‘Hey, Mum.’
‘How lovely to hear from you. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Are you around this evening?’
‘I’ve got a spinning class. Would you like to come?’
‘Oh, erm. When is it? I’m not sure I’d be up to that today.’
‘No problem. We could do hot yoga instead?’
Hot yoga might help, Rose thought. She probably still had plenty of toxins left in her body that could be sweated out.
‘Sure, hot yoga. I’ll meet you there. Text me the details.’
‘Great! See you then. Love you.’
‘Love you.’
Rose lasted twenty minutes in the class. Lola was right, it was hot. Too hot. The second she walked through those doors into the candlelit studio, it felt suffocating. They were midway through something called the dancer’s pose when Rose felt her limbs collapse beneath her and she tumbled into a sinewy woman to her right.
‘Shh!’ the woman snapped as Lola turned around and helped her daughter up.
The class only got harder from there. Watching Lola helped; her mother was dreadful at yoga. She was surprisingly flexible for a fifty-six-year-old, stretching her limbs out and moving into the splits with ease. But she seemed incapable of following instructions, elegantly gesturing her arms into the air like she was performing on stage while everyone else was tilted down to the floor in triangle pose.
They were in the middle of another complicated pose when Rose heard a moaning sound coming from the corner of the room. Relieved it wasn’t Lola, she looked closer to see a young woman in a pink sports bra panting with pleasure. Was she …? Could she be …?
‘Congratulations, darling!’ cooed Lola, prompting the room to burst into a fit of girlish giggles.
‘Mum!’ Rose shushed.
‘What?’ Lola whispered back. ‘It’s quite common! Why do you think I started doing hot yoga?’
Later, they sat on wooden benches in the reception area drinking complimentary herbal tea that the receptionist assured Lola had been brewed on site.
‘I’m not having any pesticides this week, that’s all,’ her mother smiled back as she took a glass for herself and Rose.
‘I don’t think there are ever any pesticides in herbal tea, Mum,’ said Rose.
‘You never know, Bitsy.’
Lola was halfway through a story about her hairdresser’s dog who had befriended the neighbourhood rabbit when Rose found herself interrupting.
‘Can we talk about Dad?’
Unease stretched across Lola’s face. She took a large sip of tea.
‘Bitsy,’ she paused. ‘Really?’
‘Please.’
‘What do you want to know now?’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lola replied, eyes fixed on the tea in front of her.
‘You must have some idea. Surely there’s information on the bank statements from the money he sends? A country? A tropical island? Literally anything.’
‘There is information on the bank statements, yes.’
‘Well? Where is he then?’
‘Please don’t go looking for him.’
‘He’s my dad!’
‘Do you know how hard I have worked to protect you from him?’
Rose softened, leaning back in her chair to offer up some space as her mother hardened.
‘How much I had to sacrifice?’ she continued. ‘Why would you want to go running to him when all he’s ever done is abandon you? He left you,’ she paused. ‘He left us. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I know,’ replied Rose.
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Maybe, I don’t know. Don’t daughters need fathers?’
