Page 38 of The Pieces of Us

When my parents aren’t having urgent, drawn-out conversations behind a closed door, they’re committed to making a good impression on the important people in the town.

The community association’s annual Hogmanay party is the perfect opportunity to demonstrate their charitable leanings and parade their children around the town hall in their Sunday best.

My mother insisted I wear one of her dresses – it has a long skirt, long sleeves, a high neck and scratchy material.

It’s cut with an empire waist to disguise my real one, but is too tight under my arms. Its saving grace is the colour – an elegant petrol blue – but I still hate it.

The girls in ABBA would never wear a dress like this.

In fact, I hate this whole evening before it’s even started.

I haven’t been sick for a couple of weeks, but overwhelming tiredness has superseded my nausea and I want to be at home, lying on the sofa watching pipe bands and hit-or-miss comedians on the telly, trying to stay awake for ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

I suggested this, when there was time for them to change their minds. The dress was on but still unbuttoned at the back.

‘ You’re not staying at home alone,’ my mother said, looking horrified. She made me turn around in front of her in the scratchy empire-cut dress, then nodded her approval. She stood behind me and quickly fastened the buttons.

I feel like I’ve been sewn into it, like one of those ugly dolls whose clothes don’t come off.

‘Can I sit down?’ I whisper to my mother, before she and my father go off to mingle, leaving the rest of us to seek out the other children at the party, or – in my case – make awkward conversation with Lynda Auld, who is Mormon, and I don’t know what that means really or how it’s different from the rest of us, but when my parents talk about the Aulds they raise their eyebrows.

So far Lynda is the only person of my age I’ve spotted, probably because all the other sixteen-year-olds in the town are allowed to hang out with their friends on Hogmanay.

When I made this point to my parents, in a last-ditch attempt to stay home, not even with friends but all on my own , my father sighed and walked away and my mother said pointedly, ‘All the other sixteen-year-olds aren’t in your condition.’

‘I’m sure some of them are,’ I’d muttered under my breath.

I take a limeade from the table so that I have something to hold.

Sandra is still next to me, but I know it won’t be long before she joins the others, who’ve been drawn into the throng of children in the corner of the hall next to the stage.

When you’re fourteen, you can still choose how mature to be on any given day.

‘Just go,’ I tell her, and she scurries off, carefree in her knee-length cotton pinafore, entirely unaware of how lucky she is.

Year after year, the Hogmanay party rarely strays from its usual timetable.

After some mingling and drinking, seemingly important people from the community stand on the stage and talk about themselves and what they hope to achieve over the next twelve months, but mostly about themselves.

They’re normally all men, but the first person to take the stage this year is a woman with tightly curled hair and a dress that I can imagine Anni-Frid from ABBA in.

Long, dark and floaty, with a deep ‘V’ neckline and a metallic stripe glittering under the lights.

It’s only when the light shines on her pretty features and smooth skin that I recognize her.

‘Ah, it’s Mr Dunlop’s wife,’ my mother says by my side. I hadn’t noticed her approaching. She has a tight smile on her face. ‘Doesn’t she look the part up there, under the spotlight? She’s a patron of a local children’s charity,’ she adds.

I already know this, of course. I know a lot about the woman on the stage.

A wave of something travels through my body.

‘I think I need to sit down,’ I say too quietly for my mother to hear.

But there’s nowhere to sit, so I stand, watching Mrs Dunlop on the stage, looking at her lips move but not hearing her words.

I don’t know why I turn my head when I do.

A ninety-degree twist of my neck and he’s there on the other side of the room. His eyes are on his wife.

Sandra says if you stare at the back of someone’s head for long enough, they’ll turn round.

You’d think then that staring at the side of their face would work too.

I don’t look away; I don’t think I even blink.

But nothing happens. He doesn’t turn round.

And then I hear clapping and his wife is off the stage and by his side.

It’s only when they embrace – a brief gesture of appreciation on his part, relief on hers – that he turns his head towards me.

His eyes rest on my face and there’s nothing there.

Not even the slightest recognition. I bite the inside of my bottom lip. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not cry .

The last time I saw him was more than a month ago, on his front doorstep. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t work for you again,’ I told him. ‘I’m … ill.’

‘You’re ill?’ He looked amused, which confused me. I’d expected sympathy.

‘Yes.’ My hands instinctively moved to my belly. ‘I’m ill.’

He looked at my belly and I could tell he wasn’t amused now. Beyond that, I couldn’t work out what he was feeling. His eyes had gone dark and cloudy.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said briskly. ‘I hope you feel better soon. Take care, Miss Muir.’

I rubbed my belly and he shut the front door in my face, causing my heart to break for the first time.

I don’t know how many times Mam has said my name before I’m aware of her voice. I tear my eyes away from Mr Dunlop and finally let the tears fall.

Mam is saying my name but she’s looking at him across the room, as if she’s seen a ghost. She knows.

‘Please don’t tell Father,’ I beg. ‘Promise me you won’t tell Father.’

‘I’m taking you home,’ she says, finally looking at me, taking hold of my arm, making no promises.