‘Matty –’
‘And maybe I could buy my niece something she’d actually like, instead of sending her an array of impersonal gender-specific pink gifts that Claudia picks out every year, because she’s upset we never had a girl.’
‘She’s a smarty pants,’ Megan said, because talking about Skye was easier than trying to explain to her brother why she’d cut him out with her parents, when he’d never done anything wrong. ‘Anything that lets her learn something new – books, art stuff, science set. She also wants to be a detective when she grows up.’
‘Private investigator!’ Skye shouted from the other room.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Matty, ‘private investigator. Apparently I’m smart enough to know the difference by now.’
‘Jas is a little more difficult. He’s one of those kids that saves up his pocket money for months and months for the one thing he wants. And rarely wants anything else.’
‘So what’s he saving for?’ she asked.
‘A time machine.’ Her brother laughed. ‘He’s good with books. He’s a little quiet, always has been, but he’s a good kid. I’m glad you’ll get to meet him.’
‘Me too,’ she said, ‘I’m really sorry, Matty –’
‘Hey,’ she could hear him shrugging, that same docile look he always had, like nothing could upset him, ‘shit happens. You made good, kid. Come back home and show off about it.’
She grinned, and was about to say goodbye when she suddenly had a thought.
‘Matty, are Mum and Dad… Well, has there been any health scares or anything?’
‘Well.’ He considered it. ‘The fact that they’ve made a move to get things going with you again would suggest it, wouldn’t it? I’ve not heard anything, but there has been some hush-hush, whisper-whisper stuff going on. I thought all was revealed when I found out you were coming to dinner.’
‘Huh.’
‘Don’t worry kid, you know if it was serious, Mum would be running around playing drama queen for all she could get. No point letting something run its course when you could have a big to-do about it all, is there?’
‘Good point!’ She really did feel much better, and spared a guilty thought for how much better she might have felt over the years if she’d reached out sooner. Still, no time for that now.
‘I’ll see you next week then,’ she said, wondering why after all these years, when she’d been striving to be a real adult for so long, being called ‘kid’ was so very comforting.
September 2001
‘Megan, you’re acting like a child.’ Her mother’s voice was cold.
‘But I’m tired!’ She sighed, resting her head on the table. She’d finished school, had been handed a cereal bar in the car as she went on to her French lesson, her ballet and jazz class, and then advanced art. She was aching, exhausted and her mum just didn’t seem to get it.
‘Tired!’ Heather snorted, clanging things around the kitchen. ‘Do you know how lucky you are that we can provide these classes for you? Your father works hard so we can give you everything, and I arrange all these things, and drive you all over the place to secure you a better future…’
‘I know,’ Megan said softly, not lifting her head up. There was no point arguing. They’d been here before, many times. Megan McAllister was on her way to Cambridge University, whether she wanted to or not. That had been decided long before she’d been able to speak her mind. And now it didn’t matter what she said.
‘I would have loved to have done these things as a child!’ her mother continued, and Megan felt herself zone out, hovering on the edge of sleep, mentally protecting herself. It was nine pm and she still had homework to do. And it was only Tuesday. Tomorrow was gymnastics and physics and piano lessons. There was something planned every day, every hour, for the rest of her life. Until she left to go to Cambridge, where she would study every hour, until she got a job and worked all the time. Megan did a mental calculation…so she’d have no free time until she was twenty-five? That didn’t really seem fair.
‘I just can’t believe how selfish you’re being,’ her mother’s voice was grating, running up a high scale until it echoed its disapproval.
Megan lifted her head up to look at Heather, who was glaring at her, pausing to check her appearance in the reflection of the glass windows. Her mother was wearing her usual array of designer clothes, though she hadn’t been anywhere that day, as far as Megan could tell.
‘I’m sorry,’ Megan said.
‘Well, that’s not good enough.’ Her mother inspected her perfectly manicured nails. ‘Your ballet teacher said you were in another world today, and you can’t just blame lack of dedication on tiredness. Don’t you think every other person applying to Cambridge gets tired? They just decide to be better than that, and you can too.’
‘I know,’ Megan replied, in that moment realising that she did actually, truly, hate her mother, and that’s what the acid in the pit of her stomach was. She shook the thought away before it took hold.
‘In fact,’ Heather clapped her hands, ‘this is a good learning opportunity, I think. If you’re so tired, you probably don’t need to have dinner, do you? You should probably just go up to your room now and sleep.’
Megan didn’t have the energy to argue, just stared at the pot of mashed potato sitting on top of the stove, her stomach growling. There was no point even begging once Heather had decided that Megan was being difficult.
‘You’re right, Mum, it won’t happen again.’
‘I should hope not,’ Heather replied, the glow of a parent who knows they’re right emanating from her. Megan knew she’d relay the whole account to her dad when he came in, and he’d congratulate Heather on such excellent judgement. ‘Now off you go.’
Megan trudged upstairs, thinking that she wished people had to pass a test before they could become parents. Half the time it felt like her mum was just repeating things she’d heard parents say on TV.
She glared at the cabinet on the landing, heaving with trophies and medals and certificates. Never enough. It was never, ever enough for them. She walked into her room and flopped onto her bed face first, hand rooting about under the bed for her secret stash. Inside her box of trainers, and actually inside the shoe, was a sandwich bag, containing the remains of the posh chocolates her Auntie Anna sent from London. They’d at least get her through the English assignment she had to write for tomorrow.
She lay back and thought about leaving home, about packing her bags, and living somewhere quiet and calm, where she could just breathe. Where it was okay to do nothing once in a while, to sit with your thoughts, and just be. Freedom. One day.
***
‘Anna, I think this is the worst idea ever,’ Heather McAllister pleaded with her sister, ‘she’s never wanted to come back. She hates us!’
‘Now darling, you know that’s not true,’ Anna said, sucking on her thin cigarette, ‘Christmas is a time for family, and it’s been long enough now, don’t you think?’
Heather sighed. Of course she wanted her daughter back, she wanted to meet the little genius whose pictures she’d seen hundreds of times, wanted to hear her voice, see how she laughed.