother aren’t married yet. Remember?’ Then she mutters under her breath. ‘Steroids cause memory loss.’

Unfortunately, Nick hears. He’s mild-mannered about absolutely everything. Except steroid accusations.

‘I do not take steroids,’ he snaps. ‘These muscles are born of hard graft.’

‘There are helplines you can call.’ Liberty tries to dart upstairs, shoulders shaking with laughter.

I grab her arm. ‘Hold it right there. Number one, apologize to Nick. Number two, we have to figure out how to fix your hair.’

‘Fix it?’ Liberty gawps at me. ‘There’s nothing to fix. And I was just teasing, Nick. That’s all.’

Nick goes back into the kitchen and starts cutting tofu, head bent over.

‘Apologize to Nick. He’s trying his best. He drove to Long Bridge for your vegan stuff today.’

‘You’re always on his side.’

‘I’m on both your sides.’

Liberty flips around her new short hair and kneels to stroke Skywalker’s long, salt and pepper body. ‘Thank you, Nick,’ she says in a tired voice. ‘Sorry, Nick.’

‘I’m trying my best, Libs,’ says Nick. ‘All I want to do is be a good … sort-of dad.’

‘Tell us about the mock exams,’ I say. ‘How’d you do?’

Liberty ignores me and pours vegetarian dog biscuits into Skywalker’s bowl. Skywalker sits obediently, as Liberty has trained him to do. Only when she gives him the command does he start eating.

Nick stumbles into the awkward silence. ‘Hey, you’ve done a great job with that dog, Libs. Look at how well trained he is. Just brilliant.’

‘What else do I have to do?’ says Liberty. ‘Mum never lets me out.’

‘Yeah, we were talking about that,’ says Nick. ‘I think it’s time your mother let you out more.’

Liberty looks up then, managing a smile. ‘Really? You told her that? Did she punch you?’

Nick laughs. ‘Just a couple of broken fingers.’

‘So tell us about your exams,’ I say. ‘Don’t keep us hanging on.’

‘I’ll tell you at dinner time,’ says Liberty. ‘Where’s my little buddy? Up in her room reading her number chart?’

‘Darcy’s still at nursery,’ I say. ‘One of the other parents is bringing her home.’

‘I brought her some patterns from Maths class,’ says Liberty, going to her school bag and pulling out sheaves of paper. ‘I’ll put them in her special drawer.’

When Liberty opens Darcy’s personal kitchen drawer – the one with all Darcy’s ‘important’ items in it – she bursts out laughing. ‘I love that little girl. She’s so funny.’ Liberty pulls out a handful of Chinese takeout menus. ‘Of course she loves these menus. Every dish is numbered.’

‘I’ll say one thing about this blended family,’ says Nick. ‘At least the kids get along.’

‘Who wouldn’t get along with Darcy?’ says Liberty.

‘Her birth mother, for a start,’ says Nick. ‘Not everyone understands someone so particular.’

‘Well, I think Darcy’s hilarious. I love how straightforward she is. And clever. Worth putting up with you for, Nick.’

Nick laughs uncertainly.

‘Liberty, please stop being so hard on Nick,’ I say. ‘He’s one of the good guys.’

‘Well yeah, he definitely has his uses,’ says Liberty. ‘But why not just download a diet and fitness app? That way I don’t have to find his hair in the shower.’

‘There’s a fine line between funny and mean, and you’re in danger of crossing it.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Liberty mutters. ‘Sorry, Nick. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

‘Let’s get all this food cooked,’ I announce. ‘Okay? What’s this? Jackfruit? What is it, some kind of vegetable?’

‘I’ll give you a clue,’ says Liberty. ‘You won’t find it in one of your disgusting hot dog cans.’

‘Don’t mock the afflicted. I can’t help my taste in food. I don’t know how you got so sophisticated.’

‘Maybe I got my sophisticated tastes from my real dad.’

The room falls silent. And then I hear myself say:

‘Liberty. Go to your room.’

Once upon a time …

After my sister left me at the Crimson gig, I followed a tide of fanatical, oddball hangers-on. They swept me out of the stadium and towards the east car park, where the band’s tour bus waited on gleaming tarmac.

The girls were obvious groupies, shivering in knee-high boots, Wonderbras and short skirts. The boys were boggle-eyed and acne-ridden under shaggy, Michael Reyji Ray haircuts. They were a fun and sweet crowd, all glossy-eyed and talking about the gig.

I talked music too, but I was there for something more. Something deeper. Love. Wholesome, honest, authentic love. Michael and his music had cured me of cancer. His lyrics spoke to my heart and soul while I was in hospital. The words were written just for me. And I loved him.

It was dark and freezing that night, but excitement kept us warm as we huddled outside the east car-park stadium doors.

I said silent prayers, shivering in my oversized denim jacket – the one I’d decorated with band patches and sharpie silhouettes. Please, God, please. Let Michael grace us with his holiness.

Just after midnight, it happened. The black-painted fire doors flew open and out came Michael Reyji Ray, Paul Graves, Alex Sawalha and a dozen crew members dressed in black ‘Crimson’ T-shirts.

We all screamed and cried.

Michael walked a little ahead of the other band members, looking thoughtful, hands in greying jeans pockets and walking on bare feet. The way the band and crew had arranged themselves around Michael – he was a king with his subjects.

Michael walked past all the half-dressed girls in short skirts and knee-high boots, his face still apparently deep in concentration.

And then a miracle happened.

Michal noticed the illustrations on my jacket and stopped walking. His eyes followed the long, hard sharpie pen lines and crosshair shading. ‘So what do we have here then?’ he asked, voice scratchy and deep. ‘A little artist. Is this me?’

‘I … yes,’ I stammered, grinning like an idiot. ‘This is you. And this is Sid Vicious. And David Roger Johansen.’

‘The New York Dolls?’ Michael asked. ‘You like them, do you?’

I nodded and nodded. ‘I love them. I love punk music.’

‘A little American punk princess.’ Michael pushed his sunglasses into his hair and took my face in his hands. When his eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been hit with something. He had unwavering, kaleidoscope eyes that saw everything – hopes and dreams, pain and fear. They were the most amazing eyes I’d ever seen and they were looking right at me.

Then Michael put one square, flat palm high on my chest, right over my beating heart. He held his hand there for a moment, then spoke to me again in his gravelly voice.

‘Do you know what?’ Then he sang. ‘I fee-eel a soul connection.’

The girls beside me swooned on my behalf.

‘You’d better come with me.’ Michael grabbed my hand, and I felt his calloused guitar-player fingers against my palm.

‘Where?’

‘To the tour bus.’ Michael pulled me across the car park and I stumbled behind him, grinning like an idiot.

‘Wait,’ I said, looking back at my new-found friends. ‘Just me?’

Michael held my hand tighter. ‘Just you, Cinderella. I’m taking you to the ball.’

Together, we walked over freezing tarmac to the tour bus.

The ground seemed to lay down under Michael’s bare feet. To glow with every step he took.

I kept glancing at Michael and giggling like an idiot. Yes, he was definitely the most handsome man I’d ever seen. A little bit careworn up close. Smaller than he looked on stage. And a lot older than me. But so, so handsome. I was in the company of music royalty. Music royalty was holding my hand.

Lorna

Darcy frowns at her dinner plate. She sits on a yellow booster seat in a cute yellow sundress, yellow sandals dangling. But little-girl embellishments aside, Darcy is the most grown-up, serious four-year-old you could ever meet. Her idea of playtime is numbering all the toys in the room and then doing it again – fifty times.

‘It’s okay, Darcy,’ says Liberty. ‘You’ve had all this food before, right? Except that one. It’s called a mushroom. Remember what to do if you’re not sure? Just count the pieces.’

Darcy’s black hair is tied in a messy ponytail. Liberty did it this morning, and hasn’t done a bad job considering Darcy will only tolerate hairstyling for around ten seconds.

She won’t let Nick or me touch her head at all in the morning – only her ‘big sister Bibbity’. Hair washing must happen after 6 p.m. and only if we’re quick. Sometimes, we cut her hair while she’s sleeping.

Liberty and I watch across the dinner table, faces tense. Nick looks hopeful, but holds his knife and fork in tight fists. He’s taken a risk tonight by putting a mushroom on Darcy’s plate. She analyses it with the concentration of a surgeon: the operation is macaroni and vegan cheese with crunched-up tortilla chips on top and a sliced mushroom on the side. Everything yellow, except for the mushroom – slightly yellowed by frying, but still a grey, white colour.

This procedure is touch and go. Things could go either way.

Darcy’s meals have to look and feel similar every time, which means yellow and crunchy. Oven-ready is the go-to safe option.

If Darcy approves the meal, it could be a good evening. If she doesn’t, she’ll scream the house down and it’ll take an hour to make her calm again.

