Are You My Mother? (43 page)

Rare tears rolled silently down Stella’s cheeks and she looked out of the window at the sky, pitch black and starless at five o’clock. The pigeon should have been tucking its head under its wing and settling down for the night, not being scared away to find somewhere else to sleep. I felt bad for it.

‘
I’m sorry,’ she whispered, finally turning to look at me. ‘I know I was wrong, not telling you before, but I just couldn’t. I know how much he meant – means - to you. I just hoped that we wouldn’t see him again and you’d meet someone else, and I’d never have to tell you. Then you said on the phone yesterday that you were back together. It was nothing to do with me, though, Em, I swear I didn’t come on to him. I was in a state about Charlie’s message, Gavin was there. He cuddled me and then…. it was like he just got carried away and kissed me. I told him to get lost. But that’s twice now a man’s got the wrong idea from me…. What’s
wrong
with me?’

However much sympathy I felt for her, I was not prepared to let Stella turn the conversation around to her own problems. Not this time.

‘
So how far, exactly, did you go?’

Stella sighed and bit her lip. ‘I swear, Emma, on Mum and Dad’s lives, I didn’t lead him on.’

‘
Mum and Dad are already dead. Did you kiss him back?’

Stella blushed scarlet, fiddled with her hair.

‘
You did!’

She turned and looked at me, pleading with her eyes, clutching my arm with both hands so hard that she left more red marks on my skin.

‘
Only for two seconds, Em, I promise. I was just so taken aback, and so upset about the message, it was like this weird sort of dream. But as soon as I realised what was going on, I kicked him out.’

She hesitated. ‘And if it’s any consolation, Gavin immediately realised it was a mistake too. He jumped away from me like I was on fire. He was mortified – I honestly think he just got carried away. Mid-life crisis, that sort of thing.’

I snorted. ‘Bloody great. The
asshole
! I can’t believe he had the gall to show his face around me ever again. How dare he come crawling back and…. Well, anyway, wait till I get hold of him!’

‘
What are you going to do?’

‘
Ditch him, of course. I should never have got carried away with him sniffing round again, being all lovey-dovey. He was obviously only after a quick shag. I’m such a moron. Why did I let myself do it?’

‘
I’m really sorry, Emma. I’ve wanted to tell you for weeks. I’ve been sick with the worry of it. Please forgive me?’

I thought about it. I
was
angry with her, but I was also only too aware of how persuasive Gavin could be, and how much else Stella had been through recently. Plus, as rekindled romances went, this one really had the makings of a damp squib. Gavin hadn’t been in touch with me since Valentine’s Day, not even to ask how things had gone in Nottingham.

‘
As it happens,’ I said, dragging my trainers out of the bottom of the wardrobe and putting them on. ‘You’re somewhat off the hook. I met someone else in Nottingham.’

Stella gaped at me. I laced up my shoes, ferociously, letting my hair swing over my face so I didn’t have to meet her eyes. It was a measure of conciliation to Stella that I was mentioning Robert, and I wished I hadn’t. Superstitiously, I worried that telling her about him would somehow jeopardise our future - if we even had one.

‘
I don’t expect anything will come of it. I’ll probably never hear from him again. He did take my number, but I don’t have his.’

‘
How did you find the time to meet somebody? I thought you spent the whole time doing aqua aerobics and delivering babies? What was he, a doctor?’

‘
No. His parents owned the guesthouse I stayed in.’

‘
What’s he like, then?’ Stella was so desperate to get off the subject of Gavin that she almost tripped over her words.

‘
Gorgeous. Great looking, sensitive, smart, and he didn’t even smirk when I told him that I play the recorder; he just said, “I love people who are musical”’.

Stella was impressed. She knew that it had taken me two years to admit my recorder habit to Gavin, and that he’d teased me mercilessly about it from then on.

‘
But I’m still pissed off with you,’ I continued, severely. ‘I’m going round to Mack’s now, to tell him that I didn’t find Ann, and if, by the time I come back, you have organised us some dinner, I might find it in me to forgive you. And if Gavin rings, tell him to go take a flying fuck. From me.’

