Free A Daughter's Secret by Eleanor Moran

differences hadn’t rolled out into real life and become something tangible and unarguable with. I want your life too, I feel like saying, but it’s not quite true. Sometimes I want bits of it, even
long
for bits of it, but other times it terrifies me, the thought of playing endless games of pat-a-cake with sick down my front and no money of my own for shoes. I don’t like myself for it. The fact there’s no pressure from Marcus is both a blessing and a curse.
    ‘Marcus has got a big redevelopment deal, so I’m not sure. And I’m . . .’ I think of how Gemma looked at the end of the session, eyes glazed, our intimacy dissolved so entirely I could’ve been making it up. ‘There’s this girl I’m seeing. She’s only thirteen, and her life’s gone up in flames. I want to be around for her.’
    ‘What, 24/7?’
    I take a deliberate sip of my wine, playing for time. Confidentiality is the absolute cornerstone of my work – it’s why we have supervision – but I suddenly desperately want to share something of it.
    ‘It feels like she hasn’t got anyone else. She needs me, Lys.’
    I wriggle my shoulders, the grandiose words echoing around my head. I sound just like she does. I need to go and see Judith, work out why this case is wrapping itself around me like bindweed, but some part of me doesn’t want to go anywhere near the answers.
    ‘I honestly don’t know how you do your job. I couldn’t handle it. I’d last like . . . three hours. I’d tell someone they really
were
fat and have to resign.’
    I think of Saffron’s angelic face, chubby little fingers all too eager to seek out plug sockets and scalding-hot taps. I wish I
knew
I wanted it, like so many of my patients do, their ovaries shouting at them like militant peace protesters.
    ‘Trust me, I couldn’t do yours,’ I say, the wine starting to make half truths feel truer. ‘I get fifty minutes with a person. You’re full-time.’
    Lysette rolls her eyes, dismissive. It infuriates me sometimes, the bipolarity of being a woman. Both of us are failing at it, in our own unique way, and yet neither of us are.
    ‘Just – you don’t need to conquer the world single-handed. You’re brilliant. You’ve already proved it.’
    She gave me this birthday card last year with an annoyingly profound quote on it, something about how the reason we’re cracked is to let the light come in. I’m sure she’s right. In principle.
    ‘I’m not doing it for that,’ I say too fast. ‘I love my job.’
    ‘I know you do,’ she says. I can hear the exasperation in her voice, but it’s not meant meanly. ‘Anyway, I’ve almost managed to train my third human to poo in the actual toilet, so I don’t want you to go thinking you’re the only one achieving professional greatness.’
    ‘What can I say? Any god-child of mine is sure to be embarrassingly gifted.’
    Lysette signals the barman for another Martini, and I drain my glass. I hope I didn’t sound trite.
    ‘She’s starting full-time nursery in September. I was desperate to make it through the baby bit, but now it feels like it’s disappeared in a puff of smoke.’
    ‘You’re really talented! There’s loads of things you could do.’
    She rolls her eyes, wrinkles her nose.
    ‘You say that . . . even if there was an amazing job I could do between 9 a.m. and 3.30, I don’t have a proper CV. Honestly, Mia, there was an advert for the Army on telly the other day, and I actually felt angry about the fact I’m too old to be a squaddie.’
    The thought of Lysette in a hard hat, a rifle tucked jauntily under her left arm, is too funny an image. Once we’ve recovered from the giggles, I grab her hand.
    ‘Look, if I can help . . . if you wanna brainstorm it, or we have a go at your CV together . . .’
    She waves a dismissive hand, takes a determined slug of her Martini. I hope she doesn’t think I lack the imagination to understand.
    ‘You were looking at the five millionth flat this week, weren’t