The Golden Child Page 15

  Steve has just come off night shift, so it’s up to Andi to prepare the meal and get the house, a disaster even by Andi’s pretty low standards, in some sort of order. She’s decided to keep things simple – lasagne and salad, gourmet ice-cream rather than the mooted pumpkin pie – but of course, with a baby in the house, nothing runs quite to plan. Gus, naturally, has chosen this particular day to be difficult, requiring twice his normal number of feeds and determinedly not settling for his two sleeps. When she tries to enlist Sophie – Can you just entertain him for five minutes? – her daughter is worse than useless, all her attention focused on her iPad, jiggling the bouncer halfheartedly with one foot and ignoring her brother’s whinging.

  ‘Oh, come on, Sophie,’ Andi says, exasperated, when the whinging turns into a full-scale meltdown and she is forced to abandon the kitchen at a crucial moment to soothe him. ‘You don’t get asked to help out that much. You could have made a proper effort. Now I’m going to have to do the white sauce again. Jesus.’

  The look Sophie gives her is grave, her words oddly defiant. ‘It’s not like I asked for any of this, you know.’

  ‘Any of what? Having people over for dinner? I thought you’d be pleased that Charlotte’s coming over.’

  ‘Not that. Or not just that.’

  ‘What then?’ Andi is impatient. Not only does the white sauce need to be redone, she’ll probably have to make a trip to the shops to get more flour, and she hasn’t even started on the bathroom. She thinks resentfully of Steve, peacefully asleep upstairs. She really doesn’t have time for adolescent angst.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Sophie shrugs. ‘Don’t worry. It isn’t important.’

  Andi makes an effort. ‘Come on, Soph. What is it? Is there something going on at school? Are you and Charlotte fighting?’

  Sophie snorts. ‘We’re not exactly on fighting terms, Mum.’

  She takes the comment at face value. ‘Well, that’s good.’ Gus snuffles at her breast, making his desire for a feed clear. Andi gives up and sinks down on the lounge beside Sophie. She sighs and unbuttons her bra, watches as he latches on. When she looks up, Sophie is looking at them both, an odd smile flickering. ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Sophie is quiet, but adamant. She stands up. ‘Can I go now? I’ve got practice to do.’

  Andi worries momentarily that she’s missed something, but doesn’t have the energy to dig any further. She gives her daughter a quick smile, turns back to Gus.

  By the time the Mahonys arrive, the house isn’t really clean, but isn’t entirely uncivilised – the toilet has been given a cursory scrub, bedroom doors have been firmly closed on mess, random clutter has been shoved into cupboards – and the lasagne is bubbling away. Gus has been fed and bathed and is finally content in his bouncer, cooing like a baby from a nappy ad. Steve has had two beers already and is bright-eyed and as ready for socialising as he ever gets. Sophie doesn’t emerge from her practice session in the family room until the doorbell rings, but then she seems cheerful enough. After the preliminary hellos she takes the Mahony girls up to her bedroom, the three of them armed with the requisite laptops, iPads and iPhones and a big bowl of chips. The parents get on with the serious business of drinks and small talk.

  The men adjourn to the lounge room, ostensibly to keep an eye on Gus, while the women stay in the kitchen.

  ‘Good to see the traditional division of labour is being adhered to.’ Beth pours them both a glass of champagne and then perches on a stool while Andi prepares the salad.

  ‘I know.’ Andi sighs. ‘I just give up. You know, when we had Sophie, we made such an effort to keep everything fair.’

  ‘Fair?’ Beth raises her eyebrows. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We actually had this chart.’ Andi laughs, remembering those long-ago days before she resigned herself to an ever-present sense of unfairness. ‘Everything counted: nappy changes, feeding, laundry, cooking. But what it meant was that Steve would have to come home and do everything that needed doing until Sophie’s bedtime. Bathing, changing nappies, rocking her to sleep. That was how much more I was doing when we actually measured it. Even counting his hours at work. So he ended up putting up his hand for twelve-hour shifts. And then, of course, it was impossible.’ She slices down so vehemently on a cucumber that it shoots off the chopping board and lands on the floor. Beth laughs. ‘The whole thing is impossible, isn’t it? I think you just get used to the impossibility. And then get over it. Though I imagine it must be a bit shocking, having to get used to it all over again.’

