A Game For All The Family Read Online Free Page B

why someone might think I want to intimidate or hurt them.
    “I can’t bear this, El.”
    “Can’t bear what?”
    “You, being so . . . uncommunicative. I know something’s wrong.”
    “Oh, not this again.” She lies down on her bed and pulls the pillow over her face.
    “Please trust me and tell me what’s the matter. You won’t be in trouble, whatever it is.”
    “Mum, leave it. I’ll be fine.”
    “Which means you’re not fine now.” I move the pillow so that I can see her.
    She sits up, snatches it back.
    “Are you missing London? Is that it?”
    She gives me a look that tells me I’m way off the mark.
    “Dad, then?”
    “ Dad? Why would I be missing Dad? He’ll be back next week, won’t he?”
    It’s as if I’m distracting her from something important by mentioning things she forgot about years ago.
    She’s not interested in you, or Alex.
    Then who? What?
    “Can I ask you about your story?” I say.
    “If you must.”
    “Is it homework?”
    “Yeah. But Mr. Goodrick couldn’t remember when it had to be in, he said.”
    I sigh. The school here is better than the one in London in almost every way. The one exception is Ellen’s form tutor, Craig Goodrick, a failed rock musician who has never managed to get my name right, though he did once get it promisingly wrong: he called me Mrs. Morrison, which isn’t that far removed from Ms. Merrison. When I suggested he call me Justine, he winked and said, “Right you are, Justin,” and I couldn’t tell if he was deliberately winding me up or awkwardly flirting.
    “And the homework was what?” I ask Ellen. “To write a story?”
    She eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you so interested? I’d hardly be writing a story if I’d been told to draw a pie-chart, would I?”
    Hallelujah. “I withdraw the question.”
    No reaction from Ellen.
    Pull that in my courtroom again, I’ll have you disbarred, counselor.
    How could I explain to anyone who didn’t know us that I’m worried about my daughter because she’s stopped pretending to be an irascible American judge? They’d think I was insane.
    “Does the story have to begin with a family tree?” I ask.
    “No. Mum, seriously, stop interrogating me.”
    I think about saying, I’m not keen on family trees. In fact, I loathe them.
    No, I’m not going to do that. It would be a bribe—“Chat to me like you used to and I’ll tell you a juicy story”—and it wouldn’t be fair.
    Hardly juicy. A family tree on a child’s bedroom wall. With the wrong family on it.
    Cut.
    That’s one useful thing about having worked in television, at least: I have extensive experience of ruthless cutting. If I don’t like a scene that’s playing in my mind, I can make it disappear as quickly as an axed TV drama.
    Usually.
    “Where did you get those names from?” I ask Ellen. “Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey—”
    “Mum! For God’s sake!”
    “Garnet, Urban, Allisande . . . they’re so strange. And why did you use your own name? Why is there an Ellen in the Ingrey family?”
    “I don’t know. There just is. Stop inventing things to worry about. It’s just a story.”
    I can hardly tell her that reading it made me feel as if I’d swallowed a lead weight. “Yes, and you’ve decided to put things in your story for a reason.”
    “I didn’t think about the names.” Ellen studies her fingernails, avoiding my eye. “I wanted to make the story sound old-fashioned and sinister, I suppose.”
    “You succeeded,” I tell her. The heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach lifts a little. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about after all. “You should add dates. To the family tree—not necessarily to the story. What time period are you in? What year did Perrine Ingrey murder Malachy Dodd?”
    “I don’t know!” Ellen snaps. “Some time in the past. And don’t talk about the characters as if they’re real. Ugh, it’s embarrassing.”
    That’s her. She’s still in there.
    “Look, it’s only some stupid