After that I only had to picture my face and I could get the waterworks going right away. It took about sixty seconds at first, but I got it down to thirty seconds after doing it every day for a week. Just as the tears started to fall, I pushed up my sleeve again so my father could see the purple there too, where Sergei had grabbed me. Perfect timing.

My father looked up, but not at me, at the beige wall. There were tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t stop them from coming out.

I remember all those times in the front hall of our house, when my father would leave for evening meetings. He’d be on the way out the door and he’d say, “Now, Isabella, you do your homework. Stay off the phone. Don’t be on the computer all night.” I’d smile and he’d pat me on the cheek. That’s my girl.

When he drove down the road I’d call Sergei and he’d come over. My father would always have these chores for me to do, mow the lawn, weed the garden. Sergei would do them while I sat in the lawn chair. It was nice living in the country, so much privacy living up on the Mountain. You could do whatever you wanted. When Sergei’s back was turned I’d take my clothes off. He’d turn around and his eyes would pop and he’d run his tongue over his sexy red lips and give me this hot little smile.

I was sad when my mother left, but I was only twelve, and three years is enough time to get over it. She hated the house. It had been my father’s idea to move to the country. He said the commute was worth the peace and quiet. But she was bored, sitting in the chair looking down over the field to the valley below. She bought a painting and hung it there by the big window. It was all these pastel swirls and had words on it: Soft winter white makes pale winter blues.

“Why are you going?” I’d asked her that day I got off the bus. My mother was in the doorway with her suitcases. It was June. She’d forgotten it was a half-day at school, and I came home to find her packing up her car.

“You’ll be fine. You’re just like him,” she said as she got into the car, smiling at me. Not a mean smile. A smile like it was the only thing she could do and, even though it was such a small thing, she felt good about it. She was gone but it didn’t mean my father was around more. It was like nothing had changed for him.

I was in the city once, on a school trip. We got lost and we ended up at a hotel, a fancy one in the city centre. There was a café in the middle of the lobby with all these potted trees. You could have a drink there or afternoon tea in the hotel café. There was a woman sitting at a table and Susan, my classmate, whispered she was a hooker. She had dyed platinum hair and stiletto black boots. I suppose she could have been a hooker. We were sitting there and who came in and sat down with her but my father. Susan didn’t know it was my father sitting there.