The Daughter by Jane Shemilt Page B

think. Can’t quite put my finger on it.” As I said this, a pulse of worry thumped in my head. What was I missing?
    â€œUp to something, I expect.” He grinned. “Fifteen-­year-­old girls spend their lives up to something.”
    â€œShe usually tells me.” Not lately, though, not for weeks. Months, even.
    â€œKnowing Naomi, she will, in her own time. What does Ted say?”
    â€œHasn’t. Well, I didn’t run it by him—­too much happening.” I smiled ruefully. “We always run out of time. One of us goes to sleep.”
    â€œGod knows how you do it all. I’ve only got one and Cathy’s at home all the time.”
    I didn’t like it when ­people said that. As if I must be cheating. There was no magic. It wasn’t even difficult. I just had to keep going, and I knew exactly how to do that. Sometimes it felt as though I was escaping from one life to another and back again. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was escaping from each time, but it seemed to work; I told my friends it gave me a built-­in excuse if something went wrong. Over time I’d realized that if it meant I had to leave the children to sort themselves out, they usually did. Now I had only myself to blame if Naomi was learning to be independent. I’d wait until her guard was down and she was ready to talk. I’d overlook the cigarette, then once she’d told me what the matter was, I would help.
    If I was asked, I would say she was happy, that Ted and I were as well. I would say we were all perfectly happy.
    THE PRICES’ HOUSE was on a road near the docks, a mile or so from the practice. The area near the river had been reconstructed; the old warehouses were now brick-­and-­glass offices and a gym. But the glamorous architecture didn’t go deep. The Prices lived a ­couple of streets back. I parked the car and walked, looking for number 14. One or two windows had broken glass patched up with cardboard; in a front garden there was a television set leaning into the mud. None of the doors seemed to have numbers. I stopped near a group of boys who were standing around a motorbike, the sleek machine at odds with the street. The boys were thin, shoulders up against the bitter wind. One of them sucked at a can, tilting it high, carelessly, so the fluid fell on his face. A yellowing sheet of newspaper blew against my legs. I pulled it off and let it go, watching as it flapped against the lamppost. I went closer to the group.
    â€œHi. I’m looking for number 14?”
    The tallest boy jerked his head up.
    â€œJeff Price? What for?”
    A smaller boy stepped forward, shifting his weight from side to side, a hand-­rolled cigarette gripped in his teeth, bare white arms tightly folded. He jerked his head silently at a house with a yellow door.
    â€œThanks for your help.” I smiled quickly at them all.
    â€œUp herself, isn’t she?” someone said as I turned away, and one of them threw his can into the road.
    There were rows of bottles outside the yellow door, some had fallen over. My feet tapped a pile on the step sending them crashing to the path and a small wave of laughter hit against my back.
    The door was slightly ajar, and the smell of urine and beer reached outside. The bell didn’t work, so I knocked; there was no answer. I pushed the door wider, stepped inside the narrow, dark hall and called, “Hello? Mrs. Price? It’s the doctor, from yesterday.”
    â€œWho’s this, then?”
    A huge man emerged from the darkness down the narrow hall. His stained dressing gown fell open, revealing a mat of graying chest hair. As he came barreling down the corridor toward me, my hands tightened on my bag.
    â€œThe doctor. I’m . . . the doctor.”
    â€œOh yeah? What might you be after?”
    â€œYour wife brought Jade to see me yesterday.”
    The change was sudden and complete. His mouth opened in a wide