Are You My Mother? (41 page)

I shook my head.

‘
He’s Trinidadian. So’s mum, but as you can see, she’s white. I was born there, but we all moved to England when I was seven.’

‘
Oh, right. Sorry, that sounded so nosy, didn’t it? I only asked because I am – adopted, as well as nosy – and other people’s families kind of intrigue me. That’s why I’m here, actually. I’m looking for my birthmother, and I thought she might live around the corner. But it turns out it’s not her after all.’

It was funny how it got easy to tell the story with each telling. Soon I’d be accosting complete strangers on the street and filling them in on the detail of my family life. I told him about the search, and the Ann Paramors, and then moved on to my day: the decorator at Ann’s place, the pool, Ruth, the baby. The words flowed out of me so easily, lubricated by lust and identification, attraction and emotion. It wasn’t like talking to a stranger at all - I had never felt so comfortable with anyone new. Perhaps if Gavin and I hadn’t been a couple again I’d have felt more threatened. Or perhaps not. I just knew that I really liked this man.

After that, we fell into an easy conversation, back and forwards, more like badminton than squash – a gentle exchange, on equal terms. He told me about his childhood in Trinidad, his early years as a struggling actor, the move into agenting. His failed marriage, two years ago, and his four year old daughter. How he was now, finally, on good terms with his ex-wife and her new husband.

I listened and sympathised. I told him about Dad and Mum, and Betsey – he didn’t even smirk – and Stella, of course. The only person I omitted to mention was Gavin.

‘
Well, I don’t know about you,’ he said, after we’d talked for two hours straight. ‘But I’m still hungry. I was playing football earlier, and we went to the pub afterwards. I wasn’t drinking, because I had the car, but unfortunately I wasn’t eating either. Fancy a plate of bacon and eggs?’

‘
You bet,’ I replied. Anything to prolong this magical, unexpected, charged meeting.

As Robert heated up oil in a big frying pan, he said, ‘Do you think we could keep in touch? I’m often down in London on business. We could have dinner, or something.’

For the second time in one day, someone I really liked had asked to keep in touch with me. It was a heady pleasure, and I felt I could float away on it.

‘
Sure. That would be lovely.’ I tried not to sound too twee, but couldn’t prevent myself coyly rubbing a pattern in the tabletop with my fingertip.

‘
Great. One egg or two?’ He peered into the frying pan. ‘Do you think this oil is hot enough yet?’

I joined him at the hob and gazed in too, as if the black shiny surface of the pan held the secrets of our future. ‘One, please.‘ As Robert moved across to the fridge to take the eggs off their little eggy thrones, I remembered something Mum had once taught me; how to tell if oil was ready for frying or not.

I spat into the pan. I’d meant to spit a tiny little fleck of saliva, just enough to evaporate in a brief flurry of boiling bubbles, but, of course, in true embarrassing-first-meeting style, far more spit that I’d intended splatted into the pan. It wasn’t a dirty great gob or anything, but it was enough that it clumped itself into a small sort of spit fritter, taunting me with its impression of a fried kiss. I watched it cook with grim horror and a toe-curling embarrassment.

Robert returned with his eggs and bacon, and glanced into the pan. Thankfully he was too much of a gentleman to comment on the phlegm which was merrily frying away, but I knew that he knew. Fortunately, however, it did eventually disperse, and Robert laid four rashers into the now-smoking pan. I turned away, puce, wondering if I should make a run for it, but then I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder.

‘
I’ll be down for a meeting one day next week, if you’re free.’

I nodded, too terrified to look round. The hand moved around to the scruff of my neck, and I felt his thumb gently caress the knobbly top of my spine. Shivers concertinaed down my back, and gooseflesh broke out on my arms. The hand was gone again. I heard the hiss and crackle of bacon being turned in the pan, and then it was back.

Robert turned me around to face him, and I stared up into his gorgeous, kind face, praying that my intuition wasn’t misleading me, that this beautiful man was as good inside as he looked from the outside.

‘
This is weird,’ I said, awkwardly.

