“I wish I could drive you to school, sweetheart. Once I’ve passed my disability driving test, it’ll be easier. It’s only a few more months away. Rehabilitation is going well. My therapists are delighted with my progress.”
“I know, Dad. Why do they have to be so nasty? I don’t understand,” she murmurs, switching topic mid-sentence the way only kids can. Some girls on the bus have been throwing insults, calling her names. I want to speak to the teacher; Hannah wants to hide in the bathroom. Again, compromise is proving hard to come by.
“Tell you what,” I say, “just this once I’ll call you a taxi.” She breaks into a relieved smile.
“Thank you, Dad. I love you.”
After seeing Hannah off, I return to the kitchen to clear the breakfast plates. The bullying is getting worse. Every night this week, I’ve heard her crying through her bedroom door; I feel completely lost about what to do for the best. A visit to the school is needed. Ainsley’s response was telling her that all girls go through it, and Hannah needs totoughen up. It’s like being the sole parent a lot of the time.
My phone rings, distracting me.
“Major McDonald?” The caller is polite and professional. “This is Sacha from Aviemore Health Clinic. Would you be able to attend today so we can collect samples for the paternity test? Bring whatever personal items of Mr. Jameson you have. A hairbrush or toothbrush perhaps.”
“Yes, no problem,” I respond. “What time?”
“Twelve noon?”
“Okay. And how can you be sure the sample I give you is Dog’s?” I clear my throat, stumbling, using my friend’s nickname. “Mr. Jameson’s, I mean.”
“We’ve requested samples from his medical records too,” she replies, kindly. “If your sample matches, then we can double check with the official records. This way just helps speed the process along. Your caseworker asked us to process this as a matter of urgency.”
The social worker, Beth, said it would be quick, but I wasn’t expecting a call today. It’s good to think they have our unexpected arrival’s best interests in their focus too. A swift outcome will be best for all of us—one way or the other.
So today, I do have plans after all.
Chapter twenty-seven
Katie
The makeup artist—Stephanie—applies another coat of lip gloss to my already caked lips. “Makeup needs to be strong for TV,” she tells me for the tenth time after I question the volume she’s been applying. “The camera detracts so much; we need to ensure you stand out.” The chances of me being missed are slight as I look at my bright red lips in the mirror. “You’ve a quirky look, Kate. We should capitalize on that. You need to be memorable.”
“Katie,” I correct her, though I doubt she notices. So much for memorable. I can’t even correct my own name loudly.
Quirkyis the description a lot of people use to describe me. My agent says they find my crazy curls and thick glasses appealing.
I call it my chaotic librarian look.
Since my book’s release in December, life has been a whirlwind.
I got lucky. My publisher’s social media department released the right post on the right day, and it went viral.
Sex with Satanbecame an internet sensation with people dressing up in devil horns and posing provocatively on all social media platforms.
In return, my book sales went through the roof—who knew there would be so many women out there fantasizing about fucking the devil? I certainly didn’t.
What was once just mydirty bookis now a both loved and hated title in the literary world.
Today, I’m appearing on an American TV show to discuss my book and my further titles due for publication. If this goes like any of the other chat shows I have taken part in, the conversation will be directed toward my own sexual preferences and private life. Why do all journalists think all authors of erotica are whores? They would be awfully disappointed to find out about my lacking sex life.
Since Lance…
There was one guy—in his fifties and successful.
On paper, we would be a good match. But after a few dates, it was clear he only wanted me for sex. Conversation was lacking and my interest in him was minimal. Every time he touched me, I waited for a spark that never came. Lance ruined me for lukewarm chemistry.
I think of Lance often: how he is, if he’s still deployed somewhere far off. The temptation to look him up is so great that I deleted his number and blocked his social media profiles. It doesn’t stop the ache but muffles the need.
“Katie.” Celia’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Darling, how are you? Are you all set for the show?”