  ‘Shocking? That’s an understatement.’

  ‘Especially when Sophie’s just hit such an easy stage.’

  Andi pauses in her chopping. ‘It is easy, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve heard such awful things about this age, and I’ve been waiting. But Sophie . . . well, touch wood, but really, I thought there’d be more stuff going on by now.’

  ‘More stuff?’

  ‘Well, all that attitude business you hear about. It can’t be that much fun having a new baby brother. I couldn’t have imagined anything worse when I was her age than my mum having a baby, but Sophie’s been pretty good about it.’

  ‘Does she help out? With Gus, I mean?’

  ‘She does when I ask her, but to be honest I try not to. It doesn’t seem fair to expect her to do too much.’ When she puts it that way, Sophie’s distance from her mother and brother sounds like a deliberate strategy on Andi’s part. ‘And anyway, there’s only the two of them, so really it’s not that hard.’

  ‘It’s a cinch, right?’ She can hear the laughter in Beth’s voice.

  ‘Yep. You’re right.’ She takes a gulp of champagne, laughs back. ‘It’s a total fucking cinch.’

  They all sit together for the meal: the girls at one end of the table, adults at the other, Gus banished to a dim corner of the dining room, asleep in his pram. The two Mahony girls eagerly join in the adult conversation. Andi is struck by their confidence, Charlotte’s in particular, their lack of self-consciousness in stating their opinions, adding their own observations. Their expectation that what they’re saying is of value. Sophie watches it all, subdued, but not, Andi thinks, unhappy. The discussion moves from school gossip to town gossip to family gossip, the two women finding common ground in complaints (in Andi’s case slightly confected) about their mothers and their constant interference, physical and emotional.

  ‘Oh, come on, Andi.’ Steve misunderstands the social nature of her betrayal, is quick to defend his mother-in-law, whom he likes. ‘I don’t think you’re being fair. Your mum’s been excellent since you had Gus. You can’t really complain. She spent a whole month with you, and she’s been up every couple of weekends.’

  Andi rolls her eyes. ‘How come you can’t behave like a proper son-in-law and complain about my mother? What’s wrong with you?’ Only the two women laugh. Dan says earnestly, ‘Talking of mothers, I’d forgotten how good it can be, how much easier it is, having family about. Having Mum around has been one of the best things about being back home.’ Beth chokes on her drink, but only Andi seems to notice. Dan continues enthusiastically. ‘I don’t know if Beth has told you that the girls are going over to Mum’s the afternoons she’s at work. It makes it so easy – we could never have done it in America.’

  ‘We could never have done it in America because I couldn’t work in America.’ Beth’s voice is dry, unimpressed.

  ‘And it’s actually really lame, Dad.’ Charlotte’s interjection is a little louder than necessary. ‘We don’t need to be babysat. We could actually just go straight home after school. It’s annoying going to Nanny’s.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, Charlie. She lets us do what we want pretty much.’ Lucy chides her sister gently and Charlotte’s eyes widen. ‘But that’s only because you actually want to do the things Nanny wants you to do. I don’t really want to bake cakes. Or learn how to knit.’

  Dan’s look is indulgent, his ton
e wry. ‘You’re just put out because she doesn’t have the internet. Isn’t that it, Charlie? You have to put your beloved devices down for a few hours.’

  ‘Charlotte, Dad, not Charlie. And anyway it’s not just that. It’s just . . . it’s a waste of time being there.’

  ‘Going to Nanny’s is a waste of time, eh? What I’d like to know is what you’re spending all your time doing on those gadgets anyway. I’m sure it’s not anything useful like homework. What is it? Are you talking to boys?’

  ‘Yeah. Like we actually know any boys. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but you sent us to a girls’ school, Dad.’ Her tone is scathing.

