My Best Friend's Girl (13 page)

Del, much as I loved her, had been appalling with money. It took her dying for me to realize how careless she was. And, I admit it, how irresponsible.
Irresponsible.
There, I’d thought it. Del was irresponsible. She loved her daughter, there was no doubt about it, but she hadn’t provided for her in any way. They’d lived in the flat Del and I had rented when we first moved to London. And they’d given up that flat, when Del’s condition became chronic, to move in with her father and his wife.

She had no savings—just a great clothes collection. She’d been freelance most of her working life because she needed to be flexible when it came to childcare, so she had no life insurance or any other kind of financial backup plan for this eventuality. The one sensible thing she did was to take out insurance on her credit cards so they were paid off when I sent the companies her death certificate.

I suppose, like me, she thought she had all the time in the world to start being a financial adult.

I took my time making the drinks, giving Tegan the chance to familiarize herself with her new space, and by the time I returned she’d tucked Meg up in the bed, and had arranged all the books on her shelf into height order.

“I like this room,” she informed me as she took the cup from my hand and sat on the floor in the middle of the room. I sat opposite her and looked around. This room wasn’t as grand as the room she’d had in Guildford, but it was hers, no bad memories attached.

“I’m glad you like the room, Tiga,” I said. “I’ve got something for you.”

“A present?” Her eyes lit up.

“Sort of,” I said. I jumped up and went to the kitchen to retrieve the memento I’d dug out when Tegan was asleep last night.

“I know this might make you sad at first, but I think you should have it up anyway.” I held out the picture of Adele and Tegan that Del had kept on her bedside stand in the hospital. The pair of them had their heads pressed close together, Tegan’s arms wrapped around her mum’s neck, the two of them beaming out from behind the plain glass frame.

Tegan hesitated, her eyes wide and scared as she stared at the photo in my hand. Eventually, she set down the cup and took it from me. She held it in both hands, her loose hair almost hiding her face as she gazed down at it, but I could still see her lips were turned down.

“Your mum was very pretty, wasn’t she?” I ventured.

She nodded without looking up.

“You don’t have to put it up, sweetheart,” I said to her, frightened that I’d pushed her too far too soon. “I’ll put it to one side if you want.”

What had I been thinking? I didn’t want to look at pictures of Adele all day, why would she?

Tegan stood, went to the television and placed her picture on top of it. “I think it should be there. Is that OK, Mummy Ryn?”

I nodded and smiled. “That’s perfect, sweetheart.”

chapter 15

R
ustle, flick
went the papers as the headmistress leafed through them. Tegan was still and silent in the comfy chair beside me.

The headmistress, oblivious to our nervous gazes, stopped at one page, squinted down at it even though her glasses were on her face, then raised her head and graced me with a full-on look. I felt my face stiffen with worry and she fired me a professional, practiced smile that widened her oblong face, then she dipped her head and resumed study of the file in front of her. My heartbeat increased a fraction as I followed her gaze as she read from the pages encased in a beige folder.
How had they gotten so many papers, so much information, when I hadn’t provided it? Nor filled in any forms.
In fact, when I’d called the school to find out how I went about registering a child for the next term, they had said I had to give them my child’s name, former address and the name of her former school—but I didn’t need to fill in any forms.

“None at all?” I said.

“No,” came the reply.

“But doesn’t that mean anyone can show up at any time and say, ‘I’ve got a child and I want them to go to this school?’”

“They need to live in the district and, of course, there needs to be room,” the school secretary replied.

“So anyone who lives in the district can show up at any time and say, ‘I’ve got a child and I want them to go to this school’?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s harder to join a supermarket loyalty card scheme. What if an impostor shows up?”

“An impostor child?”

When she said it like that, it sounded like I was being mad, but fundamentally, it seemed wrong. I had been raised finding it difficult to join any kind of group—Girl Scouts, student union, bank jobs—there were always forms to fill in, information to dole out, pieces of yourself to distribute to the world at large. This should be harder. As a result, I’d asked to meet the head teacher because I needed to make life difficult for myself. And also because I didn’t want to launch Tegan into a new environment, one that would become a huge part of her world, without seeing it for myself first. I wanted to visualize where she was talking about when she told me about her day, I wanted to check that all the things I’d read about the school being decent and safe were true, that there weren’t in fact open manholes, and water running down the walls. My request had been made a week ago, when I had still believed that I needed to check if the school met my standards. As the days passed that feeling dissipated and I’d started to worry about the possibility of rejection. Of me doing something, appearing to be something that would make them decide they didn’t want Tegan after all. That fear had grown until it solidified in my mind as not just a possibility, but a certainty. This morning I’d made us change our clothes two, maybe ten times, finally settling on a black skirt suit with a white top for me and a red denim dress with a white T-shirt underneath for Tegan. I’d used straighteners to defrizz my hair, and combed it with a side parting into my usual bob. Tegan’s hair I’d combed back into a ponytail tied with a red ribbon.

