* * *
When I call Adrienne down for lunch she ignores me, so I take her food up to her. I tell myself I don’t care if she sulks all day as long as she eats and takes her insulin. There’s no lock on her door so I just go in and put a sandwich on her desk. She’s lying on her bed, headphones in her ears, ignoring me.
In the evening she comes down for dinner and we eat in front of the television. When she takes her plate from me I prompt her with, “Thank you.” But she just scrunches her nose at me in a whatever expression and sits down. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to watch her manners or I’ll put her over my knee, but I remind myself that she’d probably like that. As an SAS officer I was trained to have resolve like titanium and the integrity to match. I can’t let a pink-haired, city-bred art student get the better of me. No matter how much she pouts. I clench my teeth and turn my attention back to the television, hoping that the chatter of the evening news will drown out all the things I want to do to her, say to her, and make her say to me.
It doesn’t.
I’m forking up lasagna when my phone buzzes, and I see it’s an email from Mr. Westley’s lawyer. I scan it quickly and I feel my temper hit the roof. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Adrienne looks up. “What?”
“Not what. Pardon,” I growl.
“What?” she says again, goading me, and my blood pressure doubles. I think about my training, but the roars of SAS commanders telling me to run my worthless ass off don’t have the power to inflame me as much as the sass of a stroppy young woman. It would be so easy to fix this, I think, my hand itching to drag her over my knee. She wants me to fix this. Why I am being so stubborn?
You’re not being stubborn, you’re being professional.
“That was your father’s lawyer,” I bite out. “Your father has been rearrested for breaking the terms of his bail.”
Adrienne’s stony expression slips. I don’t think she realized that her father was headed to the Herald offices this morning. “Oh. So that means...”
I put the phone down and scrub a hand over my face. Why must people be such idiots? “It means he’ll be remanded in custody until the trial begins in six-to-ten months’ time.”
She trails her fork over her dinner, thinking. “Well, it’s his choice, I suppose. He’s only hurting himself.”
I wonder for a moment if Mr. Westley has done this on purpose. Maybe not consciously, but people self-sabotage all the time without realizing it. He’s under so much pressure and public scrutiny that he might prefer to be locked away from it all—despite the fact that he’s got a family to look after. “No, he’s hurting you, too.”
She shrugs, putting her plate aside and pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. “Not really.” The sass has gone. She just sounds hollow.
“He should be here for you at a time like this,” I insist.
“He doesn’t need to worry about me. He’s hired you for that. And I’m twenty, aren’t I? I’m an adult.”
Being able to vote and drive doesn’t prevent disappointment and heartache. I know Adrienne’s a lot more vulnerable than she pretends to be. “It’s normal for families to support each other. You do know that, don’t you?”
Doubt and confusion flicker over her face. She considers this a moment and then shrugs again. “I guess.”
We watch the rest of the drama serial in silence. She curls herself into a ball, her head on the armrest. When I suggest it’s time for bed and that she’s tired, she refuses. “You watch what you like. I’ll just sit here.”
Maybe she doesn’t
want to be alone again. I wouldn’t blame her. I leave her to snooze while I watch half of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and then rouse her with a gentle shake of her shoulder.
“Mmph.”
She’s in that place between sleep and waking, her face pale and her mouth slack. When I whisper her name her eyelids flutter but she doesn’t open them. I gather her to me and carry her upstairs. She weighs so little that she feels like a bird in my arms.
“Dieter,” she whispers, her lips against my throat.
“Yes?”
“Do you like me?”
I walk slowly, savoring the feeling of holding her close, knowing that while she’s here with me, nothing can hurt her. I won’t let it hurt her. “Yes. I like you very much.”
“I like you too, Dieter. I don’t want to fight with you.”
When I lay her down on her bed she keeps hold of me. “Don’t go,” she whispers, clutching my shirt.