25. Now

When I reach the kitchen, Mina is pouring olive oil on a bowl of steaming beetroot, her swan's neck bent, her dark hair a silk curtain. At the table, Mother looks anxious, her watery eyes magnified by her glasses, while Father looks like the cat who got the cream. Which is quite normal. My father is a kind, generous man. But he's also smart and wily and loves winding her up.

‘I'm sorry,' says Mother. ‘I didn't say you didn't know what you were doing. I?—'

‘Did you tell me to "turn it anticlockwise", dear?' My father wears an amused smile.

‘Yes, but I?—'

‘Anticlockwise?'

‘I didn't mean?—'

‘But you used that word, didn't you, dear?' Father sets down a jar of horseradish sauce.

‘I did. I?—'

‘What a strange word. It's too logical. Anti. Clock. Wise. Against, opposite, the way of the clock.'

Mother is quiet. She's so thin these days I worry she might snap.

‘It sounds like it makes sense, doesn't it?' says Father.

Mother nods. She tries to catch my eye, but if she doesn't know Father is doing this on purpose, she'll get no help from me.

‘Father, Mother, I?—'

But Father hates being interrupted. ‘Did you hear it somewhere, dear? Did you read it on the interweb? Or did you come up with it, my pretty little head?'

Mother's mouth hangs open but nothing comes out. Does she want to object to his assertion that ‘anticlockwise' is made up? Or to his description of her as a ‘pretty little head'? She hates being called pretty. Especially now that her cheeks are dotted with sunspots. But she must know he's just being cheeky.

‘Anticlockwise!' Father snorts and throws a look over at Mina, who rolls her eyes with a smile.

He hasn't looked at me yet and I realise he's also annoyed with me for being late, again.

Mother worries her necklace and the click, click, click walks down my ear canal like a beetle. ‘David, it's a word!' Her voice goes shrill. ‘It's a completely normal word people use every day.' Her cheeks colour.

Father laughs. ‘Are you sure, dear?'

She nods, frowning, the red in her cheeks deepening.

‘Whatever next? Pro-sun-wards? Contra-tide-ways?'

‘It's a word.' Her mouth is determined, but then it wavers and she looks at me. ‘Fran? Tell me I'm not losing it.'

Father raises his palm at me. ‘You don't need a Falmouth art graduate to teach you English, do you, Miss Cambridge?'

I stare at him. He's always teasing Mother about her classics degree from Cambridge. He only went to Nottingham and achieved greatness, while she stayed home with the children. Which is a little unfair seeing as she'd wanted to work but he'd stopped her, and he'd inherited everything.

‘I… It is a word,' Mother says. She looks into her lap. ‘Anticlockwise. Anticlockwise.' She fingers her beads. ‘Oh, dear. I must be getting muddled. Once you say it a few times it does start to sound a bit silly.'

The floor feels like it's dropping away. My poor mother.

Father leans his head back and roars, showing his gold fillings. I'm suddenly aware of how big and broad he still is next to her.

I bite my lip as a revelation strikes me. Father isn't being cheeky. He's being cruel. It's not teasing. It's bullying.

I know what I'd normally think: He's only joking. Why does she always fall for this? She acts like she's stupid when she isn't – it's infuriating. But not now. Now, shame and revulsion fill me.

I want to rush over and shake him for his cruelty but it makes me feel sick, and instead I pinch the clipper cut on my thigh. It isn't the right moment. I need to focus on Jenna. I need to find my baby. Today is not the day.

‘Mother, Father, have you heard from Jenna?'

Father rolls his eyes, annoyed at my change of subject, and Mother watches him, not answering.

‘I've been trying to get hold of you. She left school at lunch. No one has seen her since.'

Father sighs. ‘She'll be out for dinner then, will she?'

This observation calms me slightly – that's all: my daughter is out for dinner. Then I see Jenna throwing Rose's bag at her and storming off and I want to shout, but no one shouts at Father.

I stare at him and he stares back and I clench my teeth and walk out. I pace the laundry. Was that an answer? Have they heard from her? Is it always like this between my mother and father?

I get that volcano feeling again and run through to the extension. In the office I share with Dan, I find my old pencil case and take it into our en suite and lock the door, ripping open the zip.

I haven't made a stencil in years but the craft knives inside are new and sharp. There's a little bottle of ethanol. I squirt some at the blade before I slide to the floor, pull up my dress and study the map of thin white scars on my inner thighs, admiring the tiny, arrow-shaped cut from the nail clippers, searching for the perfect place.

Dan will be so angry. I haven't cut in months. But Dan isn't here. So I choose a bare patch high on my right leg and I make three tiny, neat, comforting lines, one quickly after the other.