Free A Daughter's Secret by Eleanor Moran Page A

you? Did it wow you?’
    ‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘It’s gorgeous.’ She fixes me with a penetrating stare, waits for a postscript I’d rather wriggle out of giving. ‘It was like an enormous Smeg fridge. I’d have felt like a petit pois rattling around at the bottom of the freezer.’
    ‘Why don’t you just move into his?’ she asks, laughing.
    ‘Because . . .’ I know she’s deeply suspicious of our slowness to commit, but I can’t treat life the way she does, like it’s one long bungee jump. She was pregnant within three months of meeting Ged, only a few months out of a marriage that was born out of youthful twenty-something certainty. She doesn’t seem to care if there’s no safety harness. I love that about her, her spontaneity like a current of electricity that I can plug myself into for a boost, but it’s not something I covet for myself. ‘It’s not my house. It’s his house. His stupid great coffee machine. His ex-wife’s bed. His porn stash, if I ever actually track it down.’ She’s looking at me. ‘What?’
    ‘You sound – I dunno, really cross.’
    ‘Look, I know you don’t like him,’ I snap, hating my waspishness. I wouldn’t have picked a beardy stoner for you, is what I’m thinking, but I don’t judge you for it. ‘Sorry, ignore me. I think this new client is really getting to me, and—’
    ‘It’s not that I don’t like him,’ she says, interrupting. ‘I just want you to . . . I want you to fall for someone so badly you can’t even think about silly old clients. So you miss ashtanga yoga, and stuff yourself with muffins and swill back tequila shots, and text him all the time, even if it makes you look totally needy.’
    My irritation melts, dissolved by the truth that fertilizes those words. Words, schmords. What she’s really saying is, I know you, I know you all the way down to the roots, and I love all of it. I squeeze her hand, my fingers dipping between the hollows of hers. Her nails are painted a sea-green colour that I can’t tear my eyes away from.
    ‘I do love him, Lys. He looks after me.’
    ‘You need muffin love, that’s all I’m saying.’
    ‘I’ll bear my muffin quota in mind.’
    We’re standing on the platform by the last train, eking out the five minutes before the doors slam shut. There’s a motley crew on board: a mixture of briefcase-wielding commuters and last-train casualties clutching cans of lager. I’m worrying about the tenner I’ve sneaked into my coat pocket, wondering if it’s too patronizing to press it on her for a cab at the other end. It’s only a short walk, and I know she’ll think nothing of trotting through the dark on her clip-clopping mules, but I can’t help worrying about what could loom out of the shadows.
    ‘I should climb aboard, don’t you think?’ she says, hugging me. ‘It was so lovely. Sooner next time. And take a sodding break if you want one!’
    ‘You too! Why can’t you go to your mum’s, anyway? Ibiza’s always hot, isn’t it?’
    When they were finally forced to sell their rambling family home, Gloria piled the little money that was left into a tiny Ibizan villa, deep in an olive grove. She supplements her measly pension by doing B&B and giving massages. I’ve never been there, but I like to imagine it’s some kind of shabby-chic slice of heaven.
    ‘Wasn’t quick enough,’ she says.
    ‘How so?’ I say, even though I know I shouldn’t.
    ‘Jim got Easter,’ she says, trying to throw it away.
    ‘
En famille
?’ I ask, knowing it will hurt. There’s a certain satisfaction in the hurt, like pushing at a wobbly milk tooth with your tongue.
    ‘Yup,’ she says, eyes tracking me, each of us silently agreeing not to go there. Besides, the guard’s shooing people off the platform.
    ‘Take this,’ I say, pressing the tenner into her hand. ‘Thanks, Mia,’ she says, naked gratitude in her eyes, and I delve deep into my bag for my purse. ‘Take this too,’ I say, thrusting another