All the Single Ladies (19 page)

She shakes her head. ‘I simply wondered why you’re so flushed. Have you been doing that belly-dancing DVD again?’

I briefly consider telling her about the website but dismiss the idea. Not because I think she won’t understand, but because, no matter how many excellent specimens of manhood I’m
discovering, I still find the whole thing embarrassing. Even in front of my sister. Especially in front of my sister.

‘Not recently. Tea?’ I offer, before the conversation can go any further.

‘Please. I need to talk to you.’ She suddenly looks cagey. ‘Go and get yourself sorted, then we’ll have a chat.’

I run upstairs and throw on some jeans and a T-shirt, before brushing my hair and applying a smudge of make-up. When I join Julia in the kitchen, she’s already made the tea.

‘So come on, Ms Mystery. Fill me in,’ I say as she hands me a cup and I take a sip.

‘You know my biological dad – Gary – wanted me to get in touch? Well . . . I got in touch.’

I nearly spit out my tea.

‘Do you think I shouldn’t have?’ she asks anxiously.

‘No, no,’ I reassure her. ‘I just hadn’t expected you to have done it so soon. I thought you were still thinking about it.’

‘I was. But I could’ve gone on thinking about it until my brain melted. So I thought I’d be decisive.’

‘Hang on, when did you do this?’

She hesitates. ‘A week ago. I emailed him. Just a short one – to say hello and thanks. Nothing more than that.’

‘Wow,’ I reply, taking a deep breath. ‘What was the response?’

‘He emailed me back. Then I emailed him. And, well, we got to emailing each other a few times a day.’

‘You’ve been corresponding with him all week?’

She nods and bites her lip, then adds tentatively, ‘And we’ve chatted on MSN.’

‘Bloody hell,’ is all I can say. A silence lingers as each of us wonders what to say next. ‘So . . . what’s he like?’

‘Nice, as far as I can tell. He lives in Derbyshire, an hour and a half away. He’s an engineer. Seems to have done well for himself. He’s a widower; he was married to a woman
for ten years but she passed away from cancer.’

‘Any other children?’

She shakes her head. ‘Maybe that’s why he wanted to meet me.’

‘He still wants to meet you, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘What have you said?’

She looks into her drink and responds quietly. ‘I’ve said I’ll do it.’

‘Julia . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m happy for you,’ I tell her, even though I’m not sure what to think or feel. ‘So when are you going to meet
him?’

She shifts in her chair. ‘That’s the thing, Sam. I’ve arranged to meet him today. And I need you to come with me.’

The first thing that strikes me when Julia’s father opens the door is how alike they are.

Gary has the same almond eyes and handsome high cheekbones as she does. And, although his skin is a shade darker, it’s totally clear that I’m in the presence of father and daughter;
there is just no doubt about it. She is a smaller, paler and younger, but no less vivid, image of him.

Ironically, given that this is the first time I’ve seen him, it isn’t Julia’s father that I can’t tear my eyes away from as we stand on the doorstep of his semi-detached
cottage on the edge of a pretty, well-to-do village.

It’s Julia. In all my twenty-eight years I don’t think I’ve seen a look on her face like she’s wearing now. It’s a strange and wonderful combination of excitement,
terror and anticipation; such a mixture of emotions that the result is impossible to define.

‘Julia.’ His voice is warm and strong and, if he’s as nervous as she is, he doesn’t show it.

‘H-hello,’ she whispers, pulling herself together. She holds out her hand to shake his but instead he steps forward decisively, taking her in his arms to hug her. They hold each
other for no longer than a few seconds, but it’s enough.

‘Sorry,’ he smiles, pulling back. ‘I’ve just thought about doing that for a long time.’

Julia grins as a tiny tear swims down her cheek and she brushes it away, flustered.

‘Hey,’ smiles Gary, putting a hand on her arm. ‘Are you okay?’

She sniffs self-consciously and shakes her head. ‘Of course. Silly. I’m . . . sorry.’

‘Not at all,’ he insists. ‘It’s only natural. If there is such a thing in these circumstances. I’ve no idea how we’re supposed to act . . . have
you?’

‘None at all,’ she laughs. ‘Um . . . this is Sam. My sister.’

Gary shakes my hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you. I’m Gary. And thank you so much for coming all this way. I would have been happy to come to you.’

‘Oh I know,’ Julia replies. ‘I thought . . . it was better this way.’

What she means is that she didn’t want to take any chances that someone she knows might see her in Liverpool. Namely, Mum.

‘Well, I’m very glad you’re here,’ he says, taking a deep breath. ‘Please, come in. Let me get you both a cup of tea.’

He shows us into a bright living room that’s comfortable and tidy without being overly fashionable. It’s all beige sofas and cream carpets in a space that would be slightly bland if
it weren’t for the photographs of nieces and nephews and a few watercolour landscapes which, judging by the signatures, have all been painted by Gary himself.

‘How long did it take you to get here?’ he asks, returning with a teapot, a milk jug and three mugs on a tray.

I glance at Julia, who doesn’t answer. She simply gazes at his face, as if she hasn’t heard a word.

‘Oh not long. An hour and a half,’ I reply politely. ‘So . . . Julia tells me you’re an engineer.’

‘That’s right. I work on a hydrochloric acid plant at the moment.’

‘Ooh,’ I say approvingly, as if I have the first clue what a hydrochloric acid plant is.

‘It’s dull compared with what you do, Julia,’ he says, glancing over.

She snaps out of her gaze. ‘Oh. Not really.’

He perches on the edge of an armchair and leans in to pour the tea. ‘You must have a lot of questions.’

My sister nods. Then nods again.

‘Julia?’ I squeeze her hand.

