The Golden Child Page 12

  Andi laughs. ‘No way. I was always desperate to learn an instrument, but my mum wouldn’t let me. We weren’t really that sort of family . . .’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway, I was determined that Sophie would at least have the opportunity. When she started, I thought it’d be one of those things that we’d all be over by the time she was ten. But by ten . . . Well, you heard. Steve and I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m impressed! Sophie was definitely the highlight of the show. Why didn’t someone warn me? What did you girls think?’

  ‘She’s so good!’ Lucy enthuses. Then, in a sweet echo of her mother, she smiles shyly at Andi. ‘You must be so proud.’

  ‘And what did you think, Charlotte?’ Beth smiles encouragingly at her younger daughter, who has been oddly subdued the entire evening and is standing a little apart from them now, looking bored. ‘She’s completely amazing.’ The girl’s words are expressionless, almost mechanical.

  ‘And she’s your friend, darling. Fancy knowing such a prodigy!’ Beth’s voice has taken on a slightly teasing tone, but Charlotte doesn’t respond.

  ‘So, are there lots of girls from your class here, sweetheart? I imagine the year sevens are out in force tonight. I thought I saw Amelia earlier, and that other girl, Harriet, is it? And isn’t that girl who played the flute one of your friends? And that girl who sang the Strauss, don’t you know her from somewhere? Maybe we could go and say hi, if they’re still here. You could introduce me to their parents.’ Andi admires Beth’s persistence, her lack of caution.

  ‘Do we have to wait?’ Charlotte ignores her mother’s enquiry. ‘Can’t we go?’

  ‘Oh, but don’t you want to congratulate Sophie? I want to say hello.’ Beth’s irritation is clear.

  ‘And I’m sure she’d love to see you all, to thank you for coming,’ Andi adds, keeping her voice casual.

  ‘I’m actually not feeling well, Mum.’ Charlotte’s voice is dull, and Andi notices that she’s careful not to look at her mother. That she’s careful not to look anywhere in particular. ‘Do we have to wait for Sophie? It’s late, and I really just want to go home.’

  CHARLOTTE

  IT WAS A HUGE MISTAKE; SHE REALISED THAT ALMOST AS SOON as she agreed to spend that first afternoon at Sophie’s. Charlotte should have just said no to her mother, right from the start; it wouldn’t have been that complicated – not in the beginning. The thing is, in the beginning she hadn’t properly understood. Sure, she had a fair idea that Sophie wasn’t cool – that was obvious from day one – but she hadn’t realised what a humungous social blunder it was going to be, hanging out with Sophie, even outside school; how it would change the way the other girls regarded her. In the end it had almost ruined Charlotte’s chances with the big three, Harriet, Amelia and Grace, just at the point when her inclusion in their group was practically a done deal.

  It’s not that there’s anything all that awful about Sophie herself, when she actually thinks about it. The first few times their mothers arranged play-dates had been fun. Of course, they’re no longer called play-dates, but really, that’s what they are, and not all that different to the ones arranged when they were toddlers: the mums surreptitiously checking out one another’s levels of respectability, coordinating the drop-offs and pick-ups, the activities, the food. The two girls got on pretty well, found plenty of things to talk about and to do. It turned out that they’d read lots of the same books, enjoyed the same movies and were obsessed with the same lame YouTube clips. She was actually pleased, that first afternoon, when her mother agreed to have a drink with Sophie’s mum at pick-up, prolonging her stay.

  But now that Charlotte is no longer conspicuously new, now that she has established herself better at school, now that she almost has a real gang and feels like she’s working her way back to the centre of things, she doesn’t need (and doesn’t want) a Sophie hanging about like a bad smell. Now that she understands Sophie’s position better, Charlotte is embarrassed about their relationship and resents the fact that their mothers’ continuing friendship means that she has to spend time with such an obvious loser. And if that isn’t hard enough, Sophie’s unshakeable assumption that this means they are actual friends, the way she expects some acknowledgement of this at school, and in front of everyone, is becoming increasingly difficult to manage.

