He looked crestfallen. He had a checked scarf pulled up to his chin and wore a black wool Crombie. The tip of his nose was red. Despite my anger with him my treacherous heart betrayed me and I felt myself softening when I remembered how kind he’d been to me.
He looked troubled. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I get the feeling you’re cross with me.’
Then Daphne’s words floated into my head, reminding me that he was just like the rest of them. ‘Daphne told me what you did,’ I said.
‘I … What?’ He looked genuinely confounded. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’
‘She said you gave her …’ I lowered my voice even though we were a good twenty feet away from the coffee shop ‘… unwanted attention.’
He laughed. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
His face fell. ‘Daphne’s lying. I’d never do anything like that.’
‘Why would Daphne lie?’
‘I don’t know. I …’ He looked down at his booted feet, kicking at a bit of ice on the pavement. A redness crept up his neck. ‘But it’s not true.’ He lifted his eyes to mine. ‘I’m not lying, Rose, I promise you.’
I’d always thought of him like a protective big brother. But no. No. I couldn’t believe any of what he was saying. This was what had happened before. It had started with the charm, the promises, then the lies and control, culminating in fear, intimidation and abuse.
I had known Daphne for only two months, but I knew she wouldn’t lie about something like this.
‘I need to go,’ I managed. As I went to walk off he grabbed my wrist.
‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘We can’t leave things like this. We’re friends, aren’t we?’
I stared pointedly at his fingers circling my wrist and he let go, dropping his arm to his side.
I stalked away, convinced I was right about him. About all men.
I was so sure Daphne wouldn’t lie to me.
Now, sitting here after everything that has happened, writing this to you, I wish with all my heart I could turn back the clock.
25
Theo
Theo can’t stop thinking about his conversation with Larry as he gets into his car. The windscreen is littered with cherry blossom, like confetti, and he turns on his windscreen wipers, although they miss where they’ve collected in the groove above his bonnet.
A young woman accuses his father of sexual assault and less than a year later she’s dead.
Theo turns on the ignition and fiddles with the satnav to tap in his home address. He’s just about to pull away from the kerb when he sees Larry hurrying towards him. He winds his window down.
‘I’ve remembered her name. The woman who accused your dad. It’s not Sandra. It’s Cynthia. Cynthia Parsons. She was twenty-three.’
Twenty-three. He didn’t think it was possible to feel even more shit about all of this.
Theo thanks him, and waves goodbye, watching Larry getting smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror as he turns out of the street. He suddenly hates his dad with a passion. He grips the steering wheel tightly, imagining that the faux-leather beneath his hands is his dad’s sinewy throat. But then Theo releases his grip. He hasn’t got a violent bone in him. He’s so fucking angry with his dad, but he knows he could never hurt him: if he did, that would make him no better than his father.
The woman could have lied. The idea pops into his head and he wants to believe it – oh, how he wants to. But he can’t. He thinks of her, Cynthia, struggling to make her voice heard in the mid-1970s when a man like his father would have held all the power. If he refuses to believe her now he’s no different. For a mad second he’s actually relieved his mum is no longer around to hear about it. What would she have done if she knew? Would she have had the strength to leave him?