The Good Girl Read Online Free

that Harry outlined the results of a recent study showing that headbanging caused long-term brain damage.
    ‘Granny once hit her head and came round speaking French,’ said Ailsa’s father wistfully. ‘Do you remember, Ailsa?’
    ‘Vaguely.’
    The thought of her father strengthened her resolve. He was desperate to get back home to visit her mother’s grave. It was six days since he had last been and he had started to fret that it might be covered with weeds; that the winter-flowering viburnum hastily hacked from a neighbour’s shrub and left in a vase might have died; that the vase might have been stolen. Ailsa pointed out
that all were most likely covered in a thick layer of snow but Adam was unconvinced.
    ‘I need to see her,’ he said firmly. ‘Viburnum was one of her favourite flowers and I never bought her any when she was alive.’ This became his excuse for opening another bottle of wine. And with the alcohol came the tears. ‘I need to check that Georgia’s all right. That she’s not lonely.’
    Romy had held his hand and tried to persuade him that Granny was fine. Ailsa’s younger sister, Rachel, insisted viburnum was almost impossible to find in flower shops. Harry promised to plant a shrub in Adam’s garden so that he had a ready supply throughout the season. Finally he was soothed.
    If they left now, Ailsa would have time to drop him home and visit her mother’s grave to check everything was all right before Adam went. She wanted to be there alone, to remember her mother without having to negotiate anyone else’s grief. It was decided. If she didn’t go now, the car would get stuck or it would be too icy to drive him home. She stealthily edged away from Harry, slowly relinquishing the duvet so that he wouldn’t be woken up by a sudden blast of cold air.
    She found last night’s clothes in a pile and pulled on a jumper and pair of jeans, cursing Harry for his stinginess about switching the heating off at night. There was a time when they would have done anything for each other. No longer. Even the temperature of the house was up for negotiation. Ailsa zipped up the jeans. Underwear could wait until later.
    She
headed downstairs, deliberately ignoring the domestic rubble that she passed along the way, although unable to resist the temptation to apportion blame: chocolate reindeer wrapper. Ben. Empty Coke can. Ben. That was easy. Overturned glass on the landing table. Undoubtedly Adam. Teddy bear wearing new collar intended for Lucifer the cat. Possibly Luke.
The Real Spy’s Guide to Becoming a Spy
. Ben. Box set of
True Detective.
Rachel. A book about growing your own vegetables. Harry. Did boys who read books about survival in the wilderness really grow into men who dreamed of allotments? Dustpan and brush. And beside it pieces of broken glass carefully wrapped in old Christmas paper. Also Harry. Only Romy hadn’t left a trace.
    Much later Ailsa remembered this detail. Or lack of detail. Because only then did its metaphorical significance resonate. In the sixteen years since her uncomplicated birth, Romy had been the least demanding member of the family.
    The most placid of babies, even as a newborn Romy had only cried when she was hungry or tired and was unfussed when passed around from one person to the next. There was no separation anxiety. Luke had been completely different. The first time he played hide and seek, he had sobbed big fat tears when he put his hands over his eyes because he couldn’t see his mother. Ben had issues around feeding. Rejected the breast. Cried for milk in the night. And refused solids until he was almost one.
    But Ailsa should have known from growing up beside
the sea that a mirror-calm surface was often an illusion. Her mother had always warned that the most treacherous currents were invisible to the naked eye, a phrase that had always reduced her and Rachel to hopeless giggles. Ailsa smiled at the memory, already anticipating the sharp stab of loss that