‘
Yeah,’ he replied, even more inarticulately.

He moved closer to me, and I smelled hot chocolate and marmite, aftershave and a faint, sweet sweat. I wanted to touch him so badly that longing pinged in my ovaries.

‘
Emma…’

He touched my face with his finger, and rubbed his forehead against mine. I wanted him to rub himself against me all over. I wanted to capture his smell, the feeling of his skin. I wanted to wrap my arms and legs around his back, just as I had last night with….

Gavin
. Shit! I jerked backwards, as if Robert had stood on my toe.

‘
I think the bacon’s burning,’ I said abruptly, and shot back over to sit at the table again. Robert dashed across to the pan and turned off the gas, extinguishing only one of the three flames which were presently heating up the kitchen. The other two were still burning strong, despite me pulling away.

‘
What’s the matter, Emma?’ Instead of corny movie lines -
this is bigger than both of us
, or
let’s not fight it –
he placed before me a fragrant plate of egg and bacon. ‘Eat up,’ he said, handing me a knife and fork and sliding onto a chair opposite me at the table.

‘
It’s just a bit….complicated,’ I said, thinking of Gavin. My stomach, already full enough with toast and hot chocolate, constricted a little, and I pushed the plate away again after only a couple of bites. I had never been faced with a choice like this before: to go with what was familiar, even if it might not be perfect; or to take a running jump into the unknown. It wasn’t dissimilar to the Ann Paramor situation. But Ann Paramor – one of them, out there somewhere – gave birth to me. This man, Robert, was ten times more of a stranger.

‘
You’re already involved with somebody, aren’t you?’

It was almost a relief, that I didn’t have to actually tell him myself.
‘Yes. Sort of.’

‘
What does “sort of” mean?’

‘
Well. We were together a long time, then we split up a few months ago, and he’s just come back on the scene.’ And how, I thought sadly. Gavin, back on the scene in a womb-exploring, hanging-from-the-chandeliers kind of way. Oh, hell, what was I going to do?

‘
Is it serious?’

I looked across the table at this lovely person, with whom I was eating what could have been a post-coital breakfast, except that we’d never even kissed. Just leave it, Emma, I told myself. He’s coming on too strong. You know nothing about him – he might even turn out to be another Charlie. Your life is complicated enough. This time last night you couldn’t think of anything you wanted more than to be with Gavin, and now you’re considering telling him that Gavin means nothing?

‘
Yeah. I suppose it is kind of serious. I’m sorry.’

And boy, was I ever sorry. I was so sorry that I wanted to bang my head rhythmically on the pine tabletop. Robert looked pretty sorry, too. He put his hand in his pocket and fished out a business card.

‘
Here,’ he said. ‘If it ever stops being serious, or better still, just stops being a relationship at all, give me a call, would you?’

I pulled the card slowly from between his outstretching fingers.

‘
Thank you,’ I said. ‘For everything, not just the card. It’s been so nice to meet you.’

‘
Sure you wouldn’t like to have lunch with me some time?’

I hesitated for a nano-second. Gavin needn’t know. Nothing need happen. I just couldn’t bear the thought of all that mutual attraction shrivelling and turning brown.

‘
OK then. I don’t see why not,’ I said, adjusting my mental blindfold, astonished at myself. I glanced up at the big clock on the wall, momentarily hypnotised by the slow sweep of its second hand as it ticked away my second chance of romance in twenty-four hours. Funny how it felt about a million times more romantic than it had with Gavin. But it was two a.m., my eyes were gritty with exhaustion, and my heart believed that I belonged to someone whose idea of romance was ‘get your kit off, girl’. Even if my mind was telling me different.

‘
Robert, I’ve got to go to bed now. I’m so worn out I can hardly think straight.’ I yawned so hugely that I felt my jaw was hinged, and my face about to tip over my head backwards

‘
It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Not in the morning, though - I’ve got to leave at six thirty to get to Manchester for a nine o’clock meeting at Granada. Enjoy your breakfast with Mr. Tilt.’

