Deity by Steven Dunne Page B

word said, Becky knew her stepmother, Christy, was with him because the stench of stale tobacco hung in the still air – it followed her everywhere like her own toxic cloud.
    Becky tried to affect the noise of sleep and her father madeto close the door but his wife’s voice stayed his hand. ‘It’s ten o’clock, for Christ’s sake. Wake her up. It’s important.’ Her father must have hesitated. ‘I’m telling you, Fred. She should have been up hours ago.’
    ‘She’s tired,’ he whispered.
    ‘From what?’ replied Christy, raising her voice. ‘Opening all the gifts you give her? You spoil that girl, Fred, now wake her up.’
    ‘I’m awake,’ said Becky from under the duvet. She sat up, flinging the duvet from her head and glaring at her stepmother with undisguised hatred. ‘Happy now? Not that I could sleep with that stale fag ash polluting the air,’ she added.
    ‘Watch your tongue in my house, lady,’ retorted Christy.
    ‘
Your
house?’ snarled Becky, an ugly frown distorting her doll-like features. ‘Since when—’
    ‘Stop it, you two.’ Her father laughed in the light-hearted manner he affected to bridge the gulf between the two women in his life. He came and sat beside his daughter on the bed. He had an envelope in his hand. He placed it on the bed in front of her, looked expectantly into her eyes then lifted his hand to stroke her hair. ‘Aren’t you excited, darling? It’s finally here.’
    Becky flicked a glance towards her stepmother’s sour gaze then smiled warmly at her father. She kissed his neck and played with the curl of hair around his ear to further stick it to Christy. ‘Course I’m excited, Dad.’
    ‘Open it then, princess. Put us out of our misery.’
    Becky thumbed the envelope open and unfolded the letter. Without emotion she handed the letter to her father who read greedily. He stopped, took a deep breath and looked at his daughter.
    ‘Are you going to read it, or what?’ asked Christy.
    FredBlake smiled. ‘
Dear Becky, I am pleased to tell you that we are able to offer you a place at our modelling agency, and would be grateful if you could contact us to arrange a meeting as soon as possible
.
    ‘You did it, princess!’ he shouted. ‘You did it!’ He flung his arms around his daughter and she buried her head in his chest, unable to hold back a tear. ‘You’re going to be famous, Becks. Can you believe it? My daughter, a fashion model. Rebecca Blake, Supermodel,’ he announced, with a portentous wave of the arm. ‘You’ll be on the telly, maybe in films. You’ll meet famous people. You’ll go to New York, Paris, Rome . . .’
    ‘I’ll be based in London, Dad,’ Becky reminded him, grinning.
    ‘Of course.’ He laughed.
    ‘But only after I pass my A-levels.’
    He grinned again. ‘Beautiful
and
smart. You’ll knock ’em dead, honey.’
    Becky held out her arms for another hug then sneered at her stepmother over his shoulder. The answering smile was sullen.
    ‘Where are all your photos, love?’ asked her dad, noticing the bare walls suddenly. ‘All your portraits?’
    ‘I thought I’d pack them away for the move to London,’ Becky replied after a brief pause.
    Her father hesitated then said excitedly, ‘You’re right. We’d better get organised; you’re going to need a whole new wardrobe.’
    ‘So I guess we can kiss goodbye to a holiday this year,’ observed Christy, turning for the door.
    ‘Book your holiday,’ Becky spat at her. ‘The big fashion houses throw clothes at young models for nothing. It’s free advertising,’ she explained to her father.
    ‘Freeadvertising,’ her father echoed for the benefit of his wife. ‘Hear that, Christy?’ He gazed back, damp-eyed, at the apple of his eye. ‘Your mum would’ve been so proud.’
    Becky returned her head to her father’s neck but, unable to keep her eyes from the door, looked up in time to see her stepmother stalking away. She grinned maliciously towards her retreating