‘Why, are you worried you’ll become an alkie like your mum?’ Willow’s eyes are burning with curiosity. ‘I mean, like, if she had an addictive personality, you’ll have inherited one too?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Simone says, before I have a chance to answer. ‘It’s true, youcaninherit addiction genes from your parents, but environmental factors play a part too.’
‘Simone’s right,’ Victoria agrees. ‘And when genetic risk factors are combined with environmental factors, such as childhood trauma or mental health issues, people are at a greater risk of developing an addiction, whether it be class A drugs, alcohol or gambling.’ She says this with authority. I guess her charity must help rehouse a lot of addicts.
‘Trust my luck to marry a woman who’s addicted to work and not sex,’ Felix says sorrowfully.
‘Yeuch, Dad. Too much information,’ Willow cries, pretending to vomit. It lightens the atmosphere and when Kostas returns to take our orders for dessert, the conversation has moved on to the plans for tonight’s barbecue.
I’m glad to slip out of the spotlight, though when I look up from my baklava I catch Simone watching me, a strange expression on her face. At first, I think it’s compassion, and I wonder if she might finally ease up on me now she knows about my dysfunctional childhood. Then I realise I’ve seen that look before, countless times, on the faces of teachers, foster parents, social workers.
I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles lock like a vice.
That’s not compassion. It’s not even sympathy. She pities me.
18
VICTORIA
Barney’s drunk again. Bloody Felix doesn’t help, plying him with his best whisky and announcing it’s wine o’clock at eleven in the morning. Sometimes I wonder if Felix tops up Barney’s glass so religiously to stop him picking his brain about investment opportunities. I’m probably reading too much into it. It’s the way Felix is and always has been. A bit too eager to share his largesse. Is it because he’s genuinely generous or does he want to remind everyone just how filthy rich he is? I’ve known Felix for over a decade, and the jury’s still out.
My phone pings on the buggy ride back to Villa Paradiso. A frisson of fear races down my spine and I grip the leatherette seat tightly. Barney must hear it too, because he turns to me with bloodshot eyes.
‘Aren’t you going to check that?’
I attempt a breezy look. ‘Later. I told you, I’m trying to have a digital detox.’ I’m doing no such thing, but he’s so pissed he’ll never remember.
‘What if it’s your mother? Something could’ve happened to one of the kids.’
‘She wouldn’t have sent a text if something had happened, she’d have phoned. It’ll be someone from work who’s forgottenI’m away. It’s about time they realised I’m not at their beck and call twenty-four seven. The problem is, that place would implode if I wasn’t there holding everything together.’ Falling into my familiar rant about my staff and how they take advantage of me is as comfortable as slipping into fleece-lined slippers after a day in heels. It also has the added benefit of taking my mind – albeit briefly – off the malicious texts I’ve been getting.
The first was a month ago. One line from an unknown number.
I know what you did.
I replied. Of course I did. Even though I knew it was a mistake.
Who is this?
Radio silence. I’m not stupid. I have a first-class economics degree from Durham, one of the top universities in the country, for Chrissakes. I know how people’s minds work. This person clearly wanted to mess with my head.
The next text came just as I was bundling the kids into the car for the school run two days later.
Don’t think you’re going to get away with it.
I was determined not to reply, keen to give them a taste of their own medicine. Everyone knows flames need oxygen to flare. But I was never much good at self-restraint. I was the child who unwrapped my Christmas presents in fifteen minutes flat, who demolished all my Easter eggs before breakfast. I caved.
Get away with what? Just tell me what I’m supposed to have done!
Only if you say please.
I gritted my teeth and typed a reply.
Please tell me what I’m supposed to have done.
While I waited for an answer, I wracked my brain, trying to remember all my past misdemeanours, perceived or otherwise. But where to start? School? Uni? The half a dozen charities I’ve worked at since I graduated? I’m nearly forty-five: I’ve made a few mistakes along the way, who hasn’t? Boys I two-timed at school. School friends I dropped when I went to university. People at work I made redundant. None of them my finest hour, but surely to God not serious enough to spark a hate campaign?
Because that’s what it feels like. I’ve been singled out and someone –who, goddammit? – is playing with me, torturing me, like a cat plays with a mouse. And I’ve always hated cats. Fickle, aloof creatures. Narcissists dressed in a fur coat and whiskers. Dogs are so much more straightforward. Loyal. Affectionate. Wanting to please. Given the choice, I’ll always choose Team Dog.
