Charlie has a football game for her district team. Watching teenage girls play a competitive team sport is completely different to watching boys. There is no diving, feigning injury, flying elbows or cynical fouls. Body contact tends to be completely accidental and should one of the girls get injured twenty-one players will stand around her asking, ‘Are you OK?’
Charlie is getting less interested in football as she gets older. There seems to be a moment in adolescence when girls abandon sport as being either too sweaty or too much like hard work. Maybe they discover boys. Why can’t they discover schoolwork?
I wander along the sidelines, occasionally yelling encouragement, which Charlie hates. I’m also not allowed to dissect the game afterwards or comment on how she played.
Julianne comes along sometimes, which is nice. She chats to the other mothers, sipping thermos coffee and rarely following the action unless a penalty is being taken or a goal has been scored.
She didn’t come today. I offered. She declined.
Keeping one eye on the game, I try to call Sienna’s therapist again. I’ve left three messages. Robin Blaxland hasn’t answered any of them. He has an office in Bath, not far from the Jane Austen centre.
I always find it ironic that Jane Austen is Bath’s most famous former resident - yet she reportedly hated the spa town. She lived in Bath for six years and didn’t write a word in that time, but that hasn’t stopped them naming streets, festivals and tearooms after her.
At half-time I call Ruiz. He’s outside, puffing slightly.
‘Are you jogging?’
‘Yeah, I’m running the New York marathon.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’m in Scotland.’
‘Why?’
‘Gordon Ellis used to teach in Edinburgh.’
‘Is that important?’
‘Might be.’
He’s not going to tell me anything else. That’s the thing about Ruiz - he’s a man of few words and those ‘few’ are chosen like the boiled sweets he carries around in his pocket.
‘I need a favour,’ I tell him.
‘I’m still working on the last one.’
‘I need a home address for a psychotherapist called Robin Blaxland. He was treating Sienna Hegarty.’
‘Give me an hour.’
Ruiz hangs up and I go back to watching the game.
The full-time whistle signals a narrow defeat. Charlie sits on the rear tray of the Volvo and unlaces her muddy boots. She slips tracksuit bottoms over her shorts and puts her boots into a plastic bag.
‘You want a hot chocolate?’
‘Nope.’
‘Hungry?’
‘Not particularly.’
She examines a blister on her big toe. Her nails are painted dark purple and she’s wearing a silver ankle bracelet.
‘That’s new.’
‘Sienna gave it to me.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t want it any more.’
‘It looks expensive. Where did Sienna get it?’
Charlie’s eyes fix on mine. ‘You think she stole it.’
‘I never said that.’
‘It was a year ago, Dad. One time. You want to see a receipt? I’ll ask her.’
She turns away. Disgusted.
Nicely done, I think. Charlie is changing out of her strip on the back seat.
‘Can I get my navel pierced?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Erin got hers pierced last summer.’
‘That makes no difference.’
‘How about a tattoo?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘What if it’s a really small tattoo on my ankle?’
‘When you’re eighteen you can tattoo your entire body.’
I know she’s rolling her eyes. Holding her foot, she examines her blister again. I have plasters in a first-aid kit. Taking off the wrapping, I get her to hold her foot still.
‘Can I ask you about Mr Ellis?’
Charlie looks at me defensively. ‘What about him?’
‘Does he play favourites?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Does he seem to favour particular students?’
‘I guess. Some girls flirt with him.’
‘Does he flirt back?’
‘Not really.’
Charlie pulls a sock over her foot. ‘Why are you so interested in Mr Ellis?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘I’m not stupid, Dad. You never talk about nothing.’
Another game is about to start. The teams are warming up, doing short sprints and passing drills.
‘What do you think of Mr Ellis?’ I ask.
‘He’s cool.’
‘What makes him cool?’
‘You can talk to him. He listens.’
‘About what?’
‘Stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Stuff. Problems. It’s like he understands because he’s been there.’
We’ve all been there, I feel like saying.
‘Gordon doesn’t judge us. He doesn’t look down on us. He doesn’t treat us like children. And if anyone has a problem, he says they should come and see him. He’s a good listener.’
‘You call him Gordon?’
‘Yeah, he lets us, but only during drama classes.’
‘Do you ever talk to him?’
Charlie’s shoulders rise and fall. The gesture says all I need to know.
‘Was Sienna close to Mr Ellis?’
‘She used to be.’
‘What happened?’
‘He started picking on her. Criticising her. Saying she wasn’t trying hard enough. Sienna didn’t seem to mind. I don’t think she cared.’
‘That surprises you?’
‘Yeah, I guess. It’s not like her.’
A whistle blasts and the game is underway. Charlie watches the action, aware that I’m studying her profile. Normally she complains when I look at her like this - accusing me of trying to read her mind.
‘Was Sienna seeing Mr Ellis outside of school?’
‘She used to babysit for him. He has a little boy. Billy. He’s adorable.’
Charlie doesn’t understand what I’m asking.
‘Was Mr Ellis Sienna’s boyfriend?’
Charlie’s head snaps around. ‘What gave you that idea?’
‘Sienna was seeing someone outside of school. Not the boyfriend she claimed to have. Somebody older.’
She laughs. ‘And you think it was Mr Ellis?’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You’re right. It’s not funny. It’s tragic. Gordon said this might happen.’
‘What might happen?’
‘He said that people sometimes make up stories because they’re jealous or they’re hurt. It happened at his last school. He had to leave.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did he say what happened?’
‘He said one of the girls made a complaint and said that he’d kissed her. She took it back but it was too late. The school told him he had to leave.’
Why would Gordon tell Charlie something like that?
She goes back to looking at the game.
‘Sienna was having sex,’ I say.
‘So?’
‘You knew?’
A shrug. Indifferent. ‘A lot of girls are having sex, Dad. Maybe not the full monty, but they’re doing plenty of other stuff.’
Glancing at me sideways, she checks to see if I’m shocked. The silence stretches out, punctuated by the scoring of a goal and celebrations on the sidelines.
‘You want to ask me, don’t you?’ A slight smile plays on her lips. My daughter is challenging me. Every fibre of my professional being says I shouldn’t rise to the bait. I should end the conversation now. But a small pilot light of parental concern flares in my chest. I have to know.
‘Are you having sex, Charlie? I don’t mind. What I mean is, I’d be a little worried. You’re underage. Too young.’
She shakes her head. Disappointed. Proven right.
‘Can we go home now?’ she asks.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Here’s the thing, Dad. I can say no and I could be lying or I could be telling you the truth. That’s a fifty-fifty chance of disappointing you. Or I could say yes and definitely disappoint you. The odds aren’t in my favour, so I figure I’ll just say nothing.’
‘I want you to answer.’
‘And I want another horse.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘We both want something we’re not going to get.’
She tosses her ponytail over one shoulder and gazes at me resolutely. ‘I’m a good kid, Dad. Trust me.’
And that’s it - end of conversation. I drive her home, aware more than ever before that she is her mother’s daughter and equally mysterious.