chapter thirty-three
The lines around Andrew’s eyes had deepened but, apart from that, he looked exactly the same. Tiffany saw the unmistakeable glimmer of recognition in his pale eyes even as he gave her the appropriate, courteous smile for a fellow parent at a school event.
Did she see fear too? Or laughter? Confusion? He was probably trying to place her. She was out of context. She was way, way out of context.
Tiffany didn’t have a chance to introduce herself because at that moment a silver-haired, elegantly suited woman glided onto the stage and instantly quietened the room with her presence. The school principal. Robyn Byrne. She wrote a weekly column in the local paper about educating girls.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, girls,’ the principal said, in a way that made it clear she expected to be answered, and so everyone did, automatically, with that pre-programmed sing-song rhythm: Good morn-ing, Ms Byrne, followed by a faint ripple of chuckles as CEOs, barristers and ear, nose and throat specialists realised they’d been tricked into schoolyard subservience.
Tiffany looked to her left, at Vid, who was smiling goofily down at Dakota, as if she were a toddler at a Wiggles concert. Dakota sat motionless, that awful catatonic look on her face.
‘A very warm welcome to Saint Anastasias,’ said the school principal.
A very warm welcome to crippling school fees.
‘Thank you for venturing out today in this truly dreadful weather!’ Ms Byrne lifted both arms ballerina-style to indicate the heavens above and everyone glanced up at the soaring ceilings protecting them from the rain.
Tiffany chanced another quick look sideways at Andrew. He wasn’t looking up but was instead staring straight ahead at the school principal, his legs crossed, a Rolex-watched wrist draped languidly over one knee in an almost feminine pose.
A nice man. The creepy eyes were misleading. She could remember them filled with laughter.
‘Your daughters will leave this school as confident, resilient young women.’ Ms Byrne was off, delivering the private school party line. Resilience. What crap. No kid was going to go to school in a place that looked like freaking Buckingham Palace and come out of it resilient. She should be honest: ‘Your daughter will leave this school with a grand sense of entitlement that will serve her well in life; she’ll find it especially useful on Sydney roads.’
Tiffany looked again at Dakota, who continued to stare unseeingly at the stage, while next to her, Vid pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and nonchalantly checked text messages, his chunky thumb swiping the screen back and forth. Manners! What would people think? Yes, Tiffany, what would people think? What would people think if Andrew told his wife about his connection to her? But why would he? Oh, darling, the funniest thing, but that woman sitting next to you this morning was actually an old friend!
She was an old friend.
What if he did tell his wife, and what if his wife told all the other mothers, or just one mother, who couldn’t resist telling one other mother? Until finally word got out to the daughters? What would that mean for Dakota’s social standing at this school? Would that help her become a ‘resilient young woman’? Yeah, well, it probably would. Nothing like a bit of social ostracism to toughen you up.
Tiffany closed her eyes briefly.
She had to keep her footing. She thought of her sisters, all those years ago, saying, ‘How could you, Tiffany?’ But she’d felt no shame, she’d never felt shame, so why was she sitting here drenched in it now?
She knew why. She knew exactly why. It was because everything felt out of balance since the barbeque. They had been the hosts. It was their home. It had happened in their home, and it was more than that – their behaviour had contributed. Contributory negligence. She could not claim innocence. Neither could Vid.
So what if she took responsibility for all of it?
For Harry lying on the floor of his home, calling weakly for help that never came.
For Clementine’s eyes gleaming in the twilight, and it had all been in good fun, no harm intended. Just because they were parents didn’t mean they weren’t people.
For the lines she’d once crossed. Only once.
The school principal’s voice rose as she tapped closed fingertips together in her refined version of applause, to welcome three girls in school uniform onto the stage, each carrying a musical instrument.
Tiffany looked at the lustrous gold wood of the instruments, the red school ribbons in perfect ponytails, the elegant cut and quality of their school blazers, and she saw with absolute clarity what would happen if Andrew told his wife how he knew Tiffany. Nothing nasty or cruel would ever be said out loud, but green-coated, red-ribboned girls would destroy Dakota with stifled giggles and low whispers, with fake smiles and cryptic, cutting comments on social media. Dakota would pay.
