The Golden Child Read online

  The thing is, when she’s actually face to face with Charlotte, Sophie suddenly realises that she hasn’t really forgiven her. Up until now she’s had no particular feelings towards her, save the same warm fuzziness that she feels about almost everything, but at the sight of Charlotte, waiting at the front door with her mother and sister, her face uncharacteristically solemn, the fuzzy feeling evaporates. It’s replaced by a sharp feeling of anger, which, though as unfamiliar as it is unexpected, isn’t entirely unpleasant. But Sophie manages to greet her, to greet the three of them, calmly, to thank them politely for their gift – a silver charm bracelet – and lead them into the kitchen where all the other girls and a few mothers are already congregated.

  Even Sophie notices that the conversation pauses momentarily when the Mahonys enter, and there’s a communal shuffling, subtle, like herd animals moving closer for comfort. Conversation quickly resumes; no one looks at them – neither girls nor parents – or greets them. Her mother, who manages to dredge up a strange thin-lipped smile, offers some polite words of welcome. There are none of the heartfelt hugs that other girls and their mothers have offered, just a stilted hello. Charlotte’s mum thanks them for the invitation, her smile a little too friendly, her voice shaky and high. She makes her excuses quickly, gives a general wave, and Andi leads her back down the hallway. Charlotte stares after her mother for a long moment, then turns to Sophie. ‘Hey,’ she says, not quite meeting Sophie’s eyes, ‘this looks really cool.’ She smiles, but her bottom lip trembles.

  Sophie can’t help grinning. ‘I don’t know that it’s cool, exactly. But it is pretty awesome.’

  The family room has been decorated exactly the way she wanted it, with rainbow streamers strung across the ceiling and unicorns of various size, colour and design swinging between multicoloured paper lanterns. There are unicorn-horn party hats and the food is themed – crème horns, rainbow cakes and clouds of fairy floss. There’s nothing healthy in sight. It’s like the ultimate little-kid party. Six months ago the girls would have sneered at it – in fact six months ago Sophie wouldn’t have dared to hold such a party, and even if she had, no one would have come. But now her entire class is here, full of good cheer, and apparently genuinely glad to see her, glad to be here – and all prepared to join in, to make it fun.

  Sophie can see that Charlotte is anxious, that she really wants to say something else to her. ‘Hey, Sophie, it’s really good that you’re okay,’ she begins, but Lucy interrupts, her voice quietly authoritative. ‘Charlotte. Remember what Mum said? You know she said you weren’t to—’

  Sophie would like to hear Lucy’s reminder to her suddenly red-faced sister, but just then Matilda Matherson arrives with her two sisters, and Sophie can’t help giving a happy squeal as she skips off to greet them, Charlotte forgotten in the excitement.

  She tries hard not to take too much notice of Charlotte’s movements during the party, and there are so many girls, all of them vying for Sophie’s attention simultaneously, clamouring to stand near her, share sweets, cake, food, to be her partner in all the silly games, that it’s easy to get swept up in the fun of it. She’s vaguely aware that Charlotte is far quieter than usual, that she sticks close to her sister and remains at the edge rather than the centre of things. She notices, too, that the other girls, while not exactly avoiding her, aren’t necessarily including Charlotte. For once, even Harriet, Amelia and Grace have dispersed into the group, aren’t hanging with one another; all the traditional divisions have dissolved.

  She has a brief and slightly awkward conversation with Lucy, who she meets in the kitchen, filling a cup at the sink. ‘I was just getting some tap water,’ Lucy explains. ‘Sugar overdose. It’s an awesome party, though. Really fun,’ she says, swirling the water in the plastic cup as she speaks. ‘And I think you were really, really kind to invite us – you know, after everything.’

  ‘Oh, well, I just thought it would be good to . . . you know, to have everyone.’ Sophie shrugs. She likes Lucy well enough, but isn’t sure that she wants to have this conversation with her, or with anyone else, for that matter.

  ‘Yeah, well, you probably don’t want to talk about it right now, but I just want you to know that I’m really sorry about what happened. And about what they did – Charlotte and the others, I mean. I’m so glad you’re okay. And don’t worry, Charlie won’t get away with it.’ Lucy takes an absentminded sip from the cup, grimaces, keeps swirling. ‘You know – karma. It’ll catch up with her eventually. She might be my sister, but sometimes . . .’ She gives a meaningful smile and heads back into the melee before Sophie can respond.