  Charlotte is conscious that she has no reputation to protect her here. Back at Brookdale, if she’d chosen to hang out with someone like Sophie for an afternoon, it wouldn’t have changed anything about how she, Charlotte, was regarded by the rest of her clique. It would have been seen as a quirk on her part, or perhaps some clever strategy, and while the standing of the loser might have been raised temporarily, there’s no way Charlotte’s would have gone down. It just wasn’t possible. But here, where she is still working hard to establish herself, it has the opposite effect. Sophie has nothing to gain from hanging with her, but Charlotte has everything to lose.

  None of the other girls has said anything about it yet, but she’s seen them exchanging glances when Sophie goes out of her way to greet Charlotte in class, or when she brings over a slice of brownie that her mother has sent, or when she mentions something, anything, that shows they are in some way connected. Having to hang with Andi at the Arts Showcase was a total humiliation. Against Sophie’s pariah status her gift means nothing – as Amelia has pointed out, piano is the most pointless musical talent you can have, right? It’s not as if it will ever make her famous – it’s not like being able to sing or, even better, dance. No one can understand what all the fuss is about. Niamh O’Reilly, who left to go to the performing arts high school, was shortlisted for The Voice, and nobody could understand why the school hadn’t offered her the scholarship. In fact, playing the piano is just another social disability in the eyes of Sophie’s peers, and on top of being an actual freak, Sophie is nerdy, unattractive, physically incompetent and socially inept. And she’s stupidly sensitive: her round eyes widen and fill with gluey tears if anyone so much as sneezes at her.

  Even so, it’s hard to actually dislike her. Outside school her enthusiasm doesn’t seem quite so daggy, and she has a mad and sometimes wicked sense of humour that isn’t evident in the classroom. But all the ways she is okay to be with out of school have to be measured against the ways that publicly acknowledging her as a friend are likely to lessen Charlotte’s own status. Charlotte has to do something to distance herself before the others discover the extent of their association. She has to make it clear to the other girls that Sophie isn’t really her friend, that she isn’t even a distant ally.

  And even more importantly, she has to make it clear to Sophie.

  Sophie comes up to her one Tuesday morning in the locker room, all sunny eagerness, panting with excitement. If she had a tail she would be wagging it like a puppy. Charlotte tries hard to put her off, looks studiously elsewhere as she approaches, and then turns her back, but Sophie doesn’t take the hint, she walks right around until they’re practically face to face. There is no way, short of literally running away, that Charlotte can avoid talking to her.

  ‘Mum says you’re coming home with me this afternoon?’ Sophie’s voice is high-pitched and carrying.

  ‘Yep.’ Charlotte keeps her face deadpan and her voice low, hoping that Sophie might follow suit.

  ‘And you’re all coming over in a couple of weeks for dinner. Mum’s making a baked alaska for dessert. She wants to do something American for you guys. It’s either that or pumpkin pie. Have you ever had that? It sounds totally yuck.’

  Charlotte can hear the sniggers behind her back.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Her voice has dropped to almost a whisper, but Sophie’s seems even louder.

  ‘So, will we meet after school? I think we’ve got different classes last period?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Charlotte gives a cool shrug.

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ Finally Sophie’s voice has lost a little of its volume; she sounds uncertain, slightly deflated. ‘Well, I’ll just wait near the Honeysuckle Gate again
, I guess.’

  ‘Okay.’ She turns away decisively, clearly ending the conversation.

  Sophie hesitates for a moment. ‘Okay. So, do you want to go get some of those cupcakes again? I’ve got money.’

  Charlotte can’t bear it any longer, wants her gone right now, but Sophie hangs about for a long breathless moment, waiting for her response. When Charlotte refuses to turn back to her, pulling her textbooks out of her locker ferociously, then slamming it shut, the other girl takes the hint and drifts off slowly down the hall.

  When she is finally out of sight, Charlotte hefts the books to her chest and looks across the row of lockers to where Harriet and Amelia are waiting for her. They have watched the whole exchange and stand there smirking. Harriet purses her lips. ‘So, you’re getting all close with Slowphie, are you?’

  Her denial is automatic. ‘Not really.’

