‘As I have told you before, I am simply trying to protect you,’ he said quietly and evenly, as though trying to rein in his temper. ‘When you’re … older, and ready, you can go out into the outside world. But if I let you go now, anything could …’

His voice cracked and he wiped away a tear. ‘Oh God, Laura, the thought of anything happening …’ He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

‘I’m sorry, Dad, I know,’ I said, panicked by the sight of his tears. He always reacted this way when I asked about my future. ‘I know you’re doing all this for me. But sometimes I feel like it would be nice to have a … friend.’

He looked up at me, his eyes glistening. ‘A friend? Friends aren’t always what they seem, Laura. Haven’t I taught you that?’

‘Uh – yeah. Yeah you have. Sorry, Dad.’

‘Aren’t I enough for you?’ I looked at him, his expression somewhere between pleading and terrified.

A lump rose in my throat and I reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘Of course you are, Dad,’ I said, because I wanted him to stop crying.

But I was lying.

He wasn’t.

I wanted something else.

Something more.

I just didn’t know quite what.

Up in my room after lessons, in between perfecting my song, I looked at myself in the mirror.

Almost all of the films Dad and I watched were black and white, and I didn’t look much like the women in any of them.

I leaned in close and examined my face. Unremarkable eyes, pale eyelashes, nose too big for my face, lips too thin, teeth too sticky-out and a bit wonky, and a couple of spots on my chin. I’d once asked Dad if I could get some make-up like I’d seen the women in the films use, but he said no, I was beautiful as I was, and then he started crying, so I didn’t ask again.

I took a handful of my mouse-brown hair and looked at the ends, which were scraggy and split. Taking a pair of paper scissors from my desk, I cut off the split bits and watched as they fell to the ground. I shook my hair back and tossed it about a bit.

Better. But not so different that Dad would notice, I hoped.

I unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on my boring navy-blue shirt and leaned into the mirror to peer at myself again. I pushed my elbows together, trying to give myself a cleavage like the women in the films from the 1950s, but it didn’t really work.

Was I pretty? Would anyone ever want me?

Would Fred like me?

I hugged myself. He wanted to talk to me. That was a start, wasn’t it?

28

May 2013

Scottish Highlands