Eliza groaned in disbelief. ‘What? Seriously? I’m not done yet, Mum. What are you not telling me? There must be more to the story than his face on a screen. And I deserve to know, all right?’ Her voice shook. ‘I’m desperate to know. This is my father!’
It was like finding yourself in a juicy episode of a soap opera – both thrilling and terrifying to be playing a lead role. Shouting the words This is my father! across the kitchen was exhilarating and also intense – because this was happening, and real. Her life, rather than a dramatic plot line of some fictional character. But her mum was closed all the way up now, a purse snapped shut. ‘I don’t know what else to say,’ she replied, her back to Eliza, chopping garlic as if her life depended on it. ‘It’s been nearly twenty years. Can we leave it there for now? Please?’
Her voice cracked on the last word and Eliza’s anger faltered somewhat. Partly because her mum sounded so pained, but also because, as a feisty Arian herself, Lara could be every bit as stubborn as Eliza. She knew already that this would be one of those times where fighting was pointless.
Letting out a strangled-sounding cry of impotence, she marched from the house and walked blindly down the street, adrenalin surging around her. She had eventually returned home minutes before she was due to babysit in order to grab an armful of schoolwork and her headphones, then headed straight out again, presenting a stony, fuck-you face to her mother’s attempts at conversation, apology, a Tupperware box of congealing stir-fry. Whatever, she thought. Not interested.
Now in the hushed comfort of the Partridges’ house down the road, she let her body go limp against a mound of velvety autumn-toned cushions. The sound of heavy breathing from four-year-old Milo Partridge over the baby monitor was strangely soothing, coupled with the steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Pepper, the yellow Labrador, who was not allowed on the sofa, rested her heavy head against Eliza’s knee, one liquid eye turned up towards her, as if offering comradeship.
Eliza exhaled slowly. I am here, within the sanctuary of a normal, happy family who don’t lie to each other and keep terrible secrets, she thought, her heart splintering with envy. LOVE was spelled out on one wall in big gold letters. Wedding photos clustered cosily along the top of the mantelpiece. The Partridges – Ryan and Samantha – were resoundingly conventional types with their regular Thursday date night and neatly weeded front garden and their fridge stocked full of (disappointingly for Eliza) healthy food. She’d previously felt a degree of scorn towards them and their safe, vanilla lives (catch her being so boring when she was their age? No way) – but right now that vibe was exactly what she needed. Thank God she was here, she thought, away from Mum for a few hours and able to think alone for a while.
One hand absentmindedly caressing Pepper’s soft ears, Eliza picked up her phone again and studied her father’s handsome face. Greying a little at the temples, he had a strong jaw and the sort of smile that made his eyes seem twinkly. The type of person you could trust, she thought. Yet clearly her mother had decided otherwise at the time, else she might have stayed with him, rather than Steve. So what had happened between them? What had Ben done wrong, that he had not made the cut?
Of course, by now, Eliza had done further internet stalking, and had a few other facts to mull over. From what she could see on his various social media profiles, Ben McManus was forty-five, a Sagittarius (excellent) and a fan of Cambridge United. He went to the gym, had supported Labour in the last election, was married, and a graphic artist, who created prints of personalised maps for his customers, as well as selling all kinds of vintage ones. He had an online shop where she examined his work: largely graphic prints that he called A Map of Us, where clients provided him with the names of cities or towns that meant something to them, for Ben to chart on a blank map in blocky colourful lettering. He did a lot of wedding presents, by the look of previous artwork he had on display, and Eliza had to admit there was something visually appealing about the way the prints told a story. How, for instance, had Morag in Lincoln ever hooked up with Graham in Exeter? Ditto Beth from Birmingham and Nina from Brighton, whose map had a third entry – ‘Home’ – in Stirling. Nice one, Ben. Good effort. This all gave him the edge over Steve already.
She found herself pondering what Ben’s own map might look like, the places he had been to, other than New York. He must be well travelled, she imagined, before wondering, with a slight lurch, if she might have half-brothers and sisters around the world, given the circumstances of her own conception. According to her searches, his wife was called Kirsten and they had been married eighteen years, but presumably had been dating for a while before that. So either he’d cheated on Kirsten when he slept with her mum, Eliza figured, or Kirsten was a rebound fling. Admittedly, her internet forays weren’t wholly conclusive, but as far as she could tell, Ben and Kirsten didn’t have children together, which left her feeling uneasy. Had they deliberately decided against having kids because they hated the idea? Would Eliza popping up out of the blue be a source of huge dismay?
Pepper whined, fearing correctly that she was losing Eliza’s attention. ‘I know, darling,’ Eliza told her, sliding off the sofa on to the carpet so that she could put her arm around the dog. They leaned against one another for a moment, Pepper’s breath ticklish and meaty-smelling on Eliza’s face. ‘Good girl,’ Eliza murmured, grateful for the large warm body beside her.
The big question, of course, was what she should do with her new information. How she should proceed. Because she could tell already that Mum would drag her heels about a decision – that was a given. She hadn’t even wanted to talk about it earlier; she was hardly likely to be the one suggesting a day trip to Cambridge, making chatty phone calls and arranging a blind dad-and-daughter date for them. It had been left to Eliza to force the issue with Steve; clearly she would have to do the same with Ben McManus. (She felt odd calling him this, yet how else should she refer to him? ‘Dad’? Too soon. ‘Ben’? Too matey. ‘Mr McManus’? Too teachery.)
The sound of an unfamiliar phone notification jerked her from her thoughts and she glanced round, startled to see that a black Samsung was poking out from the edge of the far sofa cushion; it must have fallen out of someone’s pocket and slid deep into the squishy valley there. She picked it up gingerly and saw on the screen a text message from someone called Nikki:
Hey babe, thinking about u and touching myself. So wet right now
The phone might have been plague-infected for the speed with which Eliza dropped it again. ‘Gross,’ she whispered aloud. ‘Ugh! And who the hell is Nikki anyway?’ she asked Pepper. ‘Mr P’s bit on the side?’
Pepper licked her face sympathetically but Eliza was still grimacing as if she’d bitten into something sour. Yuck. What was wrong with these people? Was it too much to ask for a shred of loyalty to the person you’d married? Not ten minutes ago she had been thinking fondly of the Partridges and their safe suburban lives, but now it seemed you couldn’t trust anyone. Not even boring people with a conservatory and a Volvo, and luxury pots of houmous in their fridge.