The girls lifted their bows in unison. Music filled the hall. The music of another world. Clementine’s world. Not the bass beat of Tiffany’s world.
Tiffany looked sideways at Dakota’s beautiful, young profile in time to catch an expression of immense sadness cross her face. It was as though Tiffany’s little girl was being struck down by some terrible grief. It was as though everything Tiffany had just foreseen had already come to be.
‘Mum.’ Dakota suddenly turned to face Tiffany and whispered, ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Tiffany felt a surge of gratitude and maternal love. It was not grief, it was nausea. She could fix this. Easy. ‘Let’s go,’ she whispered back, and she stood, urgently gesturing at Vid. She walked out past her new friend in the Stella McCartney skirt, her daughter and Andrew, who nodded politely, with maybe a little tightness around his mouth, but she could have been imagining it. Once they were outside, Dakota said she didn’t want to find a bathroom, she just needed to go home, please, right away. Her face was white.
Vid, in his inimitable way, found a woman wearing a name badge, explained the situation and was given an information folder and sent on his way with an understanding smile. He was comfortable in any social situation: garden party or cage fighting contest, it was all the same to Vid, it was all interesting.
Would he find her connection to Andrew interesting?
Dakota climbed into the back of the car.
‘Do you want the front seat?’ babbled Tiffany.
Dakota shook her head dumbly.
‘Sit in the middle at least,’ said Tiffany. ‘So you can see the road ahead. Better for your tummy.’
Dakota slid over to the middle, and Vid and Tiffany got in the front and they drove out of the school grounds towards home. After a while, when it seemed clear that Dakota wasn’t going to be sick, Vid lit up a cigarette and began to speak.
‘So, pretty good school, right? What do you think? The girls playing their instruments were good, eh? Maybe you could play the cello, Dakota! Like Clementine. We could get Clementine to give you lessons.’
‘Vid,’ said Tiffany. For God’s sake. Was he completely deluded? Did he really believe Clementine would want to have anything to do with them ever again after what had happened? She would find every excuse in the world not to teach Dakota. And her location wasn’t exactly convenient. If Dakota really did want to learn a musical instrument they’d find someone local. ‘Clementine won’t want to give Dakota lessons.’
There was a strange sound in the back seat.
‘Are you going to be sick, honey?’ Tiffany whipped her head around.
Dakota’s eyes locked onto Tiffany’s. It was as though she were trapped within her own body, pleading desperately with Tiffany to help.
‘Can you breathe?’ said Tiffany. ‘Dakota, can you breathe? Are you choking?’
‘Dakota?’ Vid chucked his cigarette out the window and wrenched the steering wheel to the left, coming to a stop on the side of the road with a squeal of brakes and the outraged shriek of a horn from behind him.
Tiffany and Vid opened their car doors and flung themselves out into the pouring rain. They opened the back doors and climbed in on either side of Dakota.
‘What is it? What is it?’ said Tiffany.
‘It … it …’ Dakota’s chest heaved. Tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her face.
Tiffany’s heart thudded. What could have happened to her? What could be so awful? It had to be sexual abuse. Someone had touched her. Someone had hurt her.
‘Dakota,’ said Vid. ‘Dakota, my angel, take a very deep breath, okay?’ There was a quiver of terror in his voice as if his mind was following a similar path. ‘And then you need to tell us what the matter is.’
Dakota took a deep, shaky breath.
At last she whispered, ‘Clementine.’
‘Clementine?’ repeated Tiffany.
‘She hates me,’ sobbed Dakota.
‘She does not!’ responded Tiffany immediately, instinctively to the banned word ‘hate’. ‘I only meant she wouldn’t want to give lessons because I got the impression she doesn’t especially like teaching, she’s going for a full-time job with –’
‘Yes, she does so hate me!’ snapped Dakota, and it was a relief to hear ordinary, ten-year-old petulance.
‘Why would you think Clementine hates you?’ said Vid.
Dakota threw herself at her father. He wrapped her in his arms, and his mystified eyes met Tiffany’s over her head.
‘Oh, Dakota,’ said Tiffany. ‘Sweetheart. No. No.’ She leaned forward and rested her cheek against Dakota’s narrow, hunched back and put her hand on her knobbly spine, her heart breaking for her, because she knew exactly what Dakota was going to say.