saw traces of discolouration still showing around her left eye, where her boyfriend had punched her. The thought of it swept him with renewed outrage.
“I’m fine.” Christa squeezed his hand.
“Are you sure? What about Tony? Will you press charges against him?”
She shook her head. “Why bother?” she asked, her words weary and bitter. “If I go to the police, he’ll only beat me again, and harder, the next time. I’m not making excuses for him, mind,” she added as Dominic bristled, “but he’s scared, Dom. He’s got mixed up with a Turkish gang, and he owes them drugs money.”
“That’s his problem, not yours. And if what you say is true, he’s involved in some serious shit, Christa. If he doesn’t pay up, they’ll kill him. Those lot don’t mess around.”
“I know. And I don’t know where he’ll get the money.”
“Well, I know this much.” Dominic straightened. “It’s not your problem. It’s a good job you’re away from the whole mess. Now –” he reached for his beat-up Gibson “– if you’re up to it, let’s run through a few song ideas I had last night. Max thinks we should do another duet. What d’you think?”
Christa leaned forward. “I think you’re the sweetest, best friend I ever had,” she said softly as she laid her hand atop his.
He snorted. “Tell that to Gemma.”
“She’s very lucky to have someone like you in her life. She’ll realize it eventually, and come back to you.”
He regarded her doubtfully. “You think?”
“I know.” She brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thanks, Dom, for…everything. You’re a good friend.”
“Yeah, right, well,” he replied, embarrassed, “you’re welcome. We’re mates, after all.” He strummed a couple of augmented chords. “Now, then, let’s get to work. Here’s what I came up with for the chorus…”
It was half-past eight on Friday night and raining when Jools Beauchamp answered the doorbell. “Dad! I didn’t think you were coming.” It was his turn to have her for the weekend.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he entered the hallway and shook the rain from his umbrella. “There was an accident on the A4, and of course I caught every light. How was school?”
Jools shrugged. “You know. It was…school. I’m studying for a history test on Monday. The ancient Greeks.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Herodotus and Pythagoras, Euripides and Sophocles…”
She gathered up her things; a rucksack stuffed with clothes and her iPod (she loved that new song by Christa, “Promise Me Stars”) and called out over her shoulder, “Dad’s here, Mum. We’re leaving.”
“Bye, darling,” came her mother’s disembodied voice.
“Have fun.” In a slightly less friendly voice she said, “Hello, Oliver.”
“Hello, Valery. I’ll have her back on Sunday evening.”
With that, he opened the door and held out his hand for the rucksack. “Give me that. You take this.” He handed Jools his umbrella. “Let’s make a dash for it, shall we?”
Jools unfurled the umbrella and pelted down the path, following her dad as he sprinted through the downpour to the car, a black Peugeot RCZ. As he unlocked the boot and threw her rucksack in, she hurled herself onto the passenger seat and slammed the door, breathless.
“Wow. Nice, Dad,” she said, impressed. She breathed in the new-car smell and settled back against the Napa leather bucket seat. “It’s much cooler than the old Merc.”
“Yes, well,” he said as he slid in next to her and started the engine, “I felt it was time for a change.”
“Mum says you’re going through a mid-life crisis. Are you?” she asked curiously, and glanced over at him.
He shifted gears with rather more force than necessary. “Of course not,” he said irritably. “I’m still a bit young for a mid-life crisis, at any rate.”
Jools stared out the window as the rainy streets slid by. “So where’re we going? You missed the turning to Lambeth.” That’s where his flat was.
“I thought we’d go straight on to dinner. Since I’m a bit late,” he added. “Is J Sheekey all right with you?”
She turned away from the window and stared at him. “It’s only my favourite restaurant, which you know very well.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the occasion?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet.” He kept his attention focused on the road ahead. The windscreen wipers swished rhythmically back and forth, as if saying “clear the rain, clear the rain,” over and over again.
Uh-oh, Jools thought as she crossed her arms against her chest, here we go. Let “Operation: Introduce the New Girlfriend” begin…
She already suspected her father was seeing someone; the last weekend she spent at his flat, she’d found a cosmetic bag with tampons and a lipstick stashed under his sink, and she noticed new cushions – lime-green – tossed on the sofa. Dad would never buy cushions – much less lime-green ones – on his own. And there was a carton of soya milk in his fridge. He despised soya milk.
“Really? And who is it you want me to meet?” Jools enquired, hoping she sounded indifferent (which she wasn’t) instead of curious (which, despite herself, she was).
“Her name’s Felicity,” he replied, “and she’s anxious to meet you. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.”
Jools turned back to the window. The glass was blurred with slanting lashings of rain. “Does Mum know?”
He glanced over at her. “Julia, your mother and I are divorced. You know that.”
“Yes, I know that,” she retorted. “And it’s ‘Jools’, by the way, not Julia any more. I’ve told you.”
“So you have. Sorry, Jools it is.” He stopped the car at a junction and waited as a couple, dressed up for a night on the town, made their way across the road. “Your mother and I are both seeing other people.”
Jools thought briefly of Marcus Russo, her mum’s new boyfriend. He might be a famous television chef, and he might even be fit, for an older guy, but he wasn’t dad. And he never would be.
“So…does mum know about your girlfriend?” Jools persisted.
“I expect she does, yes.”
“And what exactly does Felicity do?”
He paused. “Do? Well, she’s, er, she’s a teacher. She teaches.”
“What
