Free The Girls by Lisa Jewell Page A

‘I’ll tell her something came up.’
    Grace walked in and caught the end of the exchange. ‘Tell who something came up?’
    ‘Adele,’ said Clare, ‘the sisters’ mum. She asked us over for supper next week.’
    ‘But’ – Grace looked from Pip to Clare and back again – ‘I want to go. Why aren’t we going? I really want to go!’
    Clare regarded her daughter curiously. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Why?’
    ‘I just do,’ she said. ‘I like it there. I like them.’
    Clare looked at her daughter’s bright face and then looked about her at their flat. They’d come such a long way but this place was not yet a home. And maybe her daughter had found a place that felt, for whatever reason, like home to her.
    ‘But, Mum, listen.’ Grace bit her lip. ‘I told the girls a lie. About Dad. I told them he was dead.’
    Clare rocked slightly on her feet. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Did you?’
    ‘Yes. Tyler asked us if we were the people whose dad burned down their house and I just said we weren’t. And I could tell she didn’t believe me so I said he was dead. Just to shut her up.’ She cast her eyes to the floor and shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’m really sorry.’
    Clare took her daughter in her arms. She was the same height as Clare now, and a stone heavier. But there was still that residual smell to her, that essential perfume of the child she used to be. ‘That’s OK. That’s fine. I understand. We’ll just change the subject if it comes up. OK?’ She felt Grace nod against her shoulder.
    Then she smiled and held Grace at arms’ length, staring deep into her hazel eyes. ‘That’s probably why they’ve asked us,’ she said. ‘They feel sorry for us!’
    ‘I still don’t want to go,’ said Pip.
    ‘It’s fine,’ said Clare, as much for herself as for Pip, ‘you and I will eat and run. And if Grace wants to stay on and play with the girls afterwards …?’ Grace nodded effusively. ‘… then she can. We’ll just say you’ve been ill and need to go to bed. OK?’
    Her girls both nodded and smiled.
    Clare felt a brief moment of parental satisfaction – a compromise painlessly reached – before it was overtaken by a wave of nervous energy that went straight through her gut like a storm. Dinner. With strangers. Her daughters finding safe places away from her. Lies to cover up. Secrets to keep. And all the time, as a throbbing, ominous backdrop, her husband, back to health, ready to re-enter the world. And possibly turn it upside down.

Eight
    Pip couldn’t stop thinking about the giant rabbit called Fergus. All weekend she’d replayed the sensation of his soft fur beneath her fingers, the twitch of his nose, the big fluffy humps of his haunches. After lunch on Sunday she sought out the old lady called Rhea. Grace was indoors doing last-minute panicky homework. The sun was out but it wasn’t that warm; there were people scattered here and there. Pip kept her fingers crossed inside her fists as she walked. Please let the rabbit be there , she chanted to herself, please let the rabbit be there .
    At the far end of the garden she saw Dylan and Tyler sitting side by side on a bench, looking at Dylan’s smartphone and laughing. Dylan looked up and saw Pip approaching; he beckoned to her to join them, but she didn’t want to. She smiled and shook her head, pointing towards the Secret Garden.
    She saw the toe of Rhea’s trainers as she turned the corner. They were big, white, trendy trainers with fluorescent pink bits on them. She wore them with black leggings and a black polo neck jumper with a bright pink scarf and fingerless gloves. Her white hair was pinned up in a wispy bun. She had a mug of tea by her side and was reading a book. She looked up when she saw Pip standing there and said, ‘Hello again.’
    She had a slight accent, a bit German-sounding, Pip thought, or maybe a bit Albanian or Kosovan like some of the mums at her old primary school.
    ‘You’ve come to see Fergus?’
    Pip