I brushed my hair and twisted it up, securing it with a big flowery butterfly grip, before spotting my jacket lying on the floor where I’d discarded it when climbing into bed. Stella’s foot was on the sleeve.

‘
You’re standing on my jacket,’ I said, tugging it out from underneath her sole. It reminded me of that trick when people pulled tablecloths off fully laid tea-tables leaving all the crockery intact. Dad had tried it, once, for Stella’s amusement, having set the table specially with her Winnie The Pooh tea service. It backfired on him when, predictably, the featherlight plastic cups and saucers flew all around the room, and the edge of the tablecloth caught Stella a glancing lash on the side of her face. Mum and I had laughed like drains about it for weeks afterwards. I almost told the story to Stella, just to make her smile, and then thought, no. I don’t always have to think of ways to cheer Stella up. It actually isn’t my job.

Instead, I pulled on the jacket, gathered up my keys, and left Stella sitting on my bed, looking somewhat shell-shocked.

‘
Bye,’ I added, sticking my head back around the door.

‘
Bye,’ she said distractedly.

As I ran down the stairs, I felt strangely light-hearted.

Chapter 33

Five days passed. Then seven, nine, eleven days; laborious clunking cogs of days, because Robert didn’t ring me. Nor did Gavin, for that matter - but then, I was used to Gavin not ringing, and I didn’t want to hear from him anyway. I was spending an awful lot of time on my own; too much of it taken up with checking that my mobile phone was fully charged, and the phone at home properly on the hook. Stella claimed to be working ‘all hours’ on a term paper with Suzanne, but I suspected that her absence had more to do with her confession, and subsequent reluctance to face me.

There was nothing I could do but carry on as usual; on-site, clients at home, baby massage, shopping, cleaning, watching television, playing the recorder. Luckily, I was very busy, and the jigsaw chunks of time which slotted into my days left few spaces in which to brood. I vacillated between wishing I’d taken Robert’s telephone number, and gratitude that I hadn’t, thus sparing myself the potential humiliation of ringing and getting knocked back.

About the only out-of-the-ordinary event was going round to Mack’s to record a voiceover, describing what had occurred in Nottingham. Naturally I omitted the story of what happened when I went back to the guesthouse; but when Mack finally allowed me to go home again, I continued the narration in my head, pretending that Mack’s microphone was still held out in front of me: “And then I met this cricketer, only he wasn’t a cricketer at all, and he was so gorgeous, and I really felt that there was a spark between us – at least until I hiccupped the house down and gobbed into his frying pan, but we won’t go into that – and he asked if I had a boyfriend and I said yes - oh God, I said yes! How stupid am I, exactly? - but nothing happened, not even a goodnight kiss, it was just sort of an atmosphere.’

At first, I’d been so sure Robert would call. But as time passed, gossamer threads of doubt as to what had actually gone on that night began to weave a web in my head, befuddling me, causing sudden hot flashes of embarrassment to wash over me when I least expected it. I had obviously misread the situation catastrophically. Perhaps he was only being hospitable – he was, after all, the son of the hosts. Perhaps – horrors – he just felt sorry for me when he saw me turn up in such a bedraggled state. Perhaps he was one of those people who were super-good listeners. It was easy to feel that you were interesting and fanciable with a gorgeous man gazing into your (chlorine-bloodshot) eyes.

I tried not to let the disappointment get to me, but I couldn’t keep Robert out of my mind. As I stretched clingfilm over a bowl of cold boiled potatoes, I tortured myself with the thought that I’d told him I was already involved with somebody. As I played along to Squeeze’s Greatest Hits on the recorder, I decided that whoever said that honesty was the best policy should be shot. As I demonstrated how to rub almond oil into tiny baggy baby backs, I succumbed to a growing conviction that I had made a huge fool of myself.

