feeling as though she was battling against a brick wall. ‘Wasn’t that a little short-sighted, Lucy?’
Lucy fidgeted and glared, and then muttered something about her pocket money being inadequate.
‘Inadequate for what?’ Jessica asked tersely, which met with no response this time at all. ‘I can’t afford to throw money at you, Lucy. I thought you understood that. There’s the mortgage to pay off, bills, clothes, food…’
‘I know.’
Lucy knew, but Jessica could tell from that tone of voice that knowing and accepting were two different things, and she could feel tears sting the backs of her eyes. Did Lucy imagine that she was economical because she wanted to be?
‘You could have telephoned me,’ she said eventually. ‘I would have come to collect you.’
No response. Lately this had been Lucy’s way of dealing with all unpleasant discussions between them. She simply switched off.
‘So Ruth let Katherine go?’ Jessica asked eventually.
‘She wasn’t there,’ Lucy admitted uncomfortably. ‘She and Mike have gone to visit some relative or other who’s recovering from a stroke.’
‘So who was there? Who gave you permission to go to this boy’s house? At that hour of the night!’
‘Her brother said it’d be all right. I don’t know why you’re in such a state about this, Mum!’
‘Mark Newman… You’ve mentioned that boy’s name in the past. Who is he?’ She decided, reluctantly, to let the question of permission from an adult drop. She didn’t see that it would get either of them anywhere.
Instead she frowned, concentrating on the familiar sound of that name, realising with a jolt that it had been on Lucy’s lips ever since her daughter had started being more interested in parties than in studying. Who the heck was Mark Newman? No one from her class, certainly. She knew the names of all the children in Lucy’s class, and that wasn’t one of them.
She swallowed back visions of beards, motorcycles and black leather jackets with names of weird rock groups embroidered on the back.
‘Well? Who is he, this Mark Newman character?’ Jessica repeated sharply. ‘Precisely?’
‘No one important,’ Lucy said flippantly, eyes diverted, so that Jessica instantly smelled a rat.
‘And where does this child live?’
‘He’s not a child! He’s seventeen, actually.’
Oh, God, Jessica thought. An out of work labourer with nothing better to do than prey on young, vulnerable girls like Lucy. Probably a drug pusher. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. She could feel her hands, tightly clenched, begin to tremble.
‘And what do his parents have to say about this? Turning up at their house with a horde of young girls in tow?’ Why am I mentioning parents? she thought. He probably lives in a squat somewhere and hasn’t seen his parents in years.
‘There’s only his dad, and he’s never at home. And there weren’t hordes of young girls in tow. Just Kath and me.’
‘And where, precisely, is home?’
‘Holland Park.’
Which silenced some of the suspicions, but only momentarily. Holland Park might not be a squat in the bowels of the East End, but that said nothing.
‘Lucy,’ she said quietly, ‘I know you’re growing up, getting older, but life in the big, bad world can be dangerous.’
‘Yes. You’ve told me that before, Mum.’ Lucy looked down, so that her long hair swung around her face like two dark curtains, hiding her expression.
Whoever this Mark Newman was, couldn’t he see that she was just a child? Younger than he was, for heaven’s sake, and with a fraction of the experience, for all the obligatory black clothes and strange black boots, which Jessica had tried to talk her out of buying!
Her mind accelerated towards thoughts of sex, and skidded to a halt. She just couldn’t think of Lucy in terms of having sex with someone.
‘Boys, parties…all that can wait, Luce. Right now, you’ve got your studies. Exams are just around the corner!’
‘I know that! As if you ever let me forget!’
‘And I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that a little study might go a long way towards your passing them?’ She could hear her voice raised in alarm at the possibility of her daughter rejecting academic education in favour of education of a different sort. Under the influence of the likes of Mark Newman.
‘Can we finish this in the morning? I’m really tired.’
‘Do you imagine that you will ever be able to do anything with your life without qualifications?’
‘You keep going on about this.’
‘Because it’s important! Because it’s the difference between going somewhere and remaining rooted to…to this…!’ She spread her hands expansively, to encompass the small sitting room.
Do you want to end up like me? she wanted to cry out. I made my mistakes, and I’ve spent a lifetime paying for them.
She didn’t want her daughter to go the same way.
But Lucy had switched off. Jessica could see it in the blank expression on her face. The conversation would have to be continued the following day, a semipermanent onslaught which she hoped would eventually have the effect of water dripping on a stone.
‘Go to bed, love,’ she said in a tired voice, and Lucy sprang up as though she had been waiting for just such a cue. ‘Lucy!’
The slender figure paused in the doorway, looking back over one shoulder.
‘I love you, darling. That’s the only reason I say these things. Because I care.’ She felt choked getting the words out, and once out they barely seemed to skim the depth of emotion she felt towards her daughter.
‘I know, Mum.’ There was a glimmer of a smile, a bit of the old Luce coming out. ‘Love you, too.’
It was after four by the time Jessica was finally in bed, but her thoughts would not let her get to sleep.
Every time she played over these arguments with her daughter in her head she thought back to those days of innocence, when watching Lucy growing up had been like watching a flower unfolding, each stage as fascinating and as beautiful as the one before. First smile, first step, first word, first day at school. Everything so new and uncomplicated.
Just the two of them, locked in a wonderful world. It was easy to forget all the bad times before.
She closed her eyes and realised that it had been a very long time since she had dwelled on the past. It was strange how the years blunted the edges of those disturbing times, until memories of them turned into fleeting snapshots, still sharp but without the power to hurt.
She
