yeah,’ I laugh. ‘I never let her out.’
I mean this as a joke, but it comes out sort of sinister.
‘Don’t you think it’s time to let Liberty out in the evenings?’ Nick asks. ‘She’s old enough. I was working at her age.’
‘We have different parenting styles, Nick. I parent Liberty my way, you parent Darcy yours.’
‘We’re supposed to be a team. Teams work together. We have two kids between us. We should parent them both together. Like a family. And we do parent Darcy together. It’s just Liberty—’
‘Look, I know the principle is a good one. But the kids are different ages.’
‘Why can’t I be a dad to Liberty? You’re amazing with Darcy. Better than her own mother sometimes …’
‘God, don’t say that, Nick. Darcy’s mom is doing her best. It’s a tough job raising a little girl with special needs.’
‘Yeah, okay. But you have to admit, Michelle doesn’t get Darcy like you do. The special needs thing doesn’t fit with her image.’ He makes a face. ‘You’re different. You don’t care if Darcy screams her head off in public. And Darcy loves you for that, Lorna. She feels safer here than she does at Michelle’s house. If you can parent her, why can’t I try with Libs?’
‘Liberty’s sixteen.’
‘Exactly. Sixteen. Don’t you think it’s time to loosen the reins and let her live a little?’
‘Sleeping Beauty had a really bad year when she was sixteen.’
I head into the house with the groceries, throwing a backwards glance at the gate, willing Liberty to buzz herself in.
She doesn’t.
I hate this part of the day.
‘She’ll be back any minute. Okay?’ Nick gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘You worry way too much.’
I nod, but I’m not reassured.
Inside, I dump groceries on the counter and watch the front gate through the kitchen window.
I never thought I’d live in a house like this – a little piece of English history. Growing up in America, my mother called the many different 1950s homes we lived in ‘antique’. Around here, most of the homes are four hundred years old.
‘Okay, so how do we cook this stuff?’ says Nick, looking at the ingredients.
‘Um …’ I glance at the kitchen window. ‘Not sure.’
‘Just playing devil’s advocate,’ says Nick, ‘but what if Liberty gets bad grades in these mock exams? What’s the plan? I mean, we can’t ground her, can we? Since you don’t let her out of an evening.’
‘Just as long as she tried her best.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’m going to give her until 4.30 p.m. Then I’m calling the police.’
Nick laughs. ‘They’re going to lock you up for wasting police time. You’re always overreacting. Liberty will be with her friends, probably writing songs or something. She’s okay. Don’t you remember being sixteen?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘But mostly I try and forget.’
The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand and said that she, above all others, was his dance partner.
– CINDERELLA
The year was 1996. The band were Crimson. The lead singer was Michael Reyji Ray.
I’d never known a high like it. The heat, the noise, the rush.
A multicoloured sea of arms waved in the air, Celtic armband tattoos and wrists jangling with thin Indian bangles and knotted cotton friendship bracelets.
Michael, Michael, Michael …
The girls wore light summer dresses with spaghetti straps and DM boots. The boys wore Michael Reyji Ray ‘Psycho-Delia’ T-shirts, ripped jeans and Vans trainers.
The stadium smelt of beer, incense and CK One perfume.
‘There are no strangers here,’ Michael boomed into a golden microphone. ‘Only friends you haven’t met.’
For 13,000 teenagers, Michael Reyji Ray was God that night. We worshipped him.
The world had never felt so real. So awake. I heard the roar of the crowd, felt tribal drum music under my feet, saw colours everywhere. Rainbow flags fluttering on parachute silk.
Michael had short, bleached white hair and wore a black T-shirt, jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses. His feet were bare, despite the cold night, because, he told us, he wanted to feel the beating heart of the earth.
To me, this statement was beautiful and artistic.
‘He thinks he’s Jesus,’ Dee croaked as Michael spread his arms on stage. She had a cold that night and was a begrudging chaperone.
‘Music has power,’ Michael boomed. ‘And tonight, we’re going to change the world.’
‘Oh, wow.’ I grabbed Dee’s arm, blinking back tears as we jostled against the cattle bars. ‘He is incredible. And he’s looking right at me, Dee – do you see it? Tonight is destiny. Michael Reyji Ray saved my life, Dee, I swear to God. It was his music that got me through cancer.’
My sister was less than impressed. ‘He doesn’t even write his own music – the rest of the band are the talent.’
‘He writes all the lyrics and they’re the amazing part,’ I gushed. ‘It was destiny I found that first Crimson album, Dee. I swear to you. And now I’m so close to him.’
On stage, Michael downed a beer. I took a large gulp from my own bottle.
‘Lorna, go easy on that stuff,’ said Dee, taking a bite from her hot dog and adding a chewed, ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’
‘I am,’ I insisted. ‘It’s six months today since they gave me the teen-cancer-girl all-clear. Exactly today. Profound, right? On the very day I see Michael sing live for the first time.’
As the night went on, I danced and screamed like a lunatic, downing beer, singing, holding up a light to the slow songs and putting my arms around complete strangers while my big sister looked on pityingly.
Dee didn’t get it. She wasn’t a Ray-ite. She didn’t get the depth and meaning and poetry of Michael’s lyrics. Those of us who did swayed and cheered and sang together.
It was beautiful. I felt like Michael was looking right at me, singing the words to me.