‘This is more toe-curling than your YouTube fitness videos, Nick,’ says Liberty.

Nick, to his credit, manages an amiable laugh.

Darcy says nothing. She is still concentrating.

Then we get the signal – a full, beautiful smile like the sun coming out. Darcy picks up her fork and carefully loads food.

‘One,’ she counts.

We all relax.

‘Okay.’ I pour drinks: Coke for me, Diet Coke for Nick, San Pellegrino sparkling water for Liberty (in a sophisticated stem glass, of course) and Sunny Delight for Darcy.

‘So, Liberty, good day?’ Nick asks. ‘How about those mock-exam results? How’d you do?’

Liberty cuts a mushroom into neat pieces. ‘I failed.’

I laugh.

‘I’m not joking,’ says Liberty, taking a delicate bite of food.

The room goes very still.

I decide to play along. ‘You failed drama? The girl who’s picked as the lead in every play?’

‘Failed it. Maths. English. Science. Fail, fail, fail. U grades. Unclassified.’

‘Very funny, Libs.’ I cut up food. ‘You’re the most intellectual teenager I’ve ever met. You can do a Suduko puzzle while the kettle boils. You’re an unbeaten chess champion. You read Dickens and Shakespeare for fun.’

‘It’s easy to fail when you don’t turn up to the exams,’ says Liberty.

‘You … what?’

‘I didn’t sit any exams,’ says Liberty, sipping sparkling water. ‘Except for Music. They predicted me an A-star for that.’

Silence.

Some parents worry about their children getting tattoos or leaving home to join a motorcycle gang. I worry my daughter will be a musician.

Nick looks between Liberty and me, brown eyes startled and unsure. Then he clears his throat. ‘Um … at my school sometimes the clever kids pretended to be thick so they wouldn’t get picked on. Maybe Libs doesn’t want to look too clever.’

‘Liberty,’ I say. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m protesting.’

I swallow. ‘Against … against what?’

‘I’m not taking my any more exams. Not until you let me meet him.’

I stiffen.

Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

‘I want to meet my real father.’ Liberty looks me dead in the eye.

There they are. Laid right out on the bamboo table top, making a nasty stain. The words I’ve been dreading since Liberty could talk.

Under the table, Skywalker makes a sort of snorting, whinny noise. It’s like he knows the gates of hell have been opened and Liberty is walking towards them.

‘I’m not taking any exams until you let me meet my real father,’ says Liberty.

‘Why would you want to meet him?’ I demand. ‘He’s a monster. That’s not a road we’re going down.’

‘Well, it’s a road I’m going down,’ says Liberty.

‘No, Liberty. Absolutely not.’

We glare at each other.

‘Liberty, your mother has her reasons, okay?’ says Nick.

Liberty stands and jabs her fork at Nick and me in turn.

‘See?’ she shouts. ‘I get totally ganged up on. I’m sixteen years old. It’s time I met my real dad. You should let me decide for myself what he’s like. Just because he was bad to you doesn’t mean he’ll be bad to me.’

Darcy doesn’t pay any attention, continuing to count her forkfuls.

‘You’re young and naive, just like I was,’ I say. ‘You just have to trust me.’

Suddenly, Darcy stops counting, frowning at a melted piece of cheese stuck on her place.

Liberty goes to helps Darcy cut it free. ‘I want to meet him, Mum.’

‘You can’t meet your father,’ I say, voice rising. ‘No way. Never. Do you understand me. You can NEVER meet him. Your real father will ruin everything.’

Lorna

I want to meet my father.

For a good few minutes after the ‘F’ bomb, only Darcy speaks.

‘Fork. Food. Eighteen. Fork. Food. Nineteen. Whoops! Start again. Fork. Food. One.’

Liberty is still behind her, helping her free stuck cheese from the plate when necessary.

Skywalker slinks into the kitchen and sits in his basket.

I stare at my plate, not wanting to eat.

When I look up, Nick has worried eyes and Liberty is glaring.

‘Okay, listen,’ I say. ‘The word “father”. It has a kind of status, doesn’t it? An authority? Like a king. Wise, kind. Fathers are kind men, right? But Liberty, your dad isn’t like that. How many times do I have to tell you? We all need to stay away. I’ve told you over and over again, he is not a good guy.’

‘Aunty Dee told me to take your stories with a pinch of salt.’

‘Aunty Dee thinks she’s protecting you,’ I say. ‘She used to do that when I was growing up too – tone things down, make them sound nicer. Always the mother figure. She was a great big sister. The best. But sometimes people need to know the truth.’

Liberty snorts. ‘And what would you know about the truth?’

‘Listen.’ My voice hardens. ‘Dee was there. She knows all about your dad. She knows full well.’ I push my plate of food away.

‘Tell me more about him at least,’ says Liberty, taking a seat. ‘He’s half of who I am.’

‘I … no,’ I say. ‘That’s not a good idea.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, Libs,’ says Nick, ‘I don’t know anything about your dad either. Your mother keeps me in the dark too.’

‘He’s just a bad guy who I left a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Can we leave it at that? And I don’t want you meeting him, Liberty, because I don’t want you getting hurt like I did.’

‘Maybe I’m not as weak and pathetic as you were.’ Liberty watches me, her eyes flat. ‘And I’m sick of listening to all the “Dad is a bad person” stuff without a shred of proof. If you won’t let me meet him, I won’t retake my exams.’

I cross my arms. ‘Fine. If that’s what it takes.’

Liberty glares at me. ‘I’ll ruin my future. You won’t let me do that.’

‘What kind of future will you have if your father gets a hold of you?’

For the rest of dinner, Liberty is sullen and silent, throwing me the occasional angry glance.

I try to strike up some small talk: ‘Do you think robot vacuum cleaners actually work?’

Liberty replies, ‘They probably don’t really clear up the mess at all. Just move it around. Hide it under the carpet.’ And eyes me meaningfully.

When we’ve all finished eating, we all clear and tidy, moving dinner things to the kitchen and loading the dishwasher.

After Darcy meticulously scrapes her plate and loads it, Liberty takes her hand, leads her into the lounge and finds her a YouTube video about a jelly bean factory. She sits with Darcy for a while, explaining the factory mechanisms and jelly bean flavouring process. Then she announces she’s heading up to her room.

‘I’m going to write a song about controlling parents,’ she says.

I sigh. ‘Listen, Libs. With your father … some problems can’t be solved. Right?’

‘Don’t be frigging ridiculous,’ says Liberty. ‘Every problem can be solved. It’s just whether you make it a priority or not.’

Frigging is an Americanism she got from me. I have no one else to blame. Ditto when she says crap and Jesus H Christ. And ditto.

‘Even kids Darcy’s age know hiding from problems isn’t healthy,’ Liberty adds.

‘Okay,’ I admit. ‘Fine. Usually we face our problems. But when it comes to your father it doesn’t work like that. He turns it all around, spins it, makes you look like the crazy one. So can we just drop it?’

‘Hey Libs,’ says Nick, holding out a chessboard with an eager look on his face. ‘Why don’t we take our mind off things with a game of chess. Fancy a quick match?’

Liberty offers an eyebrow raise. ‘No offence, Nick, but I’ll beat you in three minutes.’

‘I’ve been practising,’ says Nick. ‘I downloaded Chess Tactics Pro.’

‘Fine.’

Nick sets up the chessboard, turning the white pieces to face Liberty. ‘Here. Ladies first.’

‘I like black, remember?’ says Liberty, turning the board again. ‘The dark, avenging army.’

Nick looks uncertain. ‘Um … okay. Right. Okay. I’ll go first then.’ He looks at the pieces, eyes darting everywhere, then finally moves a pawn.

Liberty checkmates Nick within three minutes, as promised.

‘Good job, Libs.’ Nick offers his hand to shake. ‘I’ll keep practising.’

‘You’re persistent, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘I have to give you that.’

‘Giving up is not in my vocabulary.’

‘Thank goodness,’ I say. ‘Or you’d have given up on us a long time ago.’

Nick grins at me. ‘Never.’

‘Okay.’ Liberty stands. ‘I’m going upstairs to work on my music before I vomit all over the pair of you.’ She disappears up the second staircase – the one that leads to her mezzanine landing, bedroom and ensuite. The mezzanine is a yoga space that Liberty and I both used to use, but these days she’s more into indoor climbing at my local gym. Chaperoned, of course.

When Liberty disappears, I burst into tears.

‘Hey.’ Nick jumps to his feet and puts his arms around me. ‘Hey, it’s all right. It’s fine. She’ll take her exams. She’s just testing you.’

‘It’s not her exams I’m worried about.’

‘So what are you worried about? That she’ll go running off to see her dad?’

I nod.

‘It’s normal that she’d want to, isn’t it? I get that you and he didn’t get along, but maybe there’s a way—’

‘No. There’s no way she can see him.’ I look away from Nick’s penetrating stare. ‘He can’t be part of our life in any way.’

