The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

use it to clean up the mess I’ve found myself in. I haven’t seen Dad since the pictures went online, and while I’m almost certain the care home staff won’t have told him, won’t have shared the juicy news that his daughter’s naked body is out there on the internet for anyone to ogle, I can’t be sure that one of his friends hasn’t seen them, or one of his care home buddy’s relatives. The thought of him hearing about it and then, horror of horrors, taking a look for himself, petrifies me. I’ve spoken to him on the phone over the past few days, just briefly, telling him I’ll be in soon and that everything’s been a bit hectic, and he’s given me no indication that he knows anything’s amiss. Even so, nerves are beginning to flutter in my stomach as I get into the car to drive to Holly Tree.

When I walk into reception, Anya is arranging some flowers in the big vase that sits on the round table in the centre of the entrance lobby. I can smell the fragrance from several feet away; it’s a heady mix of lilies, freesias, and irises, sweet and powdery.

‘Mrs Holland!’

She sees me and smiles. Her official title here is Client Liaison Manager, which always makes me think of a bank, but she’s charming and excellent at her job, a reassuring link between anxious relatives and clinical staff.

‘Hi, Anya. Just popping in to see Dad. Look, I’m so sorry about … well, you know. I’m still trying to work out what happened.’

I can feel myself blushing but she’s grimacing, moving closer, and putting a sympathetic hand on my arm.

‘Don’t worry, honestly. We’ve all taken pictures we regret, but to be hacked …’

She’s keeping her voice low, glancing over at the desk where Ben, the head receptionist, is chatting to a well-dressed couple and pointing to something in a colourful brochure.

‘But I didn’t …’ I begin, then give up. What’s the point?

‘Anya, do you think …? I hardly dare ask, but do you think Dad …?

She’s shaking her head.

‘It’s lucky we’re staffed twenty-four-seven, to be honest. I think the night crew spotted the post on our Facebook page pretty quickly and deleted it before too many people saw it. We haven’t had any comeback at all, as far as I know. There’s a possibility, of course, that some of our residents know, but nobody’s said anything. So I think you might be in the clear, as far as John goes, fortunately.’

I want to kiss her but instead I thank her fervently, apologise again, and go and find Dad. He’s sitting by the window in the bar, clearly engrossed in some programme that’s playing on the little digital radio that’s sitting on the table in front of him. I pause in the doorway for a moment, watching him. He looks content, and I feel a rush of gratitude; I’m so thankful that he’s still here, that he’s well and safe and happy. As I cross the room towards him though, I see out of the corner of my eye heads turning and eyes following me; I hear a little snigger and my throat tightens. Do they know then, some of them at least, despite what Anya said? Or is this my paranoia taking over again? It’s just natural curiosity to look round to see who’s getting a visitor – nothing more than that, I tell myself. But the snigger has bothered me and the thought that the eyes following me now have also lingered on images of my unclothed body turns my stomach.

I sit down opposite Dad and swallow hard. He looks up, squints, and smiles his crooked smile.

‘Hello, love. Mished your face.’

‘Missed you too, Dad. You look well.’

I leave an hour later feeling lighter and ignoring what I’m sure are fresh stares as I depart. He doesn’t know, I’m sure of that, and if some of the other residents do, then all I can do is hope they’ve got the decency to continue to keep it to themselves. Dad was in good form. He’s feeling stronger every day and happily swallowed the lies I told him about taking some time off work because I have annual leave to use up, and about Jacob taking the children off my hands for a while to give me a proper break.

‘You desherve it, love,’ he slurred, and squeezed my hand, his wrinkled fingers soft as tissue-paper. I kissed him and nodded, and told him I was going to make the most of it, almost starting to believe it myself. As I drive home though, I start to worry again. Mum gave me a number for Mike last night and calling him is next on my to-do list.

‘I mean, I’m not sure how much good it’s going to do,’ she said doubtfully as she scribbled the number on the back of an envelope and pushed it across the table to me.

‘I know you think you saw him all over the place but honestly, I’m a hundred per cent sure he went back to Cornwall before I even got here, love. He’s got nothing to do with those silly pictures, mark my words.’

I told her she was probably right, that calling him was just a box-ticking exercise, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense to me that it was Mike I kept seeing, that he is involved, that he somehow found out about my past while working for Mum and is now working for Lucy Allen’s family, helping them wreak revenge. But how? How did he do it all?

Whoever he got to help him, he could have given them the camera equipment and instructions on exactly what to do with it, couldn’t he? I think. I saw him – thought I saw him – with Robin first, didn’t I? And then chatting to Barbara and Brenda outside, and then at the surgery? What if he offered them all money to mess with