My Best Friend's Girl (18 page)

“What makes you think I’d talk to you, then?”

“You owe me.”

“For what?!”

“Hey, I caught you when you fainted. I carried you to bed. I calmed Tegan down. I called the doctor to find out what to do. I…I even told work that you were ill. Now if that isn’t worthy of a reward, I don’t know what is.”

“I’ll buy you a drink sometime.”

“Seriously, Kamryn, you can talk to me. It’ll go no further.” He paused, waited for me to unburden myself. I said nothing.

“OK,” he said with a sigh. “I was engaged to be married. I met her at Harvard. I’ve traveled a lot so we’ve been together on and off for ten years—whenever I returned to New York we got back together. This last time we were together for three years.” Luke reached into his inside pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped it open and showed me her picture. She was pretty, of course. Long blond hair, immaculate skin, shaped eyebrows, soft pink lips. She was more than pretty, she was stunningly beautiful. And the way her brown eyes sparkled at the camera, she was obviously in love with the person who’d taken the picture. Obviously in love with my boss. He flipped the wallet shut and returned it to his pocket. “Her name is Nicole and we’d actually set a date for the wedding. Then I was offered a job in London. I assumed she’d want to come with me but she said no. When I decided to turn the job down she told me not to because London wasn’t the issue, her feelings for me were. She loved me but, at that time, she couldn’t commit to moving across the world with me. She wasn’t sure it would work out between us. So I came alone. We speak every week and I still carry her picture, as you just saw, and…” He stopped talking and stared at the carpet for a few seconds. Then he raised his eyes. “And I cling to the hope she’ll change her mind about us. There. No one else in England knows that. I’m trusting you to keep it to yourself because even eighteen months down the line it still hurts. I still want her back.”

While he’d been talking, I had to hide my horror at Luke, my boss, humanizing himself right before my eyes. He had shared with me. Me. Of all people. That must have taken him a lot to do. He’d done it though, to get me to do the same.

But opening up…It terrified me. Especially to him. But he had done it to me. Also, this wasn’t about me, it was about Tegan. She loved this Luke man. And today proved I needed a backup person; someone I could rely on to take care of her if I wasn’t around. He was it. I stared at him for a moment, my heart racing in my chest.
This is for Tegan.
“OK,” I began. I told him the tale. Starting with the night I found out about Adele and Nate to the moment he walked into our lives. Luke didn’t say anything, didn’t ask questions or request clarification, he simply listened with a face of stone, occasionally stroking the patch of his beard that sat in the groove below his lips. When I’d finished, he nodded his head.

“You’ve been struggling to cope with all this on your own?” he asked. He whistled long and low. “I’m surprised you haven’t had a complete breakdown. No wonder you’ve been such a prickly bitch.”

“What’s your excuse for being an arrogant bastard?” I replied.

“It’s my nature,” he shot back.

I smirked at that.

He smiled back and said, “I’ll make us dinner soon.”

“You don’t have to. You can go, I’m feeling better.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to. If you let me, I’d like to help out.” His sincerity surprised me. Yes, his story had made him human, vulnerable even, but this was making him a nice human.

“Why?”

“Because I like Tegan.”

“There’s got to be more to it than that.”

“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. I’ll tell you about it one day.”

Luke was saved from further questioning by Tegan, who came bounding in and leapt up onto the bed.

“Are you better?” she asked as she arranged herself beside me.

“Much, much better. I can even get out of bed and come into the living room.”

Tegan beamed. “Really and truly? Luke said you would get better.”

“I won’t say this very often, but Luke was right.”

She slid down onto the floor. “I can put one of my DVDs on.”

Throwing back the covers, I stood up. I had to make it look good—didn’t want to scare her again. Luke stood, and moved forward as though to help me but the scowl I shot him forced him back.

Tegan took my hand and slowly led me to the living room, where we collapsed on the sofa together. “While you’re up, put the kettle on, Luke,” I said.

“Yeah, put the kettle on, Luke,” Tegan giggled. She snuggled into me and I wrapped my arm around her.

“What did your last slave die of?” he mumbled as he did as he was told.

“Answering back,” I replied.

He glanced at me over his shoulder and I managed a smile. Holding my eyes with his, he grinned back.
I could grow to like this man
, I realized.
I could grow to like him a lot.

chapter 22

I
f you could just wait in the other room while Tegan and I have a chat.” The social worker was good. She made what she said sound as damn close to a request as you could get, but we both knew it was an order.

I moved out of the living area, which, like everything else in the flat, had been polished and wiped to within an inch of its life. I’d put on a pale pink, silk dress, the most expensive item in my wardrobe, a dress I knew suited me, pulled out to impress that social worker. Tegan had bunches in her hair and was wearing her favorite outfit of the moment: an A-line blue denim dress over a white, long-sleeved top. She also had fluffy bunny slippers on her feet.

