**Thursday, 12th October**
Discovered Dad had a mistress entirely by chance. I’d skipped school to accompany my mate Sophie to a tattoo artist. Didn’t fancy going to the Croydon mall in uniform, so popped home to change. Just as I wrestled one leg into my jeans, a key turned in the lock. I froze mid-hop, completely unbalanced. My first panicked thought was burglars, until I heard Dad’s voice downstairs. Sounded like he was on a call.
“Just grabbing my gym kit now. Setting off straight away. Can’t very well claim I was at football practice if my bag’s under the bed,” he said clearly.
My mistake – it wasn’t a live call. He’d been recording a voice note, because a minute later, a woman’s voice replied: “Darling, I’ve missed you terribly. Hurry up! Baked your favourite scones. Don’t want them going cold. Kisses!”
The full meaning hit me later. Recognised the voice first: Auntie Jo. Dad’s colleague and technically Mum’s best friend’s sister. Always liked her. Auntie Jo wasn’t like other grown-ups – didn’t pretend she knew the ‘right’ way to live, loved a laugh, listened to Radio 1 instead of Mum and Dad’s dreary oldies. Only then did I grasp *why* she’d sent that note.
Keys jangled, the door closed, silence fell. Sinking onto the bed, I replayed her words. No mistake. Dad was having an affair. What now? Tell Mum? How to face Dad? Or Auntie Jo?
Still undecided, I bolted to meet Sophie – five texts waiting. We’d spent weeks deciding on designs; she’d perfected forging her Mum’s signature. My mood had vanished.
“Beth, what’s crawled up you?” Sophie nudged. “Pouting ‘cos you want tats too? Easy! I’ll forge your Mum’s scrawl!”
Desperately wanted to share the awful news, spread the burden. Impossible. Made out it *was* about the tattoo.
The next fortnight was a blur. Couldn’t focus in class, avoided friends, snapped at Mum, scowled at Dad. Clueless what to do. Almost told Mum once, but she started ranting about my Chemistry mock results. We rowed horribly. Later, she brought me an éclair – my absolute favourite – into my room.
“Sorry, sweetheart, for shouting. Not good parenting, I know,” she murmured. “Just terrified about your GCSEs. Want everything perfect for you…”
“Mum, stop fussing about the exams!” I mumbled, grabbing the éclair. “This actually *for* me?”
“Course! Truce? Hate fighting with you.”
I kissed her cheek, promising myself: never cause her that kind of pain. If a silly row upset her this much, imagine discovering Dad’s betrayal? Must keep her from ever knowing.
Reluctantly, I became Dad’s accomplice. Covered his ‘late meetings’, reminded him of birthdays or Mum’s errands, distracted Mum if his phone rang. Meanwhile, I ignored his requests, answered curtly, barely held back my contempt.
Then, weirdly, things settled. Dad got home on time, I passed my mocks, started Year Eleven. The whole affair faded like a bad dream. I also met Jamie – two years older, first year at uni studying Law, played guitar. We’d hang with the group evenings, but often slipped away. One night, wandered until late near the Bromley fountain. Tiptoed in, hoping parents hadn’t noticed the time.
*Phew. Got away with it,* I thought.
“Beth?” Mum’s voice. Spoke too soon.
She peered into my room. “You’re a bit late.”
Bracing for a bollocking. Instead, she just stood there. Not even waiting for a reply properly.
“Sorry, lost track with Sophie and them. Mum… you alright?”
Even in the dim light, her eyes looked red-rimmed, like she’d wept.
“Fine. Tell me… you or Dad didn’t buy jewellery recently? Found a receipt for earrings. Just curious.”
A sixth sense warned me: tread carefully.
“Jewellery?”
“Saw some silver earring receipt, just wondered…”
“Oh! Right!” Relief flooded me. “Sorry, forgot. Asked Dad for cash for Hannah’s birthday prezzie. She got her ears done. Wanted something nice. Too dear, yeah? Sorry, Mum.”
Caring vanished – Mum brightened instantly.
“Don’t worry! Just being silly. You’re such a thoughtful girl. Takes after your Dad!”
Lying felt vile. Next day, vowed to end it. Confronting Dad terrified me. But Auntie Jo… maybe doable. Unsure *what* to say, decided to wing it.
Dad and Auntie Jo worked at the newspaper office – him a reporter, her Editor. When I was younger, he often took me. Getting in was easy.
Needed Dad out. Solved that days later – over breakfast, he mentioned interviewing the plant manager. After first period, I bunked off, asking Sophie to cover. Hopped the bus. Arrived in half an hour.
Reception waved me through. Confidently climbed to the second floor, knocked where ‘Editor’ gleamed on the door.
“Come in!” Auntie Jo’s voice. I pushed the door open.
“Beth?” She looked baffled. “Dad’s out interviewing…”
Legs trembling, I dropped into the chair opposite, trying to sound brave. Planned a fierce speech on the bus. Now, words stuck.
“Those earrings… Dad bought them for you?” I managed.
Dangling from her ears were small, sparkly studs catching the light.
“What?”
Had I not overheard that message, I might’ve believed her genuine confusion.
“Know everything,” I stated flatly. “Mum found the receipt. Feel no shame?”
Something shifted on Auntie Jo’s face. Anger, maybe.
“You telling me your father bought jewellery?”
“Earrings specifically. Don’t pretend!”
She looked… oddly furious?
“Your Dad bought earrings?”
“Mum said earrings,” I insisted. “Stop pretending you’re innocent.”
She stayed silent forever it seemed, then sighed.
“Go home, love. Best not get tangled in this.”
Something in her tone chilled me. Far messier than I thought. On the bus home, realised Auntie Jo would tell Dad, he’d demand answers, Mum would find out… nightmare.
Faked a headache that evening, went to bed early. Dad was late again – probably with Auntie Jo. Heard him come in. Next morning, he acted normal around *me*, terse with Mum, distracted.
A week later, he packed a bag. Moved in with Lucy the intern. *She* got the earrings. Auntie Jo fired the rival. I overheard Mum telling her friend later. Friend insisted:
“Don’t blame Jo! She’s a saint! Sacked
She traced the fresh ink reading ‘Love is blind’, drew the curtains against the too-cheerful sun, and switched on the telly, letting the drone drown out Dad’s hesitant voice calling her for dinner – the tattoo a sharp reminder of her vow to keep her heart locked tight.
