I can’t call her Reign. It’s too distinctive. Why didn’t I think of this before?
‘Liberty,’ I decide. ‘Like the Statue of Liberty. Freedom.’ And then more words tumble out. ‘She’ll have a middle name too. Liberty Annalise.’
Dee’s hand clenches my shoulder, her nails digging in. ‘Are you sure you want that name? Annalise? I mean, really?’
I nod.
The registrar looks between us. Then he hands me a pen to write the names. Next comes the hard thunk of an official stamp.
As we walk out of the registrar’s office, I kiss the baby’s soft head over and over again.
Liberty Annalise Miller.
It’s official.
Dee won’t look at me.
That afternoon, I buy a heavy-duty safe with one-inch-thick steel sides. It costs £150 and takes twenty minutes to carry upstairs.
I put Liberty’s birth certificate inside the safe, along with all my medical records and lock it up tight.
The documents are still in there now.
‘Well, well,’ said the old woman, peering out with a crafty look. ‘Haven’t you got a sweet tooth?’
– HANSEL AND GRETEL
Why isn’t Liberty home?
I’m in my workshop, legs crossed in paint-stained yoga pants, gluing tiny hairs into a foam-filled werewolf head.
Yoga pants? Leggings, Lorna. Leggings. You’ve been in this country seventeen years now. Butt is bum. A knob isn’t always a door handle. And never say ‘move your fanny’ unless you want to cause offence.
The workshop door is open and I can see our front gate, thick as a fist, the wood warm in the sun.
Warm.
Not hot. It’s never hot hot in this country.
I grew up under scorching California sun, but I’ve learned to love these softer British summers. Diet summer. Summer lite.
You know Liberty will be late today. All the students will be talking about their mock-exam results.
These werewolf hairs are a bad job to do while I’m waiting for Liberty. Way too fiddly. But filming starts next week and this guy needs to be ready. It’s ironic that I make monsters for movies, given my past. As ironic as my occasional bacon sandwich with Liberty’s vegan spread. But life never goes like a fairy tale, right? Maybe these teeth could do with more saliva.
I tap my laptop. The screen shows me the photoshop version of Michael, my nickname for this flesh-ripping, vicious beast. A moment later, the screen turns sleeping black and shows me something even tougher than the werewolf.
Me.
Once upon a time, I was skinny, sickly and quiet.
Not anymore.
My eyes, which my sister used to call cornflower blue, are now steel grey, like the weights I lift. Long hair – once short and naive sandy brown – dyed jet black. Arms no longer bony rods but toned and strong and covered in sleeve tattoos. I’m gym-fit and sturdy. Not the frail cancer survivor I was once upon a time.
Of course, I’m like every other tough-looking woman – soft as a marshmallow in the middle. Someone hurt me once. So I got strong. No choice really. It was either that or fade away.
As I reach for silicon glue, I hear footsteps outside the gate.
Please let this be Liberty …
But it’s not my daughter. I know this because Skywalker, our German Shepherd, watches the gate like a mafia boss, body stiff, ears pricked. Skywalker doesn’t do the guard-dog stuff when Liberty comes home; he gets excited, leaping up and down, pawing at wood.
So this must be Nick.
The lock buzzes and my eight-foot wooden gate swings open, making a big, light hole in the safe little world of our house and grounds.
I call out from my workshop, ‘Hey, future husband.’
Nick sidesteps through the gate in his gym gear, biceps bulging with hessian bags of shopping.
‘Hello, future wife.’ Nick bounds into the workshop and kisses my hair. ‘I found everything. Everything on the list. Even cashew nut cheese. I have a good feeling, Lorn. A really good feeling.’ Nick has a Yorkshire accent, which makes his boyish optimism sound even more naive.
Should I tell Nick that my teenage daughter might hate him less if he didn’t try so hard?
No. Nick is who he is. The man I love. Not with obsessive, fake teenage love. Real, sincere, honest love. It happened slowly, like real feelings should. Not overnight, like …
Michael.
Don’t think of him today.
I look around the workshop, mentally naming objects to switch my mind off bad thoughts.
Silicone glue. Silicone paint. Mould. Plaster of Paris. Movie script.
Skywalker trots into the workshop, sniffing the shopping bags.
‘Hey, pup.’ Nick reaches to pet him, but Skywalker barks and runs off.
I give Nick a sympathetic smile. ‘Baby steps, right? Listen, let’s start dinner. I need a distraction.’
‘She’ll be home any minute,’ says Nick. ‘When I was sixteen—’
‘I know. You were hiking alone in the Peak District.’ I lift the shopping bags of sourdough bread, tofu and asparagus. ‘How did that girl of mine get to like all this fancy food? When I was a teenager, all I ate was hot dogs and noodles.’
‘It’s great Libs eats mindfully,’ says Nick. ‘I’m proud of her.’
I bristle at the word ‘proud’ because I know Liberty would. It’s hard, this stepfamily stuff, and somehow Nick always manages to say the wrong thing.
I kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks for getting the groceries, honey.’
‘Anything to get into Liberty’s good books. Do you think she’ll get the results she wants today?’
‘Oh, sure. I never worry about Liberty in the smarts department. She’s so clever.’
Like her father.
I shake the thought away.
‘Anyway,