In my bedroom, I sat on the bed, pulled my knees up to my chest, accepting the fact that the social worker had to find out if I was mistreating Tegan. She needed to know if Tegan liked being here with me, if I was good enough. And she couldn’t do that if I was sitting there. But then, would Tiga say anything even if I wasn’t in the same room? She was funny, friendly and gregarious, but also incredibly closed. We were similar in that respect. While her mother had always labeled herself “too much,” “too open,” Tegan was guarded. Very cautious about revealing what was going on inside. She’d never mentioned what happened in Guildford, how much she suffered at the hands of her grandparents. Would she admit if she was unhappy with me?

My stomach flipped a little as I wondered what the woman would ask. Would she ask leading questions, try to get things out of Tiga that could be perceived as more serious than everyday parenting cock-ups? Like forgetting she existed that one time? It’d only been once but I hadn’t forgotten, I doubt Tiga had either. And what about collapsing a few weeks ago and scaring the living daylights out of her? I hadn’t done that on purpose either, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t scarred her for life.

I chewed on my lower lip.

What if Tegan hated being with me? I’d never considered that, not properly. I was always worried about her missing her mum, but what if all along she simply didn’t want to be with me? What if, no matter what I did or said she’d rather be anywhere but here? The only thing in her life she’d chosen was Luke. He’d become a part of her life—
our
life—at her insistence; no one had forced him upon her like they did me. And she loved him. Every second of every day when he was around she was enraptured with him. He was like summer holidays—he represented fun and freedom; I was like school—I represented timetables and discipline. Would she tell the social worker that?

Thirty torturous minutes later, I was allowed back in. Tiga was grinning as I sat down on the sofa. She climbed into my lap and made Meg kiss me on the cheek. “Meg loves you today,” she said, climbed off my lap and wandered out of the room. I turned my attention to the social worker, who hadn’t written down that exchange on her notepad. In fact, she’d packed away her pad and pen and was just staring at me. She was thirtyish, with straight brown bobbed hair, thin lips and flat eyes. I couldn’t read her: not her body language—her hands were clasped together in her lap—or her face—she had a half-smile on her lips, but that could mean anything.

“So, do I pass muster?” I asked.

“That wasn’t the reason for my visit,” she replied. Her look progressed from vaguely impassive to one that suggested she could see every evil thought I’d ever had.

“What was the reason for your visit, then?” Had she been instructed to steer clear of the fact that Tegan was white? There was nothing they could do about me taking care of her because it was a request in Adele’s will, but they could turn down my adoption application. They could prevent Tegan becoming a Matika and never say that our different colors was the real reason why.

“How are you finding all this?” she replied, expertly avoiding my question.

“Fine,” I replied.

“It’s not a strain?”

“No, not really.”

“It’d be understandable if it was, Kamryn. This must be hard for you.”

What has Tegan said?
“No harder than it would be for anyone else,” I replied.

“And how are you finding working full-time and taking care of Tegan?”

“Fine.”

“It must be tiring.”

“Must it?” I replied facetiously, then remembered who she was and added, “It’s fine.”

“Picking up Tegan from school isn’t a problem with the hours you work?”

“No, she goes to a friend’s house after school and I pick her up from there.”

“Children often have fallings-out; what if that happens with her friend? What would happen then?”

“There’s an after-school club at the school. I’d have to leave work earlier to pick her up by six, but then I’d just work through lunch.”

“And you wouldn’t mind that?”

“Are you trying to say I should give up work or something? Because I can’t afford to—and if I work part-time things would be even tighter than they are now.”

“Are you struggling financially?”

“Who isn’t in this day and age?” I was becoming riled. Why was this woman determined to twist everything I said? To make me feel as though nothing I did would be good enough?

“Who’s Luke?” she asked, changing tack.

“He’s my boss,” I replied cautiously. “Tegan met him once and they got on really well.”

I saw a slight twitch in her eyebrows.

“He’s a good guy,” I added hastily. “I wouldn’t let him near Tegan if I thought there was anything dodgy about him.”

“Tegan said he was her best friend,” the social worker stated.

“Hmm, they do get on…”
So, he’s her best friend, huh?
I thought jealously.
Who am I? Jo-Jo the Dog-faced Boy?

“She also said that you never get cross with her.”

“Did she?” I replied. “Is that bad?”

“No, simply unusual. Do you seriously never get cross with her or are you holding back?”

“Tiga’s the best-behaved child in the world, she hasn’t done anything to make me cross with her. Not ever.” I paused to consider this. “That’s true, actually, she’s really well behaved.”

“You think she’s holding back?”

“Maybe…” Fear spiked in me. “I’ve never thought about it. She just always does what she’s told. No questions, no back-chat. I never considered she wouldn’t disagree because she’s frightened of me. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That she’s scared of me. I wouldn’t hurt her, though. Not ever.”

“I didn’t think for a second you would,” the social worker said. “I just wonder if she needs counseling to help her come to terms with her mother’s death.”

“That’s not a thought, is it? It’s an order,” I said.

