Kiss Me First (24 page)

‘Hi, it’s me,’ I said, through the software.

‘Who?’

‘Me! You know – me!’

‘I’m sorry, but . . .’

‘Do you really not recognize me?’ I said.

‘Is this Kerry?’ she said.

‘I think I have the wrong number,’ I said, satisfied, and hung up.

Next came the real test: someone who knew Tess. After careful consideration, I chose a friend of hers, Shell, who had recently announced the birth of her first child on Facebook. As well as there being a legitimate reason for Tess to get in touch, Shell’s status updates constantly referred to how busy she was, so I thought she would be happy to have a short chat.

A woman answered, her voice weary.

‘Yeah, hi?’

‘Shell, it’s me!’

‘Who?’

‘It’s me! Congratulations about Ludo.’

‘Yeah, thanks. Sorry, who is this?’

I didn’t want to lead her by giving Tess’s name, but I decided a clue was allowed.

‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in touch,’ I said. ‘It’s been a bit crazy, settling down over here.’ When she didn’t reply, I added, ‘And then there’s the time difference and everything.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Shell, finally. ‘Is that
Tess
?’

I smiled to myself. Shell and I exchanged a few more pleasantries before I pretended my phone was running out of batteries and hung up.

Finally, I felt ready for Marion. Compared to that first time I left a recorded message on her answerphone, I felt calm and confident, even though this was a far riskier endeavour. I called at 6.20 p.m. GMT. My hand was steady as I dialled her home number. She answered in five rings. Her voice was loud and clear like Tess’s, but with a trace of an accent.

‘Hello?’

‘Mum, it’s me.’

‘Tess? Is that you?’

‘Sorry, this line’s terrible.’

‘Tess, it’s been two months. What’s going on over there?’

‘Oh, I’m so happy, mum. This was the best decision I ever took.’

‘Yes. Well. I’m glad, of course. I got your pictures. Your flat looks quite nice. Did you get that chaise longue in the end?’

‘Yes. How’s dad?’

There was a pause. ‘Not good. He’s becoming very distressed. Tess, I don’t think I can cope.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Are you all right? You sound odd.’

‘Oh no, I’m so happy.’

Another pause. ‘He asked after you a few times. Where you had gone. Not recently, but at the beginning, when you left. Will you speak to him?’

Before I could say anything, I heard the sound of Marion’s footsteps, presumably moving towards Jonathan. This was not in the plan, and I was about to hang up when it occurred to me: Jonathan had advanced Alzheimer’s. He couldn’t even remember the names of his children, let alone what their voices sound like. I stayed on the line.

I heard Marion saying something in a low voice to Jonathan, and then the sound of him clearing his throat as he took the receiver.

‘Dad?’

For some seconds there was no reply, just breathing. Then, ‘Hello?’

His voice was wary and tremulous, as if this was the first time he had spoken into a phone.

‘Dad, it’s me. Tess. Your daughter.’

Another long pause. Then, ‘They keep on moving my chair.’

‘It’s Tess.’

‘I don’t care who you are. Would you be so very kind as to tell the cunt to stop moving my chair?’

From a meek beginning the tone of his voice had quickly escalated in volume and fury: the ‘c’ word was spat out. It was clear that Jonathan realizing I wasn’t his daughter would not be an issue. He lapsed into silence again, and I heard, in the background, the sound of someone sobbing.

Just as I was about to hang up, Marion came back on the line. If it had been her crying, which it surely was, there was no longer any trace of it in her voice.

‘Who are you?’ she said to me, loudly and distinctly.

I immediately hung up, my heart thumping so hard it felt like it would leave a bruise on my chest.

It took some moments – hours, really – before I was in a state to process what had just occurred. I kept on replaying Marion’s ‘Who are you?’ in my head. Although her tone had been plain and flat, it went round and round in my head to all sorts of different rhythms and emphases. WHO are you
?
Who are YOU? Who ARE you?

Obviously, the most logical explanation was that the comment was directed at someone else in the room. Perhaps a new care assistant had just walked through the door, unannounced. Or maybe she aimed the comment in a non-literal sense at Jonathan, a rhetorical question about where the husband she had known had gone. But if either of those was the case, surely her tone would have been distant.