I mustered the last of my energy for a tired laugh, wondering if he was aware how appealing the thought of breakfast with Mr. Tilt had been, back in the old hours when I thought Mr. Tilt was a six foot mixed-race cricketing sex god.

We both stood up, scraping our chairs across the tiled floor with an abrasive honk, at which we both winced. Now what? I remembered the feel of his warm thumb against my neck , now already another distant memory. We hovered on either side of the table, as if it was an electric fence separating us.

‘
Well, thanks for all the food,’ I said, awkwardly.

‘
Thanks for keeping me company. And good luck finding your mother. Keep me posted.’

‘
I will, definitely. Night, then.’

‘
Night. Can I take your number, to get in touch about lunch?’

‘
Oh…. Sure.’ I dictated my home and mobile numbers to him, watching the two faint vertical furrows on his brow crease as he tapped them straight into the phonebook of his own mobile, before tucking it back into his pocket.

‘
Night then,’ I repeated. I couldn’t quite bring myself to move, but was unsure whether it was from desire or just plain exhaustion.

A toilet flushed, faintly, somewhere upstairs and rain pattered lightly at the window. I found myself wondering if Robert kissed differently to Gavin, if his tongue felt different; what he liked in bed. It was so long since I’d been attracted to anyone other than Gavin that I was having trouble even quite imagining it. It was as if Gavin had imprinted himself on my own DNA code; I was Gavin-compatible, and no-one else.

Although it certainly hadn’t felt that way tonight.

We stood opposite one another for so long, immobile, that I began to feel embarrassed. Robert was looking at me with the kind of amused tenderness I had previously only associated with movies starring Clark Gable. Eventually I waved, a small and self-conscious wave across the pine divide, turned, and crept upstairs, the joint weights of fatigue and anti-climax pressing on my shoulders. Up to my chilly eiderdown and Jilly Cooper, whose words I already knew my tired eyes would merely skim before sailing away into sleep. Satisfied by one man whilst craving another, like too much chocolate. Still, I thought wearily; at least it took my mind off the disappointment of another wrong Ann Paramor. This meant that it was likely to be either the one in Jersey, or the post office employee from Harlesden.

It was all too exhausting to contemplate, so I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift away, trying to reserve my final waking thought for Ruth and her baby, exploring each other’s skin and scents and emotions like new lovers. I remembered that vanilla was the closest smell to breast milk, and hoped that Ruth’s child would grow up with the scent of it always warm in her heart.

Then I thought, in a semi-conscious
non sequitur
, thank God for Katrina, because if Mack and his camera
had
come with me, I’d never have got to meet Robert.

Chapter 32

By the following lunchtime I’d returned to Shepherd’s Bush, which looked even more grimy than usual, and browbeaten by the curses of the traffic-jammed drivers. There were major roadworks on the Askew Road and consequently, it seemed, every single vehicle in London had been diverted along our street. ‘Sorry for the inconvenience’ a very unapologetic yellow board announced gaily. ‘We will be doing essential roadworks for the next 10-12 weeks.’ I toyed with the idea of moving to Nottingham.

I hadn’t seen Robert again in the morning, despite entertaining a faint hope he’d cancelled his meeting in order to have breakfast with me instead. I imagined him on the phone to Nigel Lythgoe, saying, ‘No, I’m sorry, if it means that my client won’t be able to do ‘An Audience With…’, then so be it. This is much more important.’

As I shoehorned the Golf into a space outside the charity shop, causing a further hold-up to the impatient traffic, I wondered who Robert’s clients were. I hadn’t thought to ask him at the time, since it seemed a little indiscreet, but my interest was piqued. I was by no means a star-struck person – imagine Stella’s delight at nabbing a boyfriend who was a television agent! – but I thought a little bit of hobnobbing with celebs might cheer me up a bit. It seemed to be a generally-approved method of boosting one’s self esteem, at least, in the eyes of Stella and her friends.

Then I remembered that I didn’t need cheering up any more. I was back with Gavin. I was getting closer to tracking down Ann Paramor. Everything was fine.