All the Single Ladies (10 page)

As Dad heads dutifully into the kitchen I notice that he’s in his weekend attire: a buttoned-up short-sleeved shirt, boat shoes polished to a Queen’s Guard-standard shine and . . .
jeans. Which means he must have woken in a particularly devil-may-care mood today, for denim is rarely worn by my father.

The first time he ever bought jeans was in the late 1990s, and then only on the condition they boasted a crease down the front that could’ve been administered by a Savile Row tailor.
Obviously, no evidence of stone-washing would be tolerated; in his mind that is two steps from crystal-meth addiction.

‘Now,’ begins Mum, as she sits at the breakfast table. ‘About Jamie . . .’

Until the moment she delivers her verdict, I am struggling to predict it, simply because, from the first minute she met my ex-boyfriend, she was his biggest fan. They hit it off so
comprehensively she was even one of those rare beings who thought his music sounded good.

‘Jamie,’ she says serenely, ‘is a bastard.’

‘Mother!’ I splutter.

‘Oh don’t get me wrong,’ she protests innocently. ‘They all are. Men, I mean. Didn’t I teach you anything, Samantha?’

‘I see you still hold us in high regard, dear.’ Dad reappears and catches my eye, winking. I suppress a smile.

He puts down two mugs, including Mum’s favourite. It is plain white with the words ‘Well-behaved women rarely make history’ on the side.

‘I don’t mean you, Frank,’ she tuts softly. ‘It’s the rest of them that are the issue.’

‘I do love a sweeping generalization, dear,’ he replies, heading back to his chair on the other side of the table. ‘Jamie . . . the Yorkshire Ripper . . . Ghengis Khan . . .
all bastards.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Frank, do I need to remind you of the statistics? Two-thirds of the world’s work is performed by women. Only ten per cent of the world’s income goes to
them. You do the maths. Obviously, it doesn’t mean we don’t love you. We can love you but recognize you’re all bastards.’

Dad picks up his paper again and opens it as Mum stands to stir her wallpaper paste. ‘I’ve learned over the years, Samantha,’ he mutters, ‘that this is an argument I
can’t win. I don’t even try.’

Mum kisses him on the head. ‘Which is why, of all the bastards in all the world, Frank, you’re my favourite.’

My mum and dad are one of those rare couples who haven’t only stood the test of time, but they’ve blossomed. Like those pukesome people on Steve Wright’s Sunday Love Songs (in
fact, Dad once attempted to make a request for Mum, but the producers didn’t feel ‘Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know’ was in keeping with the tone of the show).

They couldn’t be more different, though – even in their working lives. As well as being a part-time boil on my dad’s bum, Mum works full-time at the Liverpool Women’s
Hospital Maternity Unit. She’s a midwife – head of her department, in fact – and, I’m led to believe, is brilliant at her job. She hasn’t always worked there;
she’s done stints in London too, although that was years ago.

I find it difficult to imagine my mother being present at the most excruciating, terrifying and monumental event of my life. But she has her fans, to which the scores of flowers and cards from
grateful new parents testify.

My father has a senior position at the Highways Agency, but beyond that I couldn’t tell you a great deal about his job. He’s not the sort of man who comes home and regales us with
riotous anecdotes about what’s gone on at the office. He could have spent eight hours doing the can-can and shooting passers-by with water pistols for all we know.

‘I only say this, Sam, to remind you that no man is worth shedding tears over,’ Mum continues. ‘Not Jamie, not anyone. We might adore them . . . we might not have discovered a
way to keep the human race going without them . . . but we must always remember we are worthy and beautiful people, whatever misery they cause us.’

She isn’t joking about the misery. In the five days following Jamie’s visit to the house, my mood has swung so dramatically it almost qualifies as a bipolar episode. Dazzling him
with that combination of my blow-up boobs and fake drying of laundry on the radiator was thoroughly empowering. The feeling continued the following day. But the day after that, when I still
hadn’t heard from him, a gnawing started in my stomach. I thought nothing of it. Jamie’s always been unpredictable; not hearing from him for a couple of days is something I’d got
used to over the years, even when we were living together.