  Sophie, who’s forgotten what she came for, hovers in the kitchen doorway. She watches as Lucy goes to the food table, where she tops up her cup with lemonade and piles a plate with assorted party food before heading over to her sister, who is standing alone. Charlotte’s forlorn expression brightens a little when her sister approaches bearing food and drink. She takes a long sip from the cup, makes a face, bites into a sausage roll. That was it! Amelia and Elinor wanted more crème horns. Sophie goes back into the kitchen to find them.

  The final game – Uni-Horns – is really just the promised Pin the Tail on the Donkey with a unicorn twist. Instead of a donkey they have a rather wobbly outline of a unicorn, drawn by her granddad and coloured in by Sophie. Golden horns, which have been printed from the internet and pasted onto cardboard, are given to each player. At thirteen, the girls are really too old for the game, and for all the kiddie party games they’ve been playing, but they enter into the contest just as enthusiastically as they would have when they were six, jostling to go next, giggling hysterically at each other’s efforts, the horns pinned in all sorts of ridiculous positions, Matty’s best of all, the one that leaves them clutching their stomachs – dead centre on the unicorn’s butt.

  Sophie’s mother does the turning and pointing of the first blindfolded girl, but then Lucy, who looks less than excited by the prospect of being spun herself, volunteers. The older girl is way better at the whole spinning thing than Andi, getting right into the spirit of the game, spinning each girl hard and fast and then giving her a gentle push in the right direction. A few of the girls claim dizziness after they’re spun and have to be guided to the unicorn, their steps hilariously hesitant, some of them buckling at the knees, almost as if they’re drunk.

  When it comes to her sister’s turn, Lucy tightens the blindfold with a flourish, then, despite Charlotte’s squealing protests, turns her even more rapidly and for far longer than she has turned any of the other girls. Before anyone can offer to guide her, Lucy gives her sister a firm push in the middle of the back. Charlotte takes a single slow step, then another, and then pauses, swaying dangerously. She shuffles forward a step or two and stops again, clutching her stomach. She stands still for another long moment, and they all wait, mesmerised, as a slow shudder moves up her torso. She gives an agonised yelping retch and then vomits, a thick pink surge across the floor. Still nobody moves to help. Charlotte sobs, her body wracked by another spasm. This time her legs give out and she falls heavily, blindly, knees first and then hands, into the foul puddle.

  Sophie, stricken, sees Lucy at the edge of the stunned crowd, watching her sister intently. There’s an odd look on her face, but it’s gone immediately, replaced by an expression of embarrassment. Sophie searches for her mother, who is moving, but not fast enough, to the scene. Before she can do anything, Charlotte gives another shameful yelp and vomits again, the mess globbing slowly down the front of her party clothes.

  The giggles are surreptitious, quickly muffled. Sophie puts her hands to her mouth, trying hard not to follow suit. And then Matilda Matherson, loud, pitiless: ‘Oh, dear. That’s so gross. Poor Charlotte. Has anyone got an iPhone? We should totally make sure everyone sees this.’

  BETH

  SHE IS SO PLEASED THAT CHARLOTTE, AND THEN LUCY, HAVE been invited to the party that she doesn’t even consider the extreme awkwardness, the painfulness, of her and An
di’s meeting. She worries about Charlotte, of course, primes her, warns her not to say too much – to Sophie or anyone else. It would be best to let things settle, she tells her; left alone it will all calm down and eventually even be forgotten.

  Charlotte looks at her scornfully. ‘I’m not going to start apologising for something I didn’t do, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Beth’s stomach clenches, but she stays calm, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Okay, Charlotte. All I’m saying is that this is an opportunity to smooth things over. The Penningtons have been very generous and made the first move, so let’s keep it going.’

