The Wreckage

18

There are lights on inside the house. Ruiz doesn’t remember leaving them on. He makes Holly wait in the car. Unlocks the door. Pushes it open with one foot.

Claire is standing in the hallway. She looks like her mother-not her hair or her build but her eyes and her high forehead. Unfortunately, she inherited Ruiz’s temper. She’s talking on her mobile.

“He’s not dead-not yet anyway… I haven’t asked him. I’ll call you later.”

Ruiz looks past her into the lounge. Phillip, her fiance, is sitting on the sofa, resting his feet on the coffee table. Blond and blue-eyed, he has a touch of Boris Johnson about him, including the foppish hair. Acknowledging Ruiz with a nod, he almost looks sorry for him.

Claire picks up her coat. “We can go now, Phillip.”

“Is something wrong?” asks Ruiz.

“Oh, nothing much,” she replies, sarcastically. “You missed the dinner last night with Phillip’s parents. We waited for over an hour.”

“Shit!”

“I spent all night trying to call you. Phillip’s parents caught the train back to Brighton this morning.” She holds up her hand like she’s a traffic cop. “Come on, Phillip. We’re leaving.”

Ruiz intercepts her at the front door.

“I was robbed. They took a lot of stuff. Personal things. Some belonged to your mum. I was trying to get them back before the wedding.”

Claire studies his face.

“When was this?”

“The night before last.”

“Did they steal your phone?”

“No.”

“What about all your phone numbers?”

“No.”

“So you could have called me?”

Ruiz hesitates. Claire keeps landing verbal blows. “You forgot, that’s the truth of it. You missed dinner because you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget… I mean, I would have come. I was planning to, but they stole important things…”

She gazes at the ceiling. Sighs.

“I thought you’d been in some terrible accident. I started calling hospitals… the police…” Her eyes narrow. “Did you report the robbery?”

“No.”

“Where did you sleep last night? I came round here looking for…”

Claire stops in mid-sentence. Holly is standing in the doorway, slightly pigeon-toed, holding a plastic bag against her chest. Claire looks at her as if unsure of the protocol and who should speak first.

“Holly, this is Claire, my daughter. Claire, this is Holly.”

Neither woman speaks.

Ruiz turns to Holly. “There’s a bath upstairs and you’ll find some of Claire’s old clothes in a wardrobe in the spare room. She’s about your size. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Claire looks bewildered. Holly steps past her and climbs the stairs.

“Who is she?”

“The girl who robbed me.”

The look of confusion on Claire’s face changes to one of disbelief.

“She doesn’t have anywhere else to stay,” says Ruiz, aware of how little sense he’s making. “She took your mother’s jewelry. I’m trying to get it back.”

Claire shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, Dad. I don’t know why I expect anything different from you. You didn’t turn up at parent-teacher nights or at ballet recitals or Eisteddfods. When I auditioned for the Academy, when I had my car stolen, when Michael got himself arrested…”

“When did Michael get arrested?”

“He brought that bag of coca tea back from Peru.”

Ruiz nods, remembering.

Claire hasn’t finished. “You were always too busy or too selfish or too self-absorbed in your police work or rugby or your womanizing. Michael and I raised ourselves.”

“And look how you turned out.”

“This isn’t funny, Dad. The only smart thing you ever did was marry Miranda, and then you went and divorced her.”

“ She divorced me.”

“And whose fault was that? You keep spouting the same tired old crap, Dad. Same excuses. Same jokes.”

She pushes past him, pulling on a cardigan, ignoring his apologies. Ruiz can imagine her talking to a therapist ten years from now, recounting how her father was only a shadowy presence in her life. He didn’t bake cakes on cake day. He couldn’t put her hair in a bun. He didn’t take photographs or home movies. He didn’t understand ballet.

For a brief moment he contemplates telling her about Laura’s letter to her and the importance of the hair-comb, but if he can’t get the items back maybe it’s best that Claire doesn’t know.

Ruiz turns to Phillip. “Tell your parents I’m sorry. Maybe we can reschedule the dinner.”

“Absolutely,” he says, saying no without using the word no.

Claire is on the doorstep. She turns suddenly, kissing Ruiz on the cheek.

“Daddy.”

“Yes, Claire?”

“Sometimes you make it very hard to love you.”