  Dan turns to Sophie. ‘Maybe you can explain it to me, Sophie. I guess you’re the same. Do you want to tell me what you girls spend all your time doing on your iPads?’

  Sophie looks down at her meal and mutters something unintelligible. Andi is annoyed by her daughter’s lack of manners. ‘Sophie, you were asked something. You need to look at people when you’re talking to them. Answer Dan properly, please.’

  Sophie continues to stare down at her plate. Eventually she looks up at Dan and gives a wide smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘I only know what I do, and that’s mainly homework. I have absolutely no clue what other girls do on the internet.’ Her eyes have narrowed, the smile has gone. ‘Maybe they watch online porn. Or YouTube clips of small animals being tortured.’

  ‘Sophie!’ Steve sounds shocked and his expression signals a warning, but the other adults laugh. The Mahony girls both look vaguely embarrassed, as if Sophie has farted at the table. Sophie picks up her fork again, then pauses. She takes a deep breath and looks at Charlotte, her dark eyes unblinking, her voice low and now utterly devoid of humour. ‘For all I know they’re the types of girls who hang out on social media all night, leaving nasty comments about the kids who aren’t quite as popular as them.’

  www.Slowphie.com

  There’s one in every class.

  She’s the one with the fat face and the big butt and the gross flabby stomach that hangs over her skirt. A whole carton of laxatives wouldn’t help this bitch. (Beware boys: she ain’t got no box gap.)

  She’s the one who pants when she walks up the steps to the stage. If she has to run in PE she goes so red in the face you think her head is going to explode. #fattyalert

  She’s the one who’s good at something lame like playing the piano. #loser

  She’s the one who says that the librarian is cool, and that she’s happy just to chill there at lunchtime with her Jane Austen book. #gay

  She’s the one who shows you a photo of her baby brother and expects you to say how adorable he is when really he’s cross-eyed and looks like a retard. #fucktard

  She’s the one who every year invites the popular group to her birthday party and is surprised when none of us turn up. #freak

  She wants so bad to be part of it all – to be one of US – and we have to tell her how by just wanting it so bad she’s showing exactly why she can never belong . . . #killyourselfslut

  Slowphie in her school uniform

  Slowphie playing netball. rofl!

  Hey – why don’t you show us some skin, Slowphie . . .

  And ta da! Here’s a vid of Slowphie getting out of her school uniform. OMG!

  Wtf, maybe you don’t want to see this, u should keep a bucket handy. Lol.

  Hey Slowphie, why don’t you die? #endthemisery

  #forthegoodofhumanity

  COMMENTS CLOSED

  ask.fm/charlottemah

  SIGN UPLOG IN

  Did you see the slowphie website? HarrietGeo

  Wtf?

  www.Slowphie.com HarrietGeo

  OMG!!!! LMFAO!!!

  Did you do it? HarrietGeo

  Don’t be a twat. Hey @AmeliaCar was it you?

  No way. That’s seriously freaking mean. I’m deleting all my accounts now AmeliaCar

  Way overkillL

  She’s right. Totally mean. Nothing to laugh about @HarrietGeo and @CharlotteMah LucyMah

  @LucyMah your just an old woman

  This is some sick shit and your some sick idiotic assholes MattyMat

  Go fuck yourself.

  What’s next? Kittens? Old ladies? Babies? anon

  Go get fucked

  Heard your a psycho bitch from way back anon

  Yeah? Well who the shit are you?

  Oleander poisoning ring any bells? anon

  ACCOUNT CLOSED

  SOPHIE

  IT HARDLY BEARS IMAGINING.

  If you asked her, the child – because she’s still a child, freshly minted, really – would say she’s old, too old, that she’s carrying the weight of the world on her frail shoulders, that too much is asked, too much expected. Oh, not school work, not music, not the chores she does at home – these are easy tasks, they barely require an effort. Lately they’re the only things that set her free from the rest of it, set her free from herself. Because that’s the hard part. It’s not the doing, it’s the becoming, the being, that she’s finding so difficult.

