Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

tidy loose strands of Isabella’s dark hair back into the bunches I tied for her this morning. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Her smile vanishes with my contentment. ‘Am I in trouble?’ She stiffens in my arms and looks to the ground.

I find a quiet grassy area and sit crossed legged, with her in the same position opposite me. ‘Not at all.’ I place my fingers below her chin and gently lift her eyes to meet mine. ‘I mean that. And I won’t be cross. As long as… what?’ I hold her beautiful face, overcome with love for my fragile daughter who, eight years ago, due to family fabrication and deceit, nearly didn’t make it into this world.

‘As long as I don’t lie.’

‘That’s right.’ I pause for a moment wondering how best to approach this tricky subject without ruining our precious time together. ‘Amelia’s mummy asked to talk to me this morning.’

Her chin presses down, but I won’t allow my fingers to give. I raise her chin, so her eyes meet mine, and I ask her to explain her troubles.

She doesn’t deny it, but her confirmation accompanies the painful truth no mother ever wants to hear. Angry tears burst out of her eyes like the words from her mouth. ‘Amelia calls me horrible names. She’s so mean. She says I’m ugly, and you don’t love us, because you make Mel pick us up from school. And she pulls my hair.’ More words spill, tripping over each other until so merged with snot and tears, they are no longer understandable.

Her eruption floods me with a torrent of rage that I fight to contain for another time and another place. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘F… fo… forever,’ she stutters through her tears. ‘I thought if I told her you were a policewoman, and you had a gun, she would stop. Please don’t be angry with me.’

I cup her innocent face in my hands. Not so innocent, it seems. ‘My darling girl. I want you to listen to me and believe what I say. Firstly, I’m not at all angry with you. Secondly, none of this is your fault and, thirdly, I do not carry a gun. On Monday, we’ll go and speak to Mrs Miller and sort all this out.’

My heart beats out of time for my daughter’s saddened eyes weeping in her pink face, and I have to fight the mental image of meeting up with Claudia Walters-Stewart, pulling her hair and kicking her right where her unicorns sleep at night. I take a deep breath as I wipe her eyes, unsticking her eyelashes glued together from her tears. ‘Come on. Go get your brother. I’m taking you somewhere.’

‘Where? Where?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ I say, looking to the heavens. Please, Hannah, be home when we arrive. I watch as Isabella skitters over to Joe as if our chat has lightened her step, and I can’t help wondering if I were a yummy mummy and around for my kids more, would we have needed this conversation?

‘Hide-and-seek or Pictionary?’ Hannah asks as she scoops the kids into her skinny arms.

Sasha and I leave them debating which of their favourite games will win the vote, and we head to Alisha and Tom’s place. Of all the houses in the close, theirs is the most well-kept. The weatherboarding is painted a French grey, and the woodwork white. A mass of flowering shrubs packs the borders, and on either side of the doorstep sit two lollipop bay trees in pots which match the paintwork of the navy blue door. ‘I called her earlier to say I needed a quick word,’ Sasha says, ringing the doorbell.

Alisha appears straight away. Tall and graceful with a long face like a greyhound, she’s the type of woman who makes you stop and stare. Her sleek, bobbed hair shines like glass. ‘Sorry, I’m still a little busy with work. I’ll be ten minutes.’ She has a plummy voice which reminds me of Jim’s father. She opens the door wider. ‘You’re welcome to come in and wait.’

Sasha throws me a look to ask me if that’s OK. I smile and nod, and Sasha introduces us as we walk in. The inside of the house reflects the perfection of the outside and is the same layout to Sasha’s. The hall is beautifully decorated with large abstract paintings. A porcelain vase of fresh flowers swamps a glass console, their velvety fragrance scenting the air. ‘I’m having an introduction video made for my website,’ she tells us as she delicately rearranges a gerbera with her long, thin fingers. There’s a framed photograph of her in a black gown on her graduation day, which she rotates five degrees to the left before returning it to its original position.

‘I thought you worked for some firm in the City,’ Sasha says as Alisha leads us along the hall.

‘I do, but I also run a small private practice. Well, I say small. It’s grown more than I anticipated in the last year. Business is booming, so I’m updating my website.’

‘What do you do?’ I ask as she leads us along the hallway.

‘I’m an intellectual property lawyer. Well, that’s what I specialise in, but I take on various cases in my private work.’

Her kitchen is as pristine as a show home. She obviously doesn’t have kids. Classical music softly plays from a Bose system positioned on a unit at the end of the light and airy room. ‘Hi Sasha, Eva,’ a voice sounds as we enter, and I’m surprised to see Luke standing in the breakfast room area, where a glazed boxed canvas, depicting an uninhibited soirée of flowers, practically covers the entire far wall. He has one hand on his hip and holds a high-tech camera in the other. ‘My first official paid job,’ he says, with a proud smile.

‘We need to finish filming one final piece, and I’ll be with you,’ Alisha says, gesturing for us to take a seat at the breakfast bar. She claps her hands