After spending some hours thinking it all over, I decided it was time to ask Adrian for advice.

As mentioned before, I was proud of the fact that I’d never asked anything of Adrian with regards to Project Tess. I wanted him to think me capable and strong and that he had made the right decision in choosing me for the job – besides, up until that point it really had been quite straightforward. Now, however, it was time. I wanted reassurance that this turn of events would not de-rail the project, and told what action to take. I wrote Ava Root a message on Facebook outlining the phone call and requesting a meeting so we could discuss the incident.

He did not reply – for two, then five, then twelve difficult hours. I concluded that I had no choice but to try and reach him on his Red Pill email. Mindful of his ban on openly discussing Project Tess, my message simply stated that I needed to see him urgently.

Three hours later, I got a reply:
Is this really urgent?

That was odd, I thought, as the fact that it indeed was urgent was pretty much the entirety of my message.

I repeated that it was. He replied telling me that he would be at a shopping centre called Westfield the next day, and I could meet him there at 1 p.m.

I had thought I was quite familiar with shopping centres but this place, Westfield, was nothing like the ones I had been to. Stepping off the tube at Shepherd’s Bush the next day I joined a mass of people flooding towards a complex so vast and shiny it made Brent Cross look like a shabby corner shop. The scale was hard to grasp: the ceiling seemed a mile high and the shops never-ending, constructed out of acres of gleaming glass. It was not just the size of the place that was overwhelming, but also the sheer number of people. They all seemed to be young, too. At Brent Cross, there were lots of women like mum: older ladies in purple rainproof coats walking slowly. Here, everyone seemed to be my age or younger, the girls heavily made-up and – I suppose – fashionably dressed, as if they were going to a party rather than buying a new pair of tights or whatever it was they were here to get. A girl who stopped beside me to answer her phone had eyelashes so weirdly thick and long she could barely keep her eyes open.

I, of course, was not made-up or smartly dressed. I had considered putting on the same outfit as I’d worn during that first meeting on the Heath, but had found a smear of melted cheese down the top and, anyway, felt that now Adrian and I were close friends I didn’t need to dress up. So I was wearing my normal uniform of hoodie and tracksuit bottoms.

As I walked through the shopping centre looking for Boots (where Adrian had said we should meet), with all these thin girls darting around me, I started to feel an old sensation coming back, one which I hadn’t had for a long time: being conscious of the fact that I was different. Not that I cared, but I was aware of it. It was like I was back to being Leila, when in recent months, especially when I had been talking to Connor, I hadn’t felt like that: not like someone different exactly, just not like my old self.

I was determined not to let these feelings distract me from the task in hand. After ten minutes of wandering around I asked several people where Boots was but my enquiry was met only with shrugs, so I had no option but to continue along the gleaming precinct hoping I’d chance upon it.

And then, about twenty metres ahead of me, I saw a man emerge from a shop. I recognized the shirt first – it was the same blue corduroy one he wore in his podcasts and for our meeting on the Heath. He was carrying a red plastic bag with the words Tie Rack on.

Adrian walked swiftly and I worried he would be swallowed up by the crowd, so I stumbled after him calling his name. At first he didn’t hear and continued walking, and it was only when I caught up with him and laid a hand on his shoulder that he turned, an expression of annoyed surprise on his face. When he saw it was me, he rearranged his features into a half-smile.

‘Hey there,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t find Boots,’ I said.

‘I haven’t got long,’ he said. ‘Let’s find somewhere to sit, shall we?’ He started off walking, me behind him. I noticed for the first time that his body was an odd shape: his shoulders narrow and sloping under his shirt, his hips large and almost womanly. He looked as out of place as I did amongst all the darting, sleek young people. The atrium was noisy with chatter and all the benches were occupied, so we stood instead, a few metres from a stall at which a young man was leaning back in a chair having something done to his face by a woman brandishing a piece of thread. I couldn’t work out what was happening, but whatever it was it seemed a very odd thing to do in a public place.

Adrian didn’t seem to notice.

‘So. Tess. There’s a problem?’

