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When I Met You
Jemma Forte


Marianne Baker is happy. Sort of.She’s worked at the same job for years (nearly 15, but who’s counting), she lives at home with her mum (who is driving her crazy) and sleeps in a single bed (yep, her love life is stalled). Playing the violin is her only real passion – but nobody like her does that for a living.Then one night everything changes.The father who abandoned Marianne over twenty years ago turns up on her doorstep, with a dark secret that changes her life forever.Suddenly Marianne’s safe, comfortable world is shattered. If her father isn’t the man she thought he was, then who is he? And, more to the point, who is she?It’s time to find out who the real Marianne Baker is.












Praise for JEMMA FORTE (#ulink_6d82b496-dadb-5dcd-9167-64605346969a)


‘An unmissable read’

—Abby Clements

‘A witty account of rollercoaster events that will get you thinking about the “what ifs” in your own life’

—Heat

‘A must read for all women’

—Digital Spy

‘An easy-reading story that bristles with warmth and humour’

—Hello

‘The most imaginative romcom we’ve read in a while’

—Now

‘An engrossing and magical read with romance at its core’

—OK!

‘The perfect mix of funny and emotional’

—One More Page

‘Addictive, heartwarming yet funny’

—Chick Lit Uncovered

‘It’s clever, it’s innovative and I really enjoyed it’

—Chick Lit Reviews


JEMMA FORTE grew up wanting to write for Cosmopolitan magazine, be a famous actress or work in a shoe shop (she loved the foot-measuring device in Clarks). Her parents didn’t want her to go to stage school because, according to them, she was ‘precocious enough already’. However, they actively encouraged her obsession with reading and writing and she wrote her first book, ‘Mizzy the Germ’, when she was eight. She sent it to a publisher (unwittingly backing up the whole precocious theory) and was dismayed when for some reason they didn’t want it.

Years later, due to The Kids from Fame (and she blames them entirely), her desire to perform hadn’t abated. Hundreds of letters, show-reels and auditions later she finally became a Disney Channel presenter in 1998. After Disney, Jemma went on to present shows for ITV, BBC One, BBC Two and Channel 4 and, when not busy writing, can still be found talking rubbish on telly to this day. When I Met You is Jemma’s fourth novel. She lives in London with her children, Lily and Freddie.










www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


This one’s for you, Dad.




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#ulink_95e08931-7be2-5dca-ae1e-149f01f0a17e)


Thank you to Madeleine Milburn, who I respect enormously but also really like. There’s always a lot of Twitter love for @agentmilburn from all her clients, because she really is the bee’s knees. Thanks too to Cara Lee Simpson for all your hard work.

Huge thanks must go to Sally Williamson and all the team at MIRA for transforming my Word document into a lovely-looking actual book. Being published is my proudest achievement and that’s even after I rapped at my sister’s wedding.

For obvious reasons this book required careful research and so it was that I had the privilege of spending the day with Jane Hastings. At the time, Jane was head of palliative care at Kingston Hospital and I was completely humbled by what she told me. So thank you, Jane, for your time, your knowledge and for allowing me to ask you endless questions.

Thank you to the gorgeous Jenny Blacklock Allan, who put me in touch with Jane. I think we arranged it during one particularly painful blitz session in the park, proving that exercise can be good for you. Thank you for going the extra mile (good pun there).

Thank you to all the cancer charities that do such important work, in particular Bowel Cancer UK and Clic Sargent, who have both been very supportive of this book. And enormous thanks to the gentleman who bid in a Clic Sargent auction to choose a character name in this book. He asked that Teresa Laphan be a character in the story and so she is!

Lastly, thanks as ever to my family. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Mum, Mauro, Sally, Jessica, Jim, Georgie, Isabel (wolf mcsnuff), Paddy, Imogen, Harry and Dr Ned.

Special thanks must go to my dad, Michael, who inspired me to write this story in many ways. I remember so clearly, sitting around for hours one day, talking about what I should write next. ‘You should write about death,’ he said and so it went from there. You gave me the initial idea and before I knew it we’d also come up with the beginning and the rest is history. Thank you. You have always been so creative and brilliant.

Lastly, thank you to my lovely Lily and Freddie. I couldn’t be prouder of the two of you, I can’t wait for you to read my books one day and love you both very much.




Table of Contents


Cover (#u3c315663-8616-5fca-b9b6-27fb5f1899cd)

Praise for JEMMA FORTE (#ue1473db8-bf11-5ab9-8dfe-47d7c7dc89ec)

About the Author (#ucec95b22-d770-5036-8dbe-cbe20a5be05d)

Title Page (#u4150d616-d106-5b16-90c5-a3045096d986)

Dedication (#u5e0c9109-0c8f-56de-8530-72a665d4af6d)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#ulink_06cc3a4d-bdcc-59cd-bffe-d5ac5429e1dc)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_9be7f8c2-6354-5a86-b816-9099e780d1ac)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_9241b8df-fe85-5404-af16-c8de2924b80a)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_214bfda8-402e-546c-a4fe-1ca5de09501f)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ca92bc96-ce34-5c38-abcb-8397cc43583a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_2d81f0a3-e09d-5e17-ad22-576b0e7bdc68)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_454c7cc1-a746-5378-9437-782c9067416b)

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_13df7638-ffcd-58da-8ad5-4f2ccef529f4)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_d75b30a8-ca19-5987-80b9-73ef275e1db5)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_b8082f03-5abc-5e92-9bef-6154e15ce8f5)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE (#ulink_7dad1ed5-278d-5c2f-a2a1-39ede5f33d2a)


I sit up, wondering what time it is, what day it is even. My bedroom’s completely dark and the light from the moon is the only thing enabling me to see anything at all. Rubbing my face, I switch on the bedside light and pick up my watch. Three minutes past nine. I only meant to shut my eyes but must have been asleep for ages.

Blurry with sleep, I sit staring blankly into space, wondering vaguely why the rest of the house is so silent until, overcome by both thirst and curiosity, I haul myself up and pad out onto the dark landing to investigate.

Downstairs, there’s a note on the dining table from Mum. It reads ‘Me and Mar gone to Sheena and Dave’s anniversary dins. On mobile. Quiche in fridge. Pete at Josh’s for night.’

Of course, I’d forgotten they were going there. I feel cold and a bit shivery, so as soon as I’ve glugged back a pint of water, I make a cup of tea, grab some biscuits from mum’s stash and head back to my room where I slump onto the bed. The same single bed I slept on throughout my teenage years, which serves as a constant reminder that at the age of thirty-one I haven’t come very far. Still, I’ve wasted enough hours lamenting my embarrassing woman-child status.

It occurs to me then that I should be making the most of the empty house by getting some violin practise in. The one thing I have progressed in over the years. When Mum’s around, I only ever get away with playing for about half an hour before the complaints start – apparently classical music makes her feel like a patient in a mental institution – so it’ll be nice not to have any interruptions.

I place the sheet music for Bach’s solo sonata No. 1 in G minor on my stand. The music’s hauntingly beautiful and incredibly hard to do justice to but, once I’ve practised my scales, arpeggios and a few studies, I feel ready to tackle it. It’s not long before I’m completely lost in the music, oblivious to the storm that is brewing outside. The window is ajar, but the sound of the gale howling only adds to the majesty of the sonata. Then, just as I’m in the middle of an exceedingly challenging section, there’s a huge rumble of thunder, the skies open and rain starts to pelt down, at which point I place my violin on the bed. I’m just about to pull the window shut when I hear a crashing sound coming from somewhere in our back garden. The security lights at the rear of the house instantly flick on. I jump out of my skin.

Heart thumping, I peer out, trying to see what made the noise. The lights give me a clear view of the patio below, which is undoubtedly the most furnished patio in Essex. You can hardly move on it for swing chairs, heaters, loungers and the like. My stepdad, Martin, makes his living selling garden furniture and equipment. He’s bizarrely passionate about it. I swear whenever he visits B&Q or Homebase to check out the competition he goes a bit quivery with anticipation. But I digress.

It doesn’t take long to work out what caused the noise. On the right-hand side of the patio, a dustbin lid is lying on the ground and as the wind picks up again, it rolls around, its metal making a terrible din. I guess it must have blown off the bin. Either that or a fox must have disturbed it or something. I yank the window shut. The noise of the storm is instantly muffled but I can still hear the lid clattering around at which point I realise I have no choice but to go outside and put it back on.

Going through the house I switch on every single light. The house is carpeted throughout so as I pad down the stairs into our hallway I don’t make a sound. Downstairs it smells in a synthetic, sickly way, of peach, due to the air freshener mum keeps constantly plugged in.

I pass the front room we never use and the downstairs loo, before carrying on straight ahead into our main living area. Usually I don’t mind being on my own at night, but the storm’s making me twitchy. I chastise myself for being silly.

What am I worried about? I’m not even sure. All I do know is that I’m planning on replacing the lid as quickly as is humanly possible so that I can race inside, upstairs and back to the non-creepy confines of my room.

The keys to the sliding doors, which lead out to the garden, are kept on a hook next to a hatch in the wall that divides the living room and kitchen. Once I’ve got them I unlock the doors and gingerly slide them open a touch. The wind is fierce. Rain immediately blows into my face but, taking the plunge, I step out into the elements at which point it’s quite a struggle to slide the doors shut again. By now the rain’s coming down in a torrent so, no matter how quick I plan on being, getting totally soaked is inevitable. Glad of security-conscious Martin’s lights, I pick my way across the width of the patio. The wind is almost strong enough to knock me over but with a lot of effort I make it to the offending bin lid, only just as, while I’m bending down to pick it up, an extra strong gust blows it yet further out of my reach. At that point I stop and, with my heart in my mouth, I spin around as a sixth sense heightens the feeling I’ve been trying to ignore. That I’m not alone.

I must be mistaken though. Fear’s playing tricks with my mind because there doesn’t appear to be anyone there. Although, having said that, if someone were lurking in the shadows, I probably wouldn’t be able to see them from here anyway. Not if they didn’t want me to. They could easily hide themselves away down the alley that spans the side of our house.

‘Who’s there?’ I yell, feebly and somewhat pointlessly. My voice was never going to carry very far against the noise of the storm. By now I’m soaked to the skin and shivering with cold. I pull myself together. My imagination is running away with me. I just need to get the blasted lid back on the bin, get back inside and into a hot shower. Heart thumping, I make a dash down the lawn for the lid again. Got it. I grab it, then turn and run towards the passage that runs down the side of the house where the bins are kept. Rain pummels my head and face and, gasping for breath, I slam the lid on, making sure it’s secure. As soon as it is, with adrenaline coursing round my body, I make for the house. Turns out, however, I wasn’t being paranoid. All my instincts had kicked in for good reason, for just as I’m about to reach for the door, I hear heavy, terrifying footsteps behind me. At this point, I scream so loudly I almost don’t recognise my own voice. It’s a guttural sound, a scream of survival, because I honestly believe I’m about to be killed, raped, or both. Just as my fingertips make contact with the door handle, a strong arm makes a grab for me and in that instance I don’t think I’ll ever be able to describe the depth of pure terror that I feel.

I’m terrified, rendered totally incapable of rational thought. My body shuts down completely. My legs go to jelly. I want to scream again but as I try to, a black-gloved hand clamps my mouth shut. The man’s gripping on to me so tightly now I can feel his breath on my face. Then, the most eerie thing of all happens. In a rasping, deep, terrifying voice, my assailant says, right into my ear, ‘Don’t scream, Marianne.’

Well, that does it. The fact he knows my name makes the whole experience beyond sinister and I honestly think I’m going to pass out on the spot. This person has singled me out. He must have been watching the house. He knows everyone’s out and now he’s going to do something to me. I’m on the brink of collapse when the attacker says something else I’m not expecting. Though at first I think it’s some kind of sick joke.

‘Don’t be scared. It’s me. It’s your dad.’

And in that second my whole life implodes.




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_50143a39-98e2-5047-84f0-07d2fcd2d1b6)


ONE DAY EARLIER

‘So, are we decided then? Warm Caramel for the overall colour with a few Heavenly Honey highlights taken through the front,’ I said, flicking shut the colour chart.

‘Fine,’ agreed Mrs Jenkins.

It was Saturday morning and I was at work at Roberto’s hairdressers on Chigwell High Road, certain then that this was precisely the kind of dull day that would pass without event or revelation, only to end up wiped from my memory. It often bothers me how an entire twenty-four hours can pass and all I will have done is function, chat on the phone, sit on the bus, watch TV, breathe, get through. It scares me. Too many instantly forgettable days and before you know it, life will have passed by completely. I think this is why I love travelling. When I’m away from home, in some exotic place, the quota of memorable days definitely increases.

After my A levels, much to the disappointment of my music teacher, Mrs Demetrius, who was desperate for me to apply to music college, I took a course in hairdressing, got a job at Roberto’s, saved up, then went backpacking round the world instead. It’s not that I hadn’t wanted to play music professionally, I can think of nothing better, but I’m not deluded. You don’t see many adverts for violin players down the job centre, do you? College would have been very expensive, and besides, I’d always wanted to see places other than Essex. Earth is a big planet after all.

I’m thirty-one now though and it has occurred to me that unless I want to become a middle-aged crusty with friends dotted around the globe, but barely any on her own doorstep, who still lives with her parents, I probably need to start figuring out what to do with my life. Though in truth I’m not that bothered. Most of the time I’m happy existing in my perpetual cycle of working, saving and travelling. It’s other people who assume I should be panicking about not being engaged/pregnant/a homeowner. Not me.

I admit, living with Mum and Martin has its moments. In an ideal world of course I’d love my own space. But on my wage I can’t see it happening. I’ve looked into getting a mortgage a few times – every time mum and I have a row – but because I’m on my own I’d need a gargantuan deposit, so it’s pointless. With rents so extortionate too, there’s just never a good enough reason to leave home. I pay mum far less each month to live in her nice house than I would to live in a depressingly small flat, plus this way I can afford to save up to go away. My last trip was to Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand. Next on the list is South America. It really helps that Roberto always has me back in between, knowing he’s getting a reliable cutter who hardly ever asks for a pay rise.

As soon as Mrs Jenkins was settled at the sink I headed to the tiny staff room at the back of the salon. On the way, I grinned at my reflection in one of the many mirrors. I was still getting used to my new, short, choppy bob, which is dyed a rich, burgundy plum colour. I like it. I think it suits me. In the staff room – which is where all the good magazines disappear to in case you’re wondering – I flicked on the kettle and, while it boiled, went to fetch my mobile from my jacket pocket. I wished I hadn’t when it rang immediately and stupidly I answered without checking caller ID first, only to find my sister, Hayley, on the other end.

Hayley loves me deep down – I mean really deep down. Imagine an oil rig drilling into the sea bed and you get the picture – but she has a strange way of showing it.

‘So, make sure you’re not late tomorrow. Gary’s parents are coming at three and I don’t want you turning up after they’ve got there. I need you to make an effort Marianne,’ she’d managed to say before the phone had even reached my ear. ‘And wear your black trousers or something that flatters you. Wendy’s very classy so I don’t want to be shown up like the time you wore those awful cut-offs and don’t …’

I held the phone away from my ear and zoned out, as I often do when my sister’s mid-way through one of her rants. Life’s too short, as was my break, so rather than commit an offence punishable by death, that is to say, rather than interrupt Hayley, I put the phone on the side so she could drone on to herself while I made a cup of tea.