‘But clearly Liberty wants to see him. Lorna—’

‘It’s fine, Nick.’ I start doing clap press-ups against the breakfast bar. ‘We’ve been through all this when Liberty was younger. The “I want to see my real dad” phase. It’ll pass like it did back then.’

Nick scratches his head in thought. He’s the only person I know who literally scratches his head when he’s thinking. ‘So … you’re just going to basically ignore what she wants?’

‘Not ignore. Just not give any fuel to it. And like I said, wait until it passes.’

‘You never talk about Liberty’s father.’

‘There’s nothing I want to talk about. Liberty’s never met him and that’s how it’s going to stay. Everything is near-perfect here. You have no idea how perfect. Liberty’s father would ruin everything.’

We hear the beautiful ebb and flow of acoustic guitar drift over our open-plan living area, floating past the panoramic windows and out into woodland, joining the birds fluttering from tree to tree.

Liberty is musically talented. No doubt about that. I wish she weren’t. There would be fewer questions.

I look at the staircase. ‘I’ll go talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.’

‘Have a good honest talk with her, Lorna. Get everything out in the open.’

A shiver runs through me.

If I were totally honest with Liberty, I’d lose her forever. I’d lose Nick too. He really has no idea.

‘Lorna?’ Nick’s watching me, and I realize my fists are balled.

‘I’m okay. Honestly. It’s just … Liberty and I have been through a lot. I’ll talk to her and smooth things over.’

Nick pulls me into another big, strong hug. ‘Just remember, she’s a kid who’s dealing with a lot. Sixteen is a tough age. I wouldn’t want some weird guy moving into my house, sharing my mum’s bedroom.’

‘Don’t forget your hair in the bathroom.’

We both manage something like a laugh.

‘Listen,’ says Nick. ‘Maybe you’ve got good reasons for keeping her away from her dad. But let the girl go out with her friends of an evening, at least. If she had more freedom, I think it would help a lot. With everything.’

‘You don’t understand teenagers,’ I say. ‘Freedom is the last thing she needs.’

Lorna

Liberty’s is a musician’s bedroom. No doubt about that. Most teenagers spend their allowance on clothes. Liberty buys electric guitars, tribal drums, electric drum kits and keyboards.

Liberty sort of knows music. Picks up instruments and understands how they work. I’ve never taught her – she taught herself. She has GarageBand on her laptop, surround-sound speakers and a very cool 1960s orange Dansette record player with a cube of vinyl beside it. Van Halen, Suzi Quatro, Joan Jett and Kiss are arranged alphabetically.

‘Liberty?’ I knock on the bedroom door even though it’s already open.

Liberty sits on a rice-filled bean bag, holding one of her acoustic guitars: the red one she bought at a school jumble sale without telling me. She’s changed out of her school uniform into tight black jeans and a Runaways T-shirt. Skywalker lays beside her, head on her thigh.

It’s still light outside, and the room twinkles with sunshine.

Liberty looks up. ‘What?’

‘Hey. Sorry. Okay?’

‘You always say that,’ says Liberty. ‘But nothing changes.’ She puts the guitar to one side. ‘It’s ridiculous. I’m sixteen years old and you won’t let me go out in the evenings. All my friends go out. And you won’t tell me anything about my real father.’

‘You don’t get it. It’s a big, bad world out there. You have no idea how bad.’

‘Look, I know you had a hard time with my father—’

‘A hard time?’ I put a hand to my forehead. ‘Oh my goodness, Liberty. You have no idea.’

‘Is he something to do with you getting cancer when you were young? Like … bad associations or something?’

‘No. I had cancer before your father came along. I was only fifteen when …’ I shake my head. ‘Never mind. Anyway. I don’t want to talk about cancer. Focus on what you want more of, right? Not the bad stuff.’

‘Were you scared?’

‘What?’

‘When you got cancer. You must have been really scared.’

‘I don’t want to talk about that. It’s nothing to do with your father, anyway. I was in remission when we met. I thought he was my happy ending.’ I give a hollow laugh. ‘Now I know you have to make your own happy endings in life. No one can give them to you.’

‘I want to meet him, Mum. I know you had a bad relationship. But I don’t believe my real father would hurt me. I just don’t.’

I squeeze her hand. ‘Honey, you don’t know him. And if you did, you wouldn’t say that. All teenagers think they’re invincible. Until they learn otherwise.’

‘I might not be invincible. But I’m not some fragile little doll either.’

‘That’s exactly what you are, Liberty. And the most dangerous part is you don’t even know it.’

‘According to you, riding my bike to school is dangerous.’

‘I didn’t want you taking your bike to school because—’

‘Because you heard about a girl getting snatched when she was cycling home from school. Guess what? People get killed in cars every day. Why not stop me riding the bus?’

‘We have space around the house to ride.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s ridiculous. Having a bike and not being able to ride it outside, aged sixteen. Darcy rides her bike to nursery and she’s four years old with learning difficulties.’

‘It’s different with you.’

Liberty rolls her eyes. ‘Because my father is such a monster?’

‘Exactly right.’

Liberty clears her throat. ‘Mum. I have something to tell you.’

‘What?’

There’s a long pause, during which Liberty looks anywhere but at me. Then she says, ‘I know who he is.’

My body goes rigid. ‘What?’

Liberty takes her phone from the bedside table. ‘This is you. Isn’t it?’ She passes me the phone.

My mouth turns dry.

I see a skinny, kohl-eyed teenager with chin-length, punky hair and bony body under a Michael Reyji Ray T-shirt. My teenage self is dragging suitcases behind a straggly, dark-haired man in a leather jacket.

The worst thing about the picture is my eyes. They’re glazed and lovesick. I’ve seen the same eyes since in fanatical cult members.

This girl was me, once. A long time ago. But I feel no connection to her. She’s like a stranger.

There are more pictures under teenage me: a young Michael Reyji Ray, tanned and handsome. In those days he was in good shape, running around stage all night, slashed-up T-shirts showing off his chest. There’s a picture of Michael on stage, and also driving his purple Jaguar F-Type, looking every bit the rock and roll rebel.

Michael is different these days too. I’ve seen pictures. His face is swollen and craggy under his bleached white hair, chin dusted with black and white stubble. We’re both bigger, but I’ve got fitter, he’s got fatter: a toad of a man in black jeans, bright T-shirts and suit jackets.

Liberty watches me closely. ‘Michael Reyji Ray is my father,’ she says. ‘Isn’t he? All the dates add up. And … we have the same face.’

I swallow. ‘How did you find this?’

‘Someone at school showed me.’

‘The girl who gave you the jacket?’

‘No. Someone else.’

My mouth is dry. ‘Did you read the article?’

Liberty nods.

‘What else have you seen?’

‘Not much, just … some old magazine articles. Saying you were sort of obsessed with him. My father.’

‘I’m taking this phone.’

‘What?’

‘Your phone,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you looking at this stuff. It won’t lead anywhere good.’

Liberty shakes her head like a disappointed parent. ‘That’s your solution to everything. Censorship. Control. And then you bring in Nick to back you up. Fine. Take my phone. Take it. And while you’re at it, lock my door and throw away the key.’

‘Listen, you have no idea how good our life is without your father in it. Haven’t I warned you enough about him? Haven’t I spent your whole life warning you?’

‘You know what I think? I think he treated you badly and you need a reason to hate him.’

‘That’s not true. I mean, yes. He did treat me badly. But I have plenty of genuine reasons for keeping him away.’

‘Parent alienation,’ says Liberty. ‘It’s a thing. You should let me make up my own mind.’

I’ve kept my daughter secure behind high gates. We’ve stayed hidden for sixteen years. But Michael’s still got into our home.

‘You can’t ever see him,’ I say. ‘Ever.’

‘You can go now.’ Liberty picks up her guitar. ‘You’ve made your point. Mother knows best.’

Once upon a time …

When Michael Reyji Ray took my hand on that cold autumn night and led me across the parking lot, it felt as if all my dreams had come true.

As we walked, I risked a glance at the god beside me.

Looking at Michael, even sideways on, was like looking at the sun. He was bright and blinding. Everything was clear as clear. Michael’s skin shone. His eyes were glittering stars. All around him was light.

When I was fifteen years old, the doctors found a life-threatening tumour. I’d nearly died. Now at sixteen, I’d gone to heaven. Or at least stumbled upon the meaning of life. His name was Michael Reyji Ray and he was my happily ever after. Our carriage awaited us: a giant black tour bus with wasp-eye wing mirrors and tube-light steps.

The world was brighter than it had ever been and time had slowed so I could take it all in.

‘So you like our band, do you?’ Michael asked me.

I nodded and nodded. ‘I’ve listened to Crimson’s Big Dreams album probably a thousand times. You have no idea what that album means to me. It literally saved my life.’

