A Daughter's Secret by Eleanor Moran

begging me to find for her. She’s going through a bereavement, hot on the heels of a torturous divorce, and I know how much she’ll value it. The net result is that I’m the last one in the office, all set to lock up, when I hear footsteps ascending the stairs.
    She’s pink in the face, hair scraped back, make-up free. She looks like the child she sort of is.
    ‘Hello, Doc,’ she says, breathless.
    I feel like a cheap magician, like I’ve conjured her up with the force of my fizzing thoughts.
    ‘Gemma! You can’t just turn up here, you know that. You need an appointment. You’re lucky I hadn’t already left.’
    A sliver of ice traces its way down my spine. Was it luck or something more calculated?
    ‘Yeah, I’m sorry,’ she says, looking hurt. ‘I just wanted to give you this.’
    She reaches into her rucksack and pulls out a cellophane package, an extravagant pink bow tied around it. Two expensive bottles nestle together on a wooden stand, bubble bath and body cream, inviting and luxurious.
    ‘Gemma,’ I say, trying to order my thoughts. ‘It’s a very sweet thing to do, but you shouldn’t be wasting your pocket money buying me presents.’ It’s more than a pocket-money present, even more so for a family who’ve had their assets frozen. She’s still holding it out to me: I take it, then swiftly drop it onto the reception desk. I don’t want to hold on to its shiny, slippery surface a minute longer than I have to. ‘I’m just doing my job. You don’t owe me anything.’
    ‘No you’re not,’ she says, quick as a flash. ‘My teachers are, the
police
are. You’re different from them.’
    She watches me, like she’s flicked a stone into a pond and is waiting for the ripples.
    ‘What we do here is different, you’re right. But your teachers care about you too. We’re all trying to take care of you. You don’t have to give something back. You’re entitled. It’s yours to keep.’
    ‘You’re such a liar,’ she says, hurt swiftly mutating into scorn. I know her now. ‘You’re seeing me cos you’re paid to see me. If you weren’t getting paid, I’d be out on the street.’
    ‘You’re right, your mum’s paying me because she wants to support you too, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you. I could say no. I could put my feet up and read
Grazia,
or see someone else. You’re not my only client.’ She smiles at me fleetingly. ‘Does your mum even know you’re here?’
    ‘She won’t mind. She
loves
you now,’ she says with a roll of her eyes. She pauses, cocks her head. ‘Was your mum nicer to you than your dad was, Mia?’
    ‘OK, Gemma, time out,’ I say, my unease mushrooming. She thinks she’s found a secret passageway, a hidden route into the heart of my life. I shouldn’t have lent her a flashlight, let alone snatched it back. I’ll need to make this right, but not here in the deserted waiting room, the alarm beeping at me because the code’s only half tapped in. ‘That’s why you can’t just turn up. We talk in our sessions, not outside them. You need to get home.’ I pick up the heavy package. ‘Give this to your mum. I’m sure she’ll love it.’
    And then I hear the stairs creaking again, my heartbeat pounding in time with the heavy footfall.
    ‘Hello?’ I call, just as he comes through the door. He pauses a second, bright eyes roving around the room.
    ‘Hello there,’ he says, grinning. He looks at Gemma. ‘And hello to you.’
    I try and make my voice light and calm, whipped butter. ‘Hello, Mr O’Leary. Gemma, I’ll see you on Tuesday, same time.’
    Gemma’s rooted to the spot, her eyes sweeping over Patrick. She’s such a chameleon, so young one minute and the next suffused with a knowingness that chills me. She lays the present down on the couch. Patrick stares back at her, sticks out a large hand.
    ‘Gemma Vine, I presume?’
    He’s dressed more casually today: belted chinos with a pale blue polo shirt, clumpy shoes that are a