Just then Jason poked his head round the door. ‘Got a minute Marianne?’

Jason’s dad owns Roberto’s. Jason’s dad is Roberto and the salon is very much a family-run business. His mum sits on reception and his two older brothers are cutters, as is their cousin Mark. Jase has become a good friend since I started working here. He’s reliable, sweet and you’ve got to love him because unlike the rest of the male population he finds Hayley as irritating as I do.

I stirred my tea and pointed with my other hand towards my discarded phone from which a horribly familiar nagging sound was still being omitted.

‘Hayley?’ he mouthed.

I nodded wearily, before reluctantly picking up again. She was still going.

‘… and don’t refer to Mum as anything except Alison. Alli sounds so naff for a woman her age and Gary’s parents hate nicknames.’

That at least was useful to know. I made a mental note never to mention my nicknames for her in-laws in their presence. Hyacinth Bucket for Wendy – she’s a massive snob – and Cyclops for Derek – on account of his roving eye. ‘Anything else?’ I interjected ‘Because I really should be getting back to work.’

Hayley tutted and put the phone down. Her own special way of signing off on phone calls, designed to make you wonder, just for a second, if she might have been involved in a car crash, a mugging, or been kidnapped.

‘How does Gary cope?’ asked Jason, shaking his head, though deep down he knew the answer to that one. Hayley’s stunning and, when she was at school, boys were always trying to come round ours for tea, just so they could catch a glimpse of her. Dwayne Richardson even told me once that Hayley was number one in year ten’s ‘wank bank’. You can imagine how charmed I was by that piece of information.

Hayley’s thirty-three now and her rather glacial brand of beauty turns heads more than ever. Gary first clapped eyes on her six years ago, giving out pamphlets at a car show in Earls Court, wearing a pair of hot-pants and a small halter-neck top – Mum had told everyone she had a modelling gig. The minute he saw her he was smitten and when Hayley found out he owned his own car dealership in Ilford, so was she.

‘Coming out tonight Marianne?’ asked Jason casually.

‘Saving.’ My reply was automatic.

‘You don’t say,’ he said with a hint of frustration. ‘Look, it’s Lindsey’s birthday, everyone’s coming and you haven’t been out in ages. Besides, you should let your hair down before tomorrow.’

Gary’s family were coming round en masse tomorrow, hence Hayley’s nagging. To say I was dreading it would be an understatement.

‘And by the way, Mrs Jenkins is ready, waiting for her transformation,’ he winked.

‘Thanks,’ I said, slugging back the last of my tea. ‘And I might come.’

Jason rewarded me with a big grin.

‘I do have a job to get through tomorrow morning, but I suppose you could be right. A hangover might be the only way to cope with Hayley after that.’

‘Yes!’ he said, punching the air. ‘Miss Haversham is actually coming out. I can’t believe it. We’ll have to brush the cobwebs off you first.’




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_cba5011b-26d2-5f80-ad6f-c05741833ec4)


Once I was out I was pleased I’d come. It was so long since I’d got ready for anything other than work and I’d saved more than I’d hoped this month, largely due to my second job – which we’ll get to later. It was mid-April and my plan was to have enough saved by the summer in order to buy a ticket to go away in the autumn, my cunning plan being to escape the winter … and my family … and having to sort my life out …

Still, that was all a long way off so Jason was right. It was time I had a bit of fun.

I was just coming off the dance floor where I’d been flinging myself about with the other girls from the salon when Jason sidled up to me. ‘All right?’ he asked, head nodding in time to the beat.

I smiled at him. He scrubbed up well. In fact I would go as far as to say he looked quite cute. Jason and his brothers are all a version of each other but he’s the best looking of the three. At thirty he’s the youngest and the tallest and, unlike his brothers, Ruben and Jake, isn’t yet showing signs of balding. All the brothers have strong noses, though Jason’s face is the only one that really gets away with it. His long, slightly broken nose gives him a kind of Roman look and in fact, thinking about it now, if you were casting Cleopatra, Jason would make a perfect Mark Antony.

Now he winked at me and I was on the verge of winking back when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I spun round.

‘Teresa!’ I exclaimed, surprised and delighted to see my old best friend standing there. I hadn’t seen her for years, which was sad because at one stage we’d practically been joined at the hip.

‘All right,’ she said now, almost shyly.

We stood grinning at one another dopily for a second or two and Jason nodded at me before slipping off, leaving us to it.

‘So, how’s it going?’ I asked.

‘Not bad, you know,’ she said, shrugging in a way that told me things were fine but nothing special. ‘Still working for The Land of Nod.’

‘Great,’ I said, despite the fact my heart had just twanged with both sympathy and empathy. Teresa had started working at the bed shop on the High Street after college, but had vowed it would never become permanent. It’s fair to say neither of us have exactly fulfilled our potential.

‘I’ve just been promoted from branch manager to regional manager,’ she went on to say, her tone slightly defensive.

‘Well, that’s brilliant. Good for you,’ I said sincerely. ‘It’s so nice to see you by the way, you look great.’

I wasn’t lying. Teresa had always been a curvy girl and though her curves were erring on the side of slightly overweight, she carried herself well, with just the right amount of swagger. She had frizzy black hair, olive skin and a confidence that had always stood her in great stead. Tonight she was wearing her usual big, gold hoop earrings. Throughout our teens I’d always been quite envious of how comfortable she was in her own skin. She seemed to bypass that gawky stage where your limbs have a life of their own and all you want to do is pull your sleeves over your hands and gaze at the floor. She may not have been the most beautiful girl at school or have had the absolute best figure but it didn’t matter. Her confidence was so appealing.

‘Ah thanks, I was just about to say the same. Love the hair.’

I grinned, pleased she liked it.

‘So anyway, what about you?’ she asked. ‘I know you were away for a while but what are you up to now? Doing anything with your music yet?’

I shook my head. ‘No. Still hairdressing. Still at Roberto’s, which is great though because it means I get to go travelling loads. I just got back from Asia recently, which was amazing actually.’

To my chagrin Teresa looked neither impressed or interested, just surprised. ‘Oh really? That’s a shame. I would have sworn you’d be in some orchestra or something by now.’

‘Not going to happen,’ I said bluntly. ‘I still play for pleasure, always will, but anything else just isn’t realistic.’

She’d touched a nerve. I knew she only looked so disappointed because she cared, but it was frustrating. If it was that easy to become a professional violinist I would have done it.

Teresa looked mildly put out.

‘It would be a lovely dream but it’s never going to happen. Too expensive, too tricky, too competitive, too late. Anyway, what else is up with you? Have you got a boyfriend?’ I asked, quickly changing the subject.

By way of reply she stuck out her left hand. On her ring finger sparkled a tiny diamond.

‘Oh my god. I don’t believe it. Who are you engaged to? Not Darren?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Been engaged six months now. We’re going to get married next year, if we can afford it. I’ve been meaning to ring and tell you for ages actually but …’

‘Oh honestly don’t worry,’ I said, helping her out. We were equally guilty of not keeping in touch. ‘And congratulations. I’m really happy for you. God, so many people from our year are getting hitched now or having babies. I can’t believe I didn’t even know. I’m sorry I’ve been so … you know.’

‘I know. We’ve both been busy haven’t we?’ she said, taking her turn to help me out now. ‘So come on then, have you got a fella?’

‘Kind of,’ I say. ‘I met someone travelling recently. But no one serious.’

For the second time Teresa looked distinctly sorry for me. ‘Don’t worry babe, it’ll happen,’ she said. ‘You remember my cousin, Sharon? I’m actually here for her hen night tonight and at one point, no one thought she’d ever meet Mr Right.’

I just smiled. It was easier and probably more polite than trying to explain that her sympathy was wasted on me. I wasn’t hankering after settling down like so many people my age seemed to be. Personally I prefer to dip my toe into relationship waters without taking the plunge. Keeps things simple, prevents getting hurt. That might sound cynical, but in my experience most men are only after one thing or end up letting you down. The ‘Martins’ of this world are few and far between so, until I meet that rare thing, a man I can truly rely on, I’m happy as I am thank you very much. Only, whenever I say that, people tend not to believe me.

‘How’s Hayley?’ asked Teresa suddenly, a cheeky grin on her face.

‘Same as usual,’ I said, rolling my eyes. In the past Teresa and I had spent many an hour discussing Hayley and what a cow she could be. ‘And Mum’s mad as ever. She’s decided Hayley’s destined to win Sing For Britain.’

Teresa’s stunned face said it all.

‘Oh yeah,’ I nodded. ‘Hayley’s actually considering going to the auditions this summer.’

‘Shit,’ said Teresa, her face creasing into an incredulous grin. ‘Still, I reckon Julian Hayes would well fancy her.’

‘True,’ I agreed. Julian Hayes is the head judge and a multi-millionaire Svengali whose production company make the show. ‘Trouble is he’s not deaf though.’

Teresa laughed. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’m going to sneak off soon and meet Darren, but I’d love to meet up some time.’

‘Definitely.’ I really meant it. Teresa was one of the best things about my life for a long time and it was sad that we’d let our friendship drift. For my part I think I’ve been waiting for something to change, something to happen, so that I had something to say. But there’s no point putting life on hold. I needed to make more effort. As I watched her walk away I vowed to do something about it.

A while later, after a particularly vigorous dancing session with the, by now very rowdy, gang from the salon, I suddenly noticed a really good-looking guy. I’m talking stand out from the crowd attractive, with green eyes and a lazy grin, which inhabited a face that all fell into place beautifully. What was even more unusual than spotting somebody so nice looking and seemingly age appropriate in this particular ‘nitespot’ was the fact that he appeared to be looking at me. Though I was only sure of this once I’d taken the precaution of looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to find a supermodel standing behind me, waving daintily at the man of my dreams.

The next thing I knew he seemed to be heading in my direction. Of course there was still a chance this handsome stranger was only on his way over to ask whether I had a pen he could borrow, or to tell me that my hair was on fire, so I stared at the barman, trying to get his attention, so it didn’t look like I was just hovering, waiting to be chatted up, which obviously I was.

‘Let me buy you a drink.’

Pretending to be terribly surprised, I turned around only to be met by the wonderful sight of him in close up. He was absolutely gorgeous. I felt like clapping my hands.

Forty minutes later and I was letting myself be seduced by a real pro. His name was Simon and, as I may have already mentioned, he was very good looking. It crossed my mind that Simon must never, ever meet my sister, for if he did he would realise that she was the sort of girl who was in the same league as him, that is to say the premiership, whereas I’ll do but am probably more second division.

Simon’s eyes searched my face as I spoke, which was very distracting and made it hard to concentrate on anything I was saying. He was charming, funny and complimentary to the point where I was beginning to feel like a bit of a sexpot. The only thing that was weird was that he hadn’t been snapped up already. There was no ring on his finger. I checked. He clearly wasn’t gay, so what was wrong with him?

I decided not to stress about it and instead enjoyed hearing him tell amusing stories, which he peppered with questions and compliments. At one point he commented on my hair. He said that only someone with great cheekbones could get away with such a strong look. I knew they were only words, but hearing them made me swell with pleasure.

Anyway, things with Simon – how grown up is that name? I can’t imagine anyone calling a baby or a toddler Simon – were going swimmingly, when out of the blue he suddenly said, ‘So listen, do you fancy leaving here? I’d like to go somewhere where I don’t have to shout at you over the music. Your place?’ As he said this he looked me up and down in a way that made my belly flip and my nerve endings tingle, for it conveyed perfectly what he had in mind.

Mind racing I tried to work out what to do. Not having built up to the question or bothered with any cheesy coffee euphemisms, he’d rather ambushed me, but the intention was implicit. Did I want him to come back to mine so that we could have sex? The short answer was, yes please. The long answer was more complicated.

The first thing preventing me from diving in with both legs open was the fact that I could predict that if something happened tonight, Simon would probably write it off as a one night stand and I’d never see him again. Whereas I would undoubtedly be left feeling bereft and desolate, having managed to fall in love with him somewhere between now and him leaving. He really was that gorgeous. I’ve probably already alluded to the rather complex issues I have when it comes to men. Growing up, knowing that my dad chose to leave has been hard, and my subsequent, fairly predictable trust issues have resulted in me acquiring a reputation as one of Essex’s most chaste girls, although Hayley’s thoughtfully made up for the two of us on that front. Pre-Gary there weren’t many people round here she didn’t sleep with – another subject I suspect might be taboo in front of Gary and his parents.

The second and most significant reason I wasn’t entirely sure what to do about Simon, is called Andy. I met Andy in Thailand. He’s Australian, loves travelling like me and when we got chatting one day, as we lay lazily alongside each other on hammocks, we instantly hit it off. We ended up sharing two unforgettable, beautiful months together, which only came to an end because I’d run out of money and had to head home. Meanwhile Andy, who’s a registered scuba-diving instructor, was heading to Koh Tao where he knew he’d pick up some work. So our blissful existence came to a natural end, though Andy did promise that once he’d had his fill of Thailand he’d head for Europe.

Now we email all the time and Andy has indeed made it to Europe. He promises England is on his list of places to come but three months on I’m starting to wonder whether he really means it. Being completely honest, I’m a little frustrated with the whole situation. I mean, if he really wanted to see me that badly, Andy could have come here weeks ago. As it is, he seems to be ambling round Europe, determined to see every single continental inch of it before coming here, which won’t give us a great deal of time together before his ticket runs out and it’s time for him to head back to the other side of the world.

And now I found myself faced with the temptation of Simon, and I was starting to think that maybe for once I should put everything out of my head and just sate my desire to have drunk, wonderful sex with this handsome Jude Law lookalike when yet another problem popped into my head. And this one was the real passion killer because for a second I’d forgotten that, age thirty-one, I live with my parents and have a single bed. Fuck. My. Life.

‘We could go to yours?’

‘Not tonight. I’ve got people staying so it would be a bit awkward,’ said Simon.

‘Hmm, well, I’d love you to come back,’ I replied truthfully. ‘But I’ve got work in the morning, so I should probably get home and get some sleep.’

‘What job can be so important on a Sunday morning that you can’t be tired for it?’ he said, looking so intensely into my eyes I had to look away for a second as I was hit with a wave of leg-buckling desire. Distracted by lust, I nearly made the mistake of telling him exactly what I was going to be doing in less than twelve hours, but in the nick of time it hit me that I definitely shouldn’t. Not at this stage anyway because, apart from being a chiropodist – or having a single bed – the truth was about the least sexy thing in the entire world. So I lied.

‘I’ve got an acting job,’ I said, wanting to cling on to the feeling that I was someone sexy and dazzling for a short while longer. Someone like my sister – yes, I know I’m obsessed, but you try being related to a Claudia Schiffer lookalike and see how undamaged you remain.

Simon raised his eyebrows at this, clearly impressed. ‘I should have guessed someone quirky like you would do something interesting.’

‘Well, you know,’ I simpered, shrugging, not one hundred percent liking his use of the word quirky.

‘What are you acting in?’

‘Oh … um … an advert,’ I improvised desperately.

‘Great, I’ll look out for it.’

At that point I realised I hadn’t thought this lie through properly at all. ‘Oh it’s only going out in America,’ I added hastily. ‘It’s for … an airline.’

