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seen
her before today, so naturally he'll be interested. But then something very
peculiar happens. Lydia glances at the car, and of course, its occupant, then
looks away.
    And that's all. She didn't even change
her expression. After that one quick glance, she mumbles a goodbye to me then
plods off along the road, weighed down by a great big satchel that looks
heavier than she is. Yet she must have seen him, my Dad, smiling out of the
window at her, ready to give her all the time in the world. How could she not
have seen him?
    It's shocking, how self-centred some
people can be. Hilary now, she would have given her right arm just for a
glimpse of him. But Lydia, she wasn't interested, didn't give him a second
thought, as if he wasn't there, as if he was just anyone. She took one look and
she walked away.
    It's the shock that keeps me watching
her, trudging along, shoulders bent, pipe cleaner legs getting thinner and
thinner. Then I hear a sound beside me. It's the window being wound up, so fast
it meets the top with a small thump. Which reminds me, I should have been
getting into the car.
    It's going to be harder this evening,
finding the right thing to say. She's turned everything upside down, has Lydia,
walking away like that. Not giving him the time of day. Acting as if he was
nobody. Nobody at all.
    Even before I climb into the car, the
bad leg begins to ache, the way it does at times like this, as if to remind me
of other times when everything's gone wrong. But it's important not to limp or
do anything to show. Do nothing, say nothing to remind. Less than perfect,
remember. Less perfect than ever now. He'll think it's my fault. My fault that
she didn't notice him, my fault that she didn't say a word. All these days
she's been at school and I haven't said a word about him. Not to Lydia.
    And no good telling him that the reason
I didn't mention him was because she didn't ask. That she wasn't interested.
That she's just one of those people who can only think about herself.
    In other words, not my fault at all.
     
     

Chapter Three
     
    Then again, there never was anyone like my
Dad for surprises. Surprising me.
    It must have been something that's
different about Lydia, something about her walking past. Even before he's started
the car, he's begun asking questions, and not one of them is about me .
Instead, he wants to know who she is, where she's from, why I haven't mentioned
her before.
    In short, he wanted to know all about
her.
    But it was when I told him about Greek,
how she had actually volunteered, that something deeper took place. Suddenly he
was so quiet it was impossible to tell if he was glad or upset. Then I
told him how her father had had nothing to do with it. How he didn't care what
she did. Which is when I went quiet too, so he'd see that I could see
it, the enormity of it. A child whose father didn't care what his daughter did.
A father who looked the other way.
    But even then the silence didn't last; a
moment later he's started up again, one question after the other, so in the
end, there's only the obvious question left unasked. The one question I
couldn't answer.
    How she could have walked away, and
never given him a second glance.
    But he never did ask. Something
unexpected has happened. My Dad, he never forgets to show an interest. It's the
secret of his success, the reason Hilary and the old ladies fall for him. He's
convinced them that they're special, something that couldn't be further from
the truth. And he does it without even having to try.
    But Lydia is different. Lydia has made
him stop and think, and not even Miss Jamieson has ever done that. (He found
his own way round her , didn't he, fingering her weak spot, bringing up
the Greek.)
    But now there's Lydia, and it's not the
same. The interest is real. And suddenly here, in the car, on the way home,
something has eased if only for a moment. There's been a shift.  Like having a
beam of light that should be trained on Kate Carr suddenly change