L aughter floated up the stairs as I curled up under my duvet trying to drop off.
One voice boomed above the rest. My dad Paul, then 29.
Please stay downstairs, I thought, fear twisting in my tummy.
It was December 1996, I was 6, and Dad and my mum Kathy, then 33, had friends over.
Dad making everyone laugh, charming people.
It’s what he did, you see.
How he kept his sordid secret.
One of my first memories was Dad rubbing his privates against me.
He came into my room, his hands roving under the covers to touch me in places he shouldn’t.
From the outside, we were the pictureperfect family.
Dad was the larger-than-life estate agent.
Mum was working as a senior manager, devoted to me and my…