The Edge of Sanity (2 page)

‘Look at you.’ Jo laughed, disbelieving. ‘Completely devoid of emotion. Working away out there as if today was just like any other day.’

‘That’s not what I was doing, Jo,’ Daniel countered calmly. ‘You know it—’

‘So talk to me! Don’t just stand there!
Talk
to me, Daniel. Look at me, can’t you?’

Daniel met her eyes briefly. Then, unable to trust his own eyes, he looked away.

‘
Say
something, Daniel, for Kayla’s sake, if not for mine.’

Daniel glanced back to her. ‘What, Jo? What can I say?’

‘Anything!’

Daniel searched her face, saw the pain etched into her eyes. He didn’t want to argue. He couldn’t.

‘You can’t, can you?’ Jo stared at him. ‘It’s just stiff upper lip and business as usual, isn’t it?’

‘No!
Jesus
…’ Surely that wasn’t really what she thought? That he was just carrying on, regardless? Pretending it never happened?

Daniel tried to explain—it was lame, he knew, but it was all he had. ‘Jo, I’m not …’ he started falteringly. ‘It’s not … The business
has
to be kept going, Jo. It’s not just about sellable assets, the boats, the workshops. It has to be a viable proposition in terms of turnover. We have to keep the—’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Daniel! None of it! I don’t want to talk about the business. Don’t you see? I want
you
to come back to me.’

‘I’m here, Jo,’ Daniel said quietly.

‘You’re not! You’re somewhere else. Out there.’ Jo waved a hand towards the yard. ‘Oh, just hurry up and sell the damn business,’ she snapped, and Daniel’s heart dropped like a stone. He knew she didn’t want to talk about the boatyard, the viability of it, the sale of it—any aspect of it. Why would she, when he had stolen her baby away? He stepped towards her, tentatively reaching out, wishing he could just pull her towards him.

‘Don’t, Daniel.’ Jo recoiled. ‘I can’t do this anymore. I can’t
stand
it; this …
person
you’ve become.’

‘I know.’ Daniel swallowed hard. ‘Maybe I …’ He trailed off, with a heavy sigh. ‘Maybe I should find somewhere else to stay for a while.’ He shrugged disconsolately. ‘Give you some space, if that’s what you need?’

Jo studied him, her head cocked to one side; the anger Daniel saw in her eyes he had expected, tried to live with. The loathing, though, scorched holes in his soul. ‘You’re right,’ she said, at length. ‘I do.’

Daniel nodded, composed on the outside. On the inside, he felt as if he was free-falling into the vast space between them. No, Jo didn’t need him here. Small wonder. He couldn’t comfort her, talk to her. He just didn’t know how. Maybe staying out in the boatyard had been an avoidance technique—to avoid facing this. Whatever … it was time to go. Let Jo find her way through without his presence as a constant reminder. He had no idea where he would go, though. A B&B he supposed, in Worcester. At least he would only be a twenty-minute drive away then.

****

Daniel lingered in the hall, debating. Would Jo be all right? Would she go to bed, or spend the night in the company of the bottle? Would she take a pill on top of the wine? Should he move the damn things and hope she’d slip into oblivion before she noticed they were missing? Should he stay?

No, that wasn’t an option. He was only making things worse. It was probably better to go than to stay and wind her up further, but, Christ, he didn’t want to. He just wanted to get back to where they were.

‘Impossible,’ he said out loud.
Totally fucking impossible.
Taking several slow breaths, he dragged a forearm across his eyes and headed for the stairs, when he glimpsed the shadow flitting across the landing.

Damn it!
His heart already too heavy with guilt, Daniel realised Kayla had been listening. For how long, though? Had she witnessed the whole sorry episode? Cursing himself, Daniel took the stairs two at a time, his aim was to talk to Kayla, try to assuage some of the hurt and confusion she must be feeling. But then, as Daniel listened outside her bedroom door to his eldest daughter’s misery—his only daughter, now—he decided the best course of action was to remove the source of that misery.

Jo was right. He needed to go.

