Page 15 of The Island of Lost Girls

‘I know,’ Robin says bitterly. ‘You don’t want anything spoiling your lovely weekends. Everything’s lovely at Dad’s, isn’t it?’

Every time. Every time. The slightest infraction and she throws the divorce in my face. Like it was Gemma’s fault.

‘I didn’t ask you to get divorced,’ she says. It’s true. And of course it’s the wrong thing to say. She literally doesn’t ever seem to manage to say the right thing. But Mum, this hurts. You start going on about the burden I am, and my head goes all weird inside and I can’t find the right words. All I can think of is this red-hot … something … that’s eating me up from the inside. It HURTS.

And of course, her mother loses it. ‘You think I did? Christ, Gemma. If you want someone to blame for how bloody sorry for yourself you are, why don’t you start with Caroline?’

She says the name the venomous way her schoolmates talk of girls in the out-groups. That nasal whine, the emphasis on the first syllable, that makes her stepmother sound like milk gone off. All that’s missing is the air quotes.

Robin has worked up a head of steam now. I want to get out, thinks Gemma. I knew I shouldn’t have told her. I want this to stop. Was it too much to ask that she’d just go, Oh, you bad girl, let’s find a practical solution, just once? Must I always be the devil?

‘Oh, no, I forgot,’ her mother is continuing. ‘Caroline buys you silver necklaces and cooks you pomegranate chicken from Ottolenghi. Caroline’s bloody perfect, isn’t she? Not like your boring old mum.’

‘Stop it!’ she wails. ‘Stop it!’

‘Well, let’s just see what Caroline thinks about this, eh? How about that?’

Gemma storms out of the room and runs up the stairs to her bedroom. Slams the door and wedges the chair under the handle.

On her bed, she stares at the ceiling. She wants to cry, but she won’t. Lately she’s been wanting to cry all the time, to peel the skin from her face and howl at the moon. Why? she thinks. Why did they have me if they didn’t want to love me?

Patrick is annoyed. Not because of the scratchcard per se, but because of the inconvenience.

I’d love it, thinks Gemma, if the words ‘family conference’ didn’t always mean ‘Gemma’s in trouble again’. Have they even noticed that? That the only time they’re ever in the same room is when it involves me being shouted at?

‘I’m in the middle of a really important negotiation,’ he says. ‘Did you even think about that? Have you ever thought about other people?’

‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘All I did was buy a scratchcard. I wasn’t actually thinking about anything much at the time. It’s not like I killed anybody.’

A boy at her school did kill someone, last year. He stabbed another boy in a stupid fight outside the chicken shop on York Road and the boy bled out before the ambulance even got there. After the trial, the local news was full of the killer’s weeping family: the mother and the aunts and the sisters. He’s a good boy really. He’s never been in trouble before. We love him.

Patrick slams a hand down on the kitchen table.

‘It’s against the law, Gemma!’ He raises his voice. ‘Which bit of “it’s illegal” do you not understand?’

Robin is all pursed lips and reproachful silence. Gemma truly hates her right now. I’ll never tell you anything again, she thinks. I’ll never, ever trust you. Something nice has happened for once, and you’ve spoiled it. And now you’re all poor-wounded-me. Fuck you. Fuck both of you.

‘And what have you been eating for lunch if you’re squandering the money on scratchcards?’

‘A scratchcard.’

‘Oh, sure,’ says Patrick. ‘We believe that. The first time you get caught is always the first time you’ve done it. Right.’

I didn’t get caught. I told you. Big difference. Still. I’ve learned my lesson now.

She gives up. Turns spiteful. ‘Well, it’s nice to see you two presenting a united front, anyway,’ she says. ‘Really cheering.’

Patrick pushes his chair back and stamps over to the window.

‘Don’t be cheeky,’ says Robin.

‘Well, it’s true,’ says Gemma. ‘The only thing you two ever agree on is that I’m a little shit.’

She hates herself as she says it.

Patrick does a breathing exercise. Finishes. Turns back. He takes his specs off and polishes them on a little cloth from his pocket.

Why do they always cut those with pinking shears? Gemma wonders. That happens a lot. When she’s waiting for the axe to fall. Unrelated thoughts just pop into her head as though they’re trying to fill the silence. Then she thinks, I wonder if he wears those in bed? And she feels sick because she hates the thought that her parents have sex. Well, her father does. Her mother hasn’t been near a man since they split up. She doesn’t really know which is worse.