  She hasn’t thought past Charlotte’s response, and so her own anxiety comes as a surprise. Waiting at the door, hearing the cheery hubbub inside, she begins to shake, her heart pounding so loudly she can barely hear, and when a smiling Sophie runs out to greet them, her manner so unselfconsciously friendly, it takes her a moment to find her voice. If it didn’t mean leaving Charlotte to her fate, she would have hightailed it out of there. But the moment passes, the words come, and she follows Sophie and the girls into the house. She notices – how can she not? – the sudden quiet, like a collectively indrawn breath, as the three of them enter but she forces herself to keep moving.

  She manages to greet Andi, whose feelings are masked behind a polite smile and a perfunctory greeting. ‘Thanks for bringing them, Beth,’ she says stiffly. ‘It was important to Sophie that the whole class be invited.’ So much can be read between these particular lines, but mercifully there’s no opening for Beth to add anything meaningful. She says nothing more than what’s expected, what’s polite, but even that’s strangled, almost incoherent, and then Andi is leading her back down the hallway, opening the door to usher her out. ‘We’ll be done by two-thirty,’ she says, closing and locking the screen door, as if making sure that Beth has no opportunity to say anything, to offer anything. ‘I’ll have the girls ready at the door, so there’s no need for you to come in to get them.’ In other circumstances this would be a kindness, offered for convenience – no need to leave the car. But here, now – Beth knows the gesture’s not designed to make things easier for her.

  Dan is spending the afternoon in his office, and she had intended to go home and write up a new blogpost; but she’s lost heart. And what can she possibly say, right now – what observations, what reflections can she possibly offer? Her kids, her job, her marriage, even her house – however she looks at her life, there’s just no suitable straw to be spun, and no possibility of fashioning gold. She hasn’t posted for almost two weeks, the concerned messages are piling up in her inbox, but other than sending a breezy, I’m fine, just busy! Thanks so much for asking. Miss you too Xxx, to her most loyal readers, she’s largely ignoring them. She still hasn’t finished her blog for TrailingWife.com – and the guest post date is looming. Beth can feel the whole thing winding down, her motivation as much as anything. What’s the point?

  She feels so unsettled after the visit to the Penningtons’. Her nerves are jangling and there’s a dull pain in her head. She walks upstairs to the bedroom wearily, each step an effort, and lies down on the bed. She tries to read but it’s no good. Plays an audiobook but the narrator’s accent grates. She tries a basic meditation technique that sometimes works for her: count backwards from one hundred, breathe in, breathe out, starting again whenever she loses track. She has finally reached three – on her fifth try – when her mobile rings. It’s Andi. ‘Charlotte’s been sick,’ she says, her voice brisk. There’s no give in it, no warmth. ‘You need to come and pick her up.’

  It’s a mess – in more ways than one. When she arrives, Charlotte and Lucy are waiting outside, standing by the front gate, with a vaguely familiar woman – another of the class mums, Beth assumes, although she has no idea of her name, or her daughter’s. Charlotte’s face is red, her eyes puffy, her hair is a tangled mess, and although there’s been some attempt to clean her up, the front of her jersey and the knees of her trousers are stained and damp. Lucy is standing supportively close, obviously trying to comfort her, but is just as obviously being brushed off. When they see her, Beth contemplates gesturing for them to come straight over, but does the right thing, reluctantly exiting the car and heading over to the waiting trio.

  Charlotte hurtles past her without a word and disappears into the back seat, slamming the door closed, while Lucy hangs back politely. The woman speaks in a rush, before Beth has time to ask her anything. ‘She wanted to wait outside, poor thing. She’s a bit . . . whiffy. Andi’s cleaning up, so I thought I’d wait out here with them. It was a bit of a disaster, I’m afraid. Charlotte had an accident during a game. She didn’t quite make it to the bathroom. It’s a timber floor, so I don’t think there’ll be any permanent damage, do you, Lucy?’

  But Lucy is clearly not concerned about the state of the Penningtons’ flooring. ‘It was actually my fault, Mum. I was in charge of spinning all the girls, and I totally didn’t think. I feel really awf—’

  ‘Oh, no, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, sweetheart,’ the woman interrupts, keen to reassure her. ‘She’d probably just eaten too much. It happens all the time. Fizzy drink, lollies, cake. All the excitement.’ She gives a little shrug, winces.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Beth grabs Lucy’s hand. ‘We’ll just get her home and clean her up. Can you . . . can you thank Andi and Steve?’ Then, before she can stop herself, ‘And can you tell them we’re sorry. She’s sorry. Tell them Charlotte is very sorry for whatever mess she’s made.’