  It wasn’t always this way. Once, not so very long ago, it was only last year, although sometimes it feels like a hundred, a thousand years, a lifetime ago – once it had been easy. Being required no thought, no active participation. She just was. She went to school, she played or she didn’t play, she was happy or unhappy, she had friends or she sat alone. It was easy; it was second nature for her to be good, to do her work. Sometimes in the playground it was harder – there were always patterns she was unaware of, undercurrents she didn’t understand; sometimes it felt like there were dance steps that everybody else had learned when she wasn’t there. But mostly it didn’t matter – some days were good, some bad, some ordinary, but there was a solid pulse, a central rhythm to her life, something substantial that she recognised as her self, that made sense. But now, nothing feels certain, nothing feels secure – least of all herself.

  There have been endless talks at school – about adolescence, about the changes that can be expected. The physical growth of breasts, hair, periods, the fat that will, that already is, accumulating around her thighs, her belly, doesn’t worry her too much, though she knows other people (girls, mothers, teachers, maybe even her dad) think it does or think it should. They’ve explained too – ad infinitum really; she probably knows enough to set up a counselling service herself – about all the emotional changes that are happening. How she is likely to experience mood swings; that she might feel she is on a rollercoaster, up one minute and down the next. And she has, if she thinks back over the last six months or so, experienced everything they predicted. She can remember the excitement when Gus arrived, how she felt almost giddy with love, the joy of seeing him. And then there was the misery and rage, uncharacteristic, unexpected, that she suddenly felt towards her parents – her father’s stolid implacability, her mother’s irritability, her distance. She still adores her baby brother, but she’s sick of the constant attention given to him, the unnoticed sidelining of her own needs. She’s sick of all the adults in her life, her teachers as well as her parents. They don’t notice anything that’s going on in her life, all they care about is themselves.

  And she’d started off the year with such high hopes. She’d imagined, at the beginning of year seven, even though Maya and Tess had gone, that things would change for the better: there would be new arrivals, everyone would have matured. Everything would be better. But it wasn’t. It was all the same as it had been before Maya and Tess, and she’d gone back to the old misery, the old loneliness – of keeping busy at lunchtimes, of not knowing who her friends were. This time it was worse – because she knew how much better it could be.

  And then Charlotte had come, and for a while it had all looked bright again. How she’d hoped. They’d had fun together, she knew that they had. And Charlotte had liked her. But Charlotte couldn’t resist the lure of being popular – Sophie understood that; who would choose the alternative? And being popular meant leaving Sophie behind. More th
an leaving her, it meant showing the world that she wanted nothing to do with her. It had been a blow, and the bullying had been shocking, but even that was bearable. She’d still had other things: odd moments of fun in class; times when she’d enjoyed being around her family; her music, books, her fantasies of the future.

  And then that website. The numbness set in the moment she saw it. She had followed the link, emailed to her from an address she’d never heard of, completely innocently: Concerned friend, the email had read. Some concern. As she read, it was as if she was swallowing something sick-making, some poison concocted from words; she could feel the familiar bubble forming in her stomach, feel it roiling away. But when she saw the pictures further down the site, and the clip of her that had been taken in her own bedroom, practically naked, in the process of undressing, her body revealed in all its ugliness, there was an immediate end to the churning. Instead it was as if everything had drained away, as if all the warmth of her, blood and flesh, all the living matter, had been replaced by ice. By something cold and hard and unfeeling. Something dead.

  It was her own fault, she supposes. They’d all been warned about what could happen on the internet by teachers, parents; there’d been films, booklets, visits from experts, police. She should have expected it. She should have realised what would happen if she opened herself up to it. She was an obvious target, a sitting duck. She should have been prepared for it, steeled herself. She should have toughened herself up. But how? What she didn’t know about, what nobody had ever really explained, was how it worked. How there was no escape. How, even though it was making you sick, you couldn’t stop reading it, watching it. How it followed you wherever you went. How it worked its way inside you and swallowed you up. How it eventually became you.