‘A sexy air hostess eh? I love it,’ said Simon, his eyes darkening as all sorts of inappropriate visions popped into his head, which made me giggle a bit because frankly, whenever I see air hostesses doling out synthetic meals and asking you to do up your seatbelt they never look that sexy to me. Just tired, smothered in foundation, mildly bored, resentful of passengers who are getting on their nerves, and like they’re desperate to take their court shoes off.

‘I can already see you in your uniform, like in those Virgin ads. Gorgeous.’

Not long after this I said my goodbyes. I’d drunk far too many vodkas by now to be coping with all the lies I was having to think of, and I’d also reminded myself that of course I did have work in the morning – that bit was real – so suddenly I was anxious to get some sleep. I wrote my number on a paper napkin and thrust it into his hand. ‘Call me,’ I said, trying not to sound like I was giving him an order.

‘Oh I will,’ he promised before giving me a long, lingering kiss on the lips.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a7916cc6-4ad1-5944-b9c3-3bc8b11063af)


This morning I woke up with bison breath and the dim recollection that I’d had a good night.

My head felt too heavy for my body, I was in pain and would have swapped my worldly goods for an aspirin. My bones ached and I had no idea how on earth I was going to get through the day. In short, I had a hangover. Still, if I heard from the wondrous Simon, it would have been worth it. So, I clambered out of bed and lurched towards the bathroom, comforting myself with the thought that this morning I’d be earning two hundred pounds for three hours’ work. Enough to buy me an entire week of travelling in South America, an incentive that propelled me into my clown costume.

Yes, clown costume. For when I’m not working at Roberto’s, despite the fact most of my peers are having children, I, Marianne Baker can be found on many a weekend dressed as Custard the Clown, entertaining them, complete with oversize shoes, red nose and curly blue wig. I also wear a stripy shirt, huge brown trousers held up with comedy braces and a green tailcoat, which has a big plastic gerbera in the buttonhole that can squirt water. Once I’m in full costume and have made up my face I’d love to tell you I start to embrace my role but, in all honesty, I never feel smaller or more stupid than I do when I’m in that ridiculous bloody outfit. I literally have to think of the money the entire time I’m in it.

Of course, when I made the decision to peddle myself as a children’s entertainer I could have taken the more attractive option of investing in a fairy or princess costume, but after a lot of research I realised this would limit my earning potential. Fairies are two a penny and no self-respecting boy would ever want a fairy anywhere near his party. So, investing in a unisex clown costume had seemed like the best option. Not taking into consideration my own ego.

Fully clowned up I sneaked through the house as quietly as I could in my silly shoes. They’re so big it’s like trying to walk in flippers. Mum and Martin had already warned me that they needed a lie in this morning as they were going out for Sheena and Dave’s wedding anniversary that night, so I knew they’d be annoyed if I woke them up.

Four-year-old Jack’s party was being held at his parents’ house – funnily enough he didn’t have his own pad yet – in posh Buckhurst Hill. It was due to start at eleven, so I was aiming to arrive at ten-fifteen for setting-up purposes. Thankfully, parents of small children always stipulate the time these parties have to end, which in today’s case was one o’clock. No one, it seems, is capable of dealing with armies of small children for more than a few hours at a time …

This last thought caused me to suffer a huge relapse during which I had to steady myself on the banister. ‘Armies of small children’ isn’t a prospect anyone should have to consider when suffering from a hangover. In that moment I decided the only way to cope with the day was to take each minute as it came. Bedtime was simply too far away.

As I tiptoed along the landing my brother, Pete, emerged stealthily from his bedroom.

My nerves were frayed from lack of sleep – and vodka – so I gasped loudly with a dramatic inhalation of breath, in the same heart-stopping way Mum does when I’m driving and she thinks I’m too close to another car. Only I never am.

‘You gave me a shock,’ I accused, when in fact the hysterical noise I’d made was far more shocking than anything.

Pete didn’t bat an eyelid. I don’t think his pulse works in the same way as other peoples. Neither did he react to the way I was dressed, which to be fair he’s seen many times before. Instead he merely skulked through to the bathroom, still in his pyjamas.

I haven’t really told you about Pete yet, have I? He’s my brother, well, my half-brother. My mum’s ‘precious prince’. I don’t mind Pete. He’s pretty easy company, made even more so by the fact that he hardly ever comes out of his room. He’s obsessed in a pretty unhealthy way with Elvis and spends the majority of his time listening to The King’s albums on full volume while playing Xbox. Pete’s a funny boy really. He lives in a world of his own. He’s nineteen and if I’m honest I don’t really know him very well at all.

After a life-saving cup of tea, piece of toast, couple of headache pills, pint of water and a Berocca I left the house. Fresh air was good and as I started piling bags of clowning equipment into mum’s Rover – or ‘Tina’ as she likes to call it, Mum has a habit of naming inanimate objects – I decided I might be OK today after all.

As I slammed the boot shut my phone beeped telling me I had a text. I had butterflies as I went to check it. Ridiculously I was hoping it might be from Simon, despite the fact it was far too early to expect to hear from him. Dating etiquette dictated that it would be at least a couple of days before I did. However, it was from him wishing me good luck with the shoot … He’d signed off with hope to see you soon sexy.

As I pulled away I grinned at myself in the mirror. A white face, black eyes and red nose beamed back at me. Thank Christ he couldn’t see me now.

The party was the usual version of hell on earth once it got going. I get paid a lot for being a clown, but I earn every penny of that money, let me tell you. Little Jack, who was actually exceedingly cute, was trembling with the excitement of it all when I arrived. He was four today and he and his merry band of twenty friends wanted to celebrate hard. It was down to me to show them how. Understandably, when a parent’s forked out so much money for an entertainer, they want their money’s worth. They want to be able to stand back, mainline white wine and let the person they’re paying deal with the hysteria.

Before the party began, while I was setting up in their conservatory style kitchen, Jack’s mum was busy cutting crusts off sandwiches so Jack’s dad took the opportunity to take lots of photographs of the birthday boy. At a certain point Jack grew bored of posing and his dad suddenly swung his excited son around in the air before giving him a giant bear hug. It was a touching scene and I experienced, not for the first time, a pang for the childhood I didn’t have. It wasn’t the party and fuss I yearned for when I felt like this. My mum certainly couldn’t have afforded to do big parties like this. Our treat was always to take a friend to McDonald’s for tea, which we loved. It was witnessing such a close family unit that made me sad, because for a few short years I know it’s what I had. I wish I could remember what it felt like to feel so complete. Growing up I missed my dad so much on special occasions, particularly on birthdays. I longed for him to be there. Always. And every year when I blew out my candles I wished he’d come back. I’d close my eyes and imagine him turning up, full of joy to see us and with an explanation that would make me understand why he’d left.

Still, it wasn’t to be, and gradually over the years I’d started to accept that I’d never know and that he obviously didn’t care.

Jack was a lucky boy.

Once the celebrations got going the noise was incredible. It always is. It’s like an inverse equation. The smaller the person, the more noise they create. My hangover was only made bearable by the fact that as I went through my clowning motions I kept remembering how gorgeous Simon was, and how into me he’d seemed. I couldn’t believe he’d already been in touch too. It was the boost I needed, so summoning up the energy from the bottom of my size fourteen clown shoes I supervised games, performed tricks and made lots of jokes about bottoms. This does the trick every time. Jack wet himself laughing. I mean actually wet himself laughing. Still, after a change of trousers, for Jack not me, just as I was beginning to run out of steam, the kids were sat down for twenty minutes on the floor, around a Spiderman plastic tablecloth where paper plates of sandwiches, sausages and carrot sticks were displayed. These were all largely ignored but, when the biscuits and cakes came out, it was like vultures descending as the children scrambled to consume their body weight in sugar. Once the white stuff had penetrated their veins, and they were one Haribo away from full-blown diabetes, the kids went crazy. With lunch over I knew I was on the home straight but that still didn’t stop me from praying hard for it all to be over soon. After they’ve eaten is always the point when the kids feel familiar enough with me to start climbing on me, kicking me and punching me in the face, all in the name of fun of course, while demanding complicated balloon puppets and more lavatorial humour. Today was no different.

Fortunately, the majority of kids at this particular party were pretty sweet and a couple even made me yearn to breed. A handful of others, however, had the opposite effect and made me want to perform an immediate hysterectomy on myself with no anaesthetic. The worst offender was a girl called Maisie. Maisie was, frankly, a little cow. This sounds strong I know, but I do not buy into the view that all children are delightful beings. They’re not. Some are, but others are most definitely hideous and will undoubtedly grow into mean-minded, horrid adults.

Anyway, the party was drawing to a close so I started to hand out treats and to squirt them with my plastic flower. Hilarious … But Maisie, the little charmer, kept wriggling round me so that she could delve into my bag herself and grab more sweets than she was really entitled to.

‘Can you put those back please, angel?’ I asked nicely between gritted teeth for about the twelfth time. By now I was really hanging in rags, my headache had returned and I was desperate to get into something more comfortable. This wouldn’t be hard. I was wearing a hot, heavy, itchy clown suit for goodness sake. I could have slipped into an eighteenth-century crinoline and it would have felt like leisure wear.

‘No,’ Maisie answered defiantly, looking deep into the bowels of my soul in the way that only the most brattish of children are capable of doing.

‘Please Maisie, otherwise there won’t be enough for all the other boys and girls.’

Unblinking, Maisie put her hand back into the bag and extracted yet another handful.

‘But I haven’t had any sweets yet,’ said another little girl, who’d been waiting patiently for ages and who was watching the scene in horror. This little girl was of the cherubic variety. She was small, cute and very polite.

‘I know. You’ve been waiting very nicely,’ I said. ‘So listen Maisie, you need to give some of those sweets to Georgia here, because she hasn’t had any and you’ve had loads.’

‘No,’ said Maisie.

‘Yes,’ I replied. My tone was icy. My patience was wearing thin and I was so weary that at this point I just needed her to do as I’d asked.

‘Please Maisie,’ begged Georgia rather pitifully, her blue eyes brimming with tears at the sheer injustice of the situation. At this rate I’d be crying with her soon. ‘Just let me have one.’

I looked at Maisie and nodded hard, indicating that she should do the right thing – though admittedly it’s hard to be taken seriously when dressed as a clown, unless someone suffers from a phobia of them, which a surprising amount of people do, then it’s easy – but Maisie ignored me and simply shoved nearly every single one of the stolen sweeties into her precocious gob. ‘Can’t have them now,’ she lisped meanly, syrupy dribble pouring out of the sides of her engorged cheeks.

At this point two things happened. Firstly Georgia burst into tears, and secondly I decided that I’d had enough. I was not going to let a four-year-old dictate to me, and I wasn’t going to let Georgia go home unhappy. So I tried to grapple the few sweets that were left in Maisie’s sticky mitts away from her, at which point she threw her head back and screamed so piercingly I honestly thought the conservatory-style kitchen we were standing in would shatter and that shards of glass would kill us all.

‘Blinking heck,’ said Jack’s mum, bounding over, looking all concerned. ‘Is she OK?’

‘Oh, she’s fine,’ I replied airily, but probably not that convincingly given that Maisie had turned a startling shade of purple and was punching me hard with her fists.

I tried to shake her off.

‘She can be a bit of a madam that one,’ admitted Jack’s mum. ‘Still, someone should be here to collect her soon. You’re doing a great job.’

‘Fantastic,’ I said, trying to sound jolly, which was difficult. Maisie’s punches were surprisingly painful. Lots of parents were starting to trickle in by this point though so the hostess left me to it and went to start helping match children up with their shoes, coats and parents.

‘You’re not a nice clown,’ spat Maisie. ‘You’re an evil clown.’

Looking around to make sure no one was in earshot I bent down so that I was at eye level with Maisie and said in as menacing a tone as I could summon up, in order to really exude a ‘clown gone psycho’ sort of vibe, ‘And you’re a horrid, mean little girl, aren’t you?’

Immature I know, but worth it to see the stunned look on her face before she burst into tears. This time the tears were genuine.

With mums and dads arriving the timing wasn’t great. When it comes to bookings I pretty much depend on word of mouth so a child standing next to me wailing in distress isn’t exactly the best advertisement for my skills in entertaining. Then things suddenly took a dramatic turn for the worse, at which point Maisie’s histrionics became the least of my worries. For headed my way was someone who looked scarily identical to Simon.

What the hell?

The world seemed to tip on its head as my scrambled brain searched desperately for an explanation of any kind that might explain his presence. Maybe he had a twin? Or a clone? Maybe I was so dehydrated I was hallucinating? Swiftly however, I came to the horrific realisation that none of these things were true at all and that, of course, it was definitely him. Shortly after this revelation it also dawned upon me that I was dressed as a clown, and that I’d told him I was working on a glamorous advert today. Him seeing me dressed as Custard the freaking Clown was never the plan and what the hell was he even doing here? Panic started bubbling upwards.

Mortification flooded through my system and if I’d been capable of running in my comedy shoes I would have seriously considered fleeing the building. As it was I was trapped, fenced in by a ring of small people, so I turned around, hoping to blend into the background as much as possible. Not easy in a tailcoat and blue curly wig. Plus Maisie was still bleating on, hell-bent on creating a scene, so in desperation I bent down and buried my red nose into my bag of tricks, hoping to look like a busy clown. One who was too busy to say goodbye to any of the children. A clown who just didn’t give a shit.

Then, confirming my worst fear, I heard someone who sounded identical to the Simon I’d been flirting with last night. ‘Maisie darling, what’s wrong sweetie?’

And she said back. ‘That clown said I was a nasty little girl.’

Mind racing, I wished sincerely that the ground would open up, or that a shovel would appear so I could at least start digging and give it a helping hand. Was Simon her uncle? Of all the flipping brats he could be related to.

‘That clown there?’ he said and at this point I felt a sort of calm, defeated acceptance of the situation. I also thought his question was stupid. How many other bloody clowns could he see?

‘Yes Daddy.’

Daddy?

Suddenly I was filled with a new, quite horrid, sense of enlightenment that superseded any of the embarrassment I was suffering from. That one word had changed everything. Slowly, I turned around and without making eye contact demanded to know, ‘Is she your daughter?’ As I asked, I surreptitiously pulled my wig down a bit to obscure my face. My red nose had started to pinch a while back, but now I was grateful for it.

‘Yes,’ replied an aggrieved-looking Simon, clutching the revolting Maisie to him protectively. Knowing that ‘Daddy’ couldn’t see, she stuck her tongue out at me. ‘And I think you owe her an apology,’ Simon continued, totally unaware that I was me. ‘She said you upset her.’

I was just about to make up some bullshit excuse before making my escape when my gaze was drawn to something else. Simon was wearing a gold band on his left hand, which he certainly hadn’t been wearing in the club. And that did it. Prior to seeing that ring I had still been grappling with explanations for everything. Simon was divorced but remained devoted to his hideous daughter. Simon had adopted Maisie as a single father because her natural parents had rejected her for being so vile – let’s face it, this was a possibility. And yet that band of gold told me that this was all utter rubbish and that I had been well and truly bullshitted. What was it with these men?

I was furious and simultaneously found myself actually wanting to be recognised, at which point I slowly slipped off my wig, pulled off my nose, stared hard and waited patiently for his pea brain to compute. Seconds later it started to happen. His face was a picture of horror as slowly the penny dropped.