Her smile would have been friendly if her eyes hadn’t remained like gimlets in her pale face. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say? That if I don’t get her counseling, you’re not going to recommend that I be allowed to adopt her?”

“Why don’t you think about it?” she said, not answering my question.
Deliberately
not answering my question.
Again.
She stood. “I’ll schedule another meeting with you in a couple of months, see how the pair of you are getting on together. It was lovely to meet you both.”

Bitch!
I kept thinking. I wanted to stand in the middle of my living room and scream it at the top of my voice until all my inner venom was out.
BITCH! BITCH! BITCH!
She’d said, without saying it, that I wasn’t good enough; that I wasn’t taking care of Tegan properly. In my more rational moments, of course, I knew that she was only thinking of Tegan and how counseling would help her, but most of the time since that woman had left had been crammed with the urge to scream “BITCH.” I knew I wasn’t doing brilliantly before she showed up, but now I knew I was doing it all wrong. I wasn’t helping Tegan deal with her mother’s death, I wasn’t bringing her up to be a healthy, happy adult, I was holding her back, potentially damaging her.

“Mummy Ryn,” Tegan asked.

“Yes?” I snapped, then heard my voice and stopped. Took a deep breath, stopped staring unseeingly into the cupboard and turned to her. She’d been at the table painting pictures since the social worker left and now looked at me with a paintbrush in one hand, Meg hooked in the other arm. She didn’t look damaged; her body wasn’t tensed, her eyes weren’t filled with fear, her skin wasn’t gray with unhappiness. But who knew what pulsed beneath the surface, how much damage I’d caused. “Yes, Tiga?” I repeated.

“What time is Luke coming back?”

“About ten o’clock.”

She put down the paintbrush, soundlessly counted,

“Eight, nine, ten,” on her fingers then protested, “But that’s after my bedtime.”

“I know, but he’s driving up from London, there’s no way for him to get here earlier.”

“That’s not fair.”

“He might come over tomorrow.”

“But I’m painting him a picture.”

“I’ll give it to him if he comes here. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“But I want to give it to him.”

“Then give it to him tomorrow.” I returned to searching the depths of the cupboards, staring at cans and packets, bottles and jars, waiting for inspiration to strike. I heard scuffly sounds behind me as Tegan climbed down from her place at the table.

I thought she might be coming to join me, to sit on the counter and stare into the cupboard as we often did before I started dinner. Instead she asked, “What if he doesn’t come tomorrow?”

“He probably will,” I threw over my shoulder. “He usually comes over on Saturday.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

I don’t know!
I almost shouted. I took a deep breath. This wasn’t her fault, I reminded myself. My mood wasn’t her fault. I spun toward her and found she wasn’t halfway across the kitchen but right behind me, clutching onto her bowl of dirty paintbrush water. And as I turned, my legs connected with her hands, knocking the bowl free of her fingers. The contents splashed out, splaying wet, gray tendrils over my lap. Tegan gasped a tiny shocked gasp before she fell into a terrified silence.

I stared down at my dress. I’d spent so much money on this dress. It’d been my first purchase when I’d moved to Leeds after I left Nate and Adele; it represented my starting again, doing normal, simple things like shopping again. I loved this dress. Now it was ruined. Just like the rest of my life. Ruined. Destroyed. Nothing I could do would fix it.

“I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!” I screamed. “YOU’RE DOING MY HEAD IN!”

Tegan’s body jumped at the sound of my voice, then she froze—literally petrified by my anger.

I wanted her to go away. I
needed
her to go away, to get away from me before I said something that couldn’t be taken back.

“Go to your room,” I whispered, controlling my voice.

Without a protest, I heard Tiga’s footsteps retreating as she left the room. But I didn’t move, I was frozen with fear. Fear for what I almost said…I almost said that if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have social workers looking down their noses at me. If it wasn’t for her, I would be marketing director of Angeles, it’d be me traveling up from London right now, not Luke. If she wasn’t here, I’d be free to do what I wanted instead of always having to think first about childcare arrangements. I wouldn’t have my day structured around her and I wouldn’t always be wondering if I was going to fall down at the next hurdle.

Tears swelled in my eyes, collected on my eyelashes then dripped down onto the floor. I didn’t really feel my knees hitting the linoleum but there I was on the floor, the silk dress thirstily soaking up the puddle of dirty paint water. I covered my face with my hands, trying to rock myself better as I thought about how many more ways I could screw this up.

“Tiga,” I whispered sometime later as I pushed open her door. “Tiga, I’m sorry.”

She sat on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, clutching Meg.

“I didn’t mean it. I’m really—” I stopped speaking as I noticed her usually neat room was in a state of orderly disarray: her drawers and wardrobe had been emptied of clothes. Piles of neatly folded clothes sat in front of the wardrobe and drawers. Her multicolored holdall had been retrieved from under her bed and sat open on the floor, a few clothes already in it. My heartbeat quickened and my stomach tumbled. Had the social worker told her that if she didn’t like living with me, she could go live elsewhere? Was she leaving me?