But I swallowed the sadness like medicine and carried on, taking solace from my continuing ability to function. After everything I’d been through, I wasn’t going to let another man ruin my life, however nice his eyes were. We hadn’t even kissed. It was no real loss. I repeated this like a mantra, leaping inches into the air whenever the telephone rang, feeling the inside of my mouth turn to ashes whenever the message button blinked on the answer machine. At least it was a relief not to be pining for Gavin any more.

After eleven days, and some urging from an increasingly impatient Mack, I decided to do something practical. I was going to write to the final Ann Paramor. I perched on the funny K-shaped chair at the computer, one of those which was meant to be good for posture and spines, but which always gave me terrible backache after more than ten minutes; and gingerly found my way into Wordperfect, terrified that I’d accidentally delete all Stella’s college projects in the process.

Dear Ann
, I typed, with two fingers
. You’d be so proud of me. I really think that I’m beginning to get my life together at last. Six months ago I was in such a rut; but you know how one little thing can trigger a change? Well, I met this homeless man on a tube, and it made me decide that I wanted to try and find you. It’s been pretty scary, and loads of other stuff has happened too. My boyfriend Gavin dumped me. My sister Stella’s been going through the wringer. I met a gorgeous man, but he hasn’t phoned – probably because I told him I already had a boyfriend. But the point is, that even with all this crap going on, I’m OK. I just feel different, somehow…

I stopped, and backspace-deleted everything except the
Dear Ann
bit. Then I backspaced a little further, and replaced
Ann
with
Mrs. Paramor,
which I then amended to
Ms.
Trying to find the right words for the real letter was so much harder than my stream of consciousness ramble, but after a few drafts I settled on:

Ann Paramor

8, Back Lane

St.Aubin

Jersey

Dear Ms. Paramor,

My name is Emma Victor. If you are my birthmother, you’ll know why I’m writing. If not, then I’m terribly sorry to bother you; but I was adopted in 1970 and have been trying to track down my biological mother, who shares your name. I would really appreciate it if you could contact me to let me know either way, although if I haven’t heard from you in six weeks’ then I’ll assume this is either another blind alley, or that you do not wish to be in contact with me. It would be really good to know which, though. If you are my mother, and you would like to be in further contact with me, I would love to hear from you.

I toyed with the idea of enclosing a stamped addressed postcard with two boxes on the back:
YES – I am your birthmother, or NO – quack quack oops, wrong again. Please tick as applicable.
I’d been caught out by Ann Paramor not answering my letters before. The typed sentences looked strange, disjointed, words jumping out at me randomly, like
biological
, and
blind alley
, none of which seemed to make sense. Perhaps it was all the hormones stirred up by the events of the previous week - Gavin, Robert, Ruth’s baby - but I suddenly felt desperately emotional about it all. If this Jersey woman wasn’t my mother, then I’d pretty much run out of options. She might be dead, or abroad, and I’d never know. Also, if it wasn’t her, I knew I’d have to go back to Harlesden again, and even the memory of that unloved, dirty house made my throat constrict. I wasn’t sure I could face it. But I’d have to, if I wanted to know either way.

I printed out the letter, and was about to log off, when I suddenly thought of Ruth, and decided to send her an email to see how she was getting on. Maybe she was still in hospital, I thought, but she might like to have a supportive message waiting for her on her return home. When I opened Outlook Express, I found to my surprise and pleasure that there was an email from her in there already.

Dear Emma,

They let me out yesterday – none of that lying around being waited on by the nursing staff for two weeks! I’m typing this with Evie Imogen asleep next to me in her Moses basket (the ‘Imogen’ is for you). She’s adorable, and is already feeding up a storm and doing all the things which she’s meant to be doing – admittedly, not a lot, but it’s early days. I’m very tired, obviously, but otherwise fine. My Mum came over from Wales to help out, as soon as she heard.

Anyway, I meant it when I said I’d like us to keep in touch. I feel hugely grateful to you for ‘rescuing’ me like you did – God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been there. Well,actually, I do know. I’d have been on my own. Marty wouldn’t have come with me in the ambulance (not that I’d have wanted him to!!) and nor would the others, I’m sure. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk, but I really identified with you.