Page 36 of Cuckoo

I watch with morbid fascination as Lilah closes her eyes for a moment, as though exhausted, and her eyebrows furrow in what looks like sadness before springing back into their usual perfect arch.

‘I do. I thought he’d got rid of it.’

Part of me is confused she knows about his secret. It makes my grand reveal much less grand, and significantly less satisfying. I wanted Lilah to feel the same shock and betrayal I felt days ago when I found out about her.

‘It’s none of your business, it’s something I’ll speak with him about. If he has another burner phone then I know what he’s using it for and… well. We’ll have to deal with it, I suppose.’

I watch as her face crumples, noticing that it doesn’t seem to detract from her beauty at all. I thought seeing her in pain would make me feel better but find that it doesn’t. Not at all. Lilah may be feeling shit about herself, but it doesn’t change all that’s happened. It doesn’t bring Noah home or erase all his lies and deceptions.

She gathers herself quickly, to her credit.

‘I’m sorry. For telling you that.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising, but there’s something about the familiarity of betrayal that makes me feel sorry for her. We’ve both been duped by the same man, after all.

She shrugs.

‘What is it for?’ I ask.

She opens her mouth, as though to answer, then shuts it again. Her lips thin into a hard line and the seconds tick byaudibly, the grandfather clock in the corner of the room highlighting the silence that drags out.

‘You came to my office,’ she says, breaking the silence with a change of subject. She sounds very confident.

I look up at her. There’s no point in denying it, she clearly knows. I shrug. ‘I wanted to see if I could find any evidence about why Noah left me.’

She closes her eyes for a moment, her nostrils flared, as though trying to remain calm. Which irks me, because if either of us should be struggling to remain calm right now, it should be me. The forgotten fiancée. Not the thieving lover.

‘And did you?’ she asks instead, which surprises me.

‘Yes, actually. I did.’ I reach into my pocket and pull out the photograph of me, hold it up to her triumphantly. I watch her shoulders tense.

‘Care to explain this?’ I ask, tossing it onto the coffee table.

‘I printed it out to share with the others at the office,’ she mumbles.

‘Well, that much is obvious. Why?’ I ask.

I watch her fight with herself to find the correct answer, but eventually she sets her shoulders back and stares me dead in the eye. ‘So they knew not to let you in.’

I snort. ‘Why would you do that? It was the first and only time I ever visited. I didn’t know your name until the other day! And when did you get that photograph of me?’

‘When you first met Noah,’ she admits. Her tone has shifted and something about it seems off. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I feel newly apprehensiveabout this situation, about where this conversation is headed. I came in feeling confident, set to find answers, but I suddenly feel like I want to get out of here, like I’m being left with more questions than before.

Beside her, her phone flashes repeatedly. Someone is messaging her in quick succession. Her eyes flit to it quickly, then she reaches out and turns it onto its screen so I can’t see it anymore. I bristle.

I was fifteen. I quickly snapped my laptop shut the moment Mother entered my room so she couldn’t see the screen. Usually, I could sense her presence, hear her footsteps. But I’d been immersed in what I was reading and hadn’t noticed her approach.

‘Dinner is ready,’ she said, keeping her eyes fixed on me. ‘What were you looking at, Claire, darling?’ she asked, taking a step closer.

‘Nothing,’ I replied quickly. Too quickly.

‘Alright then. Well, go wash your hands and sit down to eat,’ she said, standing very still. I hesitated, not wanting to leave the laptop. That momentary hesitation was all it took. She leapt towards it with alarming speed, snatching it from my bed and rushing through to the kitchen where she flipped it open to find my internet window shining up at her. I rushed after her, gabbling that it was a school project, excuses flowing out of my mouth like bile.

She had a hand to her chest as though I had driven the breath from her body.

‘Claire? What is this?’ She turned the laptop so the screenwas facing me. The webpage I’d been looking at was revealed. LEGAL PARENTAL EMANCIPATION FOR MINORS.

‘It’s for a school project, Mother. That’s all.’

‘Your school is teaching you how todivorceyour parents?’ she said, her voice very quiet.

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