Page 77 of Good Bad Girl

“I’ll pay you anyway. If you keep her safe and keep quiet about all of this. Five thousand pounds. Does that sound fair?” That amount of cash could literally change my life. I can leave the attic and find somewhere better to liveandapply for art school.

“It’s a deal,” I say holding out my hand for her to shake. “By the way, my name is—”

“I don’t want to know,” Clio replies. She doesn’t shake my hand either. She stares at me intently again, then shakes her head and looks away. “My mother has always been good at putting bad ideas in my head. The less we know about each other the better. I’ll give you my address so you know where to bring Mum, but other than that let’s pretend we’re strangers, that we’ve never met.”

I put the out-of-order sign around Joy’s neck before pulling the elevator door closed.

“Is that a good idea?” Clio asks.

Before I can answer the elevator lights up, rumbles to life, and starts to slowly rattle its way down toward the ground floor.

“I thought you said it wasbroken!” Clio whispers.

“I thought it was.” I hear the sound of the elevator opening downstairs, but I’m surprised when I don’t hear anything else. Nocry for help. No sound of screaming. As though someone just discovered Joy’s body in the elevator and left it there. “We need to hurry up and get out of here.”

“Wait,” Clio says before we go back into Edith’s room. “How do I know I can trust you?”

I tell her something Edith has told me many times.

“You don’t, but you can. Strangers are less likely to let you down than people you know.”

The Beginning

Mother’s Day, one year later

“Thank you,” Mum says, when she opens the papercut card I have made for her.

It’s been six months since she quit her job at the prison, and she looks so different. Younger, happier, carefree. She’s started wearing more colorful clothes now that her work doesn’t require a uniform, and today’s outfit is a carefully chosen floral dress. Her newly highlighted hair has been shaped into a neat bob that frames her face, and she smiles more these days too.

“Thank you very much,” she says, reading the card.

I kiss her on the cheek. “You’re welcome.”

“They’ll be here soon, we should finish getting everything ready.”

I can see Mum’s lips move as she silently counts the steps from the small galley kitchen on our boat to the main door. I know she’s nervous about today, we both are. I follow her out onto thedeck, before stepping up onto the riverbank. The narrow boat looks completely transformed, and not just because of our new surroundings on this quieter stretch of the River Thames. It’s still calledThe Black Sheepbut has been painted turquoise. Life is different now too, mostly for the better.

Inside, the boat is spotless. Mum was up before the birds today, cleaning and tidying every inch of it so that now the whole place smells of Mr. Sheen. But it is a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon, so we have set up a table on the grassy riverbank, along with some bunting and festoon lights for when it gets dark. The table is set for four: us and our two guests. Mum has used her “best plates” and her favorite—mismatching—colored glasses and pretty napkins. There is a cake stand soon to be filled with delicious treats for an afternoon tea by the river, and there are champagne flutes on the table too, because today is a celebration.

Mum has a new job. She’s the manager of a new independent bookstore in London.

We head back inside and she wipes down the kitchen one last time. There is a postcard from Liberty on the fridge. She got out six months ago and is now backpacking around South America, and Mum said she might give her a job when she gets back. She is busy putting some flowers in a vase when we hear the taxi pull up.

“Is it them?” she asks.

“I can’t see from here. Relax. Everything looks great.”

A moment later there is a knock on the door and we stare at each other.

“I’ll get it,” I say when she doesn’t move.

Clio is a changed woman too, it’s as though she has softened around the edges. And Dickens looks like a different dog. He has regular trips to the groomers since he started spending time at the pink house—Clio looks after him whenever I can’t—and he looks rather dapper today in a black velvet collar and matching bow tie. He wags his tail as soon as I open the door.

“Come in, lovely to see you both,” I say.

Clio and Mum do not hug, but they do smile when they say hello. It’s still awkward but I hope it won’t always be this way. Like it or not, we are family—an unusual one—and I want both of these women in my life.

“I brought some champagne,” Clio says, taking a bottle of something expensive-looking from her bag. “We have so much to celebrate.”

---