‘… Marianne?’ he eventually stuttered, his face growing almost as pale as my white one.

‘Yes,’ I answered defiantly, painted face held high.

‘What are you … doing here?’

‘What does it look like I’m …’ I swallowed down the ‘f’ word. ‘What does it look like I’m doing here? Entertaining your daughter and her friends is what I’m doing here,’ I hissed, my voice livid.

‘Right, well nice to see you again,’ he lied, looking longingly towards the exit.

‘You utter pig,’ I muttered.

‘Come on Maisie,’ Simon pleaded. ‘We’re going darling, now.’

‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘Waiting in the car,’ he whispered urgently, as if whispering would cancel out the reference to the cuckolded mother of his child. ‘Go and get your party bag from Jack’s mum.’

‘So, Mummy’s in the car is she?’ I blustered, once Maisie had charged off in search of more treats she didn’t deserve. ‘Maybe I should come outside and introduce myself to Mummy?’

Simon looked terrified.

‘What, you don’t like the idea of that? Why’s that then?’

‘Just stay away from my family,’ he sneered icily, his face contorted in rage.

‘Maybe I’d be doing her a favour?’ I added, enjoying watching him squirm, though admittedly my enjoyment would have been even greater had I been wearing something more standard.

‘Look, you crazy bitch, just keep away all right?’ was his charming riposte, after which he gulped, looked around and then pegged it.

It was awful, and as I stood there trying not to cry, feeling hurt and stung, not only by Simon’s actions but by his venomous tone of voice, I felt truly gutted and absolutely humiliated.

Half an hour later and it was a rather pathetic clown that left that party, worn out, upset and mortified. As soon as I’d been paid, I left almost as hastily as Simon and Maisie had, and only once back in the safe environs of Tina did I let the true extent of my horror catch up with me. The shame of it all. Then I caught a glimpse of my clown face in the rear view mirror and despite everything had to swallow back a laugh that was in grave danger of turning into a sob.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_13b99fbd-7ee3-5d9c-ae15-25bc6f7eccbc)


As I put the key in the lock, I felt fed up and dejected. My mood wasn’t improved when Mum’s voice immediately hollered through from the kitchen. ‘That you Marianne?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well hurry up and have your shower because I could do with a hand in here.’

The day was feeling more like an endurance test by the minute. I felt dreadful and the last thing I felt like doing was helping Mum get ready for a state visit from Hayley, Gary and his bloody family. Especially since I could hear that Pete was upstairs, blasting Elvis as usual. I know he’s younger. I know I should have a place of my own. I know I need to pull my weight but I also know Mum will never expect anything of Pete simply because he’s male. She’s raising a Neanderthal. My mum’s a sexist.

I heaved myself upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom, where I began the process of changing from a clown back into a normal person. As I stood under the shower, the pan-stick make-up dripped off my face and disappeared down the plughole, along with any hopes I might have been harbouring about Simon. What a bastard. Thank god nothing had happened. At least now I could still tell Andy I’d waited for him. The thought of Andy made me instantly nostalgic – and guilty – and as the water pounded my head, I wished more than anything I was miles away from here, on a beautiful beach with him. Preferably lying in a hammock eating a banana pancake at my favourite time of day, five o’clock. Although that’s only my favourite time of day when I’m on the beach, not when I’m at home. That is to say I don’t like it when everybody’s pouring out of work after a gruelling day, battling home in heavy traffic, or on the bus without a seat, head squashed into someone’s armpit. But five o’clock on the beach is another story altogether. It’s when the sun’s starting to dip and its rays are losing their intensity, but it’s still so beautifully warm that you can feel yourself drifting off into a peaceful, dreamy slumber.

‘These vol-au-vents aren’t going to stuff themselves!’ Mum shrieked up the stairs, putting paid to any more of that whimsy.

Ten minutes later I’d shoved on some black leggings and was just about to pull an oversized sweater over them when suddenly I pictured Hayley’s look of outraged disapproval. Off they slid again and I selected instead a dress and belt that I didn’t think even she could take umbrage with. I dragged a brush quickly through my hair, another reason to love having short hair, along with the fact I no longer feel like a poor man’s Hayley. We both used to have long, straight, blonde hair, only hers was that bit blonder and straighter. Since going for the chop, I feel more like I have my own identity and less like people are constantly comparing us when we’re together.

I hoped my outfit would keep her happy today. Not because I gave a shit whether she approved or not, but because I couldn’t be bothered with any more scenes. Still rattled by my confrontation with Simon, I slapped on a bit of mascara and some blusher and then went downstairs to help stuff Mum’s ruddy vol-au-vents.

‘You need to give your eyebrows a rub,’ said Mum, who was in full flap mode. ‘You’ve still got black make-up on them. Other than that though, you look nice.’

I was surprised. I don’t usually get many compliments from Mum – they’re usually all reserved for Hayley or Pete and, on occasion, Martin – and when I had my hair cut short she acted as if I’d mutilated myself. Today Mum was wearing too tight white capri pants with perspex wedges and a v-neck fuchsia sweater that matched her lipstick. Her ash blonde hair was looking bouncy. She’d obviously tonged it to within an inch of its life and her eyes and cheeks were plastered with shimmery make-up. She’s good looking my mum, attractive for her fifty-one years, though her sweet tooth contributes towards what she calls her muffin top. Last year, Martin bought her an exercise bike, which she keeps in the bedroom and goes on religiously every day. She likes to watch Loose Women while she’s on it and has been known to devour an entire packet of biscuits as she pedals.

As I rubbed my eyebrows viciously with a bit of kitchen towel she rushed around the kitchen, making sure it looked pristine. ‘When Wendy and Derek get here, I want to fill them in about Sing For Britain,’ she said. ‘You know how much your sister looks up to Wendy, so if we can just get her on side.’

I sighed.

‘The forms have come through, so now I’ve got all the dates for the London auditions. You will back me up about what a good idea it is, won’t you?’

‘I’m not backing you up Mum,’ I said wearily. Having heard about nothing else for months the subject was starting to wear rather thin, especially since she wouldn’t listen to reason. Going on the show would spell disaster for my sister. Sad but true I’m afraid. I flicked the kettle on for a much-needed cup of tea. ‘I’ve told you already Mum, I don’t think Hayley should audition. The judges will crucify her. She can’t sing.’

Mum narrowed her eyes at me, outraged. ‘Marianne Baker, how can you say such a thing? Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. Just because you have no idea what you’re doing with your life.’

I despaired. Ultimately it was pointless trying to say anything because the fact that I don’t have my own life particularly well sorted out – thanks for pointing that out Mum – means she wrongly assumes I’m jealous. This really upsets me because I certainly am not and am only saying anything because I’ve got Hayley’s best interests at heart. It’s hurtful that she thinks I’m so selfish. She won’t listen to reason though and it’s just such a shame her enthusiasm is so misguided.

Mum is the living definition of a pushy stage mum, or at least she is when it comes to Hayley. In fact, if you were to look up pushy stage mum in the dictionary you might find a picture of her with a frenzied look in her eye, which is the look she gets whenever Hayley opens her mouth to strangle a tune. Ideally it would be an animated picture so you could also see her mouthing the lyrics without realising she’s doing so.

Mum and Martin sent Hayley to stage school when she was about thirteen. At the time they did ask me if I wanted to go too, but fairly half-heartedly and I can still remember the relief on their faces when I declined. They simply couldn’t have afforded two sets of fees and that was fine. I’d never been interested in singing or dancing, only violin, so it probably wouldn’t have been the place for me anyway, although I did sometimes wonder why they never encouraged my passion as much. Maybe if they had, I would have got further with it? Who knows?

Now Hayley’s ‘career’ is pretty much Mum’s reason for being, which is a shame for a few reasons. Firstly, because I strongly suspect Hayley only goes along with Mum’s obsession because she’s never been allowed to consider for a moment what it is she might actually like to do herself, and secondly because even if she did want to be a star I can’t see how it would ever happen because she’s simply not that good. She’s already thirty-three and all her showbiz ‘career’ amounts to so far is one fleeting appearance in an advert for a cruise company, a few shit modelling jobs, panto, and wearing hot-pants at events where she gives out leaflets. It doesn’t help that other people egg Mum on because Hayley’s so beautiful. Though just because someone’s beautiful doesn’t mean they have what it takes to become the next Elaine Paige. Singing in tune helps for a start. Still, this small detail has never bothered Mum or Hayley, or at least it hadn’t until a few years ago when Hayley grew utterly sick of never having Christmas off because of panto. She’d had enough. She was starting to get too old to play one of the villagers anyway and was sick of failing every audition she went to. By now she was settled and married to Gary, so shifted her focus from becoming a star, to bearing his children, which personally I think is wonderful. When she told me she wanted to try for a baby it was the first time I’d ever seen Hayley speak truly passionately about anything. Her entire face lit up in a way it never does when talking about performing. I could see then how caring for someone else could be the making of her. Plus, becoming a parent would take the pressure off as Mum would surely, finally, have to back off.

‘Guess who I bumped into last night?’ I said now, determined to avoid a row, so deciding to change the subject.

‘Who?’ she asked, still looking huffy.

‘Teresa.’

‘Oh did you?’ she exclaimed. ‘How is she?’

‘All right,’ I replied. ‘It was really nice to see her actually.’

‘Well of course it was,’ said Mum. ‘You two were such good friends.’ She looked at me with a knowing expression. ‘Didn’t I tell you something significant would be happening now that Mercury’s in retrograde?’

‘Er, I don’t know, did you?’

‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘I did. It’s also the reason you’re being so bloody bolshy. Still, don’t worry, Venus will be rising soon and things will start going your way. Now, get the bowls out for the crisps and nuts will you? Then, when you’ve filled them up, take them through to the lounge.’

Being treated like a child makes you feel like a child. I wished I could go to bed and fester there for the remainder of the day but got up wearily to do her bidding.

‘How was work today anyway? Nice little kiddies were they?’

‘All right,’ I muttered, not wanting to talk about it.

‘Ah there you are,’ said Mum through the hatch as Martin walked into the lounge, laden with bags from the off-licence. ‘I was starting to think you’d run off and left me.’

On the left of our lounge is an enormous leather suite that rests against a wall, which acts as a partition between the lounge and the kitchen. This wall has a hatch in it, meaning if someone’s busy cooking in the kitchen, by opening it they can still keep an eye on the telly. Quite often I’ll be fully engrossed in a programme when suddenly I’ll glance up only to find Mum’s head hanging out of the hatch directly above me. This can be quite disconcerting.

‘As if,’ said Martin, rounding the partition to enter the kitchen and sidling up behind Mum as she re-wiped the surfaces for the thousandth time.

Mum met Martin when I was ten and Hayley was twelve. Their eyes had met across the big McDonald’s in Romford. I remember it clearly because we’d gone there for my birthday treat and they’d got chatting in the queue. It was a chat that had descended pretty quickly into saucy innuendo about whoppers, which were easy even for a child to decipher. Still, I hadn’t minded too much because I remember it was the first time in ages I’d seen Mum smiling. When we’d left, Martin had taken Mum’s number, and Mum had continued to be in a perky mood for the rest of that evening. Seeing her spirits lift that day was the best birthday present she could have given me.

Dad had left six years previously, which was when we’d had to move out of our house in Hackney and into a damp council flat in Romford. My memories of that time are grim. Mum was depressed and totally unmotivated to find work, as a job would have meant losing her benefits. It was weird though. We were so poor, yet she still owned fur coats and jewellery, left over from her old life with Dad. When she wore them they used to look quite grotesque against the backdrop of our life of penury.

As awful and heart breaking as this period was, looking back, I think it was the last time Hayley and I were really close. Our grief united us for a while I suppose. And I don’t think grief is too strong a word. To have your father in your life one day, a man who adored us and who was, as far as I can remember, a safe, big bear of a figure, our protector, to have him just up and leave was beyond devastating. All I know is that he was a pilot and one day he simply flew to Australia and never returned, abandoning his family without so much as leaving a note. The pain is less raw but I don’t think it will ever truly go away. Then Martin came along, Martin who was as working class as us, but who had done well for himself and had his own business. The only thing missing in his life at that time was someone to share it all with.

Mum and Martin had only been seeing each other for a few months when he asked us all to move into his house in posh Chigwell, the one he had before buying this place, and I don’t think Mum needed long to make up her mind. I believe he saved her in many ways, and Hayley and me for that matter. We’re very different but he’s very kind and the closest thing I’ve had to a dad since mine left. In fact, often I’ve wished he’d made more of his role as ‘stepdad’ but his nature means he prefers to stay in the background and not to interfere, so my mum’s always been in charge of the important stuff. Still, I’m not knocking him, any man who takes on a woman who comes complete with two young daughters has got to be not only reasonably kind but brave, too.

He still gets on my nerves sometimes though.

I watched now as he grabbed Mum’s love handles and gave them a good squeeze.

‘Oi you, don’t grab my extra bits, makes me feel fat,’ she squealed.

‘You are not fat my angel,’ said Martin predictably. ‘You’re built as a woman should be and besides, it just gives me more to love.’

I tried not to shudder and, as Mum untangled herself from Martin’s grip, concentrated on putting crisps into bowls. My hangover was so bad my hands were shaking, so half of them ended up on the floor. Mum frowned at me on her way to the fridge where she got out a bowl of tuna mix, which she handed to me along with a tray of pastry cases.

‘What time are they coming?’ I asked, removing the cellophane and getting to work spooning the gunky mixture into them. I was starting to feel quite nauseous and realised then I desperately needed some food to restore my blood sugar levels. I bent down to pick the dropped crisps up from the floor and shoved them in my mouth along with a bit of fluff from the carpet.

‘Three o’clock,’ Mum replied, the soles of her feet padding against her wedge heels as she bustled around.

‘Why are they coming again?’ enquired Martin, putting bottles away.

‘Good question,’ I remarked, stealing a spoon of tuna mix for myself and cramming that in my mouth, too.

‘Do they need a reason? They are family,’ replied Mum. ‘Although I must admit, Hayley was so adamant we were all here I have got my suspicions.’

‘What?’ I asked, wondering if they matched my own. Personally I was hoping Hayley might finally be pregnant. She and Gary had been trying for two years now and the stress of being disappointed every month had only heightened her already neurotic behaviour. But maybe this get together meant it had finally happened? Gosh I hoped so. It would just be lovely, but Mum had other ideas.

‘Well,’ she said now, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘The other day I told her about an open audition that I saw in The Stage. What’s the betting she went and got it?’

Not for the first time I felt the urge to query her psychic powers but resisted. The irony of the fact she never knew anything in advance was always lost on Mum and Martin.

Martin wandered next door into the lounge, where the TV was blaring. ‘Oof,’ he said, collapsing heavily and gratefully into his favourite armchair before putting his feet up on the leather pouffe. ‘What was the audition for?’

‘Les Mis,’ stated Mum. At this point they were conversing through the hatch in the wall.

‘Mum if you wipe those surfaces any more you’re going to make a hole in them,’ I said a bit impatiently, though what I was really thinking was; Do you honestly think your daughter, who has no real rhythm and sings sharp, is going to make the chorus of one of the most famous West End shows? Are you out of your mind?