Michael chuckled. ‘Well, I am honoured.’

‘This is a fairy tale,’ I told Michael as he escorted me up the sharp metal tour-bus steps and into rock and roll fantasy land. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening.’

Everything on the bus was bright, like Michael’s presence had lit it up. The leather sofas gleamed, the chrome tables sparkled and spotlights twinkled like shy little stars.

Bottles of Guinness stood on the bar beside magnums of champagne. There were huge meat pies cut into slices, cocktail sausages and loaves of brown bread.

‘Who’s all the food for?’ I asked.

‘You. If you want it.’

The bus was empty when we boarded, except for a driver lounging in the front seat, feet on the dashboard. He wore a black-leather eye mask and snored loudly.

Michael flicked the driver’s nose playfully and shouted, ‘Danny!’

The driver fell about in his seat, sitting upright and ripping the mask from his eyes.

When he saw Michael, he looked momentarily terrified. ‘Shit. Shit.’

Michael’s eyes were stern as he ruffled Danny’s hair. ‘Have you been on the beers, Danny boy?’

Danny coughed a smoker’s cough. ‘Just sleeping. Power nap.’

‘Good lad,’ said Michael. ‘We don’t want you dozing at the wheel later on. We have a lot of good people on this bus.’

Danny pulled his mask back on his face.

Michael offered me a seat on a leather sofa and grabbed two Grolsch beers from a mini-bar fridge. ‘You’re over eighteen, right?’ He winked, popping open a beer and handing it to me.

I nodded quickly.

‘I know they don’t let you drink until you’re twenty-one in this country,’ said Michael. ‘But this bus is my home town of Dublin. International soil. And in Dublin, you can go to the pub when you’re eighteen.’

I nodded and nodded, a big, dumb grin on my face. He thought I was eighteen!

‘That is one totally cool jacket you have on there.’

I smiled, too shy to meet his gaze.

‘And with a jacket like that you can’t drink orange squash, can you?’ said Michael. ‘You’ve got to go the whole way. Sex and drugs and rock and roll.’

I kept nodding, swigging from the beer bottle.

‘Do you know what?’ said Michael. ‘You are a very beautiful girl. You’re like a little fairy. All tiny and delicate. I can’t stand women getting muscly like men. It looks wrong.’

As Michael was laying on the charm, Paul Graves and his wife climbed on the bus. Paul grabbed a magnum of champagne and moved to the back without saying a word.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ said Michael. ‘What brings you out to see a load of old men play music on a cold night?’

‘I love your music. I went crazy when I got tickets for tonight. Totally crazy. Everyone knew the gig would sell out.’

Michael watched me intently, his eyes twinkly and black. It didn’t feel like a forty-something man picking up a sixteen-year-old. It felt like the biggest rush of my life.

‘Hey, will you do something for me?’ said Michael.

‘Anything,’ I gushed, every bit the idiot fan.

‘Paul has got a huff on tonight because we cut one of his songs. Hop on down the bus and tell him you were glad we didn’t play “Come On Home”. Can you do that?’

‘You want me to … what?’

Michael’s eyes glittered. ‘Just tell him. Tell him you don’t like “Come On Home”.’ He patted my bottom. ‘Off you go. Go on, kiddo. I dare you.’

I swallowed and got up. In a daze I wandered down the bus and stood right in front of Paul Graves, who was sitting with his wife. The pair had their heads close together.

I cleared my throat and squeaked: ‘I-don’t-like-come-on-home. I’m-glad-you-didn’t-play-it.’

Paul looked up, eyes slitted and angry. ‘What?’

His beautiful blonde wife said, ‘Michael must have told her to say it, Paul. The little shit-stirrer.’

I scurried back to Michael, who was laughing. He folded me into his arms and said: ‘Well done. Well done. Oh Jesus, the look on his face.’

We talked and talked after that. Or rather, Michael asked questions and I talked. I got enthusiastic about Marvel and manga comics, showed him the Celtic cross tattoo I’d made on my wrist with a needle and black ink and told him about my cancer. Michael learned all about my treatment and my mother and what life had been like growing up.

I told Michael things I hadn’t even told my closest friends – stuff about my mom using the San Francisco free-love no-rules culture to justify being a lousy parent, and how unsuitable her life was for children. How if it hadn’t been for Dee, we would have been taken away from her.

‘My mom wasn’t even up-to-date,’ I said. ‘All that hippy stuff passed through years before Dee and I were born. She clung on to it for dear life.’

I went into huge detail about my cancer too. How embarrassing the treatment was for a teenager just getting to know her body. Having things stuck here and there, being wheeled around without underwear on. So bad. And then having all my hair falling out.

‘The tumour was so big they had to cut it in half to get it out,’ I told him. ‘Do you know what helped me heal?’

‘What?’ Michael asked, dark eyes big and beautiful and fascinated.

‘You, Crimson and Big Dreams.’ I looked at my hands, feeling awkward. ‘You got me through some really bad times. Without your music, I honestly don’t think I would have got through the treatment. You gave me a reason to live.’

‘We touched something pretty deep when we made that album,’ said Michael. ‘It was special, that one. And it takes a special person to feel it too.’

I grinned.

Michael encouraged me to talk so much about myself that night, while he sat and listened. As I talked, he touched and twisted the leather bracelets on my arm and the chunky silver chains around my neck.

‘You’re quite a girl,’ he said. ‘You’ve really been through it. We’ve had a hard life, the pair of us. Harder than most.’

My eyes widened. ‘Did you get sick too when you were younger?’

‘No. But I had a bad time growing up.’

‘Really?’ I was fascinated.

Michael nodded. ‘My dad was a vicious bastard. Talked with his fists.’ He pulled up his black jeans and showed me a long, red scar running over his knee and down his calf. ‘I saw the bone poking out of that, once upon a time. But he made me fearless, the old sod. When someone that big pushes you around, you’re not afraid of anyone.’

‘Your mother—’

‘Died, God rest her soul. When I was two. I don’t remember her. Probably better that way.’

I think Michael’s sadness might have been real. But it’s hard to know, looking back. He was so good at fooling people. Maybe he was sad, but sad about something else. Who knows?

‘But that’s life, isn’t it?’ Michael continued. ‘You should know. You’ve been through it too.’

As Michael and I talked, crew members and girls filtered onto the bus. Some of the girls I recognized from the stage doors – teenagers, shivering in short dresses and Wonderbras. It seemed kind of sleazy, those young girls with bare legs, sitting with old rock guys. But Michael and I were different. We had a soul connection.

Michael whispered in my ear, ‘It’s getting a bit noisy. Let’s go to the bedroom.’ He grabbed a whiskey bottle and a few beers, then led me by the hand into the master bedroom at the back of the bus.

I hesitated at the door, feeling suddenly very sober. The flecks of grey in Michael’s stubble and the lines in his face were stark under strip lighting. I suddenly felt my age. A young, naive teenager with a much older man.

‘What’s up?’ Michael asked. ‘You look scared stiff.’

I tried to laugh off my nerves and misgivings. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘What, you don’t like the bedroom or something?’

‘I love it,’ I insisted, nodding at the compact bedroom with cool cube-patterned sheets and plump cream pillows. ‘It’s nicer than my apartment.’

‘Come here then.’ Michael pulled me forward, and I stumbled inside.

Michael closed the door behind us, then led me to the bed. ‘Are you sure you’re not nervous? You seem a little terrified.’

I tried to laugh again as Michael put on music: his own.

‘Just a little cold.’

As Michael undressed me, my body grew stiffer. He really was so much older. And was it okay to have sex? The hospital said I was fully healed, but was I?

Michael must have noticed I looked frightened, because he said: ‘I thought you’d done this before, honey. You really do look scared stiff.’

I faked a smile then, embarrassed. The last thing I wanted was to look inexperienced or naive.

‘No,’ I said, words steely. ‘Not at all.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘We don’t want any amateurs here. This isn’t amateur night.’

I helped Michael take my clothes off then and he kissed every part of my body from head to toe. At first, he stayed away from any sexual areas deliberately and completely. In short, he knew the moves and I was able to relax. A lot.

I did things that night that I’d never done before. Sex in three different positions. Oral sex, giving and receiving. Truthfully, I would have done anything to impress Michael and show him I definitely wasn’t nervous. Even though I was.

When the sex finished, Michael and I lay in each other’s arms. He stroked my hair and watched me for a long time, then fell asleep and snored. I looked at the walnut dash ceiling, thinking how crazy life was.

Not so long ago, I’d been in a hospital bed, looking at white Styrofoam tiles and thinking they might be the last thing I would ever see.

Now I was in the arms of Michael Reyji Ray. This was my rebirth. A new beginning.

I’d spent my life running with a heavy backpack. Now finally, I could take it off.

