Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

They narrowly missed crashing into someone running umbrella-less towards them.

‘Slow down, we’ll crucify someone! There’s a vicious spike on the end of this thing.’

A fierce white light bathed the street. Almost immediately, a crack of thunder. Rachel looked up.

‘Shit, it’s right on top of us, we’ll be struck! Let’s wait here till it’s over.’

‘No, let’s run to the station. We’ll be alright.’

‘We’d better be,’ Rachel said. ‘It’ll be your fault if we’re struck by lightning.’

It would be his revenge. The thought had slipped out before she could stop it.

They ran past the shops, reached the station and stood dripping inside the entrance hall, laughing and panting. Her jeans were soaked. Rachel’s fringe clung to her forehead and she had a dark smudge under one eye.

‘Look at us.’

‘Your mascara’s running!’

When the rain eased, Rachel readied her umbrella.

‘Good luck with the job hunting. And I’m glad you told me about your dad and everything. Let me know what happens, won’t you?’

The train was waiting at the platform. Laura sat down in the first empty seat, smiling to herself. Her head felt light. She was cold and damp but she didn’t care. Finally, she’d revealed the truth about her father. Why had she got so anxious about telling Rachel? She’d even wondered whether Rachel would still want to be her friend.

Of course, if she had other close friends, Rachel wouldn’t be so important. She’d never made friends easily, not since the end of primary school. Back then, she’d gone around with her three closest friends. The four of them would always be over at each other’s houses, having parties and sleepovers, playing with Lizzie’s karaoke set and Allie’s roller skates, or acting in Alex’s plays. Then, the year she turned twelve, everything changed. Her closest friends went to a different school and drifted away, and new ones didn’t come. She went around by herself in the breaks, longing to be included. But something stopped her from getting close to the others, an invisible cloak separated her from the world, containing within it all the bad things her father had done to her, and all the bad things inside her that she couldn’t let anyone see.

Even as an adult, looking at the world with adult eyes, she sometimes felt like that withdrawn and lonely schoolgirl. On some days she felt utterly alone. But those days were fewer, thankfully, since Rachel had come into her life.

Laura smiled. They would never have met if Rachel hadn’t started chatting to her on a bench at Wimbledon station, while they waited for a delayed train to Waterloo. She’d been prickly, not in the mood to talk. Rachel had persisted, asking questions about her life with a peculiar ease and openness she had, which made meeting people seem natural and inevitable rather than a chore you did your best to avoid.

It had been like discovering an unsuspected sister. They’d talked on the phone for hours about the books they’d read and films they’d watched, the things they disliked the most, what they would most like to do but had never dared, what they would do if they won a million pounds. They’d confided in each other about their bodies, their jobs, their relationships. She’d shared more with her friend than she had with anyone else – including her mother and her brother, and every one of her past boyfriends. And now she’d shared the secret about her father, too.

She’s in her room, back at the house. The sky is dark and branches flail in the wind, scratching and tapping against the window. Her mother has gone away, won’t be back for a long time. Outside, a light flickers. Her father is calling, she realises.

‘Laura! Where are you?’

He thuds down the hall and starts climbing the stairs. She runs out of her room and into the bathroom, bangs the door shut and slides the bolt across, leaving the light off so he won’t know she’s there.

Thud, thud, thud. He’s on the landing now.

A tap on the door. ‘Laura! I know you’re in there! Open the door, sweetie.’

She turns on the bath taps so the gushing water will block him out. But she can still hear the tapping at the door.

Tap, tap, tap.

A flash lights up the room, brighter than any lightning she’s ever seen.

Tap, tap, tap.

‘No! Don’t come in!’

A scream pierced her head. Her own scream.

Laura jolted upright. Sweat drenched her skin. Her heart was beating wildly and irregularly, as it must do when one is in the throes of a heart attack.

Then, slowly, her body returned to normal. She was safe now. She was an adult again, back in her flat. She’d dozed off against the beanbag. Outside, rain was beating against the roof and the wind was gusting. But inside was warm and cosy, just as it should be.

‘Bet you can’t catch me!’ With a splash, Emma vanished.

‘OK, missy, I’m coming to get you!’

Her head bobbed to the surface, way down the pool. Another shriek and she was off again, churning up a wake with her frenzied kicking. Paul launched himself towards the flash of red costume, dodging shoals of bodies. He was catching her up. Any second now he’d have her.

He reached out and grabbed her foot but she wriggled free. He stood up, pretending to give up the chase, then flung himself at her with all his strength, managing to grab a flailing arm. ‘Gotcha!’

He reeled her in, held her tight around the waist. Suddenly she was helpless in his arms.

‘Okay, you win,’ Emma said, pulling away. ‘Let me go.’

He drank in the slippery, fluttery feel of her body against his and let her escape.

‘Time to go home, little mermaid.’

She floated away from him, a smile curling her lips. Of course, she wouldn’t want to leave just yet.

‘Your mum will be wondering where we’ve got to. I said we’d be back by four.’

No answer.

‘Come on, Emma, let’s go.’

She stayed floating, ignoring him.

‘I’m going in to get changed.’ He turned away as if he didn’t care what she did. ‘See you at the entrance.’

‘Wait, I’m coming!’

Paul closed the door of his cubicle and pulled a towel from his bag. It was their fourth swim together, and she was finally starting to let down her defences. He was getting glimpses of a laughing, mischievous Emma. The sullen stares and long silences were on their way out and Little Miss Wilful was getting an airing instead. He was up for whatever games she wanted to play. He could play games too.

He imagined Emma’s glistening body as she stepped out of her wet costume, her tresses clinging to her back. The small breasts and the tender slope of her stomach leading to a dark patch above her legs. He was getting a hard-on. How could he help it? She was a wispy, sulky, feisty little thing, her flesh secretly moist, ripening with each passing week. And just out of reach.

He finished dressing and went outside to wait. Emma would be a while yet, messing around with her hair and her lip gloss, trying to look like the models in her Glamour magazines. In her head, she was a woman already.

Suzanne would go nuts, he thought, if she knew how much time he spent picturing Emma undressing. She was getting a tiny bit suspicious now, since that girl with the tattoo at the party. But in all these years, she had never picked up on anything untoward.

He had been careful, cunning even; Suzanne wasn’t stupid. He had one big advantage over her, though. At heart, his wife was a good woman, kind, affectionate and loyal, the sort who could see only good in others.