The Business by Martina Cole Page B

have been given the same back-up as the baby of the family, the only girl. This daughter who looked for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt. Mary had given this child a major swerve all her life. She’d lied for her, pretended that she was doing really well to all and sundry, especially her father, when in fact she was not even bothering with her school work. And her husband had believed her because he wanted to believe her, had not wanted to get too involved in the everyday running of this child’s life. Of any of his children’s lives, for that matter. Though, in fairness, he had done his best with the boys.
    But he had left the rearing of this last one to her, exclusively to her, he had just admired the girl from afar and, if she was really honest, she had loved it. Had loved the power that had given her. Because as much as she loved her husband, she had also resented him at times, resented his utter freedom from them all. And she hated that she had colluded in her own downfall by taking on the mantle of the home and children because she had not known any better.
    He had been given the opportunity, like most men, of opting out of his children’s lives while still being seen as playing a huge part in it. He had stood back and enjoyed their successes while she had ensured he had never known about their failures, and the failures with this one had been legion. Deep down, his second-hand parenting had annoyed her, had made her feel that the children might, just might , have turned out better with more of his time as opposed to his money. Money he had given her with a flourish, money that had somehow bought him his complete and utter neutrality where his offspring were concerned. If they fucked up then she was the culprit because he had trusted her with them. Over the years she had smothered these feelings, had convinced herself that her life was the life she was meant to live. But deep inside, she had known that was wrong. She had always known that he was in reality a waster who had left the brunt of their children’s upbringing to his wife, not because he thought she would do a better job, but because he didn’t give a flying fuck. But she had never voiced these thoughts out loud until now. She’d pushed them out of her mind because, like most things in her life, if she didn’t think about them then they never happened. Until tonight that is.
    Now she had to admit that she was partially to blame for what had happened to her daughter if for no other reason than she had let her have a far looser rein than the others. She had let this last child of hers have the freedom she had never had for herself. She had let Imelda live a life that, in comparison to the others, was outrageously easy, lax even, especially where her father had been concerned. He had been told nothing about his baby or her natural animosity towards the world in general. Mary had made sure of that much herself, personally; she had only ever told him what he wanted to hear, because this last child was his baby girl and he didn’t want to hear anything detrimental, anything that would give him cause for concern.
    Even when Imelda had been expelled from her school Mary had made sure that Gerald had not heard anything about it. Imelda had been a truant, a smoker, a troublemaker. Like her father and brothers she was a fighter. Always fighting, arguing, and mouthing off to teachers and other pupils alike.
    But it was never her fault, it was always someone else’s fault. She was her father’s daughter all right, he was exactly the same when anything happened that he couldn’t cope with, that he knew he had caused.
    Mary had done what she had thought was best, had lied and schemed to make sure her husband had never known the whole of anything where his youngest child was concerned. She had made sure he had never known how this daughter of his actually lived, how she really existed in the household where he believed he ruled the fucking roost, where he