On day three, we exchanged a couple of texts, but they were confined to discussing the gas bill, so my unease became more pronounced. By day four, it was less like a knot in my stomach and more
like a melon-sized peptic ulcer. And now . . . now I don’t know what to think.

‘I’m not sure this is helping, Mum,’ I mutter, in the absence of anything else to say.

Dad looks at his watch. ‘Right – I’d better run. I have an important appointment with twelve men dressed in red.’

My dad is a lifelong Liverpool fan and they’re playing Chelsea today.

‘Well, good,’ says Mum. ‘Sam and I can have a proper chat.’

‘What makes you think I want a proper chat?’ I squirm.

‘Of course you do,’ she pouts. ‘I’m your mother. You’re meant to discuss these things with your mother.’

‘Well, we’ve discussed it,’ I reply, drinking my tea as fast as I can. ‘I’ve told you what happened and you’ve told me not to cry. Which is excellent advice
and I promise I’ll take it.’

‘Now you’re being sarcastic,’ she says as Dad heads for the front door. ‘I’m only trying to help. And what I say is true. If you spend too much time thinking about
it, you might go and do something stupid like try to persuade him to come back.’

I look at my shoes. She looks at me.

‘You haven’t!’

‘Hmm . . . no,’ I reply, my face flushing. ‘But . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Oh Mum! I haven’t done anything,’ I protest. ‘If, for argument’s sake, Jamie and I were to get back together . . . and I do mean if . . .’

‘Yes?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘You can’t give him a hard time.’

‘As if I would! I’ve always loved Jamie.’

‘You’ve just called him a bastard.’

‘I’d never hold it against him. I explained that,’ she argues, taking a sip of her tea. ‘All I’m saying is this: don’t waste time and energy thinking about a
man who doesn’t want you. There’s only one thing you should be saying in this situation.’

‘What’s that?’

She flutters her eyelids. ‘Next!’

I roll my eyes.

‘I’m serious,’ she insists. ‘And you should go out and treat yourself a little. Go and have one of those spa days you like. Or buy yourself a new outfit. I heard they had
a sale on at Ted Bacon.’

‘Ted Bak— Oh it doesn’t matter, the point is—’

I’m interrupted by the slam of the front door and when I look up Julia walks in. But my sister doesn’t look quite right. I can see that immediately.

‘What’s up?’ I ask.

She swallows, clearly troubled as she clutches something in her hand, glancing between Mum and me.

‘Um . . . I got a letter. It arrived on Friday, but I’ve been so busy I forgot it was there. I only opened it this morning.’

‘What sort of letter?’ Mum asks.

Julia takes a deep breath. ‘It’s come totally out of the blue. I don’t quite know what to make of it. Or what to do about it. Or . . .’

‘Julia, what is it?’ I ask.

Julia looks nervously at Mum. ‘It’s my birth father.’

Blood drains from Mum’s face so rapidly it’s as if someone’s opened a valve at the back of her neck. ‘Your birth father? What about him?’

Julia looks at the letter and whispers, ‘He’s found me.’

Mum has always said she’d be fine about Julia finding out about her birth parents if she chose to do so. I know other adoptive parents can’t always see things like
this, but Mum seemed to have total conviction, even if Julia insisted she had no desire to follow that path.

As far as my sister’s concerned, her parents are the ones she shared with me. Blood is irrelevant. Even though it’s obvious, as my mum and sister sit together at the table, that
they’re hardly two peas in a pod.

Julia is clearly mildly numb with the shock. Mum’s approach to being stunned is a little different.

‘Jesus Christ Almighty on a pushbike,’ she babbles. ‘What the hell does the letter say?’

Julia stands. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. We’ll all have a cup of tea and I’ll read it to you.’

‘Forget about the tea, Julia! The letter!’

‘Sit down,’ I tell her gently. ‘I’ll do it.’

I fill the kettle and listen to Julia as she reads the letter, handwritten on thick, ivory paper.

I pour the boiled water and scrutinize Mum’s expression, which becomes more and more unsettled as Julia continues reading.

