Call Me Daddy

Chapter One

Laine

My stupid pumps aren’t cut out for this weather. Cold water squelches between my toes, and my breath is misty, wet hair like frozen straw against my cheeks. I can hardly see through the rain.

Damn my birthday for being so late in November.

Damn me for not thinking harder about my wardrobe choices.

I wasn’t planning on being out this late, eighteenth birthday or not. I’m dressed for a quick coffee on a cloudy afternoon, not for clubbing through a stormy evening – leggings and a strappy cami under a fluffy teal cardigan that holds more rain than it keeps out. This stupid scenario is all Kelly Anne’s fault, insisting it wouldn’t be a proper birthday celebration unless it involved getting trashed in some sleazy club in the backstreets of Brighton. We’ll have a great time, she said, just a bus ride and a couple of drinks, she said. Who knows, you may even meet someone hot and finally ditch the V card, she said.

I have no intention of trading my virgin status for a drunken fumble in a back alley with some random who barely knows my name.

And now she’s bailed on me, typical Kelly Anne style. Last I saw of her she was lip-locked with some vest-top-clad hipster with thick-rimmed glasses. Then she was gone, off in a puff of tequila-scented pheromones for some bump and grind at hipster-guy’s pad, no doubt. Regular, except she still has my phone, purse and keys in her handbag for safekeeping.

My own stupid fault for believing for one single second she’d take care of them. Nothing is safe with Kelly Anne after a couple of tequilas, despite what she’ll have you believe.

I root through my sopping pockets, nothing there but a couple of soggy cigarette papers.

Idiot, I’m such an idiot.

I have no real plan for getting home to Newhaven. It’s the best part of a ten-mile hike, and the odds of making it back without either succumbing to hypothermia or stumbling into the sea are slim to nil. I’m sure I should be more freaked out than I am, but I feel strangely nonchalant. Actually, it’s more numb than nonchalant. Maybe I’ve had a few too many tequilas myself, or maybe it’s the sorry knowledge that I have nobody who cares enough to realise I’m stranded all alone without a penny in my pocket.

The fact that Kelly Anne is my best friend and the only real person who gave a shit about my birthday says it all. Even if I do make it home tonight, there’ll be nobody there. Mum’s away again, off in France with her latest conquest. Denny, he’s called. He works over there, doing up properties for rich folk, giving Mum the illusion that she’s one of them, and that’s all she’s ever wanted. That and a man who’ll stick with her longer than it takes to shoot his load. So far so good with Denny, six months and going strong. At least she remembered my birthday enough to send a text this year.

I think I’m heading for the sea front, I hope I’m heading for the sea front. They have bars there that stay open all night, maybe I can find somewhere to hang out until morning, somewhere vaguely warm to pass the time until I figure something out – except I don’t have my ID, that’s in Kelly Anne’s handbag, too. Even if I had any money for a drink, nobody ever lets me buy one without ID. I still get half-fare on public transport, that’s how young I look. Kelly Anne says it’s because I’m so blonde. You look like one of those creepy porcelain dolls, she says, but prettier. I guess that’s supposed to be a compliment.

Maybe I should try to find a police station, explain my sorry situation and hope they’ll let me stay until morning. Maybe I could face the ten-mile hike home when the sun comes up, if it ever stops raining. Maybe I could find a way to break in at home, or I could head over to Kelly Anne’s and wait for her to resurface, give her a piece of my mind for leaving me up shit creek on my own birthday without so much as loose change to my name. Maybe her parents will be home, maybe they’ll let me dry off and wait it out in her bedroom.

My numb feet splash through a puddle and it turns out they aren’t as numb as I thought. My teeth are chattering, arms folded tight, my wet cardigan so cold against my skin that it feels like an ice bath. Everything seems darker here. I can’t hear any distant bass from nearby clubs, just the occasional drone of a car and the drumming of the rain. The streets are narrow, a rat run of back alleys, wheeled bins piled high with crap. It smells rancid, and even though the dim lighting and the rain make it damned near impossible to get my bearings, I’m sure this isn’t the way to the sea front. I haven’t got a clue where I am or where the hell I’m going.