regret. He stared at the photo for a moment or two before opening up his dad’s photo drive. He scrolled down until he got to folders dated earlier than April 2011. There was one: Cornwall ’10. Luke had been there. All of them had been there. It was back in the days when they’d all done everything together, one enormous, multi-tentacled octopus of a family. It had been a blustery half-term week, sunshine and showers, gallons of wine and cooking rotas, pub lunches and kids and dogs running around everywhere. It had been back in the days when his dad had bent over backwards to make sure that nobody ever felt the sharp end of divorce. When he’d made it seem like an advantage to be part of a broken family. He’d almost felt sorry, back then, for people who only had one family.
Luke flicked through the photos. His father took good photos. He had an expensive camera and he knew how to use it. Luke smiled at the group shots; there were the little ones, so much littler then: Beau still a toddler, Otis smiling widely in a way he rarely did these days, funny little Pearl, wearing a dress. She did not wear dresses any more. And there, on the far right of the shot, was Maya.
Luke sucked in his breath. It wasn’t a great photograph of her. She was wearing some heinous professional walking gear, a blue shiny thing with a hood. That was his father’s influence. He always favoured practicality over style. But still her pure loveliness shone out. She had her arm around Pearl’s shoulders and Luke could almost imagine that she was smiling at him. Just for him. And that had been the problem really. Maya had been one of those people who made everyone feel as though they were the most important person in the world. As though they were special. And like a total moron Luke had thought that he was more special than anyone. More special even than his dad. His flesh still crawled when he thought about that awful night at the pub, a few weeks after Cornwall, when she had stared into his eyes and hung on to his every word and brushed his arm gently with her fingertips and shared confidences with him and he’d thought … well, it didn’t matter any more what he’d thought. The fact was he’d been wrong.
Maya of course had been gracious and sweet. Had said she was ‘flattered’.
Yeah, right
. Even now, coming up for two years later, Luke felt his skin flush hot with humiliation. He’d stopped hanging out with the family so much after that. So no, he couldn’t blame his dad entirely for the fact that they rarely saw each other. But he could blame his dad for the rest of it: for never calling, for not arranging the big holidays any more, for turning up to family gatherings looking thin and distracted. And for letting Maya go out one day and never come back.
He spent another hour looking at family photographs. His eyes swam with tears and he got up at one point to blow his nose. He peered at his face in the mirror, half relishing the melodramatic ugliness of it, half fearing that he wouldn’t be able to leave the house today. He poured himself more grape juice and then went back to the laptop, patting at his eyes with the screwed-up tissue. He wanted more. He needed more. He searched the entire C drive and network for the word ‘Maya’.
He read through her accounts, her marking notes, a recipe for chicken tagine that his dad called ‘Maya’s Chicken’, checklists, ‘Maya’s passport’. And there, strangely buried away in a folder called ‘Transfers’ in a subfolder called ‘New Folder’ was a file called ‘Emails’.
Luke clicked it open.
It was a Word document. Three pages of copied and pasted emails, all addressed to Maya. All unsigned. Dated from July 2010 to April 2011. And all beginning with the words ‘Dear Bitch’.
PART TWO
Fifteen
July 2010
The sun shone too brightly through the living-room window, turning the screen of her laptop into a dark-glassed mirror. Maya swivelled it around and moved to the
Luke flicked through the photos. His father took good photos. He had an expensive camera and he knew how to use it. Luke smiled at the group shots; there were the little ones, so much littler then: Beau still a toddler, Otis smiling widely in a way he rarely did these days, funny little Pearl, wearing a dress. She did not wear dresses any more. And there, on the far right of the shot, was Maya.
Luke sucked in his breath. It wasn’t a great photograph of her. She was wearing some heinous professional walking gear, a blue shiny thing with a hood. That was his father’s influence. He always favoured practicality over style. But still her pure loveliness shone out. She had her arm around Pearl’s shoulders and Luke could almost imagine that she was smiling at him. Just for him. And that had been the problem really. Maya had been one of those people who made everyone feel as though they were the most important person in the world. As though they were special. And like a total moron Luke had thought that he was more special than anyone. More special even than his dad. His flesh still crawled when he thought about that awful night at the pub, a few weeks after Cornwall, when she had stared into his eyes and hung on to his every word and brushed his arm gently with her fingertips and shared confidences with him and he’d thought … well, it didn’t matter any more what he’d thought. The fact was he’d been wrong.
Maya of course had been gracious and sweet. Had said she was ‘flattered’.
Yeah, right
. Even now, coming up for two years later, Luke felt his skin flush hot with humiliation. He’d stopped hanging out with the family so much after that. So no, he couldn’t blame his dad entirely for the fact that they rarely saw each other. But he could blame his dad for the rest of it: for never calling, for not arranging the big holidays any more, for turning up to family gatherings looking thin and distracted. And for letting Maya go out one day and never come back.
He spent another hour looking at family photographs. His eyes swam with tears and he got up at one point to blow his nose. He peered at his face in the mirror, half relishing the melodramatic ugliness of it, half fearing that he wouldn’t be able to leave the house today. He poured himself more grape juice and then went back to the laptop, patting at his eyes with the screwed-up tissue. He wanted more. He needed more. He searched the entire C drive and network for the word ‘Maya’.
He read through her accounts, her marking notes, a recipe for chicken tagine that his dad called ‘Maya’s Chicken’, checklists, ‘Maya’s passport’. And there, strangely buried away in a folder called ‘Transfers’ in a subfolder called ‘New Folder’ was a file called ‘Emails’.
Luke clicked it open.
It was a Word document. Three pages of copied and pasted emails, all addressed to Maya. All unsigned. Dated from July 2010 to April 2011. And all beginning with the words ‘Dear Bitch’.
PART TWO
Fifteen
July 2010
The sun shone too brightly through the living-room window, turning the screen of her laptop into a dark-glassed mirror. Maya swivelled it around and moved to the
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