Michael and I would get married and live happily ever after, just like a fairy tale.

I was sure of it.

Lorna

Nick and I lay together in bed, my head on his chest.

‘Are you still awake?’ I ask the ceiling.

‘Yes,’ says Nick.

‘What’s the difference between protective and suffocating?’ I ask.

Nick snorts. ‘Probably only a few inches of padding.’

I laugh too. ‘I locked Liberty’s phone in the safe.’

‘Lorna.’ I feel Nick shake his head. ‘Why’d you do that?’

‘She was using it to find out about her father,’ I said.

‘And you think taking her phone is going to stop her? Come on. Let her get out there and make her own mistakes.’

We both listen for a moment, hearing Darcy’s gentle murmurs. But then they fall silent.

‘Phew,’ says Nick.

Darcy used to scream the place down at bedtime. But we’ve got a routine going now, same thing every night. I take her around the house, showing her how I lock everything up, door locks, chains, deadbolts. Then we do a bath (exactly 37 degrees) and count her yellow soft toys, all thirty of them. Now she goes to bed like a dream and sleeps until morning.

Nick and I lie in silence for a moment. Then I blurt it out: ‘Liberty knows who her father is.’

‘How?’ Nick asks. ‘You won’t tell me or Liberty the first thing about the guy. Not even his name. How could she have found out?’

‘She found some stuff on the internet about him. And me.’ I shiver against Nick’s warm body.

Nick’s arms stiffen. ‘What stuff on the internet?’

‘Photos of me and her father. When we were younger. I don’t know if it’s enough, but … I’m so scared, Nick.’

‘Scared of what?’

‘She might try to find her father.’ I take a shaky breath. Breathe, breathe.

‘I think you have to get a bit real with this,’ says Nick. ‘How long are you going to be able to keep Liberty away from this guy? If she wants to see him, she will. No matter what you do.’

I ignore him. ‘I’ve just got to keep hammering it home. How dangerous he is. Until she gets the message.’

‘How dangerous are we talking, exactly?’

‘How dangerous do you want him to be? Dangerous. Isn’t that enough?’

‘It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just …’

‘You think there are two sides to the story.’

‘I haven’t heard either side of the story,’ says Nick. ‘You’ve told me nothing. And whenever I ask, you close up. Does your sister know about him?’

‘Dee? Yes.’

‘You can tell her but not me?’

‘I didn’t tell her, Nick. She was there. She saw it all.’

‘Do you know what I think? I think you’re running scared and you should face up to all this. You should at least talk about what happened. You shouldn’t run away from it. Face your problems.’

‘You can’t face Liberty’s father. That’s not how it works. He twists everything around.’

‘So move on and let all the fear go.’

‘I can’t do that either. If I let my guard down, he’ll get in.’

‘You know, Lorna, even criminals get visitation with their children. Why don’t you set something up? In a safe space.’

I swallow, feeling sick. ‘If you knew him like I do, you wouldn’t even suggest something like that.’

‘So tell me about the guy. Then maybe I could know him like you do. Why is everything such a big secret? What did he do that was so bad?’

I roll away from Nick, imagining packing boxes, separating finances … who will stay in the house? Me or him? It has to be him. Darcy can’t go through another house move so soon, not now she’s settled. It’s not fair. But then again, I chose this area for a reason. A good reason. God – how is this going to work?

I roll back again. ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘If Liberty gets close to her father, he’ll turn her against me. That’s what he does.’

‘I know he hurt you.’

‘It wasn’t just me he hurt.’

‘Isn’t Liberty old enough to make this choice for herself now? Isn’t it her right?’

‘No.’

There is a heavy silence.

‘What are you so afraid of, Lorna?’

‘Her father doesn’t have any feelings.’

‘That’s all?’

I hesitate. ‘Trust me. It’s enough.’

Once upon a time …

The night after I slept with Michael, I woke to the sun rising through slatted metal blinds. It was cold on the tour bus, with cloying, damp air. The window was slightly open and morning flowed over my naked body. My mouth was dry and sugary. I wanted to shower and brush my teeth, but I was in heaven. Everything was perfect.

I looked around glossy, fibreglass walls, smiling, smiling. I’d fallen asleep wrapped up in Michael’s arms. As I blinked away sleep and felt my nakedness, I rolled around to find Michael’s eyes were open too.

‘Good morning, my gorgeous girl,’ he said. ‘Welcome to this beautiful day.’

He had a craggy face that looked even older in the morning light and he smelt of beer and whiskey. There were lines all around his eyes and one huge groove along his forehead. But to me he was beautiful. My handsome prince. My hero. His eyes were intense, mesmerizing pools of light.

‘I think I love you,’ I told Michael, eyes all big and dumb and earnest. Jesus. What an idiot I was.

Michael said: ‘Love is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? In all its forms.’

‘So … where do we go from here?’ I asked.

‘You can’t always have a plan. Right?’ Michael pulled me into his arms, holding me against his bare chest.

‘We’ll see each other again, won’t we?’

‘The band and I leave for Washington tonight,’ said Michael. ‘We’re doing some photos today, then we hit the road. The big world tour, starting in the US.’ He took my hand and drew a road down my palm. ‘Washington. Atlanta. Houston. You wanna come with us? Be our lucky mascot?’

‘You’d take me with you?’ I asked, sitting up. ‘On tour?’

Michael laughed, showing white teeth in black stubble. ‘You know, it’s just travelling on a bus with a load of old men. That’s all a tour is. But sure. I’d love to have you along. We’ll keep you a little bit quiet, though.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, my wife can’t find out about you, right? Or there’d be trouble.’

I sat bolt upright. ‘Your wife?’

‘You must know about Diane. You’re a fan, aren’t you?’

‘I knew you got married when you were really young. Your childhood sweetheart. But I thought …’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t realize … you’re still together?’

‘Together is too strong a word for it. We’re friends. Good friends. Not a husband and wife in the true sense. But it would break the poor girl’s heart if I put her through a divorce right now. She’s just lost her father.’

Happiness drained away like warm bathwater, leaving me cold and exposed.

‘I would never have stayed last night if …. I had no idea you were still married.’

‘I told you.’ Michael lay back then, arms falling away from me. ‘Diane and I are just friends these days. But it’s your choice, Lorna. If it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. I’ll tell you something though – last night was magic.’

A lump hit my throat when he said my name. ‘It was more than magic. Last night was the best night of my life.’

I sure didn’t know about playing it cool back then …

‘You and I have a soul connection,’ said Michael, stroking my hair. ‘I felt it the moment I saw you. I believe in that kind of love. Soul love. Not bits of paper, who belongs to who. Boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, all those labels. You love who you love when you love them. But it sounds like the world down here has a hold over you. The planets aren’t aligning.’

‘I have to go.’ I pulled a blanket around my body and searched the shiny floor for my clothes, tears coming.

Michael sat up, watching me. ‘Listen, you blew me away last night. Totally blew me away. We had a good time together. Soul mates always meet again. Maybe not in this life but another one.’

As I opened the bedroom door, I saw two other sleeping bodies in the lounge area: girls from outside the stage doors last night. They were naked and partially covered with blankets.

It looked sordid and I felt the cheapness of it all – young girls sleeping with musicians who couldn’t care less about them.

Michael came to the door. ‘I can see that pretty little brain working. Put all that down. All that stress. That’s what gave you cancer.’ He put a hand to my chest. ‘We’re old souls, you and I. We’ll meet again somewhere, somehow.’

My chest felt warm with his touch. Like he was imparting some kind of energy.

‘I wish you weren’t married.’

Michael kissed my head. ‘Danny will take you home. Okay? We’ve got my little Jaguar F-Type tucked under this bus, believe it or not. It’s in the hold, right underneath us. How about that? Don’t say anything to the press, will you? Don’t be that girl.’ He pushed the door all the way open. ‘Danny,’ he shouted down the bus. ‘Danny – this girl needs a ride home.’

The driver poked his head out from the cab at the front.

‘You’ll be safe with Danny,’ said Michael, slinging his arm around my shoulder in a pally way. ‘I’ve known this man for years. He’ll look after you. Okay, love?’

The term of endearment felt dismissive. Disconnected.

I felt the cold, hard thump of the bedroom door closing behind me.

Lorna

It’s 8 a.m.

‘Liberty?’ I yell up the stairs. ‘What’s happening up there? It’s nearly time for school.’

Liberty still hasn’t come down for breakfast. Usually she’s up at seven, walking the grounds with Skywalker.

She’s angry with me, I’m sure. Sulking.

I wonder how well she slept last night. I only managed a few hours.

This morning, I’m determined to smooth things over.

Last night was not a good night.

I’ve made Liberty a fresh fruit plate with a side of yoghurt, coconut and quinoa – her favourite.