‘Yes, I told you,’ I said. ‘With Marion, her mother.’ I explained the situation with the phone call all over again, and as I was speaking noticed that Adrian’s gaze didn’t rest on me, as it did on the Heath that day, but rather flitted around the atrium and, once, glanced down at the watch on his left wrist. His face, too, looked different: that day I remember his cheeks were pink and glowing, but now his skin appeared ashy and coarse. Even his chinos seemed creased and grubby.

So marked was his change in demeanour, I felt somewhat thrown off course, and when he peered into his plastic bag, as if to check the contents hadn’t escaped, I broke off from my account and asked whether he was OK.

‘What?’ he said, as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying.

I faltered. ‘Um, is everything all right with you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Extremely fine. Now, I do only have a few minutes, I’m afraid . . .’

I quickly finished describing the phone call, feeling somewhat perturbed at his manner. Perhaps for that reason, I ended my account with a comment aimed at him: ‘. . . I told you so.’

Adrian’s eyes finally met mine and he said, quite slowly, ‘What was that?’

‘I told you this was going to happen,’ I said, ‘at the beginning of the project. I said I was sure that Marion would want to talk to Tess on the phone at some point, and that that would present a problem.’

Adrian nodded, looking off over my shoulder towards the woman in her booth.

‘If you felt such misgivings about the project,’ he said, ‘why did you embark upon it?’

I opened my mouth to reply, but no words emerged.

‘Did I not teach you to think independently?’ he continued.

‘Yes, but . . .’ I said, hearing my voice waver. ‘You assured me it was going to be all right. So did Tess.’

At this, Adrian gave a short laugh. ‘Have you brought this up with her, too?’

‘No I can’t, because she’s . . .’ I started to say, before realizing that this was Adrian’s idea of a joke.

He looked at his watch again. ‘I really do have to go. Look, Leila, I trust you to take whatever course of action you think best. You know the situation and the people involved better than anyone, and you’re a clever girl.’

He held out his hand for me to shake. ‘I trust you, Leila,’ he repeated. ‘And by the way, your contribution to the Does Luck Exist debate last week was first rate.’

I hadn’t contributed to that thread on the site and opened my mouth to tell him so, but then closed it again.

‘So, farewell,’ he said, and started walking off into the crowd.

After a moment, I called after him. He turned, impatiently.

‘Yes?’

‘How did you and Tess meet?’

He frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’m just curious,’ I said.

‘She came to one of my lectures in New York,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Summer of – what was it now? – 2004, I believe. The subject was Nurture not Nature. I think she found it rather inspirational. She asked a lot of questions during the talk, and then approached me in the foyer afterwards. We stayed in touch.’

Then he lifted his hand and disappeared into the crowd.

But as I knew full well, Tess had never been to New York. ‘Embarrassing, isn’t it,’ she had said on Skype one evening. ‘I kept meaning to go but then for whatever reason it didn’t happen.’ She told me about a dinnerparty game her friends played in which everyone had to name something they hadn’t done that they thought everyone else would have, and said she always won with not having been to New York.

‘I would have been good at that game,’ I had said.

‘Yeah?’ she replied.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been kissed.’

She laughed, thinking it was a joke.

Anyway. I could only presume that Adrian had made a mistake and confused Tess with someone else. But even taking that element out of the equation, our meeting had not been a success. On the long tube journey home I went over everything that had occurred since that first meeting on the Heath, but just couldn’t account for his change in attitude towards me. He had seemed pleased with my progress reports; everything had gone smoothly up until now and this was the first time I had asked him for help.

The only possible conclusion was that something else was troubling him, unconnected to me or the project, something so all-consuming that it prevented him from focusing. This was, of course, a matter of concern, but I felt that my immediate priority was to address the Marion problem.

It didn’t, in fact, take too long to decide on a course of action: after all, my options were limited. Ceasing contact altogether would be unwise – it would only fan her suspicions – yet another phone call was, of course, out of the question. It would have to be an email. The only sensible way of dealing with the ‘Who are you?’, I decided, was to ignore it and instead make a bold ‘grand gesture’ that I knew would please Marion, in the hope that her surprise and delight would replace any lingering suspicion.