I’d had to keep letting go of Tegan’s hand to dry sweat off my hands as we walked from our flat to the primary school. I couldn’t remember approaching any kind of meeting with this amount of trepidation, but a mulelike kick in my stomach as we were shown into the headmistress’s office had confirmed that I was capable of feeling even more fear.

Mrs. Hollaby, the headmistress, wore her gray-white hair looped up into a low bun. Her clothes, however—a white T-shirt with a bright, paint-splatter print of the school’s name, and stonewashed, elastic-waisted jeans—clashed with her looks. They also made me feel inadequate and overdressed.

I straightened up in my seat, forcing myself to exude the confidence that had convinced the board of managing directors at Angeles to green light my magazine idea. My eyes probably gave me away, though, and revealed that I was fretting over where she got that file and what was disclosed in those pages. Did it tell about Adele’s death? Did it confess who Tegan’s father was? Did it explain the woman who was once down as next of kin had abandoned them?

“Mrs. Matika,” Mrs. Hollaby began as she raised her head to me.

“It’s Ms. Matika,” I said.

“Ms.?” she replied, the slight inflection in her voice questioning my marital status. Was I divorced or one of those
liberal
women.

“Ms., Miss, they’re so interchangeable,” I replied. “I was never married but I never wanted people to know that. It’s none of their business. I mean, men don’t have to advertise their marital status, do they?” I added a nervous laugh that rang hollow and flat around the room and confirmed that I was unbalanced.

“I see,” she stated.

“Call me Kamryn.”

Her face creased into another of her professional, practiced smiles. “Kamryn.” She made my name sound like a statement. “It’s a shame your partner wasn’t able to come along.”

“I don’t have a partner,” I replied quietly.

Mrs. Hollaby frowned. “You are, then, Tegan’s parent?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Her only parent?”

“Yes,” I said.

Rustle, rustle, flick, flick
went the papers, trying to explain why Tegan with her white skin and blond hair had brown-skinned, raven-haired Kamryn for a parent.

I watched her hunting for that kernel of information and wondered for a moment if I should leave her blundering around in the darkness of this situation. I couldn’t, of course. I had to enlighten her; those in charge had to know what had happened for Tegan’s sake.

“I’m Tegan’s legal guardian,” I stated clearly and precisely, making it known that I didn’t want to discuss this in front of Tegan. To reinforce my point, I glanced at Tegan. She sat in the center of the chair, her arms folded around Meg in a hug, while her eyes intently watched the headmistress as though she were a new species she had discovered.

Mrs. Hollaby understood my reticence and reached out her long hand for the phone receiver. I watched her fingers tap in a number, then she asked for someone to come into her office. A few minutes later a young woman who wore the same bright school T-shirt and blue jeans entered the room. After a short conversation with Mrs. Hollaby, she bobbed down in front of Tegan and introduced herself as Maya. She asked Tegan if she wanted to come and meet some other children at the playgroup.

Tegan’s head snapped around to look at me, her eyes widened in what appeared to be alarm.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” I reassured.

Her eyes widened a fraction more, but in the royal blue of her irises her black pupils were still large, which meant she wasn’t scared, she wanted to go but wasn’t confident enough to say so in front of two strangers.

“You’re allowed to if you want. Do you want to?” I smiled encouragingly.

She nodded.

“Go on, then,” I said. “I’ll come find you later, OK?”

Her lips moved up into a smile. “OK,” she replied before she slid off the chair. Holding Maya’s hand she left the room.

I watched them go, another kick of fear almost winding me: what if I never saw her again? I didn’t know anything about this Maya person, what if she wandered out of the school with Tegan?

“She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Hollaby said to the back of my head.

I resettled myself in the chair, faced her. “I know. I just worry.” From a place deep inside me I sighed, breathed out all the air in my lungs as I resigned myself to this. To letting a complete stranger into my life. Since Nate and Adele, I hadn’t opened up to people. Ted had known a bit about me, but I was careful not to reveal too much. Share too much and someone could hurt you. “I’m Tegan’s legal guardian,” I began. “Her mother, my best friend, died recently. I’ve inherited Tegan. I’m going to adopt her because that’s what I promised her mother I’d do.” No one else knew that. Everyone thought that I was taking care of her, no one knew that I was going to make her a Matika.

“This must be very difficult for you,” she said.

“Am I that obvious?” All bravado in my voice was ruined with a quiver of emotion. This was more difficult than I thought it would be.

Her eyebrows knitted together in concern and a sympathetic smile sat on her lips. I looked away, to protect myself from her sympathy. Sympathy was the one thing I could live without—I would have no strength when faced with the kindness of strangers.

“Do you have a social worker?” Mrs. Hollaby asked.

