Second Shot by Zoe Sharp Page A

found myself saying, “Of course she can,” in a disconnected voice I didn’t entirely recognize.
    The right choice, obviously. Simone’s answering look was one of relief. She half picked Ella up so she could lean up towards me across her mother’s lap.
    I found my feet moving me forwards. I bent and dragged the collar down and felt the lightest touch of Ella’s lips on the side of my neck before I stepped back quickly, yanking my shirt back into place.
    “There,” Ella said with satisfaction, pulling back, smiling. “All better now?”
    I dredged a smile from somewhere even though my mouth tasted of ashes. “Yes, Ella,” I said, my voice hollow. ‘All better now.”
    I waited by the doorway while Simone settled Ella down and switched on the portable TV on the shelf at the foot of her bed, tuning it to the cartoons. On the screen a pair of pink hippos in what appeared to be ballet dancing outfits were hitting each other over the head with frying pans, each blow accompanied by the sound effect of a hammer hitting a cast-iron rivet.
    I wondered at the wisdom of letting Ella watch something like that, all things considered. I had visions of wild and uncontrollable nightmares. But, after her eyes had blankly followed the action for a few moments, she began to giggle. Good job I’m not a parent.
    Simone ushered me out of the room and pulled the door almost closed behind her.
    “Don’t shut it, Mummy,” Ella called.
    “Don’t worry, sweetie. I won’t.”
    I led the way back downstairs. Simone followed me into the kitchen and I offered to make coffee just so I had something to do with my hands. I noted the way Simone’s shoulders came down a fraction, seemingly thankful for the distraction.
    “Actually, I’d rather have tea,” she said with a hesitant smile. “My English half coming out, I guess.”
    I filled the kettle from the kitchen tap and plugged it in, half-waiting for Simone to start asking questions about the scar. When I glanced at her she seemed to be waiting for me to offer an explanation without prompting.
No way.
    “I’ve spoken to Sean,” I said instead. “He’s arranging flights to Boston for you as soon as possible.”
    “Oh. Great.” She looked so relieved I shied away from telling her that there was a possibility I might not be going with them. “Thank you for doing that before—for Ella, I mean.”
    “It’s no big deal,” I lied, then switched to the truth. “She’s a nice kid.”
    Simone smiled. “She is,” she agreed softly. Her eyes slid to the blind that still covered the kitchen window and her next words seemed almost to be to herself. “I’d do anything to protect her.”
    I said nothing. The kettle clicked off and I poured the boiling water onto teabags and mashed them with a spoon. I was more of a coffee drinker myself but Simone only had cheap instant, so tea seemed the lesser evil.
    “Do you think it’s wrong to take a child away from its father?” she asked abruptly, as I was opening the fridge door.
    I paused, milk bottle in hand. “That depends on why you’re taking them away,” I said. I shut the door and poured milk into the tea until it seemed about the right color, then put one cup on the worktop in front of her. She hardly seemed to notice it.
    “I don’t really remember my father,” she said abruptly “He left when I was about the same age as Ella is now. My mother went back to her maiden name—Kerse. God, I’ve always hated that name.” She glanced at me and managed a tired smile. “The other kids at school always used to call me Curse. Can you imagine?”
    “Children can be very cruel,” I said.
    She nodded, distracted. “Mom would never talk about him. I suppose, the less she’d say, the more I wanted to know—just awkward, I guess.”
    “I think that’s a natural reaction.”
    “Not knowing why their marriage broke up—that’s the worst thing. Wondering if, somehow, I might have been to blame, you know? When we went over to