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My heart aches at her casual way of asking. She’s been moved from place to place so often she doesn’t really see how wrong it is—group homes, foster care, us. Even if her mum’s a messed-up addict, Daisy’s the only constant in Allegra’s life.
“I think so. I’ll ask Lara once you’re all settled in. This time wasn’t as bad as the last.” I can’t believe I’m discussing her mum’s heroin bender. The poor child has seen things nobody should have to. She’s old before her time.
“Okay.” Allegra walks over to a desk and grabs some overalls. A few minutes later, she’s painting. A pretty green landscape is peppered with trees and flowers, below a sky that’s a shade too blue. I wonder if it’s her happy place.
I used to have a happy place when I was going through counselling. A white sand beach with a deep azure ocean gently lapping at the shore. The colour of his eyes. I haven’t thought of it for a while. Haven’t needed to. I have Simon now. He’s my happy place. My protector. He loves me, and I’m grateful. I’m aware how bad that sounds. In these days of insta-passion and lust-fuelled desires, our relationship is stubbornly old-fashioned. I’ve had passion, though, and it almost killed me.
At five o’clock the kids start to leave in dribs and drabs. Eventually, Allegra and I are the only two left. I sit on the corner of her desk and admire her painting. The old art teacher taught her so many techniques while she was with us that it looks advanced for her age. I’m glad I called Elise earlier; Allegra thrives in art class. Hopefully Elise can find us a new artist in residence.
The door clicks and Daisy MacArthur walks in. She looks crap. Her dark hair falls in lank strands across her pasty-white face. The worst thing is her expression of apprehension. I catch her eye and try to smile reassuringly.
Allegra looks up, her eyes wide, her bow lips half open. Then she stands up and runs to her mum, her sobs echoing through the silence of the room. She flings herself against Daisy, almost knocking her over. Daisy catches her and pulls her close, burying her face in Allegra’s hair, murmuring, “I’m sorry, baby,” over and over. It’s like a mantra.
“I thought you were dead.” Allegra’s voice is a wail. My eyes glisten as I watch them; it’s heart-breaking. No child should find their mum unconscious outside their flat, covered in blood and barely breathing.
“It’s okay. I’m here, I’m here,” Daisy whispers into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
I feel like a dirty voyeur; I can hardly bring myself to watch. My throat is constricted, my chest tight, because I know this is never going to get better. Daisy is always going to be an addict and Allegra is always going to be the daughter of an addict. No amount of therapy is going to change that.
When I get home I can’t stop thinking about them. The addiction, the fear, the never-ending cycle. I came so close to being a Daisy myself. I know from first-hand experience that drugs kill, but it’s the way they maim, breaking minds and hearts, that’s as hard to take.
Simon arrives home shortly after six. He grabs me around the waist and kisses me hard before heading for the shower, and it shocks me. His grey hair is damp from the rain that’s started to fall and it makes my palms wet when I touch his head, trying to work out what’s got into him.
Not that I’m complaining. I’ll take affection where I can find it. I’m fickle that way.
While he showers, I put on some makeup and scoop my hair away from my face. When I pull on my midnight-blue dress, I look like a different Beth to the one who works at the clinic and gets covered in paint. Elegant and polished. Poised, even.
On the outside, at least.
It’s a disguise I’ve managed to perfect over time, aided by Simon’s patient coaching. The first time we met, I was wearing a cheap black dress from Topshop, feeling way out of place among thousand-pound gowns and evening jackets. Maybe that’s why I spent most of the night hiding. If he hadn’t found me leaning against the back wall while he tried to make a phone call, I dread to think where I’d be now.
Lost. Alone. Like I was for those five years before we met.
Simon looks up and meets my eyes, the skin around his crinkling as he gives me a quick smile. I’ve seen him look at Elise in the same way. He’s fond of both of us, proud to take us into smart restaurants and elite dinner parties. Elise is more polished than I am, though. She has a head start on me, an expert to my novice.
I’m still a work-in-progress, and I probably let Simon down too often. He doesn’t ask for much in return for everything he gives me. I have a husband who loves me, who takes care of me, who soothes away the nightmares and makes me feel protected. In return, I try to behave the way he wants me to.
I don’t take drugs, I don’t smoke, I drink occasionally. I have a job he tolerates as a hobby. As long as it doesn’t affect our marriage. I promised him that from the start.
We take care of each other. For the most part it works.
“You have lipstick on your teeth.” He sounds amused.
I grimace and stare in the mirror, rubbing the scarlet from my bared teeth with the pad of my finger. “I swear I shouldn’t smile or speak when I’ve got this stuff on.”
“You’re too pretty not to smile.”
So, of course, I do. He has the ability to keep me calm and on an even keel. That first night we met, he spotted me as soon as he finished his call. I was standing by the bins, my fingers wrapped around a full glass of wine, and he approached me as if I was a frightened deer. When he spoke he kept his voice low.
“Are you okay?”
I was suffering from severe social anxiety, and I couldn’t speak. Only nod.
“You don’t look it,” he said.
“I don’t like parties. There are so many people. Too much going on.” My voice wavered as I spoke. He took another step forward, and I shrank back.
“Are you claustrophobic?”