****

Kayla didn’t bother to wake her mum. She was used to getting herself ready for school. It was no big deal. She pulled on her cool, faux-snakeskin wedge shoes and clumped down to the kitchen. Brand new they were, care of Hannah’s mum’s catalogue. Kayla was determined to break the things in, even if it killed her, which they did. Hobbling around on the dance floor would definitely
not
be cool. And Charlie Roberts was uber cool, dressed in Designer, Kayla guessed. Black usually, which suited his hair-colouring. Ooh, but he was
hot
. Her pelvis dipped and her scalp tingled at even the thought of him. All chiselled cheekbones and dreamy dark eyes. Apart from the one time he’d spoken to her when Hannah met up with his mate, Steve, Charlie probably didn’t even remember she existed, though.

She hadn’t helped herself much, blushing down to her boobs when he’d offered her a drink. Kayla’s heart fluttered at the recollection of Charlie’s slow steamily-sexy smile. He certainly wouldn’t remember she existed unless she put herself out there. And to do that, she needed serious shoes; sexy, ankle-accentuating shoes, which would add a couple of inches to her height and a couple of years to her age.

If Hannah and she were going to get into the nightclub, they needed to maximise their assets. So she wasn’t supposed to wear them to school. So what? No one was going to see her feet before she left, were they? And if that old bag of an English teacher decided to take her menopausal misery out on her, she could stuff off.

Okay, so they were skyscrapers, but they were also wedges. Not a high heel in sight, she’d point out, when the beady-eyed battle-axe pulled her up outside the cloakroom, as per usual. Hmm? Kayla examined her nail extensions, adorned with nail-art. She might do better to keep those tucked in her pockets, though.

Should she take a coffee up to her mum, she debated, making herself one. Nah. she’d be comatose, having downed a sleeper with quite some wine. And they had the nerve to preach to
her
about the danger of drugs. Like,
hello
?

The last time she’d taken her a cup up, the silly cow had knocked it over anyway. Which was her fault, of course, Kayla remembered bitterly, because she didn’t wake her.

Like she could have.

‘Stuff it. She can get her own flipping coffee,’ she muttered, heading for the mirror to outline her eyes with obligatory black liner. They’d accused her of being selfish, so selfish she’d be. She was sick of trying to be whatever it was
they
wanted her to be, which wasn’t her,
obviously
.

She poked her face in the fridge, in search of sustenance that wasn’t too calorific. Perhaps she should just ask them, outright. Yeah, that’d work, she thought cynically. All they did was talk
at
her lately, never to her. And argue.

Kayla wasn’t sure which were worse, the one-sided rows, or the never-ending silences in between. She wasn’t supposed to notice all that stuff, though. Half the time they expected her to be invisible. The other half she might as well be.

In the early days, after Emma … Kayla had made herself scarce. Tiptoed around upstairs, shut herself in her bedroom with only her iPod for company, until she thought she’d go as loopy as they were. Even Gran, who’d got the first Aer Lingus flight from Dublin, suggested it might be a good idea for her to keep a low profile for a while, which was when she knew for sure they all blamed her.

If only she’d taken Emma swimming, instead of hanging around outside the
Slug and Lettuce
so Hannah could “bump” into that twit, Steve. He was okay-looking, Kayla supposed, if you liked the shaved-head biker look, and he treated Hannah nicely, buying her drinks and stuff, but he was a derbrain, as far as Kayla could see. Nothing like Charlie, who was plain drop-dead gorgeous.

And he had nice manners.

‘May I?’ he’d asked, before sitting down at their table outside the pub. Hannah had been so gobsmacked she’d almost bitten off the tongue she was busy trying to stuff down Steve’s throat.

‘Uh-oh, watch out. ‘ere comes Prince-bleedin’-Charmin.’ Steve had guffawed, like a twat. No breeding. Not like Charlie. But then, Steve did hang out with Charlie. And Kayla had quite fancied bumping into him.

She shouldn’t have left Emma though. Kayla recalled with a fresh pang of guilt how she’d begged to come with them.

‘
Ple-e-ase
,’ she’d whined, shadowing them from the house across the boatyard, where her dad was working only stone’s throw away. ‘I’ll be good.’

‘No!’ Kayla had stopped and turned. ‘Go and play,’ she’d hissed, annoyed. If their dad overheard, he’d be bound to suggest she take Emma along with her on their “shopping trip” and Kayla would stand no chance of impressing Charlie with her kid-sister in tow.

‘I’ve got no one to play with.’ Emma pouted, like she did when she couldn’t get her own way. ‘I want to come with you.’

‘Well, you can’t. Come on, Hannah.’ Kayla hooked arms with her best friend, and tried to ignore her ball-and-chain little sister.

‘But Mummy said,’ Emma persisted.