‘You’re right love,’ laughed Mum. ‘Look at me getting myself into such a lather. They can take us as they find us can’t they? Martin, why don’t you switch off the telly and stick on a bit of music instead? Help me to relax.’

‘Sure,’ said Martin, who’d just that second picked up the newspaper but happily bounded into action, ready to please as ever. ‘What do you fancy?’

‘Ooh, bit of Mariah?’

Mariah Carey has always been Mum’s ultimate hero.

As Hero came on, Mum abandoned her cleaning and started dancing round the kitchen, using a tube of Primula cheese spread as a microphone. As she sang tunelessly and gyrated her hips Martin came over and stood watching through the hatch, nodding his head and clapping, with a delighted look on his face, as if he were being treated to a private audience with the world’s greatest performer. Thankfully, this ridiculous scene was interrupted by the doorbell and the arrival of Wendy, Derek, Hayley and Gary.

‘They’re here,’ Mum clucked, signalling to Martin to switch off the music before rushing to open the door, which he did before turning the TV back on.

I followed Mum and Martin into the hallway and while everybody noisily greeted each other, I hung back, feeling tired and grumpy. Eventually Hayley broke away and we walked back through to the lounge together.

She was looking particularly gorgeous today. Hayley’s hair is naturally white blonde and hangs in a perfect sheet down her back. She has fair skin, with a pinkish tone to it so she never looks pasty, just delicate, and her features are neat and even, giving way to a full mouth – possibly due to all the exercise it gets. Like me she has a flat stomach, longish legs and a small waist, but unlike me she also has big breasts. You know how there are different versions of Barbie? Surfing Barbie, caravan Barbie, disco Barbie etc. Well, she’s ‘wannabe footballer’s wife’ Barbie, only paler. Today she was wearing skinny jeans, Ugg boots and a leather jacket with a tight t-shirt underneath. She looked immaculate, but then she always does and puts hours into getting ready even if it’s just to pop to the shops.

‘All right,’ she said, her eyes flicking me up and down in a blatant attempt to check that what I was wearing was acceptable. I must have passed the test because she didn’t say anything.

‘All right,’ I replied. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Good,’ she said, popping a crisp in her mouth. ‘What have you been up to? Still washing people’s greasy heads at Roberto’s?’

‘Yeah. Jake was asking after you the other day,’ I said slyly.

Hayley glared at me, a warning sign not to say anything else. Jake is one of her past conquests. One of the many she left broken hearted, wondering what had just happened to him.

‘Saved up enough for South America yet?’ she said, swiftly changing the subject as her husband Gary came lumbering in.

‘Another couple of months I reckon.’

‘Cool,’ said Hayley and then she smiled, a genuinely warm smile, and that was when I knew she must be pregnant.

I smiled back at her broadly and raised my eyebrows questioningly. She immediately scowled back. ‘What? Don’t look at me like that. You look like a retard,’ she added charmingly.

She didn’t say this with quite as much conviction as she usually would though, and I was on the verge of asking her whether she had anything to tell me, but then Gary piped up.

‘All right sis,’ he said, in his weird voice. The tone of his voice is really strange. It’s slightly high pitched and seems to emanate from the back of his throat, or his nose possibly. He always sounds like he’s got a cold. I guess he’s what you’d describe as adenoidal.

He patted me on the arm and I shuddered. I find Gary pretty revolting if I’m honest. He goes to the gym every day and his honed body is so muscle-bound he can barely walk. His thighs are huge and his jeans, which tend to be pale blue Levi’s 501s, permanently look like they’re straining against them. He always wears the same kind of t-shirts too. White but embellished with glittery stuff, sequins, logos or jewels, which tend to plunge into a deep V neck, which gives what I bet he thinks is a tantalizing view of his pecs, but is in fact an off-putting glimpse of his muscular man boobs. He wears a lot of chunky, silver jewellery and his hair is styled into unimaginative spikes. He has tattoos on his biceps and Hayley thinks he’s gorgeous. I’m sure she’s not alone, but I think he’s horribly beefy and the thought of having sex with him leaves me repulsed.

Not of course that I would ever want to have sex with my sister’s husband, but you know what I mean. Just to be crystal clear, I’ve only even considered it in the first place because he’s such an overtly sexual person. Gary leaves a trail of pheromones and testosterone in his wake wherever he goes and is always pawing Hayley in public. Sometimes when doing so his breath quickens and, even in a room full of people, you can tell he’s a bit aroused and that he’d like to get Hayley on her own. I know … it’s foul. Also, he looks at other women, including me, a bit inappropriately sometimes. I know he doesn’t fancy me or anything but he definitely checks me out and I don’t like it.

‘Marianne,’ said Wendy, Hayley’s mother-in-law. Today she looked a bit like the Queen, only minus the pearls. Her hair was set and she was wearing a lilac skirt suit with a navy handbag. ‘How are you? Still no boyfriend?’

‘Er no,’ I replied, wondering why this was always her first line of enquiry but reluctant to tell her about Andy. Why should I?

‘Let me get you a drink,’ interrupted Martin, leading Wendy away by the elbow back towards the kitchen and giving me a little wink. I flashed him a grateful smile in return.

Half an hour later and things weren’t going quite as badly as I’d thought they might. I’d noticed that Hayley had declined a glass of wine and was on the orange juice and it was all I could do not to start nudging people. The men were on beer and Mum and Wendy were tucking into a bottle of white. Still feeling wrecked from the night before I had a cup of tea and ate my body weight in crisps and vol-au-vents.

‘So anyway,’ Mum was saying, her face slightly flushed. The wine had gone straight to her head. ‘You said you had something to tell us Hayley and I don’t think I can take the suspense any more. So what is it? Are you going to be treading the boards you clever girl? Or have you landed some amazing modelling contract somewhere?’

‘No Mum,’ said Hayley, rolling her eyes ever so slightly but still smiling. ‘No, the reason Gary and I wanted you all here today … actually hang on a second, where’s Pete?’

‘Oh that bloody boy. Has he buggered off upstairs again? Go and get him would you Mar?’

Martin leapt up to do her bidding and we could hear him in the hall, hollering up the stairs at his son.

As Pete thudded back down the stairs Mum smiled politely at Wendy and Derek before saying, ‘S’cuse my French.’

‘Not at all,’ said Derek, a self-important, ruddy-faced man who I sometimes think fancies Mum. Like father like son with their creepy roving eyes.

Looking thoroughly underwhelmed – his default disposition in life – Pete re-entered the room, only this time he was dressed as a teddy boy, which is how he likes to dress when he goes out with his friends. Or rather, friend. He only has one friend, Josh, that any of us know of anyway.

‘Hello Pete,’ said Wendy, looking disdainfully at him as her eyes swept up and down the length of him, taking in his drainpipe jeans, creeper shoes, long coat jacket and quiff.

Pete grunted. He’s a man of few words.

‘Isn’t he handsome?’ said Mum, girlishly. ‘You can see where he gets his looks from though can’t you,’ she said before striking a pose that she obviously thought made her look like a model.

Martin laughed uproariously. ‘You certainly can, my love.’

I sighed. My family are so weird. From the outside looking in, they probably appear deeply ordinary, an average suburban family, but sometimes I honestly wonder whether I’m adopted. It would explain so very much. And yes, I know everyone goes through phases where they feel like their family isn’t on their wavelength, but I often have moments like this when I feel like mine are a completely different species.

‘So anyway,’ said Hayley, frowning in Mum’s direction. She was perched on Gary’s meaty thigh, looking dainty as anything, and turned back to look at him so tenderly that I think that was the precise second I knew for sure what their news was. I was instantly filled with happy emotion, plus that feeling again that this could be the making of her. Hayley needed someone to love who adored her back and not just because she was pretty.

‘We’re pregnant,’ she announced to the room, unable to conceal the news a second longer.

I knew it.

Wendy instantly leapt from her seat, clearly delighted. All her usual frostiness and affectation vanished as she let the good news infuse her with grandmotherly excitement. I too squealed and raced over to give Hayley a hug. Derek’s reaction was more unusual.

‘What do you mean we’re pregnant? You’re not pregnant are you son?’ he demanded to know, looking utterly thunderstruck in Gary’s direction.

Still, once he’d been reassured that this was a physical impossibility, he too was pleased as punch and there was much backslapping between himself, Gary and Martin. Even Pete managed to mumble something about how having a child had been the single most important thing Elvis had felt he’d done, which coming from him was practically a speech.

‘I’m going to be an aunty,’ I shrieked as I hugged Hayley again and, for the first time in years, I felt her usually tense shoulders relax a little as she hugged me back.

‘I’ll be asking you to babysit all the time,’ she said, her odd manner making this sound more like a threat than she probably meant it to.

‘Any time,’ I said as we pulled apart.

After that there was a sort of happy pause and briefly I wondered what we were all waiting for, and then I realised. We were waiting for Mum. So far she hadn’t said anything and her silence had become conspicuous.

We all ended up staring at her and, finally sensing that something was required of her, she clapped her hands together and widened the rather fixed grin she was wearing even further. ‘Well, well done both of you,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m really pleased. Though don’t think I’m going to let it call me Granny. I’m far too young to be a granny aren’t I Mar? So it’ll be Nana Alli all the way. And when are you due my darling?’

‘Well,’ said Hayley, ‘Strictly speaking I shouldn’t really have told you yet because I’m only eleven weeks so I haven’t had my scan yet, but all being well it’s going to be a November baby, so he or she will be here for Christmas.’

‘Oh,’ came the collective soppy gasp from all of us, apart from Mum who looked vaguely distracted. By this point her luke-warm reaction was starting to annoy me. Apart from anything else I could see Hayley was starting to get wound up by it. I didn’t blame her.

‘Oh, well that’s great,’ she said, looking faintly doubtful. ‘But just thinking aloud then Hayls, you’ll be all right for the first lot of auditions but we might have to work out what to do about the live shows, all being well and you get through of course.’

‘Mum!’ exclaimed Hayley. She looked genuinely shocked. ‘Are you actually thinking about Sing for Britain? Tell me that’s not the first thing that’s entered your head? I know it’s a shame I can’t do it now, but I promise you I’m much, much happier that this is happening.’

I don’t usually feel sorry for Hayley but at that moment I really did. My sister had my future niece or nephew in her belly, Mum’s first grandchild, but all she could think about was her own pipe dream.

‘Course it isn’t love,’ she added hastily. ‘But someone’s got to think about these things don’t they? I mean Beyoncé didn’t just sit back and let her pregnancy ruin everything, did she?’

Hayley looked dumbfounded, but for a second I thought she was going to let Mum’s insanity go, mainly because she usually likes to appear terribly demure around Wendy and Derek. However, perhaps it was all the hormones or something because in the next moment she let rip.

‘Ruin everything? Is that what you really think? That my baby would be ruining things? Ruining what anyway? I’m thirty-three for Christ’s sake and totally sick of going to crap auditions, which I never get. And besides, there’s always next year anyway. This year, however, we’re having a baby Mum. A baby that has taken us two years to make, so which stupidly, I thought you might be pleased about. Especially given I don’t have a fucking career to worry about because I’m not frigging Beyoncé.’

‘Hayley,’ boomed Derek. His ruddy face had taken on a purple hue, so horrified was he by such a display of emotion in public, especially from a female. Little did he know that when not in their presence Hayley likes to swear like a sailor.

‘I’m not sure you should be addressing your mother like that, young lady.’

‘Sorry,’ muttered my sister, instantly horrified to have lost control in front of the in-laws.

Mum looked mildly rebuked but typically wasn’t wise enough to know when to keep her mouth shut. ‘Don’t be silly Hayls,’ she insisted. ‘Having a baby doesn’t have to mean giving up your dreams this year. You don’t want to leave these things too late.’

‘Maybe you should leave it love,’ suggested Martin quietly, which was the most I think he’d ever stood up to her in all the years they’d been together.

‘All right Mar,’ replied Mum stonily, unused to anything that even remotely resembled criticism from him. I noticed she had a creeping patch of redness developing on her chest.

‘Well, we’re all delighted for you Hayley anyway,’ interrupted Wendy, and for once I was firmly on her side. ‘I for one cannot wait to be a granny. It’s unbelievably exciting and I can’t believe you’ve kept it secret this long Gary. Ooh, imagine a little Gary running around at Christmas.’

We all tried, but it was hard. For starters the baby would only just have been born so it being able to run around was unlikely, wasn’t it? Secondly, the thought of a muscular, dwarf baby version of Gary was disturbing. I hoped whoever was in there looked like Hayley.

Later, when they finally all left, it was a relief. Pete skulked out the front door, seconds after their departure. I planned on escaping too, albeit only to my bedroom, but needed a word with Mum first.

‘What did you have to go on about Sing for Britain for?’ I said.

‘Don’t you lecture me,’ she snapped.

‘I’m not lecturing, I’m just saying.’

‘Well don’t. Honestly, I don’t know where I’ve gone wrong with the pair of you. You living at home, single, wasting your life away and now Hayley, throwing away her chance of success.’

I recoiled, stung by her words. ‘That’s out of order,’ I said. ‘And believe you me, being here isn’t ideal for me either.’

‘Er, that’s enough. I’ve had enough shittiness today off Martin, Wendy and Hayley thank you very much,’ said Mum stroppily, hands on hips.

‘I’m sorry if I came on a bit strong love,’ said Martin.

I checked to see whether he was joking. He wasn’t. ‘But Mum,’ I said frustratedly. ‘She’s pregnant. It’s amazing and you should be so excited about it. This is all she’s ever wanted.’

‘And I am happy for her,’ she insisted, not looking it at all. ‘It’s just I want Hayley to have something to fall back on in life. She’s such a talent and it seems criminal that that should go to waste.’ Her bottom lip wobbled slightly.

I gave up. Frankly I was too bloody hung-over. I felt like total shit by now so I went to my room where I got into bed and promptly fell asleep, despite the fact it was only five-thirty in the afternoon. And despite the fact the wind was howling and an almighty storm was brewing outside.




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_96c015e9-485c-5e26-832f-2f801dc03d42)


FIVE HOURS LATER

When I woke up, groggy from my unscheduled nap, I could never have imagined what lay ahead. Yet here I am, standing outside, in the middle of a huge thunderstorm, trying to compute that my dad is back. My dad is back? It can’t be true. Apart from anything else, if he’s my dad, why is he gripping on to me so hard? It’s too surreal. Just at that point, he finally removes his gloved hand from my mouth at which point, because I don’t fully believe anything he’s telling me, rather unimaginatively, I scream my head off again.

‘Fuck’s sake Marianne,’ the man claiming to be my long-lost father yells, though another crash of thunder ensures I can only just about hear what he’s saying. ‘Stop that flaming screaming will ya? It’s me, your dad. I’m not going to hurt you.’

At this point he lets go of me and spins me around to face him and there, in the blustering gale and rain, I get the first glimpse of him in twenty-seven years.

