to remind herself the reedy figure in front of her was the gatekeeper and a formidable potential ally.
Unlike the rooms downstairs, and with the exception of an enormous mahogany wardrobe which could easily have been a gateway to Narnia, Phoebe’s bedroom had no period features. The walls were covered in posters of singers, bands and film stars and the rest of the furniture was boxy and unremarkable.
Blinking through a mist of bubblegummy body spray, Becky arrived in the doorway as the teenager bounced onto the bed and hooked a foot up under herself. ‘That seat’s comfy,’ Phoebe said, gesturing to the padded office chair tucked under a desk covered in books.
On her way to the chair, Becky stopped to scrutinise the large photo collage hanging above the bed. In among snaps of friends, parties and holidays were several pictures of a woman in her mid-forties with long chestnut hair.
Becky pointed at the familiar dark eyes. ‘Is that your Aunt Lauren? She looks like your dad.’
‘Yeah. Those were taken when she came to visit with my uncle and cousins two years ago. I’d like to see them all the time, but New Zealand isn’t really a short trip. Then again, if she did live round here, Dad would probably lock himself in the studio for good.’
‘Yes, I get the feeling they don’t always see eye-to-eye.’
Phoebe smirked. ‘Yeah. They fall out. The last time they didn’t speak for over a month. Dad’s always telling me how lucky I am to be an only child.’
An only child herself, Becky could only wonder if having siblings would have softened the blow of Phoebe’s mother’s departure or made things worse. Glancing towards the bed, she noticed a photograph in a silver frame on the nightstand in which mother and daughter were enjoying the sunshine in the garden, laughing and hugging. Clearly that had been a good day. And, Becky guessed, a few years before an eleven-year-old Phoebe’s worries about her mother’s health would cause the girl to lose her appetite and have recurring nightmares.
Becky was reluctant to disturb the smile on the teenager’s face, but if she were going to be able to help, she had to know more about what she was getting into. ‘Your aunt said you were eleven when your mother left?’
As expected, Phoebe’s smile vanished. She nodded.
‘What did your dad do?’
The girl picked at her nail varnish. ‘At first he pretended it wasn’t happening. We ate takeaways for a week like it was a holiday and she’d be back any minute. Eventually he realised he was going to have to take charge, do all the housework, take me to school, come with me to dancing and clothes shopping.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘He’s done his best …’
‘But?’
‘Dad …’ Her voice disappeared into a sigh. ‘Dad’s OK, he just doesn’t understand stuff.’
Becky smiled; she had forgotten how useless parents seemed at this age. ‘Do you think there’s any chance your mum and dad might …?’
‘Get back together?’ Phoebe shook her head. ‘My birthday cards are the only time we’ve heard from her. Although last Christmas she sent a card too.’ Her cheeks reddened and she moved on to picking the varnish on her toenails. ‘She put her address in London inside. Dad and I have been arguing because I think we should contact her. Aunt Lauren agrees with me and so she fights with Dad too.’ She shrugged. ‘I think it’s stupid. They haven’t seen each other for six years, but Dad still wears his ring. They need to sort things out. Move on.’
Becky nodded. She was impressed by the maturity of the teenager’s answers, but sensed it was time to lighten the mood before Phoebe got through all the varnish and started removing layers of nail. She pointed at the collage again. ‘That’s an impressive cake.’
‘The Disney castle one? It was for my thirteenth birthday. Dad made it.’
‘Huh.’ Becky walked over to the desk, reasoning that if Charlie did give up on painting, he could always become a baker. She smiled at the idea and gestured to a collection of sketches pinned on the noticeboard next to the desk. ‘Are you thinking about pursuing art? Your dad thinks you could.’
Phoebe snorted. ‘He’d like me to. But I’m not that talented, particularly not with painting and drawing. I like photography, but I can do it as a hobby.’
‘When you’re a successful …’
‘Lawyer.’
‘Oh!’
The girl’s answer came the moment Becky had moved to sit down. To Phoebe, it must have looked as if