It turns out that Gary Collins read a recent interview with Julia in a classical music magazine to which, as an avid but purely amateur violinist, he subscribes. In it, Julia spoke extensively
of her background, even naming the hospital in which she’d been born, and the month and year in which she was adopted. More than any of those jigsaw pieces fitting together, however, Gary
says he simply knew the second he saw her that she was his daughter. The family resemblance was unmistakable; plus, the single photograph he has of her as a baby was proof enough. In it, the tiny
Julia sported the distinctive butterfly birthmark on her arm that she still has today, and which was clearly visible in the magazine photograph.

‘This is unbelievable,’ I say, going over to Julia as she folds up the letter and places it carefully in her bag. I rub her back soothingly. ‘Are you okay? You must be totally
in shock?’

She takes a deep breath but glances over to Mum. ‘A little. Are you okay, Mum? How do you feel about all this?’

Mum swallows, clearly attempting to compose herself. ‘I’m a bit surprised, obviously. But . . . you’ve always known my views. I’ve always said if you wanted to try to
make contact with your biological parents, then I’d understand. Completely.’

Julia hesitates. ‘Do you still think that, Mum? Now that this has happened? You know I’d never have sought out my birth dad. But . . . I suppose I never expected this either . .
.’ Her voice trails off.

Mum’s jaw tenses. ‘So you’re going to write back? You’re going to see him?’

‘I’m not saying that,’ Julia says awkwardly. ‘I must admit, though . . . I’m intrigued. And I suppose I’m not ruling it out. As long as you’re okay with
that, Mum?’

Mum swallows and smiles thinly. ‘Of course I am.’

‘I’m not saying I definitely will,’ adds Julia. ‘Although I think it’d be rude not to at least acknowledge the letter. I need to think about it. I’m not going
to make any hasty decisions. What do you think, Sam?’

I bite my lip, wondering if I should keep my mouth shut. I quickly decide I owe it to Julia to speak the truth, even if I suspect it isn’t what Mum wants to hear.

‘If it was me,’ I say hesitantly, ‘I don’t think I’d be able to resist finding out more. I wouldn’t have it in me not to respond.’

I glance at Mum and am certain she’s holding her breath. Then she looks up and tries to smile reassuringly. She’s fooling nobody.

I’d never bought the idea, perpetuated by sitcoms such as
Friends
and
Frasier
, that there are cafes a person can love so much that they hardly set foot
elsewhere. That was, until I got my own.

The Quarter in Hope Street has been a second home to Ellie, Jen and me for the last few years. Frequented by a mix of performing arts students from nearby LIPA (or ‘Paul McCartney’s
Fame School’), professionals from surrounding businesses and bohemian types from . . . God knows where, actually (but here they are).

The bistro-cum-cafe is located amid the quiet splendour of Liverpool’s Georgian quarter and is the epitome of understated style, with its simple tiled and wood surfaces and bold original
art. The staff are friendly, young and ludicrously attractive. While I have no idea if it’s company policy to only employ people with the latter quality or simply a happy accident, it
undoubtedly adds another dimension to grabbing a coffee.

The real draw, however, is the food, particularly the cakes. They sit in a spectacular display at the front like an edible version of the Crown Jewels. For the first time ever, though, my
stomach’s so tense that not even the Lumpy Bumpy cake can tempt me. Still, at least it’s a good day for my cellulite.

‘I can only stay for a quick coffee,’ I tell Ellie and Jen as I join them. It’s a gloriously sunny Tuesday lunchtime and they’ve managed to get a table on the
cobblestones outside. ‘The tennis tournament we’re involved in starts tomorrow and I’ve literally popped here on the way there to check the place over. I shouldn’t really be
here. But . . . God, I need to talk.’

‘Jamie?’ asks Jen.

‘Have you still heard nothing from him except a couple of texts about the gas bill?’ Ellie asks, sipping espresso.

‘Not a sausage. I’m going to text him again today,’ I add defiantly. Enough time has passed for me to be confident that Ellie’s theory about playing it cool isn’t
working. I don’t care if I’m challenging his ‘hunter-gatherer instinct’; besides, I’m coming to the conclusion that Jamie’s hunter-gatherer instinct is about as
finely tuned as a Barbie doll’s.

‘What are you going to say?’ asks Jen. Her mere presence has prompted a collective bout of giddiness among the young male waiters, who are falling over their trendy black aprons to
serve us.