Immediately I know it’s definitely him. Without any photos – Mum has systematically destroyed all the ones that ever existed of him, even going so far as to cut him out of any group shots – it’s been impossible to preserve much memory of what he looked like, given that I haven’t seen him for so long. And yet I must have retained a handful of residual images, because something deep in the recesses of my mind makes a match with this tall, slightly menacing looking hard man who’s standing before me, dressed top to toe in black, rain pouring down his face. He’s got dark brown, almost black hair, that’s very short at the sides, slicked back on top and receding at the brow. He has green eyes, like me, sharp cheekbones, a nose that looks like it’s been in a few fights in its time and a crooked mouth. It’s my dad, and now that he’s standing before me, bathed in a shaft of harsh, overhead, patio lighting I realise I can’t have forgotten him like I always thought I had, because he looks so familiar. The same, only older, every line on his face visual evidence of the time he’s chosen not to spend with us.

I’m pretty sure at this point that he means me no physical harm but I’m still astonished by what’s happening and wary of what his next move might be. I also can’t stop staring. Probably because, when you’ve wondered about somebody all your life, when finally faced with them in the flesh you need to drink in every detail of them. It’s him and I can’t believe it.

I must be having some out-of-body experience because when someone yells, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ it takes a few seconds to register that it was me who said it, and that I’m crying. Really crying. In fact, I’m positively sobbing my heart out, probably due to a mixture of shock, anger and fear. Not that I can feel the tears. By this stage it’s raining so hard the two of us couldn’t be any more wet through if we jumped in a lake.

‘Let’s go inside. You’ll catch your death standing out here,’ he orders, his rough Essex accent a voice from a previous lifetime.

‘Not sure Mum would be so keen on that idea,’ I manage to stammer. I’ve never been as cold as I am right now. I’m numb.

‘Get in,’ he insists gruffly.

In the end it’s pointless to resist and, besides, what am I going to do? Send him back into the ether, possibly never to see him again? I have far too many questions to let that happen so I nod and go to slide the door across with numb fingers.

Once we’re both inside he pulls the door shut, which immediately dulls the sound of the driving rain. We both stand there, staring at one another, dripping wet, making a huge puddle on the carpet. All I can think is what now? I have no clue how to proceed, or what to say or do in this strange situation. My head’s swirling, my teeth are chattering. To be fair, I think I’m in shock.

‘Why don’t you get some towels or summink?’ says the man who has had the audacity to announce himself as my dad. Like he has the right.

On autopilot I do as I’m told. I go upstairs, strip my wet clothes off, dry myself and stick on a tracksuit and my slippers, all the while trying to digest the fact that downstairs is my missing parent. It’s a lot to take in and as I make my way back downstairs again I’m half-expecting him to have disappeared.

However, there’s nothing about tonight that correlates with any of my expectations.

Now, as I proceed with caution into the lounge, to my surprise, I find my father has gone into the kitchen and is stirring a pan of milk on the hob. He’s peeled off his soaking wet, leather coat and has dried his face off with a tea towel. I can tell because it’s sitting impertinently on the side, screwed up and discarded, a bit like we have been. He’s taken off his trainers and is in his socks. White sports socks. Now that the initial shock is wearing off, lots of rather more violent emotions start to encroach on my dumb state and the oddly domestic sight of him stirring a pan of milk suddenly enrages me. How dare he do something so ordinary in such an extreme situation? How dare he help himself to our milk, from our fridge? There isn’t anything normal about him coming back like this, so doing something as domestic as making hot beverages shows a blatant lack of respect for the drama he’s inflicting upon me. I feel insulted on Mum’s behalf. Thinking of her only increases the magnitude of what’s happening.

‘See you’ve made yourself at home then,’ I say frostily.

‘Get that down your neck,’ he says, before pouring the hot milk into two mugs and handing one to me. The mug he’s using is Martin’s favourite. Mum gave it to him on Valentine’s Day. It says Hot Stuff on it.

Staring into my own mug I notice my hand is shaking like a leaf. Hot chocolate. How twee. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ I say coldly. ‘Why were you creeping round the house like that? I could have had a heart attack. I thought you were a burglar. Have you got a problem with doorbells or something?’

‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I went round the back ‘cos I wanted to see you on your own, so I waited till your mum and her fella had gone out. Then, I did try the bell as it goes, but there was no answer, so I came round the back again.’

‘But you grabbed me.’

‘’Cos when I reached out you screamed like a banshee.’

As I open my mouth to protest he says, as gently as his gruff voice will permit, ‘Drink your drink.’

Chilled to the bone, slowly I take a sip, only to find that it’s the perfect drink for the situation, hot, sweet and good for my strange state. I let the warm liquid defrost me from the inside but then, not wanting to pussyfoot around any longer, ask in a small voice I hardly recognise, the question I’ve wanted answering since I was a child, ‘Why did you leave us?’

And Ray, that’s his name, and I’m certainly not about to start calling him Dad, turns to me and says, ‘You know, I’ve dreamed of this day, Marianne.’

‘Whatever,’ I retort, hot rage boiling underneath the surface. This man has caused me so much pain my entire life simply by choosing to not be there, so hearing anything he has to say was always going to be hard. Such triteness is inexcusable though. Nothing he can say to me now will ever excuse his absence. As for turning up here unannounced, it’s unacceptable, inappropriate and above all, not bloody fair.

‘What’s your mum told you?’ he says, leaning back against the breakfast bar.

‘Just the basics,’ I fume. ‘That you were a pilot and that you pissed off to Australia because you couldn’t handle family life. Made for a lovely bedtime story I can tell you.’

Ray just stands there staring sadly into his cocoa. Then, to my absolute annoyance, a grin slowly spreads across his big brutish mug and he chuckles. He throws back his massive ugly head and actually laughs.

‘What?’ I say, and at this point I’m beyond seething.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just I can’t believe she said I was a pilot.’

The world tips on its axis and I become keenly aware of the fact that I can’t take much more tonight. She said he was a pilot.

‘Well, what’s so funny about that?’

‘I was never a pilot,’ he says, his face grave once more. ‘Marianne, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. I was in prison.’

I don’t believe this is happening. I put my mug down on the side and go to take a seat at the dining table, the one nearest the radiator. Needing time to fully absorb what he’s just said I use warming my hands as a delaying tactic. My head’s spinning and it’s also occurred to me that Mum could be back at any time. I glance back at Ray to see whether he’s joking but he looks deadly serious.

‘Prison?’ I manage eventually, not sure I want to hear anything else he’s got to say. Not convinced I don’t want him to just leave, so I can pretend that none of this ever happened. So that life can continue as … well … not quite normal, but as good as.

‘Yeah. I’m not proud of it, but at least I’ve served my time, though I can honestly say that living with the regret of what I did and what I put you, your sister and your mother through hasn’t been easy. You look so like her by the way. Not the colouring, but around the eyes and that.’

‘Right,’ I say faintly, not trusting myself to say much more apart, that is, from the question from which there’s no escaping. ‘So … what did you do? Why were you in prison?’

Ray inhales and looks up at the ceiling as if deliberating whether or not to tell me.

‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out somehow,’ I say, steeling myself to hear what heinous crime my long-lost dad committed all those years ago.

‘All right,’ he says quietly, his huge bulk making our kitchen look smaller than usual. ‘I was arrested for murder.’

‘You murdered someone?’ I sob. It couldn’t get any worse. It all feels so surreal and part of me hopes I’ll wake up in a minute. I know if the floodgates open I won’t be able to close them again so fight to keep calm.

‘Well yeah, but not on purpose. It’s a long story,’ he says sadly. ‘In the end I got done for manslaughter … and arson.’

I can’t look at him. It’s as if the walls are closing in on me, and it dawns upon me that I know virtually nothing about this man who’s standing in my kitchen. This man, who’s taken the liberty of helping himself to milk from our fridge. This monster, who’s telling me now, calmly, that he’s killed someone. What was I even thinking when I let him in the house? I have to get him out, preferably before Mum and Martin get back.

‘Well, now you’ve got out, it’s nice you thought to look us up,’ I say, sarcastically, yet with a hint of caution. I’m a bit worried for my own safety. I don’t want to rile him. He’s just told me he murdered someone. My dad’s a murderer. As thoughts pop relentlessly into my confused head, they’re more like newsflashes.

‘I got out eight years ago,’ he says abruptly.

‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback.

Another shocker I wasn’t expecting. In fact, if this evening takes any more curve balls I’m going to get the bends. Strangely, the fact he’s been out of prison for eight years but has only just got round to looking us up pisses me off even more than finding out he’s killed someone. I know that probably displays an awful lack of perspective but it’s more personal I suppose. Plus I’m probably not really thinking straight.

‘So, why didn’t you come looking for us eight bloody years ago then?’ I demand to know, feeling such a surge of white fury it almost overpowers me. How dare he? How can he say he’s dreamed of this day when he could have had it any time he liked over the last eight years. I’m so angry I feel like screaming.

‘I promised your mum I wouldn’t, but things have changed.’

‘Oh yeah? Great, well what’s happened then? Have you murdered someone else?’ I cried. ‘Or did it just occur to you what a shitty job you’d made of being a dad. Or maybe it’s not something you’ve ever taken particularly seriously so you just thought you’d do it on a whim. Is that it, or what?’

‘I’ve got cancer, Marianne. They’ve given me six months to live.’

And these words change the direction of everything once again. I stare at his face, willing him to be lying but can tell immediately he isn’t. Instead, I see a man who looks strangely resigned to the news he’s just imparted and even though I barely know him the anger dissipates and is joined by crippling sadness at the injustice of the whole shitty, crappy situation.

‘Cancer of what?’ Even though I’m already sitting down, my legs feel decidedly wobbly. I wipe my face as tears fall silently down it.

‘Of bloody everywhere at this stage, but it started in my colon. Cancer of the bumhole basically. Not the most glamorous,’ he jokes, though it’s so far from being funny, it’s tragic. His face is stricken.

‘Right,’ I manage. ‘Well … I’m sorry.’

‘Me too Marianne, me too,’ he says, rolling his green eyes heavenward in order to quell and stave off whatever it is he’s feeling, which can’t be good.

‘Are you scared?’ I ask, curious to know. Was it fear that had made him come back? Was he so selfish that he was only seeking us out because suddenly he needed us? I’m so confused right now I don’t know what to think.

‘No,’ he says simply. ‘I ain’t scared of dying. What does scare me though is not explaining anything to you and your sister. I’ve always left you alone for good reason but lately I’ve realised that might not have been the best plan after all. I’m so sorry I frightened you earlier.’

I think he can tell my brain is completely overloaded because the next thing he says is, ‘Look, it’s a lot for you to take in. I should go now anyway, in case your mum and her bloke get back, but I’m gonna give you my number and if you could just give me a call, maybe tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.’

I must have nodded because he picks a biro up and looks around for something to write on, settling eventually on an old receipt.

‘There,’ he says.

I take it from him and he crosses the room, clearly planning on making his exit the same way he arrived.

‘Why tonight?’ I ask, a swell of emotion suddenly surging through me as I desperately try to figure out so many things. I don’t want to cry while he’s here.

He shakes his head and smiles ruefully. ‘Didn’t have a plan really. I’ve just been watching the house a bit, you know, trying to figure out the best time to approach you.’

‘Right,’ I say, not knowing quite what to make of that either. I’m pretty sure what he’s just described amounts to stalking, not that it seems to matter very much somehow.

He slides the glass doors open a fraction and as he does the rain howls in again. As I watch him pull on his still wet coat, it occurs to me that I hope he has somewhere warm to go to. And that confuses me even further because a big part of me hates him, and yet this instinct contradicts that. He’s just about to disappear into the stormy night when he stops, turns and says one final thing, and of all the things I hadn’t expected about tonight, including seeing my dad for the first time in decades, finding out he went to prison, discovering he killed someone and is dying of cancer, the thing he says to me as he vanishes back into the storm is the thing that surprises me the most.

‘By the way, I heard you playing earlier Marianne. Through the window. You play beautiful. Bach wasn’t it?’

‘Um … yes,’ I whisper, wondering how on earth my dad, the murderer, could possibly know that.

I wander back to my room in a trance, mind racing as it desperately tries to compute everything it’s found out. My violin’s still lying on the bed where I left it, so I put it and the bow back in its case before sliding it underneath my bed. Then, utterly drained and emotionally spent, I collapse onto the bed and stare at the rain as it smashes against the window-pane, letting the tears slide quietly down my face and onto my pillow.

Seconds later I hear a key in the front door downstairs. Mum and Martin are back. Quickly I switch off my bedside light, plunging my room into total darkness. I can’t face Mum. If she sees me she’ll instantly know something’s up and I’m nowhere near ready to discuss what’s just happened.

I can hear her and Martin giggling and shushing one another, clearly pissed after an unusual Sunday night out to celebrate Sheena and Dave’s wedding anniversary. I’m hoping they’ll go straight to bed, but Martin spends what feels like hours making sure the house is locked up, while Mum crashes and blunders her way around the kitchen, burning toast by the smell of it – it’s always the same when she goes out with Sheena. In front of her she pretends she has the appetite of a sparrow, but then makes up for it when she gets home by eating her body weight in carbs.

What feels like hours later they eventually start making their way up the stairs, though their progress is painfully slow and agonising to listen to.

Mum seems determined to stop on every stair, wheezing with laughter, while saying things sporadically like, ‘Stop it Martin’ and, ‘Don’t, I’ll pee my pants Martin.’

Five long minutes later, they’re finally ensconced in their room, presumably passed out because the house falls silent once again, at which point I succumb to a proper sob. Perhaps a good cry is what I need? It’s been a hell of a weekend. And with that final thought I drift off into restless sleep, wishing I’d appreciated the relative simplicity of life before today.




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_cbfcec77-dbb3-546d-bcf7-9f5ce27fc1ac)


The next morning I wake up feeling drained. My very first thought is that I can’t handle work today so I phone Jason and pretend to be ill.

Once I’ve got him off the phone I find the tatty receipt my father wrote his number on and stare at it, trying to absorb what it means. My heart aches in my chest. I’ve spent my entire adult life missing having a dad, wondering why he didn’t love us enough to stay in touch. I’ve coped by repressing as much of these emotions as possible while pretending to the world that I’d have no interest in seeing him again. But him showing up has exposed this lie for what it is. Now he’s come back I am forced to admit it’s all I’ve ever really wanted. Only not like this. As I stare at the unfamiliar handwriting, I find myself thinking how little I know about the person it belongs to. Is my dad evil? He did kill someone after all, and yet if that’s the case, why do I feel so desolate about the fact he’s going to die? It’s all so overwhelming and gut-wrenchingly disappointing. Over the years, in my mind I’ve built him up into a romantic sort of Heathcliff-type figure. A good-looking, charismatic cad. It’s hard to admit, but I’ve often wondered whether Mum was to blame for him leaving. I thought she might have driven him away. One psychic prediction too many, perhaps?

I’ve invented everything though, convincing myself along the way that I’ve based these notions on more than just my own pathetic daydreams. As it turns out, Ray’s more roguish looking than handsome and now that he’s really here it’s obvious that the truth is far more unpalatable and complicated than I could ever have guessed. I’m going to have to reappraise everything I’ve ever thought. Do I even want to get involved? If he’s telling the truth, he’s only going to end up dying on us anyway.

As this incredibly bitter thought enters my head I feel ashamed. God it was all such a mess. What the hell was Hayley going to say when she found out? Should I even tell her given that she’s pregnant? I don’t want to stress her out. I decide then just to sit on it for a while. My head is too scrambled to make any decisions.

Downstairs the usual morning chaos is in full swing. Martin’s leaving for work and Mum’s nagging Pete to eat more than just a piece of toast for breakfast.