  Charlotte is silent during the short ride home, and once there she still refuses to speak, heads straight to the bathroom and locks herself in. Beth gathers clean clothes and leaves them in a neat pile outside the door. Lucy is waiting for her in the kitchen, clearly prepared for the inevitable interrogation.

  ‘So what happened, Lucy?’

  ‘It was nothing, really. I mean, it was awful, but it wasn’t anything Charlotte did. She just vomited – she really couldn’t help it.’ Lucy is so transparent, her anxiety so evident; Beth knows there’s something she’s not saying.

  ‘And did anything else happen?’

  ‘That’s all. Really.’

  ‘I can tell there’s something you’re not saying. Whatever it is, you need to tell me, Luce.’

  ‘Well . . . okay.’ Lucy takes a deep breath. ‘It’s just that everyone laughed when Charlotte vomited. And then when she fell over in it, they . . .’ She pauses.

  ‘What? What happened?’

  ‘Well, one of the girls said something really horrible – about it being a pity that they didn’t have it on film. You know, so they could Instagram it, or whatever – show everyone.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘And then . . . it was so awful. It seemed to take ages for anyone to help her and Charlotte was just sort of lying there, vomiting and vomiting, and her hair was all over her face, and she couldn’t see, and everyone started laughing. Even some of the parents.’ Lucy’s eyes are wide and shiny with tears. ‘And Mum, it was really my fault. I spun her pretty hard, but it was just for fun. I didn’t mean to make her sick.’ She gives a little sob.

  ‘Of course you didn’t mean to, darling. It was an accident.’

  Beth tries to comfort her daughter, hugs her, but the sobs only grow louder. Lucy wraps her arms around Beth’s middle, hiding her face, her shoulders shaking; the weeping increasingly intense. The sobs veer alarmingly into what sounds like hysterical laughter, and just for a moment, Beth is tempted to join in.

  WWW.GOLDENCHILD.COM

  RANDOM FACT No 3

  HOW TO BREAK A BONE

  There are so many crazy ways to do this. The one I like the best is the potato method. You just put potatoes on the bone you want to break overnight, and in the morning you tap it with a spoon. And then – just like that – snap!

  If this method fails, which it will, because it’s fucking stupid, here’s the hardcore advice: why not hit the limb with a hammer or crush it under a heavy piece of furniture
? Yup. I reckon that might do the trick.

  This is going to be difficult to pull off AND it’s going to hurt like a goddamn bitch. But it’s so going to be worth it.

  COMMENTS

  @RANDOMREADER says:

  Potato method! Are you serious?

  BETH

  BY EARLY EVENING CHARLOTTE STILL HASN’T EMERGED FROM her room. Beth is just about to start on the dinner – what they call a Margie meal: sausages and mashed potatoes, carrots and peas – when she hears angry shouting coming from upstairs. She can make out Charlotte’s voice, shrill and accusatory, though the words aren’t clear. She calls up the stairway for them to stop, but there’s no point, she knows that neither of them will hear, and is wondering whether to intervene, when she hears a loud crash. There’s the sharp sound of breaking glass and then a heavy slam, powerful enough to shake the ceiling, the walls. There’s more yelling, high-pitched, frightened, and then a long wounded howl. She races up the stairs, not stopping to think.

  In Lucy’s bedroom, the antique wardrobe, solid mahogany, huge and apparently immovable, has been knocked onto its side. Lucy has been knocked down too, and is lying alongside it, screaming horribly. Her forearm and hand are pinned beneath the cupboard, the rest of her arm and shoulder are impossibly twisted. Shards of glass from a light fitting litter the carpet. Charlotte is crouched beside her sister, pushing desperately, unable to move the wardrobe even a fraction. ‘Mum! Mum!’ She too is shrieking, hysterical. ‘Lucy’s arm. It’s stuck. I can’t move it. I can’t get it out.’ There is no time for words now, or even for thinking. Just the tasks, done methodically, as if in a trance, of somehow levering the weight off her daughter, of getting her to her feet, half carrying her down the stairs, settling her in the car, driving her to the hospital, calling Dan.