Nick and Darcy have already eaten breakfast omelettes and left for nursery. Cheddar cheese omelette with crunched-up cornflakes for Darcy; spinach, feta and tomato for Nick.

Omelette is Nick’s speciality, and the only thing he can cook well. He makes omelette for himself and Darcy every morning, and sometimes for lunch and dinner too.

‘Liberty?’

I carry Liberty’s fruit plate to the table and adjust slices of fruit to neaten the display. I’ve cut the kiwi, mango and strawberries to look like the artist Frida Kahlo, with mango for the face and slivered grapes for eyebrows. Liberty loves Frida, and I love doing fun little things like this for Liberty. Showing my love however I can.

‘Sweetheart?’ I call. ‘Rise and shine. You’ll be late.’

Still no answer.

I climb Liberty’s staircase, the bare wood smooth and warm under my feet. I am grateful for this house. There was a time I never believed I’d have a life like this. Our own land. A yoga room. Study. Library. And high, high gates all around.

‘Liberty?’

I knock on my daughter’s door.

‘Honey?’

It’s unlike Liberty not to answer, but the fight last night was pretty bad.

I push the door open, listening.

There’s nothing – no sound, no grumbling, no shower running. Skywalker doesn’t come running to greet me.

Liberty’s bedroom is dark, but the bed has been made. Liberty always makes her bed the moment she gets up, even when she’s not well.

Where is she, then? And where is Skywalker?

I stroke the cotton duvet, feeling for Liberty in the gloom, but find nothing – no soft, warm body.

‘Liberty?’

The ensuite door is slightly open, but no light spills out.

Flicking on the bedroom light, I feel uneasy.

I start to rationalize.

She must have gone running in the grounds, maybe she’s training Skywalker outside, maybe, maybe …

But things are missing. Liberty’s miniature turtle bookmark – the one she keeps on her desk for good luck. Her cherry-red DM boots.

I open her built-in closet, heart racing.

Some clothes are gone and there’s a big, gaping hole where her canvas army backpack usually sits.

Suddenly, I am overwhelmed. Immobilized by fear.

‘Liberty, please,’ I say, voice weak. ‘If you’re here … it’s not funny.’

I go to Liberty’s ensuite again. Maybe she’s hiding in the dark. Playing a trick on me. But when I pull the light cord, flickering light shows me an empty room. Liberty’s bamboo toothbrush has gone. Her hairbrush too.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Now I’m tearing downstairs, screaming over and over again:

‘Liberty! Liberty!’

The chain is off the backdoor. It’s never off. I latch it every night. Every single night. It’s part of my routine or, as Nick calls it, my OCD.

Why have a chain on the back door? Nobody has a chain on the back door. And when we have that great big gate out there? Isn’t this a little bit of overkill?

I imagine someone creeping upstairs in the dead of night. Stealing my beautiful daughter. But Skywalker would have barked. Liberty would have shouted and fought. And none of her things would be missing …

No. That’s not what happened.

Liberty crept downstairs – probably early in the morning, after I’d fallen asleep. Skywalker was close at her heels. She carried her army bag stuffed with clothes. The front door would be too noisy, she wouldn’t risk it. Instead she headed out the back way, softly slipping the chain from its metal tunnel. She carefully took Skywalker’s leash from the hook and clicked it to his collar.

Now she’s outside, alone in the dark, heading to the front gate. She knows exactly where she’s headed. She’s going to see her father …

I hear myself scream her name. ‘LIBERTY!’

Okay.

Calm. Calm.

Breathe in, breathe out.

She could have gone to a friend’s house.

Call Liberty’s phone, I think. Just call her. But then I realize I took her phone last night.

Call the police then. You know the number …

I grab my own phone from the solar charging station.

I’ve called the police so many times about Liberty. I am the woman who cried wolf.

‘Hello, what is your emergency?’

For a stupid second, I jump at a disembodied voice:

‘Oh! Hey. Hello. Police.’ And then I add a British, ‘Please.’

There’s a slight delay as I’m connected.

‘Sussex police. Can I take your name?’

‘My daughter. She’s gone. She’s … she’s run away.’

‘Can I have your full name and address?’

‘She’s called Liberty. Liberty Miller. She’s tall. Nearly five foot ten. Very thin. Tanned skin. Green eyes and brown hair, but she’s cut it short, like chin length, and dyed it blonde. Well, parts of it. Bright blonde. I think she left early this morning.’

I’m crying now, trying to hold it together.

‘We need your name, madam, before we can take details.’

‘My name?’ My throat tightens. ‘Why? Why do you need my name?’

‘It’s just the way we do things.’

Of course. Of course they have to take my name. They always take my name. Nothing to worry about.

‘Lorna,’ I say. And then I add Nick’s surname, even though we’re not married yet. ‘Lorna Armstrong. We live at Iron Bridge Farm, Taunton Wood.’

The policewoman is soothing. ‘First things first. Are there any friends your daughter could have gone to?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know who her friends are. If I did, I’d have Facebook stalked them by now and harassed their phone lines.’

The policewoman hesitates for a moment, and I think she’s going to make a comment like most people do. Something about me being overprotective. But instead she says, ‘It’s good that you care.’

Some people understand. The ones who’ve seen the bad side of the world.

I give more details, and then the policewoman tells me she’ll get someone over ASAP.

‘In the meantime, call people you know,’ says the policewoman. ‘Try not to worry too much. This happens more than you might imagine and they always turn up unharmed. How old is your daughter?’

‘Sixteen.’

Another pause.

‘And you think she left home of her own free will?’

‘Someone could have put her up to it. Tricked her or … something.’

‘But no signs of force? I don’t want to scare you; I just want to get things clear. No signs of a … a scuffle or anything like that?’

‘No. She made her bed.’ I’m crying again now.

‘We’ll get a police officer over to you now.’

‘There’s something else.’ I leave the sentence hanging, not sure if I’ll manage to finish it.

The policewoman is kind, offering a gentle, ‘Yes?’

I grip the phone. ‘I think she might have gone to see her father.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, that could be a simple answer, couldn’t it? Do you … What’s the situation there then?’

‘She’s never met him before.’

‘You have sole custody?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes. He’s … not a good guy.’ I pause, considering my next words carefully. ‘He’s famous. It’s hard to explain.’

‘What’s her father’s name and address?’ the policewoman asks.

‘Her father’s name?’ My throat goes tight again. I know what comes next. I know what happens when I say his name. It’s like a witch’s curse.

I look up then, seeing my scared face in the sliding-door glass. White skin. Black hair. Blue eyes cornflower coloured again, bright with fear.

‘Michael Reyji Ray.’

There’s a long pause.

‘Michael Reyji Ray?’

‘Yes.’

‘Michael Reyji Ray is your daughter’s father?’

And suddenly the policewoman’s tone totally changes – a subtle thing, but I feel it. She’s gone from being on my side to thinking I’m crazy.

This is Michael’s power. A man she’s never met is controlling her.

‘Yes.’

‘But your daughter’s never met him before?’

‘No. She’s never met him. I don’t want her meeting him. He’ll use her to get at me.’

Another pause.

‘I thought … Michael Reyji Ray is married, isn’t he? Has been for years.’

‘Yes. Married men can still have children with other women.’

‘Have you … do you stop your daughter seeing her father, then?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘So she’d have a good reason for wanting to meet him?’

‘He isn’t the person you think he is,’ I say. ‘This kind, environmental, happily married man. It’s all just an image.’

‘Sometimes when people hurt us—’

‘He’s a bad person.’ I shriek the words.

The police officer’s voice becomes more serious. ‘Listen. I understand why you’re feeling threatened, but let’s not start throwing accusations around. You’re worried. Your daughter is very young to just be packing a bag and leaving without telling you. But she is legally allowed to do so.’

‘Please. You have to get her back.’

‘Look, we can’t go knocking on Michael Reyji Ray’s door, accusing him of taking your daughter away. If she’s sixteen and he … well if he is her biological father, she has a right to see him. She has a right to leave home if she wants to. Have you tried calling her?’

I put a hand to my throbbing forehead. ‘I took her phone away last night.’

‘Oh. Right. Why did you do that then?’

I pause. ‘Because … because she was looking up things about Michael.’

‘Listen, we’ll send someone over,’ says the policewoman. ‘But I think you’re playing a risky game. If you’ve stopped your daughter see her father, well, this is the age they rebel, isn’t it? And there’s no law against that. You can’t control them when they get to this age, Ms Armstrong. At some point, you have to let them fly.’

‘No.’ The word is firmer than I meant it to be. ‘She can’t fly. It’s not safe out there.’

There’s a long pause.

‘We’ll get someone over to you. In the meantime, try to stay calm. I’ve been in this job a long time. This sounds like something that will blow over. Not as bad as you think.’

‘It’s absolutely as bad as I think,’ I say. ‘Every bit as bad.’