‘My little soldier can’t survive on toast alone. Do you want me to make you a quick bacon sarnie my lovely? Or how about a bit of scrambled?’

Pete grunts by way of reply and looks annoyed when she ruffles his hair, which he’s clearly spent hours doing. Moments later he gets down from the breakfast bar, picks up his rucksack of books and drags himself off to college, giving me a cursory glimmer of a smile in passing, oblivious to Mum’s incessant commentary and fussing. As ever Mum seems to feel it’s necessary to see him right out, so that she can yell her goodbyes from the drive.

Once this daily ritual of over-the-top mothering is over, she makes her way back into the kitchen and sighs contentedly before asking brightly, ‘So, how are you this morning?’

Today Mum’s dressed in a bright turquoise tracksuit, which she’s accessorised with beads and her favourite silver and Perspex wedges. She simply doesn’t do flat shoes and only takes her beloved wedges off if she’s about to get into bed, the bath or a swimming pool. Sometimes she even wears them on her exercise bike. ‘Not working today, Marianne? I thought your day off was Wednesday.’

‘No,’ I mumble, as I fix myself a bowl of cereal while wondering how on earth to broach the subject that her ex-husband is out of prison and has reappeared, in our back garden. ‘Are you a bit happier about Hayley’s news now you’ve had a chance to think about it?’ I enquire disapprovingly, buying myself time more than anything.

Mum tuts and rolls her eyes despairingly at the mention of my sister. ‘Course I’m happy Marianne, I’m ecstatic,’ she says, sounding anything but. ‘And if that didn’t come across, well then I’m sorry. I just don’t want Hayley to wake up one day and realise she’s missed the boat. She’s so talented but if I’m totally honest, sometimes I wonder whether she’s got the right attitude for showbiz, you know?’

‘If she hasn’t got the right attitude for showbiz,’ I say, spooning Shreddies into my mouth, head still whirring, ‘She’s probably not cut out for it, is she?’

Mum’s face looks tired underneath all the make-up. I can tell she’s hung-over from last night. ‘Look,’ she says as she flaps around, tidying up. ‘Is it wrong that I want you girls to do something exciting? Something glamorous, obviously. I haven’t turned into one of those feminists with hairy armpits or anything, but I want you to be fulfilled. I want you to do something worthwhile, like beauty therapy or ideally, in Hayley’s case anyway, performing. As it is I’ve got two daughters in their thirties, one with bags of talent but no ambition and another who wants to be some sort of hippy. Frankly Marianne I’m praying you’re going to get inspired at some point and start taking hairdressing more seriously. If you did, you could have your own salon one day.’

I roll my eyes, not in the mood for a lecture.

‘All I’m saying is that when your dad upped and left, I realised I’d wasted my life being a girlfriend and wife to him. I was so young, still am really, but life has passed me by and I’ve never had anything to fall back on. I don’t want that for my girls.’

The fact she’s even referred to her past life with Ray is very unusual. I seize the opportunity to turn the conversation back round to him.

‘So, when my dad left, did you ever wonder whether there was more to it than him just wanting to … get away?’ I ask tentatively, searching Mum’s face for clues. Knowing she lied to us all these years is a hard pill to swallow and not something I’ve had the chance to even consider until this very second.

She looks away and busies herself with heaving the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard and plugging it in. This all gives her time to think. I see that now and find myself wondering how I could have been so dense all these years not to have noticed her rubbish attempts to conceal the truth. Angry suddenly, and determined to get an answer, I get up and pull the plug out of the wall just as she’s started vacuuming.

‘Hey,’ says Mum, looking annoyed. ‘You know I don’t like talking about that time, so let’s drop it shall we? Plug me back in.’

I shake my head. I can’t do it. I can’t pretend and don’t see why I should have to any more. ‘I know he went to prison,’ I say steadily.

Mum freezes and even though her back is to me at this point, her shoulders go rigid, so I know she’s heard what I just said.

‘Who told you?’ she asks, her voice little more than a whisper. When she turns to face me, her skin has gone a rather strange colour. The colour of a mushroom. Not the black bit, the grey bit obviously.

‘I found it on the internet,’ I say, not sure I should deliver all the facts just yet.

‘Right,’ she says, swallowing. She looks momentarily confused because of course the information isn’t online or I would have found it long ago, but then she seems to accept that it must be.

‘Why didn’t you tell us? Why have you lied to us all these years?’ To my horror my eyes start filling up. ‘You had no right.’

Abandoning the vacuum cleaner, Mum sinks down onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and for a second seems close to tears herself. Taking a deep breath she runs her immaculate peach fingernails through her hair.

‘How could I tell two young girls their dad was a criminal? You were four Marianne, are you telling me you would have understood that? That you would have liked to have known he was a villain?’

I consider this for a while. ‘OK, I understand why you didn’t tell us when we were little. But later, when we were older, didn’t we deserve to know the truth then?’

‘And how would you have felt? You believed what I’d told you. What day would have been the right day to break my daughters’ hearts?’

I swallow. ‘I don’t know. Look, I get that it was hard for you Mum. I really do. Being left to deal with everything must have been awful, but surely it would have been better at some point to tell us the truth? At least we would have known he didn’t leave us out of choice. As it is I’ve spent my entire life staring at pilots in the airport, scanning their faces for family resemblances. I haven’t even been to Australia because I thought it had too many unpleasant associations.’ I wail, as these side effects of the whole situation occur to me.

‘I’m sorry, all right,’ says Mum, sounding more angry than sorry. ‘But I was ashamed too you know. My husband was a low-life criminal and I put up with it, and turned a blind eye for years. I was still so young when he went down, far younger than you are now,’ she adds pointedly. ‘And I was heartbroken if you must know. I lost my husband that day, just as you lost a father. He let me down,’ she shouts and her voice becomes quite shrill.

‘I know,’ I reply quietly.

Mum pauses as she tries to find the right words to express what she wants to say. ‘Look, the one right thing I did was have you girls, and the day he went, I realised you deserved better than the start you’d had. I wanted better for you. So I started afresh. We were better off without him anyway.’

‘Were we?’ I stammer. ‘Surely that wasn’t your decision to make alone? Like it or lump it that man is our dad and if we’d known he was in prison then maybe we could have decided for ourselves whether we wanted him in our lives or not. Don’t you think we had a right to that choice?’

‘No, I don’t actually,’ says Mum plainly. ‘I had to do what I thought was right, for all of us, and it wasn’t flaming well easy I can tell you.’

‘Why wasn’t it?’ I sob. ‘I want to know, all of it. I need you to tell me what happened. You owe me that at least.’

Mum looks at me for a while and it’s as if the day she’s been dreading for so many years has finally arrived. Maybe it’s even a relief for her because she doesn’t put up any more of a fight. Instead she just tells me everything. And for once, I can tell it’s the truth.

‘When I met Ray, your dad, at school, he was the lad everyone looked up to. He was … what’s the word? He was … charismatic. All the girls fancied him,’ she says, looking vaguely glassy eyed. ‘And when he picked me, when he could have gone out with anybody, I couldn’t believe it. But he was a troublemaker Marianne and by the time we’d left school he was already up to no good. Not that I knew quite what a bad crowd he was in with. All I did know was that by seventeen he was one of the only lads who had their own car and that he always had money to take me out. He dressed really nice too, looked after himself. Anyway, I’d got myself a job working for my mate Tracy’s mum in her shop, only Ray didn’t like me working. He said it was up to him to look after me and I suppose I liked his old-fashioned values in a way. I mean, I liked my job too, but I liked being looked after better. I was probably a bit lazy to tell you the truth.’

She gets up from the breakfast bar at this point and comes to sit down at the table next to me. She swallows hard and I can see it’s difficult for her to talk about this time in her life. Or rather how unused to it she is. I remain silent, not wanting to put her off her stride. I’m still so full of mixed emotions but need to hear what she has to say.

‘Then I got pregnant. Your dad had just turned eighteen by this point but I was still only seventeen. Anyway, a week after I told him I was expecting he asked me to marry him, at your Nan’s house, in his room, and I said yes. It doesn’t sound very romantic but actually, at that stage, we were really in love …’

Mum pauses for a second and sniffs before staring into the middle distance.

‘You all right?’ I ask flatly.

‘Yeah, it’s just funny talking about it. Seems like a lifetime ago now. Stick the kettle on will you Marianne? I’ll have a milky coffee, but use my sweeteners.’

‘So what happened then?’ I ask, getting up to make her coffee.

‘Well my mum, your Nana, was furious that I’d got myself preggy, so I moved into Ray’s mum’s and it was only really then that I properly realised what sort of people he was mixed up with. He was forever popping out on some business or other but it was obvious he was up to no good. Not that I did anything about it. I knew we’d soon have a mouth to feed, so it was easier to accept the money without asking how he’d got it I suppose.’

‘How had he got it?’

‘Extortion, burglaries, credit card scams. You name it, he did it. Though he was never involved with drugs. Ever,’ she says adamantly, like that made everything else perfectly OK.

I give her her coffee.

‘Thanks, lovey,’ she says dolefully. ‘Anyway, we were all right for a while, happy really. Then, when Hayley was tiny and you were on the way we eventually got our own house off the council. You know, the one in Hackney, and at that point Ray became less discreet about his business than he was when we were living at his mum’s. People were always coming round ours at funny times, often in the middle of the night. It used to drive me mad. I’d see cash changing hands but all business conversations used to take place behind closed doors. Ray used to say he’d tell me things on a strictly need to know basis, though I obviously didn’t need to know very much because I was permanently in the bleeding dark.’ She laughs at this and rolls her eyes with mock frustration as if she were talking about something really silly and trivial as opposed to turning a blind eye to her husband’s criminal activity.

She gets up to fetch her biscuit tin and frowns for a second as, upon opening it, she discovers how depleted her supplies are. Still, she must be equally as engrossed in what she’s saying because she just takes a biscuit without saying anything.

‘Of course, I’d know when he had a really big job on because before he’d leave he’d tell me where I could find cash if I needed it. Give me the name of someone I could go to if I needed help and that. I used to hate it when he got like that though. I wouldn’t sleep a wink, wondering whether he was ever coming back, but he always did, and he’d always have a nice present for me and something for you girls.’

I must give her a disapproving look because she suddenly looks quite shame-faced. ‘I know I know, but like I said, I was young and by this point I was bringing up two little girls and besides, he was my man Marianne. It wasn’t my place to question. I mean, I should have done, I know that now, but at the time it just wasn’t the way people like us operated. Anyway, when you were four and Hayley must have been six, there came a night when things didn’t go to plan. Your dad had something big on. I knew it was big because he was all jittery for weeks and I couldn’t say anything right. I remember that night so clearly. Before he left I told him I had a bad feeling but he wouldn’t talk to me or tell me anything. You know how I’m a bit psychic don’t you?’

I frown. I don’t. She’s not.

‘Anyway, this time your dad didn’t come home for a week. Longest week of my life that was and when he did come back he was a changed man. He told me he was wanted by the police and that things had gone seriously wrong.’

Mum looks away, as if the end of the story is going to tell itself.

‘Go on,’ I say frustratedly.

She stares mournfully into her coffee. ‘He’d been paid to arson a warehouse by someone so that they could claim on the insurance. Though normally he wouldn’t have done a job like that himself, or at least that’s what he told me after, but he owed a bloke a favour you see and he was the sort of bloke you didn’t muck about, so … Anyway, it all went wrong. Ray thought the security guard had left the building to patrol the grounds, but he hadn’t. He’d gone back in, though to this day no one knows why. Maybe he’d heard the phone ringing? Or needed the loo? Or fancied taking his thermos flask with him? Something like that.’

I experience a wave of sympathy for Mum. I can tell she’s been wondering these things for years.

‘That poor, poor man died in the blaze,’ she says sadly. ‘So suddenly your dad was on the run for murder. But they got him in the end of course.’

‘He’s back.’

‘What do you mean?’ she says, looking up sharply and I feel bad for blurting it out but know it’s the only way I’m ever going to get the words out.

‘He’s back,’ I repeat.

‘Back where?’

This could go on.

‘I saw him, Mum.’

‘Where? Where did you see him? In the street?’

I hesitate. Judging by her appalled face it might be better to lie at this juncture. ‘Yeah … in the street.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘Er … yeah.’

‘What did he say? You didn’t tell him where you lived did you?’

‘Um no. He er … he got out … years ago.’

‘I know,’ says Mum, still looking deeply agitated about the fact I’ve seen him.

‘He’s ill Mum.’

‘Good,’ she says.

‘That’s not very nice,’ I retort. ‘He hasn’t got a cold you know. He’s really ill.’

‘I said good!’ she shouts, and her voice wobbles dangerously. ‘As far as I’m concerned he’s dead to me and I don’t want you having anything to do with him Marianne, do you hear me?’

I hear her all right but I can’t believe what she’s saying. She can’t tell me how to deal with this. I need to work out for myself what I’m going to do. As a grown woman. I can understand her not wanting to see him, but she can’t decide what’s right for me any more. In fact her reaction now is merely pushing me towards seeing him again. First though, Hayley needs to know what’s going on. I know that now. It will stress her out more if she finds out at a later date that I’ve seen him and didn’t tell her. It should be up to her to decide whether she wants to talk to him, even if it’s just to have a go at him or to ask him things she wants to know. After all, she’s carrying his grandchild and there’s a chance Ray might still be around when it’s born. I get to my feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Mum asks nervously.

‘Nowhere, just out for a bit.’

‘But we need to talk. I need to know you’re not going to do anything stupid, Marianne. If your dad bumped into you that wouldn’t have been a coincidence. You need to be careful and you have to promise me you won’t see him. I don’t want Martin worrying about this.’

‘I can’t promise I won’t see him Mum, but you don’t need to worry about Martin. I won’t say anything,’ I say, picking up the car keys from the hook where we keep them.

‘Tell me where you’re going. Why are you taking Tina?’

‘I’m popping to the shops,’ I lie.

This seems to appease her. ‘Right, well I’ll see you later then. Are you here for your tea?’

I nod.

‘Great, we’ll all eat it together,’ she says slightly manically, as if our previous conversation never even happened. She stands up, brushing crumbs from her biscuit off her and taking her mug to the sink. ‘Chicken Kievs I’m doing with jacket spuds. Then we can talk about what song Hayley should do for Sing for Britain. I know she blew up the other day but once she’s had a chance to cool off I’m sure she’ll come round. Besides, doing the show preggy would make a really interesting story for the viewer. It would be different anyway, wouldn’t it?’

I do a double take. Is she serious? I think she is. Do you see what I mean now? Actually insane.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_e15e84c6-3f22-5706-99ac-77333acdab0c)


Hayley and Gary live at the end of a cul-de-sac, a few miles from us in Chingford. The entire house is decorated in various shades of white and when we were all invited round after it was finished Hayley got really cross with us for not being able to tell the difference between the apple white she’d painted the hall and the hessian white she’d painted the lounge. It just all looks white but, according to her, the difference should be as obvious as if she’d painted one room blue and one orange. Her carpet is also an off-white and her curtains are a pale shade of something anaemic too. As a result it’s one of the least comfortable houses to be in because you’re terrified to touch anything in case you sully it somehow. Even her sofa, a new purchase as of the Boxing Day sales, is white. Martin’s terribly jealous of her white leather suite because he hadn’t spotted it for himself. His obsession with boring shops is seasonal, you see. During the summer months it’s all about Homebase, but come winter and the Boxing Day sales, the second DFS and Land of Leather have flung open their doors, he’s there. In fact, this moment is probably the most meaningful and spiritual part of Christmas for Martin. Consequently, as a family, we’re always first in the queue at one or other of these places, no matter what the weather. No one except me ever questioning the fact we’re standing there shivering, when we could be at home eating leftovers and watching telly. Is it any wonder I like travelling so much?