‘No she did not. Now
go away
.’

At which, Emma had played her trump card, ‘I’ll tell Daddy,’ she had said, her arms folded and a smug look on her face.

‘Tell
Daddy
what, exactly?’ Kayla had asked, seriously irritated.

‘That
you’ve
been smoking,’ Emma said, looking like Miss Prim and Proper herself.

‘Ooh, big bloody deal.’ Kayla had rolled her eyes, and then glanced towards the water, where their dad was desperately trying to get five boats turned around ready to go out. Saturdays were always frantic, customers queuing, checking watches, impatient to be off on their holidays.

He’d had his work cut out that morning. And their mum had been roped into some village fête to raise money for the local intensive care baby unit, which meant that neither of them would have time to listen to Miss Tattle-tale Smarty Pants. So Emma could go play on the motorway.

‘Drop dead, toe-rag!’ Kayla had snarled over her shoulder, heading fast for the gates to make good her escape while her dad was distracted.

If only she could take the words back. But she couldn’t any more than she could bring Emma back. Her parents had barely spoken to her after the accident. For days, Kayla could understand. After all, they’d been through some kind of shit … Kayla waited, while a familiar heavy wave of sadness washed over her … but for weeks? Maybe if she tried harder, she’d naively thought, pulled her weight around the house more, starting, she’d decided purposefully, with the bedroom she’d shared with Emma.

It had taken her hours to clean the rubbish from under her bed. Sorting through Emma’s stuff had taken longer. Kayla found herself stopping every few minutes, especially when she’d come across the outfit Emma had had for her fifth birthday. Three years past toddler, and she’s into sequinned leggings and sparkle tops. Kayla felt that funny sinking feeling in her chest again.

Finally, floor visible, she’d decided to vacuum. She wasn’t even aware her mum had come into the room, until she’d shouted her name above the Dyson’s drone.

Kayla hit the off button, turned, and smiled expectantly. She was quite chuffed with her efforts, now that the bedroom was looking more like a bedroom. As in you could actually see the beds. So why had her mum looked so totally pissed?

It wouldn’t have killed her, would it—Kayla’s lower lip trembled afresh—to have tried to look pleased, even if she had “tidied Emma away”. She hadn’t meant to.

Her mum had gone ballistic, banging on about how she should have asked, shouting at her, until her dad had intervened.

‘What the
hell
are you doing?’ he’d demanded angrily of Jo. ‘What’s she done to deserve that?’

‘I tidied the bedroom,’ Kayla told him, feeling as bewildered as her dad looked.

He’d raked his hand through his hair. He always did that when he was upset or angry. ‘Shit,’ he had said, his shoulders sagging. ‘She wouldn’t understand, Jo.’ He reached for her mum, but Jo backed off.

She had clamped her hands over her face and just kept saying sorry. Over and over she had said it, and Kayla felt worse than ever, because, the truth was, she didn’t know who her mum was saying sorry to.

Kayla had looked at her dad, wondering what to do next. Stay? Or leave them alone? He looked so exhausted, she remembered. Wretched and worn out, and worse, he had tears in his eyes. If her mum’s outburst had destabilised Kayla, her father’s noticeable tears rocked the very foundation beneath her. Kayla had never seen him cry openly, not even after the funeral. Kayla knew he had cried in secret, though. Tall, strong, good-looking—all her mates said so. Kayla quietly thought so—her dad had cried his heart out when he’d thought there was no one around to see him.

He’d cried last night, after they’d argued: A real humdinger this time, her mum yelling at her dad, volume on max. There’d been a lull after a while, while her mum topped up her wine. Kayla didn’t need to hear to know that. She’d been drinking a lot since Emma. She said it helped her to sleep.

Yeah, well, pass the glass. Kayla could use some of that.And then came the whammy, the guilt-hanging, heart-crushing finale. ‘It’s your fault!’ she’d told her dad. ‘All of this is your fault!’

Her dad didn’t shout back. He never did that. He should have. It wasn’t his fault! Kayla had felt like shouting for him. It was mine!

He had been standing in the hall before he’d gone, dragging his arm over his eyes and taking deep breaths, and Kayla knew he was crying. She’d wanted to go to him. To tell him everything would be okay. That he still had her. But … what if it wasn’t enough? If she wasn’t enough? Too frightened to find out, she returned to her room, buried herself under her duvet and stuffed her face into her pillow.