Once upon a time …

The day after I slept with Michael Reyji Ray, he was all I could think about. If I’d been obsessed before, that was nothing to how I felt now. It was like being a drug addict, wanting another hit.

Michael Reyji Ray was in my head, like a catchy song.

Danny, Michael’s driver, dropped me off outside my shabby brown walk-up apartment, and I climbed three flights of stairs, dropped into bed and stayed there all day.

When the light started to change, Dee came into my room with a bowl of curly noodles. She was soft and round in Minnie Mouse pyjamas – the outfit she always wore around the apartment because she said day clothing cut into her excess weight.

‘Do you want some?’ Dee asked. ‘I’ve found this great trick. You put the powder on after you’ve drained the water. You can really taste the shrimp flavouring that way. Here. Try some. There’s too much here for me.’

I knew this was a lie. Not about the shrimp flavouring. That there was too much food for Dee. I’d known her eat a can of eight hot dogs, plus buns, in one sitting and still have room for dessert.

‘I’m too lovesick to eat,’ I told her.

‘I can’t believe my sister slept with Michael Reyji Ray.’ Dee sat on my bed, and it squeaked under her weight. ‘You actually had sex with a real live famous person.’

‘I know. It was amazing.’

‘You were careful, right? You know what the hospital said about infections.’

‘It’s fine. I’m telling you, Dee, this was meant to be.’

Dee placed her noodles on the floor. ‘Sounds like a dirty old man slept with a teenage fan to me. But it’s happened. Can you cross him off your list now?’

‘My list said marry Michael Reyji Ray,’ I said. ‘I haven’t married him yet.’

Dee laughed. ‘You’re too late. He married his childhood sweetheart already. Even I know that, and I can’t stand his pretentious Pink Floyd rip-off music.’

‘Don’t remind me. I thought he and his wife must have split up or something. But they haven’t. He asked me to come on tour with him. But … he said I’d have to stay a secret from his wife.’

‘Ugh. How gross. Was he into weird rock-star shit?’

‘No. He was nice. Good.’

‘Maybe you should sell your story. Teach him a lesson for cheating on his wife.’

‘Come on. I’d never do that.’

‘You look weird,’ Dee decided. ‘Your eyes are all glazed.’

‘I told you. I’ve really fallen for him. I keep thinking about the tour invitation.’

‘Oh, no. Do not be a teenage idiot who runs off on tour with an old, married rock star.’

I gave a romantic sigh. ‘It feels like I just passed up destiny.’

‘Hey – Pretty Woman’s on in half an hour. If you want fantasy land, why don’t you watch that with me?’

‘I just want to be alone.’

‘And no noodles?’

‘No thanks.’

Dee left me then, taking her noodles with her and eating as she walked.

I lit two lavender tea lights, watching them burn and flicker on my dressing table.

Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the breath.

It was sunset outside, all pink and purple and grey. The city winked and glimmered, dusty and brown.

Breathe in, breathe out. Focus.

Breathe in, breathe out and Michael, Michael, Michael.

We were soul mates. He was the reason I’d been kept alive. I’d just walked away from my destiny.

As I tried to clear my mind and find answers, there was a ‘bang, bang, bang’ on my door.

‘Lorna?’ Dee’s voice sailed through the cardboardy wood.

‘I’m meditating,’ I called back.

‘Um … I think you might want to stop for a minute.’ Dee opened the bedroom door and peered around it. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’

I untwisted my legs. ‘Who?’ I asked.

‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘What?’

‘It’s Michael Reyji Ray.’

‘You’re kidding me.’ My heart began to pound. ‘No way. If this is a joke … this is a joke, isn’t it? I didn’t tell him where I lived.’

‘His driver took you home, right?’ said Dee.

‘Michael’s here? He’s really here?’ The words were almost a squeal.

‘He’s really here. But Lorna, don’t go doing anything silly now.’

‘I … hang on.’ I checked my reflection in the mirror, pulling fingers through my hair to give it more volume, then drew on the same kohl eyes I’d worn last night.

‘Lorna.’ Dee stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. ‘If he asks you to go on tour, you won’t go, will you?’

My hand hesitated as I drew on kohl. ‘Of course not. I’m not running off and leaving you alone.’

‘Be careful. I don’t have a good feeling about this.’

‘You know, he said he and his wife are sort of separated. Good friends, nothing more.’

‘Isn’t that what they all say? You’re not yourself. You’ve got like … crazy cult-victim eyes.’

‘We had this amazing connection. We both felt it, I swear to you.’

A seed of denial lies in all of us. Michael was just a gardener. I know that now.

I checked my reflection in the mirror again and threw on the denim jacket with Michael’s picture on it.

Okay, okay.

Breathe.

The front door was slightly ajar. Michael’s low voice came through the gap: ‘Is my punk princess in there?’

Oh my God, oh my God. It really was him. He was here at my apartment.

I ripped open the door, heart pounding, legs weak. And there he was: Michael Reyji Ray on my doorstep.

Michael wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was dazzling white-blond and his eyes still shone with dark, mesmerizing light.

I started to giggle then and couldn’t stop.

Michael managed a smile. ‘Something funny?’

‘It’s weird,’ I said. ‘Seeing you here outside my apartment, Michael Reyji Ray. In all your rock and roll gear.’

‘Danny told me where you lived,’ said Michael. ‘I couldn’t leave without you. You’ve got in my head. And my heart. The tour bus is ready to go. Come with us. You’ll break me if you say no.’

‘I can’t. I can’t just up and leave my sister.’

‘What is it?’ said Michael. ‘You have bills to pay here? I’ll pay them.’

‘It’s not that. Dee has been there for me my whole life. I can’t just up and leave her alone.’

Michael pulled a roll of bills from inside his jacket – more money than I’d ever seen in my life. ‘Here. Give this to your sister, and you and I can hit the road.’

‘I’m taking classes …’

‘This is the school of life, princess. You’ll learn more on tour than you will in any classroom. Come on. This is the chance of a lifetime.’

I broke into a huge grin and leapt on him, throwing myself into his arms.

I felt like I’d been dipped in gold. Bathed in bright light. My handsome prince had come to get me.

‘Is that a yes?’ Michael said, laughing.

I nodded against his neck.

Michael whispered in my ear, ‘Get your things. Let’s get on the bus.’

‘I have to talk to my sister,’ I said. ‘Will you give me a minute?’

Dee appeared behind me then.

‘Lorna,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I was just going to talk to you about—’

‘This is your sister?’ Michael asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘This is Dee.’

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said Michael, reaching out his hand to shake hers. Dee didn’t take it.

‘Lorna, please don’t do what I think you’re going to do,’ said Dee, arms crossed.

‘Listen, I’ll take care of your sister here,’ said Michael. ‘You have my word. And I’ll make sure all her rent is covered – whatever you need. I won’t leave you in a hole.’ He offered the big roll of cash to Dee.

Dee didn’t take the money. Instead, she fixed him with hard eyes. ‘You’re married. Right?’

Michael scratched his nose. ‘It’s complicated. Diane and I are apart more than we’re together. But let’s not get into that. Bits of paper and legal crap.’

‘Lorna has a life here,’ said Dee. ‘She has exams coming up. And she’s still recovering. Did she tell you she had cancer?’

‘She told me all about it,’ said Michael. ‘The full story. I will take care of her.’

‘Lorna, don’t do this,’ said Dee. ‘This is running away from your life. Not towards it. This is escape. Distraction.’ She turned on Michael. ‘Don’t you care that she’s studying? That you’re taking her away from her education?’

‘Sometimes real life is the best education,’ said Michael, stroking my arm and looking at me like I was something precious.

‘And what’s in it for you?’ Dee asked, arms still crossed. She knew the answer, of course. Sex on tap with a pliable, stupid teenager. But I have to hand it to Michael. Looking back, he never promised me anything. He was always upfront about who he was and what he was offering. It was me who filled in the blanks.

‘I want to go with him,’ I told Dee, nodding and nodding.

‘Lorna, I do not approve of this. It is not okay with me. This isn’t about rent or anything like that. It’s about your education and me caring about you. I swear to god, Lorna, if you go with him now, don’t come back when it all goes wrong.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Rent my room out.’

Michael turned to me with soft eyes. ‘The tour bus is parked right up outside. Shall we get going?’

I laughed in happy shock. ‘Your tour bus is outside right now?’

Michael put hands on my shoulders. ‘We took a detour to come get you. To steal you away in the dead of night.’

‘What if she’d said no?’ Dee asked.

‘Soul mates don’t say no,’ said Michael with a flicker of a wink. ‘Go pack a suitcase, princess. Let’s get going.’

As I flung things into a bag – some clothes, books I was reading for school and all my make-up – Dee stood behind me. ‘Please. Please don’t do this.’

But when her words had no effect, Dee swung the other way again.

