Free The Naked Room by Diana Hockley

in control at all times, but Eloise contacting me after all this time had thrown my mind into chaos.
    The sound of her voice, still with the hint of the huskiness which bewitched me all those years ago, rendered me speechless. I’d longed to have her back even as I cursed over her betrayal—seeming betrayal—but wanted to reach out and touch her. And there she was, after all the lost years. Since then pain has been replaced by fury over the actions of my long-dead parents and the irrefutable proof of their responsibility for the destruction of our relationship.
    I could well imagine the dreadful scenes between Eloise and my parents. My mother’s strident handwriting plastered across the envelopes enclosing Eloise’s letters bore testimony to what they had done. I cannot, will not, read them because of my fear that a lifetime of self-control will shatter, leaving me vulnerable, weeping. As the kids say these days, I don’t “do” weakness.
    My mind roamed ceaselessly back to the joy of loving Eloise. She brought a freedom into my life which my rigid upbringing had all but stamped out. Her shyness and lack of self-esteem had been endearing after the self-assured arrogance of the girls with whom I had mixed all my life. During the short time we were together, she brought me down to earth, and showed me that giving your heart to another person did not mean losing yourself.
    ‘You’re getting too complacent, James, I think I’ll find a younger model!’ She laughed, teasing me for being an uptight prig. Her glowing face, rosy in the morning light surrounded by a waterfall of rich, red hair, flashed into my mind. I’d dragged her back into the bed and showed her just how much I thought of that idea. But it was a memory which I, hurt beyond words at the time, was all too anxious to forget after listening to Jemima and my parents. I understood, finally, why she found it so hard to stand up to my parents.
    Now I had no heart for the music I loved or for dealing with the mountains of paperwork piled up on my desk. I sat in my armchair worshipping the Black Douglas, re-living the past in front of the flickering fire. Her face is still beautiful, skin fine and her hair bright. Her figure, still girlishly slim, is now full-breasted and womanly. Her face is so very like Ally’s I wonder why I didn’t see the resemblance, but the old saying, ”can’t see for looking” springs to mind.
    ‘Ally Carpenter. Our daughter. My daughter, Ally.’ I spoke the words aloud several times, but my voice sounded as though it belonged to someone else. Ally is a woman whom I greatly admire, but it is impossible to regard her as my flesh and blood. I need more time to assimilate the knowledge imparted to me only a few hours ago. The thought of her being held against her will by a predator and perhaps raped or tortured horrifies me, but the terror I should be experiencing as her father eludes me.
    My dog, lying on the hearthrug, stirred and whined. My housekeeper, Mrs Fox, called him as she rapped the top of the dog food tin with a spoon. He looked at me hopefully but when I couldn’t bring myself to respond, he settled back, dropped his head and gave me a reproachful look.
    All the questions which had emotionally destroyed me in my youth were answered, and now my life has been turned upside down.
    Again.
    I am the parent of an adult daughter who is making a name for herself in her chosen field of expertise, one moreover in which I possess some skill. An unexpected flush of pleasure flows through me, as I realise that talent must have been passed to her through my genes. How I regret the lost years, not being to rescue her when she fell at life’s hurdles, her first steps, her high school years or her first forays into dating and the world of serious study, helping guide her career. In short, being a father…
    Mrs Fox’s distinctive, light footsteps stopped outside the study door, followed by a quiet knock. ‘Sir? Is Benji in there with