  ‘From what old Slowphs was saying, it sounds like you two are going on a . . . play-date. And then going for dinner, too. Baked alaska. Have you had that? Oh, yuuuuummmmy.’

  Charlotte ignores Amelia’s high-pitched mimicry and Harriet’s sniggers, shrugs. ‘Well, her mum and my mum, they organised it.’ Adds, her voice as cool and unconcerned as she can make it, ‘It’s not my idea of fun but there’s not much I can do about it.’

  Harriet gives a small, pitying smile. ‘Her mum’s that totally weird-looking one, right? Short, curly hair. With the baby? My dad thought she was a lezzo – she looks a bit like a man.’

  Charlotte quite likes Andi, but she doesn’t hesitate, snorts. ‘Yeah. She does kinda look like a man. But a really daggy one from the eighties: all baggy pants and big tops.’

  Amelia screws up her nose. ‘I heard they live in one of those old terraces in Arnott Place. Slowphie’s dad’s a policeman, isn’t he? I guess policemen don’t get paid all that well.’

  Charlotte shrugs again, feigning ignorance, lack of interest. ‘I honestly don’t know that much about them.’ Then, eagerly: ‘Actually, her mum’s doing some sort of work for my mum – it’s just business. That’s all.’ It is a total lie, but a perfect, irrefutable defence. ‘Anyway, it’s not like we’re actual friends or anything.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to be. Not with Slowphie. Ugh.’ Harriet is laughing, but somehow it feels like Charlotte has been given a warning. Or an ultimatum.

  BETH

  DESPITE HIS INITIAL OPPOSITION, DAN GIVES IN FAR MORE gracefully than she expected. She waits until Drew makes her a formal offer, and then carefully sets the scene for her announcement: lunch, just the two of them, at a busy foreshore hotel. They’ve tried, over the years, to do as all the marriage guidance manuals suggest and have a date night, or day, at least once a month. This is the first they’ve managed during their time in Newcastle – thus far all their weekends have been insanely busy, and Dan’s work schedule completely full.

  The setting couldn’t be more conducive to good cheer and relaxation: they’re sitting at a table overlooking the glittering water, watching the life of the busy harbour on this sunny autumn day; a bottle of wine, good food. Dan gazes at the harbour scene for a long moment, then turns to her. ‘Brilliant idea, Beth. I’d forgotten how much I love it here. I know it’s not Sydney, but maybe it’s just as beautiful in its own way.’ It’s true: there is something quite unique about the contrast between the picturesque – the lighthouse perched charmingly at the end of the isthmus, the vivid blue of the channel, the big ships lumbering through the water – and the almost post-apocalyptic landscape on the other side of the bay – the looming silos, the gleaming mountains of coal, the surreal angled skyline of cranes and belts and trucks.

  Beth waits until they’ve eaten to tell him the details of the contract: two days a week to start, eight till four; the reasonable but unexciting pay. ‘I haven’t signed anything yet,’ she says, slightly nervous, though Dan hasn’t said a word. ‘I wanted to wait and hear what you think. I’ll only be working Monday and Wednesday, and the girls don’t have anything before five. They can go to your mum’s if she’s okay with that – it’s only a few hours. And if not, apparently they can stay at school and study. I know the money’s not that great, but it’s a beginning. I’d really like to do it, but I need you to be okay with it, too.’

  He frowns. ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me, Beth. That you were having a formal interview.’

  ‘Well, it was actually pretty casual,’ the lie comes easily. ‘We just talked about it over the phone. And then at lunch. And you were so opposed to the whole thing, when I first mentioned it.’

  He shrugs. ‘Yeah. Sorry. I’m not sure what that was about. I was probably having a bad day. This has all been harder than I thought. The move, the new job. Mum. Everything.’

  ‘So, it’s okay?’ It is hard to believe – the easy acceptance, the apology, the fact that Dan admits that he has some problems with his mother. It feels like a moment of conciliation, somehow. ‘You really don’t mind?’

  He takes hold of her hand across the table. ‘Drew Carmichael is an utter wanker. I’m never going to change my mind about that, Beth. But if working for him is going to make you happy, then I’m happy.’

