Not My Daughter. Suzy K Quinn

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СКАЧАТЬ door. ‘Your mother just worries about you, that’s all. We want you to be safe.’

      ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘Because you are not my legal guardian.’

      ‘I’m responsible for you, just like your mother is,’ says Nick.

      ‘Not legally,’ says Liberty. ‘You and my mother aren’t married yet. Remember?’ Then she mutters under her breath. ‘Steroids cause memory loss.’

      Unfortunately, Nick hears. He’s mild-mannered about absolutely everything. Except steroid accusations.

      ‘I do not take steroids,’ he snaps. ‘These muscles are born of hard graft.’

      ‘There are helplines you can call.’ Liberty tries to dart upstairs, shoulders shaking with laughter.

      I grab her arm. ‘Hold it right there. Number one, apologize to Nick. Number two, we have to figure out how to fix your hair.’

      ‘Fix it?’ Liberty gawps at me. ‘There’s nothing to fix. And I was just teasing, Nick. That’s all.’

      Nick goes back into the kitchen and starts cutting tofu, head bent over.

      ‘Apologize to Nick. He’s trying his best. He drove to Long Bridge for your vegan stuff today.’

      ‘You’re always on his side.’

      ‘I’m on both your sides.’

      Liberty flips around her new short hair and kneels to stroke Skywalker’s long, salt and pepper body. ‘Thank you, Nick,’ she says in a tired voice. ‘Sorry, Nick.’

      ‘I’m trying my best, Libs,’ says Nick. ‘All I want to do is be a good … sort-of dad.’

      ‘Tell us about the mock exams,’ I say. ‘How’d you do?’

      Liberty ignores me and pours vegetarian dog biscuits into Skywalker’s bowl. Skywalker sits obediently, as Liberty has trained him to do. Only when she gives him the command does he start eating.

      Nick stumbles into the awkward silence. ‘Hey, you’ve done a great job with that dog, Libs. Look at how well trained he is. Just brilliant.’

      ‘What else do I have to do?’ says Liberty. ‘Mum never lets me out.’

      ‘Yeah, we were talking about that,’ says Nick. ‘I think it’s time your mother let you out more.’

      Liberty looks up then, managing a smile. ‘Really? You told her that? Did she punch you?’

      Nick laughs. ‘Just a couple of broken fingers.’

      ‘So tell us about your exams,’ I say. ‘Don’t keep us hanging on.’

      ‘I’ll tell you at dinner time,’ says Liberty. ‘Where’s my little buddy? Up in her room reading her number chart?’

      ‘Darcy’s still at nursery,’ I say. ‘One of the other parents is bringing her home.’

      ‘I brought her some patterns from Maths class,’ says Liberty, going to her school bag and pulling out sheaves of paper. ‘I’ll put them in her special drawer.’

      When Liberty opens Darcy’s personal kitchen drawer – the one with all Darcy’s ‘important’ items in it – she bursts out laughing. ‘I love that little girl. She’s so funny.’ Liberty pulls out a handful of Chinese takeout menus. ‘Of course she loves these menus. Every dish is numbered.’

      ‘I’ll say one thing about this blended family,’ says Nick. ‘At least the kids get along.’

      ‘Who wouldn’t get along with Darcy?’ says Liberty.

      ‘Her birth mother, for a start,’ says Nick. ‘Not everyone understands someone so particular.’

      ‘Well, I think Darcy’s hilarious. I love how straightforward she is. And clever. Worth putting up with you for, Nick.’

      Nick laughs uncertainly.

      ‘Liberty, please stop being so hard on Nick,’ I say. ‘He’s one of the good guys.’

      ‘Well yeah, he definitely has his uses,’ says Liberty. ‘But why not just download a diet and fitness app? That way I don’t have to find his hair in the shower.’

      ‘There’s a fine line between funny and mean, and you’re in danger of crossing it.’

      ‘Okay, okay,’ Liberty mutters. ‘Sorry, Nick. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

      ‘Let’s get all this food cooked,’ I announce. ‘Okay? What’s this? Jackfruit? What is it, some kind of vegetable?’

      ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ says Liberty. ‘You won’t find it in one of your disgusting hot dog cans.’

      ‘Don’t mock the afflicted. I can’t help my taste in food. I don’t know how you got so sophisticated.’

      ‘Maybe I got my sophisticated tastes from my real dad.’

      The room falls silent. And then I hear myself say:

      ‘Liberty. Go to your room.’

Once upon a time …

      After my sister left me at the Crimson gig, I followed a tide of fanatical, oddball hangers-on. They swept me out of the stadium and towards the east car park, where the band’s tour bus waited on gleaming tarmac.

      The girls were obvious groupies, shivering in knee-high boots, Wonderbras and short skirts. The boys were boggle-eyed and acne-ridden under shaggy, Michael Reyji Ray haircuts. They were a fun and sweet crowd, all glossy-eyed and talking about the gig.

      I talked music too, but I was there for something more. Something deeper. Love. Wholesome, honest, authentic love. Michael and his music had cured me of cancer. His lyrics spoke to my heart and soul while I was in hospital. The words were written just for me. And I loved him.

      It was dark and freezing that night, but excitement kept us warm as we huddled outside the east car-park stadium doors.

      I said silent prayers, shivering in my oversized denim jacket – the one I’d decorated with band patches and sharpie silhouettes. Please, God, please. Let Michael grace us with his holiness.

      Just after midnight, it happened. The black-painted fire doors flew open and out came Michael Reyji Ray, Paul Graves, Alex Sawalha and a dozen crew members dressed in black ‘Crimson’ T-shirts.

      We all screamed and cried.

      Michael walked a little ahead of the other band members, looking thoughtful, hands in greying jeans pockets and walking on bare feet. The way the band and crew had arranged themselves around Michael – he was a king with his subjects.

      Michael walked past all СКАЧАТЬ