Swimming at Night: A Novel by Lucy Clarke Page B

the force of a slap: “Yes?”
    He didn’t know who she was.
    Her gaze fell away from his and came to rest on the doormat between them where a fly, caught in the weave, struggled to turn itself upright. When Mia had imagined this meeting—and she had imagined it many, many times—she had pictured an embrace of sorts, Mick instinctively reaching for her, and that first hug between father and daughter sealing an unspoken connection. She had prepared for rejection, too: Mick explaining that too much time had elapsed, or shielding her from the view of a second wife who didn’t know of her existence. Yet, in all the imagined scenarios, she had never once considered that he wouldn’t recognize her.
    When she looked up, Mick was still waiting, his eyebrows raised and his head tilted slightly to the side. His lips were turned up in one corner, a half smile. She couldn’t tell if it was encouragement to speak or bemusement at her silence.
    “I am—” she began, her eyes searching his face, hoping to catch the moment when it might click and she’d be spared this humiliation. “I’m Mia.”
    His expression didn’t change.
    Would she have to say it? Did she need to tell him that he was her father? It was a relief that Finn hadn’t accompanied her; for someone to witness this would have been too much.
    Finally she said, “I’m your daughter.”
    The half smile vanished. He blinked rapidly and his gaze mapped her features, perhaps searching for clues he’d missed before. “Sorry, I . . . I didn’t realize who . . . ”
    She remained facing him. After a moment he stepped aside and said, “You’d better come in.”
    She walked through a cool white hallway, following it until she reached a tastefully designed kitchen. An L shape of granite work surfaces framed the large room and glass-fronted cabinets housed elegant wineglasses. Many of the appliances had been chosen in stainless steel: a cordless kettle, a double oven with a digital clock, a sleek fridge. The walls, white again, were bare save for an electric guitar sculpted into a clock, and four discreet Bose speakers pumping out a Neil Young track.
    Mick picked up a slim remote from a glass dining table piled with magazines, song sheets, and mail, and stopped the music. He looked shaken. “This is a surprise.”
    Mia still couldn’t find her voice and was aware of heat rising in her cheeks.
    “Take a seat on the deck,” he said, indicating a set of French doors thrown open on to a garden. “Drinks. I’ll make us drinks.”
    She moved outside and was drawn to the edge of the garden where a low stone wall was all that separated Mick’s property from the beach. The air was salt tinged and fresh, and she breathed in deeply. In the low light of evening she could just make out the faint line of the horizon, a washed-out blue fading into deeper shades of mauve and dusky navy. Somewhere far off, waves were breaking, and she centered her thoughts on the sound.
    “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Mick said, joining her. He handed her a large glass of something clear. He watched as she took a sip. It was sweet, alcoholic, and ice cold, fulfilling all her requirements.
    They moved back to the deck and Mia took a seat at a teak table with a parasol positioned at its center. Mick unhooked his cell from its clip and placed it in front of him before sitting. A tiny blue light on the phone flashed every few seconds. He took apacket of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. “Do you smoke?” he asked, offering her one. There was a tremble to his fingers.
    “No.”
    He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. It afforded Mia a moment to look at him. Mick had changed dramatically from the trim, suited man in her photo. The muscles in his arms had turned slack and a neat paunch strained against his shirt. Thin red skin stretched over the bridge of his nose and his eyelids looked heavy.
    He exhaled a drift of smoke into the air, the cigarette returning much of