The Husband's Secret(45)

            “All the time,” said Polly. “He looks at her weirdly.”

            “No he doesn’t,” said Esther.

            “Yeah, he looks at her like it’s hurting his eyes. Like he’s angry and sad at the same time. Especially when she wears that new skirt.”

            “Well, that’s a silly sort of thing to say,” said Cecilia. What in the world did the child mean? If she didn’t know any better, she would think that Polly was describing John-Paul looking at Isabel in a sexual way.

            “Maybe Daddy is mad with Isabel about something,” said Polly. “Or he just feels sad that she’s his daughter. Mum, do you know why Daddy is mad at Isabel? Did she do something bad?”

            A panicky feeling rose in Cecilia’s throat.

            “He probably wanted to watch the cricket on TV,” mused Polly. “And Isabel wanted to watch something else. Or, I don’t know.”

            Isabel had been so grumpy lately, refusing to answer questions and slamming the door, but wasn’t that what all twelve-year-old girls did?

            Cecilia thought of those stories she’d read about sexual abuse. Stories in the Daily Telegraph where the mother said, “I had no idea,” and Cecilia thought, How could you not know? She always finished those stories with a comfortable sense of superiority. This could not happen to my daughters.

            John-Paul could be strangely moody at times. His face turned to granite. You couldn’t reason with him. But didn’t all men do that at times? Cecilia remembered how she and her mother and sister tiptoed around her father’s moods.

            But John-Paul would never harm his daughters. This was ridiculous. This was Jerry Springer stuff. It was a betrayal of John-Paul to allow the faintest shadow of a doubt to cross her mind. Cecilia would stake her life on the fact that John-Paul wouldn’t abuse one of his daughters.

            But would she stake one of her daughters’ lives?

            No. If there was the smallest risk . . .

            Dear God, what was she meant to do? Ask Isabel, “Has Daddy ever touched you?” Victims lied. Their abusers told them to lie. She knew how it worked. She read all those trashy stories. She liked having a quick cathartic little weep before folding up the newspaper, putting it in the recycling bin and forgetting all about it. Those stories gave her a sick sort of pleasure, whereas John-Paul always refused to read them. Was that a clue to his guilt? Aha! If you don’t like reading about sick people, you’re sick yourself!

            “Mum!” said Polly.

            How could she possibly confront John-Paul? “Have you ever done anything inappropriate to one of our daughters?” If he asked a question like that of her, she would never forgive him. How could a marriage continue when a question like that was asked? “No, I haven’t ever molested our daughters. Pass the peanut butter, please.”

            “Mum!” said Polly again.

            “What?”

            You shouldn’t have to ask, he’d say. If you don’t know the answer, you don’t know me.

            She did know the answer. She did!

            But then all those other stupid mothers thought they knew the answer too.

            And John-Paul had been so strange on the phone when she asked him about that letter. He had been lying about something. She was sure of it.

            And there was the sex thing. Perhaps he’d lost interest in Cecilia because he was lusting after Isabel’s changing young body? It was laughable. It was revolting. She felt sick.

            “MUM!”