He looks pointedly at Sienna. ‘And I expect everything to be perfect.’
The cast wander off stage and the band begins packing away instruments. Easing open a fire door, I circle a side path to the main doors of the hall where a dozen parents are waiting, some with younger children clinging to their hands or playing tag on the grass.
A woman’s voice behind me: ‘Professor O’Loughlin?’
I turn. She smiles. It takes me a moment to remember her name. Annie Robinson, the school counsellor.
‘Call me Joe.’
‘We haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘No. I guess my wife does most of this.’ I motion to the school buildings, or maybe I’m pointing to my life in general.
Miss Robinson looks different. Her clothes are tighter and her skirt shorter. Normally she seems so shy and distracted, but now she’s more focused, standing close as if she wants to share a secret with me. She’s wearing high heels and her liquid brown eyes are level with my lips.
‘It must be difficult - the break-up.’
I clear my throat and mumble yes.
Her extra-white teeth are framed by bright painted lips.
Dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘If you ever need somebody to talk to . . . I know what it’s like.’ She smiles and her fingers find my hand. Intense embarrassment prickles beneath my scalp.
‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’
I muster a nervous smile. At least I hope I’m smiling. That’s one of the problems with my ‘condition’. I can never be sure what face I’m showing the world - the genial O’Loughlin smile or the blank Parkinson’s mask.
‘Well, it’s good to see you again,’ says Miss Robinson.
‘You too, you’re looking . . .’
‘What?’
‘Good.’
She laughs with her eyes. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
Then she leans forward and pecks me on the lips, withdrawing her hand from mine. She has pressed a small piece of paper into my palm, her phone number. At that moment I spy Charlie in the shadows of the stage door, carrying a schoolbag over her right shoulder. Her dark hair is still pinned up and there are traces of stage make-up around her eyes.
‘Were you kissing a teacher?’
‘No.’
‘I saw you.’
‘She kissed
‘Not from where I was standing.’
‘It was a peck.’
‘On the lips.’
‘She was being friendly.’
Charlie isn’t happy with the answer. She’s not happy with a lot of things I do and say these days. If I ask a question, I’m interrogating her. If I make an observation, I’m being judgemental. My comments are criticisms and our conversations are ‘arguments’.
This is supposed to be my territory - human behaviour - but I seem to have a blind spot when it comes to understanding my eldest daughter, who doesn’t necessarily say what she means. For instance, when Charlie says I shouldn’t bother coming to something, really she wants me to be there. And when she says, ‘Are you coming?’ it means ‘Be there, or else!’
I take her bag. ‘The musical is great. You were brilliant.’
‘Did you sneak inside?’
‘Just for the second half.’
‘Now you won’t come to the opening night. You’ll know the ending.’
‘It’s a musical - everyone knows the ending.’
Charlie pouts and looks over her shoulder, her ponytail swinging dismissively.
‘Can we give Sienna a lift home?’ she asks.
‘Sure. Where is she?’
‘Mr Ellis wanted to see her.’
‘Is she in trouble?’
Charlie rolls her eyes. ‘She’s
Across the grounds, down the gentle slope, I can see headlights nudging from the parking area.
Sienna emerges from the hall. Slender and pale, almost whiter than white, she’s wearing her school uniform with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She hasn’t bothered removing her stage make-up and her eyes look impossibly large.
‘How are you, Sienna?’
‘I’m fine, Mr O. Did you bring your dog?’
‘No.’
‘How is he?’
‘Still dumb.’
‘I thought Labradors were supposed to be intelligent.’
‘Not my one.’
‘Maybe he’s intelligent but not obedient.’
‘Maybe.’
Sienna surveys the car park, as though looking for someone. She seems preoccupied or perhaps she’s upset about the rehearsal. Then she remembers and turns to me.
‘Did that hearing happen today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they going to let him out?’
‘Not yet.’
Satisfied, she turns and walks ahead of me, bumping shoulders with Charlie, speaking in a strange language that I’m not supposed to understand.
Although slightly taller, Charlie seems younger or less worldly than Sienna, who loves to make big entrances and create big reactions, shocking people and then reacting with coyness as if to say, ‘Who me?’
Charlie is a different creature around her - more talkative, animated, happy - but there are times when I wish she’d chosen a different best friend. Twelve months ago they were picked up for shoplifting at an off-licence in Bath. They stole cans of cider and a six-pack of Breezers. Charlie was supposed to be sleeping over at Sienna’s house that night but they were going to sneak out to a party. They were thirteen. I wanted to ground Charlie until she was twenty-one, but her remorse seemed genuine.
The girls have reached my third-hand Volvo estate, which reeks of wet dog and has a rear window that won’t close completely. The floor is littered with colouring books, plastic bracelets, doll’s clothes and empty crisp packets.
Sienna claims the front passenger seat.
‘Sit with me in the back,’ begs Charlie.
‘Next time, loser.’
Charlie looks at me as though I’m to blame.
‘Maybe both of you should sit in the back,’ I say.
Sienna wrinkles her nose at me and shrugs dismissively but does as I ask. I can hear a mobile ringing. It’s coming from her schoolbag. She answers, frowns, whispers. The metallic-sounding voice leaks into the stillness.
‘You said ten minutes. No . . . OK . . . fifteen . . .’
She ends the call.
‘I don’t need a lift any more. My boyfriend is picking me up.’