Partially due to the lightness of their carpets, Hayley and Gary are obsessed with people taking their shoes off when they enter their domain too, which is fair enough. Like most people I appreciate that the thought of dirt from the street being trampled into your carpet isn’t that nice, but they are ridiculously anal about it. To the point where I honestly think if there was a fire in the house and Hayley was stuck inside, she’d insist on the firemen taking their boots off before coming in to save her.

Gary’s just as OCD as she is though. His clothes are always immaculately ironed and their bed never looks as though anyone’s slept in it. I love the thought of a child coming along to shake things up in Evans Towers, though I’ll have to take it on special outings to dirty places in order to build up its immune system. I’ll scout out really grubby church halls and play areas, then set the child free to eat stuff off the floor and chew on grimy toys, like babies are supposed to.

I ring the bell, my mind back on the task in hand. When the door opens Gary’s standing there looking as Neanderthal as ever.

‘All right sexy, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ he says, eyeing me up and down. His voice too high pitched for one so muscular.

‘Is Hayley in?’

‘No, she’s getting her nails done. You’re lucky you caught me. I just came home to pick up some paperwork to take back to the garage. Come in and wait if you like.’

I hesitate. Did I really want to sit and make small talk with Gary? Then again, what I had to tell Hayley couldn’t exactly wait.

I shrug and my foot’s only halfway over the threshold when Gary says ‘Your …’

‘Shoes, I know, don’t worry,’ I finish for him.

My heart sinks. Damn, I’m wearing my knee-length black boots, which don’t have a zip. Getting them on is relatively easy, you just sort of pull them on and heave them into position, like adjusting a pair of support tights. Getting them off is another matter though. In the end I have no choice but to sit spread-eagled on the floor and prise them off with the other foot, going red-faced from exertion. This isn’t an approach I feel particularly comfortable taking while Gary’s standing over me, but finally they’re off. As I pull myself back to standing, I feel like I’ve had a workout.

I notice that Gary’s own feet are bare, tanned and pedicured. He obviously has regular sun beds. He pads back towards the front room. ‘Can I get you a drink while you wait. Squash, Coke Zero, Fanta?’

‘No thanks,’ I say, settling myself down on the couch, picking a copy of Grazia off the coffee table. ‘So, congratulations on the baby.’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ says Gary, looking genuinely chuffed. ‘Better be a boy though,’ he adds, which ruins any vague sense of warmth I’d just been momentarily feeling towards him.

‘Er, why? Have you suddenly turned into a nineteenth-century estate owner who needs a son and heir?’

Gary doesn’t answer. He probably doesn’t understand what I’ve said.

‘Be nice to have a chip off the old block,’ he says ‘Though I don’t care really.’

‘That’s good of you.’

‘Tell you what I will be pleased about, is getting some action again. Hayley won’t let me go near her at the moment. Says she’s worried about “hurting the baby”.’

‘Right,’ I mutter, not convinced this is any of my business.

‘Still, when you’re as well equipped in that department as I am I suppose it could be a problem.’

Stunned, I look up from the fashion pages and stare at him aghast. Did he just say what I think he did? To my horror I realise he probably did because he’s staring in the general direction of his horrid crotch, which he’s kind of thrusting. Disgusting.

‘Gary, please don’t be gross. I’ll be sick.’

‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it babes,’ he says, at which point I decide it’s time to go. Hayley will just have to wait a bit longer to find out about our dad having returned. I simply cannot cope with Gary and his revolting ways while I’ve got so much on my mind.

‘I’m off,’ I say, making a swift exit, which is hindered by the laborious process of getting my stupid boots back on, while Gary stands and watches again, smirking at my obvious discomfort. I’m totally against adult Crocs, unless you’re a nurse or medic of any kind, but find myself considering investing in a pair I could use when coming round here, to facilitate swift exits.

‘Tell Hayley I called round,’ I instruct Gary, who has seriously crossed the line today as far as I’m concerned. Honestly, just because he’s gone without for a few weeks. I shudder with revulsion.

‘I’ll tell her babe,’ he says, cretinous face leering at me.

Back in the car I wonder what to do. I feel anchorless. I can’t think of anything but what’s happened and the thought of going into work tomorrow and acting like everything’s normal – which I’m going to have to do – fills me with dread.

Right, there’s probably only one thing to do and there’s no point delaying it further, given that I’ve been waiting my whole life for it. I scrabble around in the pocket of my skirt and produce from it the, by now, very crumpled receipt.

After a few more moments of agonising, I take a deep breath and force Gary and his inappropriate comments out of my head, knowing that what I’m about to do will alter the course of my life for ever. It’s time. Time to take control of things, time to make my own decisions. I dial the number.




CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_04e25fd0-6914-59a6-9a9b-681bd7304fb7)


Just off Romford High Street, on a narrow side road, there’s a small café called ‘Ron’s’ where cab drivers tend to congregate, waiting for jobs to be radioed in. This is the designated spot where I am to meet my dad.

When I got back from Hayley’s, Mum was deeply suspicious when I said I was going out again and interrogated me for ages, so in order to get her off my back, I told her I was off out to meet Jason. I know I’ll have to come clean about what’s going on eventually but, today, I just wanted to leave the house with as little fuss as possible.

I’ve made a bit of an effort with my appearance. I’m wearing a floral tea dress and a little jacket. I’ve also plastered on the make-up. In many ways I hate Ray for everything he’s done and yet I still want his approval and for him to see me looking nice. This is too confusing to analyse at any great length, plus if I stop to think about everything for too long, my head’s probably in danger of exploding.

As I sit on the bus – Mum needs Tina tonight – I try to read a newspaper that someone’s left on the seat next to me but can’t concentrate on the words. I’m nervous, really nervous, about seeing Ray, but also strangely excited. It’s weird. Despite what he’s put us through, I don’t think I could contemplate not trying to get to know him. Of course, the fact he’s so ill has acted as a pretty strong catalyst for me, in terms of making my mind up. It’s not like I have the choice of making him sweat for a few months before agreeing to see him. Though, with regard to that, I’m starting to wonder whether maybe he’s exaggerated his illness a bit, in order to get my sympathy. It would be rather a sick thing to do but given that I’m on my way to meet him now, effective too. My doubts stem from the fact that he looks like such a big strong man. Not one who’ll be going anywhere any time soon.

After a fifteen-minute bus journey and a short walk along the high road, I shove open the door to the café, which was his suggestion for our designated meeting spot. It’s very full.

I’m the first to arrive and manage to nab the only free table left. I feel a bit like a rose among thorns. Grizzled cabbies surround me chatting away, drinking their tea and eating fried food. Still, it’s as good a place as any for our meeting, plus nobody I know is in any danger of popping in. I sit for ten minutes, but don’t mind. I’m early and on the dot of quarter to eight, which is the time we’d arranged to meet, Ray appears.

I smile nervously and half get out of my seat, hovering as I wave in his direction. Once he’s spotted me I sit back down again, awkward and clunky, unsure of how to be.

‘Hi,’ I say shyly as he approaches.

‘All right,’ he says, looking relieved to see me and just as nervous. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee or something?’

I nod even though I don’t really want a coffee. I hate coffee.

The café’s lighting is stark to say the least. It’s perfect for this situation though because I’m fully intent on sussing Ray out as much as possible. As he places two cups of coffee on the table I scrutinise his face.

‘You trying to see whether I’m really ill?’ he asks gently.

I’m startled. Had I been that obvious?

‘It’s all right, I do it myself,’ he says. ‘But just so you know, I am. That ill I mean, and shit as it may be, that ain’t gonna change.’

‘Right,’ I say weakly, desperate for more information but not wanting to ask, in case he can’t face talking about it. However, Ray seems to pick up on my need to know more about his illness because although at first he looks reluctant about doing so, he starts to tell me.

‘Three years ago I was feeling really knackered all the time and then I noticed a bit of blood when I … well, when I went to the toilet and that.’

I nod in order to demonstrate that I know what he’s getting at.

‘Anyway, long story short, they found out I had cancer of the colon, so I had an operation to remove half of it. After that they blasted me with chemo and radiotherapy and for a long time I was good as gold. Until a couple of weeks ago when during one of my check-ups they discovered it was back, only this time it’s spread,’ he says plainly, conveying the facts precisely as they are, so there can be no confusion on my part. ‘It’s on my liver and in my lymph and there ain’t much they can do about it. There are things they can do to help but they can’t cure it no more,’ he says, needing me to get it, needing me to be very clear on the subject. He was going to die.

It’s so horrendous and I wish more than anything that he’d got in touch years ago. Not at this stage, when death’s hanging over everything. So much wasted time, and sad that it took something this drastic to galvanise him into action.

‘You’ve still got your hair,’ I remark cautiously.

‘Well, chemo was a while ago now but also not all types of chemo make your hair fall out anyway. It depends on the drugs they give you, which are all tailored to the individual. I got lucky,’ he adds wryly.

‘I’m sorry, I suppose it’s just that you seem … all right,’ I whisper apologetically, because as much as I know he needs me to accept what he’s just told me, I’m having real trouble digesting it as fact.

‘I am all right,’ he says, nodding in agreement. ‘I really am at the moment. In fact, ever since I got my head round the fact that there weren’t no more they could do, I’ve felt positively good. I get a bit tired and that, sometimes have trouble sleeping, but you know …’ he trailed off.

I can’t bear it. It must be so frightening knowing what pain lies in wait. I can feel terror advancing on me like an army just thinking about it. The certainty of the end is something surely we’re not really programmed to deal with.

‘What about America? They probably have more advanced medicine over there don’t they?’ I say, clutching at straws.

‘A bit,’ he agrees, smiling ruefully. ‘But they don’t perform miracles, which is what I’d need.’

We both concentrate on our coffees for a while until he says gruffly, ‘Nice that you seem to care a bit though.’

I shrug, not sure what I feel really. I mean, if anyone told me they were dying I’d feel sad. It is sad. Tragic in fact. The fact he’s my father makes it even more poignant than if he were some stranger of course, and yet that’s still kind of what he is to me. What do I really know about him after all?

I decide to swerve this potentially thorny subject and instead ask something I’m curious about more than anything. ‘So, while you’ve been going through all of this, who’ve you been with? Are you married? Do you have kids?’ My tone is deliberately light but I can’t look at him as I ask this. It’s something I’ve been fretting about all day, knowing that the answer could change my life all over again.

‘No. I never re-married. I was in prison such a long time and I guess … I don’t know really. I guess it wasn’t something I went looking for again.’

‘What about friends?’ I ask, allowing myself to breathe. I’m relieved there aren’t lots of relatives in the background if I’m honest. But at the same time don’t like the idea that he’s been through all of this on his own. It seems too horrific.

‘Yeah, I’ve got “friends”,’ he says, seemingly mildly amused by my line of questioning. ‘I’ve got some good old mates and the people at the hospital have been amazing too. I’ve had a lot of support and of course there’s my key worker who’s been there every step of the way.’

I must look non-plussed because he goes on to explain.

‘You get assigned a key worker when you find out you’ve got cancer. They’re basically a nurse who makes sure you’re dealing with everything all right, keeps an eye on you. Mine’s called Matt. He’s a top bloke as it goes.’

I don’t know why I’m surprised his key worker’s a man. I’m pleased he’s got someone looking out for him though. Equally I feel saddened and angry because if only he’d thought to find us years ago maybe some of that support could have come from me, his own flesh and blood.

‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about all of that,’ says Ray, determinedly upbeat all of a sudden. ‘I want to know about you Marianne. Tell me everything. What you like, what you don’t like. Have you got a boyfriend?’

I shake my head and stare fixedly into my coffee, which I still haven’t touched.

‘I’m surprised, you’re a pretty girl.’

I blush flame red at this.

‘You should see Hayley. She’s the pretty one out of the two of us,’ I mutter.

Ray suddenly looks a bit sheepish and I guess then that he probably has seen her. I don’t ask. It’s all quite unnerving.

‘So how come you’re still living with your mother then? I would have thought you’d have wanted your own place by now. What are you now? Thirty-one?’

I nod. ‘Let’s just say it’s not really out of choice.’

‘Oh. Right.’

There’s a long silence, which I’m probably expected to fill, but don’t. Eventually he says, ‘So, you’re single, living with your mum, anything else? What do you do? What makes you, you?’

I shrug. I know I’m being very wooden but in reality I don’t know whether I’m ready to have such a personal chat yet. I’m here for answers, not for a heart to heart.

‘Are you gonna help me out a bit here or what?’ jokes Ray nervously.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about myself, it’s just … there’s not really a huge amount to say.’ I sigh heavily before eventually giving in. ‘I’m a hairdresser, I live at home because I can’t afford to move out and I’m sort of seeing someone but it’s extremely early days. That’s about it really,’ I mumble, uncomfortable in this odd, interview-like scenario. Doubts over my ability to cope with the situation are creeping in. There’s just so much to absorb and it’s all so … strange.

‘So you are seeing someone then?’ says Ray, leaping on this titbit of information, eager to engage in more of a two-way conversation and displaying over-the-top levels of interest as a result.

‘Well, sort of. I met an Australian guy in Thailand and hopefully he’s coming to London soon.’

‘An Aussie, eh,’ he says in a tone that irritates me. It’s ever so slightly mocking. ‘And Thailand, when did you go there then?’

‘Last year. That’s kind of what I do. I travel. Then, when I’ve run out of money, I come home, work again … at the salon, then I save up until I have enough to go off again.’

‘Right,’ says Ray, still nodding, only I can’t help but notice, he looks a bit bemused.

‘What?’ I say, feeling defensive.

‘No nothing. It’s just … you know, I’ve never really heard of anyone describing “going on holiday” as what they do.’

There’s so much I could say back to this. I have to sort of wrinkle my entire face in an effort not to reply back too forcibly, though what I say still packs a bit of a punch. ‘Well, it’s probably more worthwhile than spending half your life in prison.’

‘Fair point,’ Ray agrees, fists planted squarely on the table. He’s wearing the same black leather coat he was wearing the other day and his shoulders are so broad in it, he’s practically the same width as the table. He’s slim though. Despite his big build he certainly couldn’t be described as a fat bloke. He’s just very tall. He’s wearing a gold cygnet ring on the little finger of his right hand and everything about his presence is big, in a way that could be reassuring or menacing, depending on how you viewed him I suppose.

Another silence follows, one that definitely couldn’t be described as comfortable. Feeling deflated I start fiddling with the packets of sugar that are on the table in an aluminium pot. I realise in that moment that I want so much from this man, want him to be so much, the reality can’t possibly measure up. Then he says, ‘You like your music then?’

I nod, feeling immediately defensive and inexplicably like I might be about to cry. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I swallow hard and stare at the table.




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