Page 51 of Lights, Camera, Love

Evie

With painstaking care, I drag a stripe of black liner along my eyelid, attempting to perfect a cat’s-eye flick. Mum shouts something indecipherable from the living room and I flinch, smudging the makeup. I wince at my reflection, my look now transformed from sultry feline into something resembling Cleopatra after too many tequila shots.Shit, I’m so crap at this.

‘You right, Mum?’ I call out while dabbing my eye with a wet wipe.

She doesn’t reply, but over the Dua Lipa album I have playing from my portable speaker, I can hear her speaking to someone in a harsh, terse voice. I’m close to being late for the DanceLab showcase, but I hasten down the hallway and peek into the living room to make sure everything’s okay.

Mum sits perched on the edge of the couch with her phone pressed to her ear, her skin ghostly white. Her eyesskip to mine. ‘Stop talking!’ she hisses into the speaker and covers it with her palm. ‘What is it, Evie?’

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, stepping closer. ‘Who’s on the phone?’

‘No one.’ Her shaky voice trips over the words.

‘What do you mean “no one”—who is it?’ I tread over to Mum, but she lurches away from me like the world might implode if I get my hands on her phone.

What the hell?

I snatch the phone from her fingers and bring it to my ear, my heart thumping. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

I hear a sharp intake of breath. Then, silence.

‘Hello?’ I press.

Mum’s face twists as she jumps up to grab the phone, but I turn away from her and stride into the kitchen. She follows me, huffing.

‘Hello?’ I repeat forcefully to whoever’s breathing on the other end of the line.

‘Is that … is that Evie?’ grunts a male voice, its deep, nasal resonance faintly familiar.

‘It is.’

Mum rounds on me, then freezes on the spot, her eyes like dinner plates.

‘Who is this?’ I say, unease slicing into my gut.

The person on the other end takes several shaky breaths, and I don’t know how I know, but I just do. My stomach pitches.

‘Is this … is this Gabriel?’ I breathe.

He swallows audibly. ‘Yes, Evie, it … it is.’

My jaw hangs agape.

Before he can say another word, Mum seizes the phone from my fingers and brings the speaker to her lips. ‘Do not call here again,’ she bites out, then ends the call.

I can’t seem to find any air to breathe. My hands clutch my head to stop it from spinning. I turn to Mum, still slack-jawed. ‘That washim?’

She takes my quivering hand and guides me over to the couch to sit beside her.

‘Was…that…him?’ I push on in a broken voice—a stupid question because I already know the answer. What I’m having trouble with is believing it.

‘Yes.’ Mum’s head bows; her white-knuckled fingers squeeze mine. ‘It was your father.’

Oh my god.

For a minute, we sit trapped inside a cage of stony, shell-shocked silence.

‘What did he want?’ I breathe, finally finding my voice.

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