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       Chapter 4

       Lou

       I change out of my uniform in the car, wriggling out of my school skirt and pulling on my jeans. When I undo my seat belt so I can take off my shirt, Mike snaps at me.

       ‘What the fuck are you doing? We’re on the motorway for God’s sake.’

       I quickly plug my seat belt back in but tears prick at my eyes as I struggle to pull on my jumper. It was supposed to be a romantic weekend away and he’s just snapped at me like I’m misbehaving in class.

       ‘I’m sorry.’ Mike rests a hand on my knee. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just don’t want anything to happen to you, Lou. You mean the world to me. You know that, don’t you?’

       I nod, but I don’t squeeze his hand. It remains on my knee like a dead weight until he has to lift it up again to tap the indicator and change lanes.

      I push open the doors to Greensleeves Garden Centre. As I step inside the woman behind the counter, dressed in a red polo shirt, shouts that they’ll be closing soon. I ignore her and speed through the shop, barely registering the shelves of bird food and ornaments and the displays of garden furniture and houseplants. The only other customer is a heavily pregnant woman pushing a trolley full of fertiliser and decorative fencing with bedding plants piled on the top.

      I glance at my watch as I step through the large double doors next to the restaurant. 17.53. Seven minutes until they close. If Mike’s not out here, in the yard amongst the plants, shrubs and timber, I’ll head round the back, see if there’s some kind of loading bay. I don’t want to have to come here again or go back to his house. I want to get this over and done with now.

      I walk along the length of the aisles, pausing to peer down each one as I pass. The place is deserted. I’ll just do one last loop of the yard and then head round the—

      It’s the flash of blue amongst all the brown and green that makes me pause. I’m at the far end of the yard, standing beside a raised pallet full of shaped bushes and willow-like trees in decorative pots. There are six sheds and summer houses, standing in a row like sentries, directly to my left – no more than a couple of metres away. A grey-haired man wearing a blue T-shirt just ducked inside the summer house.

      A sharp pain cuts across my chest, like cheese wire being pulled tight around my ribcage. It’s him. It’s Mike. I only caught a glimpse before the door closed behind him, but it was enough for me to take in the thick grey hair, the deep lines either side of his mouth and the pronounced limp as he walked. He must be forty-nine years old but he looks older. So much older than I remember, but I know it’s him. I’d stake my life on it.

      I crouch down and peer from between two bushes. Unlike the two wooden sheds on either side of it, the summer house has white PVC double doors and two long windows. As Mike appears in one of the windows, someone else steps out of the shadows. As she reaches a hand to touch Mike’s face, he glances over his shoulder, back towards the yard. For one terrible second I think that he’s seen me, but he turns back to face the woman. He sweeps the hair from the side of her face, then, cradling the back of her head, leans in for a kiss.

      They kiss for several seconds, then the woman pulls away and I catch a glimpse of her face. Bobbed brown hair with a thick fringe. A soft jawline. Full, plump cheeks. Jeans that cling to thick thighs. A red polo shirt pulled tight over large, weighty breasts. She’s not a woman at all. She’s a child, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old.

      I don’t burst into the summer house and scream at Mike to get his hands off her. Nor do I run off in search of a staff member. Instead I turn and flee, flying through the aisles of trees and bushes, brushing past plants and dodging statues. I don’t stop running until I’m back in the safety of my car, then I smash my fists against the steering wheel until my skin is red and throbbing.

      I have never hated myself more than I do right now.

      I should have felt anger when I saw Mike kiss that girl. Or disgust. Instead I felt betrayed. He was kissing her the same way he kissed me: the smoothing away of the hair, the cradling of the back of the head, the teasing lip brush followed by a deeper, harder kiss as he pulled her into him.

      I had to wait so very, very long for our first kiss. He pulled away so many times before our lips finally met, denying me, telling me that I was too young and it wouldn’t be right. His reticence only made me want him more. I’d lie in bed and relive every touch, every lingering look and every soft word. I’d run a finger over my mouth, then push two fingers against my lips, imagining the weight of his mouth on mine. Fourteen years old and I’d never been kissed. I never admitted it to anyone at school but teenagers can sniff out weakness and fear the same way pigs can sniff out truffles and, somehow, everyone knew. The bullying began when I was thirteen, just before Mum and Dad split up. I’ve got no idea why. One moment I was invisible, the next I was on the bullies’ radar. It was Dad that suggested the karate lessons. They’d give me an air of confidence, he said, even if I never used the moves. An air of confidence? That’s a joke.

      I start as a dark green estate car pulls into the car park. It does a U-turn, then parks near the exit. The driver doesn’t get out but he does open a window and flick cigarette ash on the floor. As he does, the door to the garden centre bursts open and the girl I saw in the summer house runs down the path.

      ‘Chloe!’ the man in the green estate bellows, leaning out of the window.

      The girl sprints across the car park. ‘Sorry, Dad, sorry,’ she calls as she rounds the car.

      ‘I’ve been waiting bloody ages. Get in.’

      That’s a lie.

      ‘They needed me to work late,’ the girl says as she pulls at the car door. ‘I couldn’t just …’ The

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