‘Fine. Be that way. Leave me all alone. Just don’t come crawling back to me when it all goes wrong.’

‘It’s not going to go wrong,’ I promised her. ‘This is destiny, Dee. Last night was the most amazing night. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It’ll be fine. Better than fine. Don’t you think after everything I’ve been through I deserve my happily ever after?’

Dee let me go with a face that told me I’d broken her heart.

As far as I know, she never took Michael’s money.

Lorna

I pace the kitchen, phone hot against my ear.

I’m calling the only other mother I know – Helen. And I don’t know her that well. She used to bring her daughter, Julianne, here for playdates when Liberty was younger, but Liberty hasn’t talked about Julianne in years. I know I’m clutching at straws. I need a Coke for all the straws I’m clutching at.

Liberty’s breakfast fruit plate sits on the breakfast table. I’ve left it there because clearing it away is like admitting Liberty’s gone. And that’s too painful.

Nick is on his way home. He was on his way to a personal training client when I rang him. Good guy that he is, he turned his car right around and came home, promising his client a month of free sessions.

The police have come and gone. They told me that Liberty is legally allowed to visit her father. There is no reason to suspect that Michael Reyji Ray would hurt anyone. There’s nothing on record. It’s all fine. Leave her to it.

‘Michael Reyji Ray is not a good person,’ I said over and over again. I got the familiar looks of disbelief.

Michael Reyji Ray. Environmentalist. Music legend. Happily married to his childhood sweetheart. And what a dancer. A bad guy? You’ve got to be kidding – I have three of his albums. And I had the biggest crush on him when I was a teenager …

I pace by the gate as the phone rings and rings. Eventually a voice clicks on the line.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’ I start gabbling like a maniac. ‘Helen? Liberty’s gone. Might Julianne know where she is?’

‘Miss Miller?’

I hesitate. ‘Julianne? Is that you? When did you grow up? You sound just like your mother.’

‘Yes, it’s me, Miss Miller. Mum left for work already.’

‘Do you know where Liberty is, Julianne? She … she wasn’t in her bed when I woke up this morning.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ says Julianne.

‘You … I mean, you girls were friends once. Has she told you anything?’

‘We were friends about a hundred years ago,’ says Julianne, sounding suddenly prim. ‘Liberty changed. She doesn’t play chess or scrabble anymore … and now she’s into all that punk rock music stuff.’

‘She talked about someone called Abi. Do you know who that is?’

‘Oh, her. Yes, they hang out all the time, singing. Everyone thinks they’re going to be famous.’

‘Do you have a number for her?’

‘No. I don’t even have Liberty’s number anymore. Have you tried calling Liberty? She has a phone, doesn’t she?’

‘She doesn’t have her phone with her. I took it last night.’

‘Have you looked on her phone? For friends’ phone numbers?’

‘Her phone is locked. I don’t have the passcode. Where could she be?’

‘I have no idea, Miss Miller. We don’t really hang out anymore. I don’t appreciate Liberty’s attitude at school, to be honest. She thinks she’s better than everyone, just because she’s in a band. We don’t have an awful lot in common.’

‘A band? Liberty’s in a band?’ Panic. Utter panic.

‘Well … yeah. Didn’t you know? They think they’re going to be like the Beatles or something. Well, not the Beatles. I don’t know what sort of music they play.’

‘I didn’t know she was in a band.’ Nausea rises again. And then I start rambling: ‘Julianne. I think … maybe Liberty’s gone to see her father.’

Julianne hesitates. ‘There’s someone I could call. One of Liberty’s bandmates. Freddy. He’s okay. He’s in chess club with me. He might know where she is.’ I can almost hear her nodding at the phone. ‘I’ll text you his number.’

Julianne hangs up and I grab an ancient packet of cigarettes from the kitchen drawer and do something I haven’t done for years – smoke.

When the text finally comes through, I’ve smoked a cigarette right down to the butt, coughing after every inhale.

God bless Julianne’s reliability. I call the number and a young guy with a cracking, adolescent voice answers.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi … Freddy? This is Lorna. Liberty’s mother.’

‘Oh.’ A long pause. ‘Liberty told me about you.’

He means ‘warned’ of course. I take the bullet.

‘Listen, Freddy. Liberty has gone. She ran away this morning.’

More silence.

‘Do you know where she might have gone?’

Freddy doesn’t answer, but I hear him breathing.

I try for a softer approach: ‘How do you and Liberty know each other anyway? She doesn’t tell me about her friends.’

‘We’re neighbours,’ says Freddy, in a voice that conveys both surprise and teenage contempt for the utter stupidity of adults.

‘We are?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t see the street from our house. I guess … I’ve never noticed you.’

‘I’m the brown guy.’

‘So?’

‘Well … I stand out around here, is what I’m saying.’

‘You’re in a band with Liberty?’

A pause. ‘Yes.’

‘And there’s another person in the band? Abi, right?’

‘Yes. Abi.’

‘Could she be with her?’

‘I mean … probably not.’

‘How do you know?’

Another long silence.

‘Do you know where she is?’ I feel a horrible pang as the mother-daughter elastic band of closeness snaps completely. This complete stranger knows more about my daughter’s whereabouts than I do. ‘Please, Freddy. Please, please tell me if you do. I can’t look after her if I don’t know where she is.’

More silence.

A horrible chill runs through my stomach.

‘Has she gone to see her father, Freddy?’ I ask. ‘Is that where she’s gone?’

A long pause.

‘Um …’

‘Please tell me. Please. If you don’t, I’ll have to send the police around your house and—’

‘Yes. Okay, Miss Miller. Okay. Liberty’s gone to her father’s house. So there’s no need to worry. She’s been planning the visit for a while.’

‘No need to worry!’ I scream the words.

One of us hangs up, I’m not sure who. And I’m running to the garage, hunting in my pocket for van keys. It’s only when I jump into the driver’s seat that I realize I’m about to drive somewhere I swore I’d never go back to. A place where my worst nightmares came true.

This really is happening. Liberty has fallen right into Michael’s spiderweb and I’m hurling myself into the sticky silk after her.

Until now, I could have pretended. Maybe Liberty was with friends. Maybe she’d gone jogging around the neighbourhood just to scare the life out of me. Maybe, maybe …

I swallow down fear and self-loathing as I start the van.

I’ve always hated being this controlling monster. The woman who watches her daughter’s every move. Spies on her. I’ve tried to keep Liberty safe, but it hasn’t worked. I built tall fences but he got her in the end.

I want to collapse against the steering wheel, sobbing, wailing, but I don’t. Instead I accelerate down the drive and through the automatic gates, aerosol cans and silicone body parts jogging around in the back of the van.

There is only one choice here, and it isn’t to fall apart.

I need to get my daughter back.

As I roar towards the road, Nick’s green MG turns onto the driveway.

I slam on the brakes, seeing Nick’s shocked face. Then I wind down my window.

‘Nick, can you back up?’

Nick leans his head out of the driver’s window. ‘You nearly smashed right into me.’

‘Please. Can you move? Liberty’s gone to see her father.’

‘Her father? You’re kidding.’

‘I spoke to one of her friends. Some guy she’s in a band with. She’s gone to her father’s house.’

‘Liberty’s in a band? That’s cool.’

‘Not cool, Nick. Not cool at all. Her father is in the music business.’

Nick frowns. ‘Lorna, what’s the story with this guy? Don’t you think it’s time you told me?’

‘Nick, please just move. Please.’ My eyes flick to the road. ‘I’ll tell you his name, how about that?’

‘Who cares what his name is?’

‘He’s famous. Okay? Crazy famous. Like, Grammy award-winning millionaire famous. If I tell you who he is, will you move out of my way?’

Nick grips the steering wheel. ‘If that’s the best I’m going to get right now.’

‘Liberty’s father is Michael Reyji Ray.’

‘Whoa.’ Nick stares. ‘You’re kidding me. Michael Reyji Ray?’

‘She’s gone to his house and I’m going after her.’

‘You know where Michael Reyji Ray lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

I hesitate. ‘Not far from here. Huntingdon Woods. He owns them.’

‘Huntingdon Woods? But … that’s … like a half-hour drive.’

I nod, eyes looking past him.

‘Why, Lorna?’

‘Why what?’

‘You could have lived anywhere. You’re a US citizen. You could have lived in the States. But you chose to live less than thirty miles from the guy, for Christ’s sake. Why?’

‘It’s hard to explain.’

Nick’s eyes harden. ‘Try.’

‘Nick. Right now, I just need to get Liberty out of there. Will you stay here? Someone needs to stay here. In case she comes back.’

Nick’s shoulder’s sag in resignation. ‘I’ll stay. But I’m struggling to get it, seriously. Really struggling. We live so close to the guy … why not live the other side of London at least?’

‘This is her father’s world,’ I say. ‘Don’t expect anything to make sense from now on.’

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