Page 43 of Take Me Away

‘Multiple times.’

This seems to impress her enormously. ‘Whoa. That’s a bad word.’

‘Don’t get any ideas.’ I point the knife at her before resuming my chopping. ‘Just because Isla Quinn swears doesn’t mean you can.’

‘I know.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not a baby. I’m eight.’

I grunt noncommittally, adding the vegetables to the pot. The curry will need to simmer for at least thirty minutes.

‘So you carried her the whole way? Like in princess movies?’

My jaw tightens. ‘Like someone with an injured foot who couldn’t walk.’

‘That’s so romantic,’ she sighs dreamily.

‘It was practical,’ I correct, placing the lid on the saucepan with more force than it deserves.

‘Nina said you looked like a superhero.’

Jesus Christ. I’m going to have a word with Nina about the stories she shares with my impressionable daughter.

‘Nina should mind her own business,’ I mutter, just quiet enough that Maisie can’t hear.

Maisie hops off the stool. ‘Can I watch a movie before dinner?’

‘Homework first,’ I remind her.

‘Already did it at Grandad’s,’ she says cheerfully. ‘It was just spelling. I got all the words right except “because”. I always forget the “a”.’

‘Fine. Thirty minutes, then dinner.’

I expect her to choose one of her usual animated films, the ones with singing princesses or talking animals that I’ve been forced to endure more times than any adult should. Instead, I hear the distinct sound of a DVD case being snapped open.

A familiar musical score rises from the living room. I close my eyes, a fresh wave of irritation washing over me. Of all the films in the house, she has to choose that one.

I finish preparing the curry, setting it to simmer, then follow the sound into the living room. Maisie is curled on the sofa, utterly transfixed. On the screen, Isla moves through the frame, her hair shorter than it is now, her face younger but unmistakably her. The Lighthouse. Her breakout role. The film that took her from promising newcomer to serious actress.

‘Why are you watching this?’ I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

Maisie doesn’t look away from the screen. ‘I want to see if she’s as good as everyone says.’

‘There are plenty of other films⁠—’

‘Shhh!’ She raises an imperative finger. ‘This is the ’portant bit.’

I should turn it off. I should insist on something else. Instead, I find myself watching as Isla’s character confronts her father in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, her voice rising with a decade of suppressed rage. It’s raw, visceral. The kind of performance that makes you forget you’re watching acting.

My throat tightens. That’s not acting. That’s Isla channelling real pain, real abandonment. I’d seen it enough times when her train arrived at the station and she realised she’d been parcelled from boarding school to here with barely a beat between. I never understood it. I guess, while my own mum left when Jude and I were kids, Dad had always more than made up for it. Always ensured that we had family. But Isla’s parents. Wow. Helicopter parents they weren’t. How Maggie with her roses and jam and big heart had a property investor tycoon for a son, I never quite understood. Guess I never will.

‘Wow,’ Maisie whispers, cutting into my thoughts of the past. For a moment I’d forgotten I was standing in the lounge I chose with my wife, and instead I’m waiting at the station with a bunch of flowers in my hand, my heart thumping, my ribs barely able to haul in a useful breath.

I force myself to turn away, returning to the kitchen before I can get sucked in further. The timer shows ten minutes left on the curry. I busy myself setting the table, putting out water glasses, placing down some kitchen roll for the inevitable spillage that Maisie will splatter. Normal, everyday tasks that have nothing to do with the voice emanating from the living room.

Maisie appears in the kitchen doorway before the allowed time has passed.

‘That’s soooo sad,’ she announces. ‘Isla is amazing.’

‘Mmm.’ I stir the curry, not committing to a response.