“I, erm, haven’t had time to do that yet,” I said, still not looking at her. “I’ve been trying to sort out the flat so that Tegan could have her own room. And then there was the shampoo saga, which I won’t even go into. And with the painting and moving and furniture and shampoo, I’ve only had time to do this. To register at a school. I thought that if I got her into a school you might be able to recommend a playgroup or something that she can go to during the summer holidays for when I go back to work. But I will get a social worker. I promise.”

She reached over and touched my hand and I jumped in surprise. “I’m not berating you, Kamryn. I was asking because they can help. That’s what they’re there for. Not only with the adoption, but also with any problems you’re having. They’ll also help you find someone for Tegan to talk to.”

What does Tegan need to talk about?
I wondered as alarm bells sounded in my ears. “Grief is hard on everyone,” she stated. “If Tegan is finding it hard to express that she might need someone else to talk to. You will need a social worker for the adoption, however.”

“OK. Yes. I think I knew that.”

“There is help available, you simply have to ask for it.”

I couldn’t ask for help, it was all I could do to explain my situation; revealing I was struggling as well would be impossible.

“One of the other parents here is going through the adoption process as well,” Mrs. Hollaby said. “I could talk to her, see if she’d be willing to share her story with you.”

I withdrew from her again, not sure which was scarier, a hug, or the thought of being set up with another person, like a parental version of
Blind Date
.

“You’re not the sharing kind, I take it?” she astutely observed.

I smiled. “No, I’m not.”

“Very well.”

“So, do we, I mean, does Tegan get in? Does she have a place here?”

She nodded. “Yes, she lives in the area and it’s been a pleasure meeting her, she seems a lovely child.”

“She is. And about the playgroups?”

“Yes, of course. We have a playgroup here. It runs from eight to six-thirty. We give the children breakfast, lunch and a light snack in the afternoon before they are picked up. We have activities during the day and reading, drawing and nap time.”

No matter the cost it wouldn’t be as expensive as a nanny or babysitter. I’d crunched and crunched the numbers, stripping back our budget so we bought clothes only every other year and ate nothing but pasta and homemade tomato sauce, and still there would be a financial shortfall. A playgroup was the only thing I could afford. I would simply have to work through lunch to ensure I left on time every night, and then take work home to do after Tegan was asleep. “Do you have places?”

Mrs. Hollaby’s wrinkles deepened as she smiled. “We’ll make a place for Tegan.”

I threw my arms around her neck, squeezed her in gratitude, as I cried, “Thank you! Thank you so much!” Something had gone right. Something small but significant.

Mrs. Hollaby’s body stiffened in my hold and I caught myself. Realized what I was doing and let her go. “I mean, thanks, that’s great,” I said calmly. “Shall we go find Tegan now then?” The headmistress’s office, the world it encompassed, felt wrong, and that was because Tegan wasn’t in it. I was so used to her being beside me, or across the room from me, in sight—in her waking hours, we were never apart longer than it took for me to have a shower—that I felt unsettled without her.

We walked along corridors with blue, rubbery floors and cream walls covered in bright, child-created artwork.

The sun almost blinded me as we walked out onto the playground, its brightness causing me to squint. I scanned the corners of the playground for Tegan. I knew she’d be alone, clutching Meg and praying for me to come get her. My eyes ran over the playground again: she wasn’t by the drinking fountain. Nor by the base of the climbing frame. She wasn’t at the edge of the playing area. Nor standing forlornly against the redbrick wall. My heart jumped in fear. What had Maya done to Tegan? Had she stolen her? I was on the verge of grabbing the headmistress and demanding she produce my child when I spotted her standing with four girls. The five of them were engrossed in an intense conversation, their voices lowered, their faces as serious as jurors on a murder trial. Tegan’s group were all her height, two with pitch-black hair, one with blond hair, another with red-gold hair. Tegan was the prettiest, I decided, even though I could only see the backs of two of her companions. She didn’t need time to grow into her looks, she was already striking. As if guessing I was mentally crowning her the beauty of the schoolyard, Tegan looked up. Our eyes met and she beamed at me. She lifted Meg in her right hand, waved the rag doll at me, then without waiting for a response, submerged herself in the conversation again.

“Looks like she’s fitted right in,” Mrs. Hollaby commented.

“I met lots of people,” Tegan said. She held on to my hand and swung it as she skipped along the pavement. Meg swung along in time in Tegan’s other hand.

“That’s nice,” I said. I glanced down and found her staring up at me.

“I met Crystal. She’s got a brother called Cosmo. He isn’t as big as she is. And I met Ingrid and she’s got a big brother called Lachlan. I haven’t got a brother, have I?”

“No,” I replied.

“And I met Matilda. She’s got lots of brothers and sisters. She’s got a sister called Marlene. And a sister called Maree.”

“They’re the same name.”

“No they isn’t. One is called Marlene and one is called Maree. That’s not the same name.”