  The girls’ response is less reassuring. She tells them both in the car, on the way to Lucy’s violin lesson. ‘I didn’t realise you knew a politician, Mum. Wow.’ Lucy is clearly impressed. ‘That sounds pretty exciting. What’ll you be doing?’

  ‘To start with I’ll just be working in the office. Answering phones, taking messages, talking to people. Doing stuff on the net. Later on, I’ll probably write things – press releases, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘So what happens after school on the days you’re working? Can we just walk home and wait?’ This question from Charlotte.

  ‘Afraid not.’ Beth keeps her voice casual. ‘You know Dad and I don’t want you at home alone. You can go to Nanny’s for a couple of hours. Apparently one of the school buses goes right past her house. It’ll be a great opportunity for you girls to get to know her better.’

  ‘But Mum, that’s totally stupid.’ She can’t see Charlotte’s face in the mirror, but her outrage is clear. ‘I’m almost thirteen. And Lucy’s fourteen. What do you think we’re going to do?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re going to do anything. I just don’t think it’s healthy for you two to spend all that time by yourselves.’

  ‘And going to Nanny’s is healthier how, exactly? We’ll probably just watch TV there, anyway.’

  ‘No, we won’t. You know Nanny hates us sitting in front of the TV.’

  ‘Then she’ll make us do housework or cook or something. It’s stupid.’

  ‘We can just do our homework, Charlie.’

  ‘But I don’t like doing my homework as soon as I get home.’

  Beth intervenes. ‘Look, there’s no point arguing about it. You’re going.’

  ‘But we’re not babies, Mum. A few hours on our own twice a week isn’t going to kill us.’

  ‘And it’s not going to kill you to go to your grandmother’s either, Charlotte.’

  ‘I seriously don’t want to go there, Mum. I’d rather go almost anywhere else.’

  ‘Why? What’s the problem? I know she can be a bit fussy . . . she’ll make you do your homework, and probably some chores, but that’s not going to hurt.’

  ‘It is going to hurt, actually, Mother.’ Charlotte’s tone is suddenly scathing. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘Noticed what?’

  ‘That she doesn’t really like me.’

  Lucy turns to her younger sister, her voice surprisingly stern: ‘Oh, Charlie. She does so. You’re being silly. Nanny loves everyone.’

  ‘Not everyone. Nanny loves you, because you suck up to her.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘It’s not like I actually care. It’s just a pain. Anyway, she loves you and she loves Dad. She kinda just puts up with me and Mum, though.’

  Lucy looks over at Beth. ‘That’s not true. You’re making t
hings up. Nanny loves us all. I know she does. You shouldn’t say things like that.’

  ‘It’s okay, Luce.’ Charlotte sounds disdainful. ‘You know what? I don’t actually like Nanny much either.’

  DizzyLizzy.com

  The Real World

  I knew it was going to work the moment I walked into the busy office, felt the excitement, the vibe of people who were intent and full of purpose.

  In fact, I’d known it from the moment I stepped out of the house, power-suited, hair up, heels on, face done. Right then I felt ten, even fifteen years younger. In all the years of intense full-time mothering, somehow I’d forgotten the singular pleasure of working outside home, of having a separate existence, another raison d’être. I hadn’t realised how much I missed it.

  And so, in that centrally heated, ergonomic-everything eyrie, with its wall-to-wall glass and views across the valley, where everyone was on a mission, and nobody was grizzling about homework or dinner or asking me where they might find their hockey shin-guards, I felt as if I’d reentered the world. The real world.

  And then, three hours into my first busy day, madly Googling after assuring my boss that of course I could do a prezi, no problem! – a sudden revelation. All those things: dinner, the hockey shin-guards, the washing, the vacuuming, the whining – power suit or not – they were all still out there, just waiting for me . . .

  So, here I am, back in the real world. It’s a busy place.

  37

  EXPATTERINGS:

  @OzMumInTokyo says:

  Haha! Still, it sounds fabulous, Lizzy, shin-guards and all!!! I’m sooooo envious;);) I need to get back to Aus before this mummying thing is the ONLY thing I’m fit for. XOX

  @GirlFromIpanema replied:

  You just need to get those damn bandages off, girl!