She shakes her head. ‘God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. This is such a strange situation. The fact is . . .’ She pauses, searching for something to call him.
It’s obvious she’s not ready for ‘Dad’. ‘I never thought I wanted to meet you. No offence, but . . . well, I’ve explained the situation. So to be here is a
little odd. I haven’t had time to adjust to the idea.’

‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘And I understand. I consider the fact that you’ve never felt the need to look for me to be a sign that you’ve been brought up very
well.’

‘I have,’ she agrees firmly.

‘So did you decide to track down Julia as soon as you saw her in that article?’ I blurt out.

‘I’ve thought about it for years,’ he sighs. ‘The law changed a while ago to allow biological parents to go through a licensed intermediary to contact their adopted
children. I considered doing it then. But someone I work with did exactly that, and it took two years to track down his son, only for him to discover that his son wanted nothing to do with him. So
I suppose I put off making a decision. Then I saw the article in the classical magazine . . . I saw your birthmark . . . read your story . . . and, well, I knew it was you. I just knew it. After
that, I thought about going through the official channels to contact you, but I didn’t see the point, so simply wrote to you at the Philharmonic. I just hope I didn’t spook you by
contacting you directly.’

‘I must admit I did feel slightly spooked,’ Julia smiles softly. ‘But that would’ve been the case no matter how you’d got in touch. Under the circumstances, I think
that’s inevitable.’

‘I wasn’t certain I was doing the right thing,’ he continues. ‘I stood at the postbox for about two hours changing my mind about whether to put the letter in. But . . .
well, my niece died recently.’ He nods to one of the pictures on the mantelpiece. ‘It made me realize how unpredictable life is, how many regrets I might have if I never even tried to
make contact. I simply had to do so. Does that make sense?’

Julia nods and he smiles softly. ‘Would you like me to tell you what happened?’ he asks. ‘When your mother and I met, I mean. That’s the obvious place to start,
isn’t it?’

The next three hours pass in a flash. We miss lunch; Gary offers to make some, but I’m not hungry and eating is clearly the last thing on Julia’s mind too. She goes
from being barely able to string a sentence together, to firing questions like bullets from a machine gun.

The short version of the story is this.

Gary met Julia’s mum in London in 1973 when she was young, beautiful and broken-hearted. The latter because she and the man she’d married four years earlier had separated and
she’d taken a job in the capital to make a new start. However, she wasn’t succeeding. She was grief-stricken, mourning the loss from her life of the only man she’d ever loved.

Though she’d never even thought about another man before, she and Gary quickly struck up a friendship . . . that one night, weeks later, turned into something more. Despite seeking comfort
in each other, Gary was convinced that she was still in love with her husband.

He turned out to be right. Very soon afterwards, the couple were reconciled and she left London for good. Gary only discovered this after she’d fled the capital and wrote to him to
explain. He forced himself to be happy for her. Then destiny threw them a curve ball.

She told Gary about the pregnancy months later, by telephone. She hadn’t even considered an abortion; it was against her beliefs. Yet how could she pretend that the child belonged to her
husband? She and the husband were both Caucasian. Gary was not.

‘So that’s why I was put up for adoption,’ says Julia flatly.

‘Your mother did a very old-fashioned thing and went away for the latter stages of her pregnancy. She stayed with an elderly relative, I believe. Then when you were born . . . well, you
know the rest. She felt she had no choice,’ Gary says.

‘Are you still in touch with her?’ Julia asks.

‘Not really,’ he says apologetically. ‘I know where she lives, but I haven’t actually seen her for years.’

‘May I ask her name?’ she says quickly. ‘And where she lives? And if she has any other children? I’ve got to know more about her.’

Gary closes his eyes and shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Julia. But if your mother wants to get in touch with you, that will have to be her choice. It’s not one I can make for
her.’

My first Saturday night alone in the house after the split with Jamie had to come at some point. And despite
X Factor
’s godawful auditionees being as entertaining
as ever, the house has never felt emptier. Tonight, I won’t be lying in bed, fragrant and moisturized after an evening’s pampering, to be woken at five o’clock by the acrid whiff
of Jamie feeling amorous after a night out. Tonight, I’ll stay fragrant. And lonely. It sucks.

I switch TV channels, vaguely considering giving myself a pedicure, before dismissing the idea. I should be out partying, not attacking my heels with a pumice stone.

My mind drifts to thoughts of what Jamie’s doing now. I indulge in the fantasy that he might be lying on Luke’s Laura Ashley sofa in his dressing gown, thinking of me in the same way
I’m thinking of him. Admittedly, he probably isn’t considering a pedicure. Jamie was never one for male grooming; the closest he got was accidentally shampooing his hair with my
exfoliator, after which he spent days discovering apricot grit in his scalp.

If he is at home thinking of me, it will be with his guitar; he’ll be strumming some profound acoustic melody by a band that must be good because nobody’s heard of them.

I traipse upstairs to the study and grab my laptop to check the dating website. There are more winks and emails since this morning, which I can’t deny gives me a surge of
self-confidence.

It turns out to be momentary. The first email is from Tigerfeet79, who’s five foot five, with a pointy nose and a grin halfway between those of Quentin Tarantino and Mr Potatohead. I am a
firm believer that looks can be deceiving, however, so read his email with determined optimism. Which evaporates the second I begin reading . . . and feel as if I’m being shouted at.

I scrunch up my nose and wonder whether or not you’re meant to respond when you’re totally uninterested. I decide to err on the side of politeness and send a
reply.

It seems the kindest way, like euthanizing a dying goldfish. I pause and look at my phone. I do this all the time these days, as if the more I look at it the more likely Jamie
is to text. Stupidly, I forgot to ask last time we exchanged messages what he was up to this weekend. Once that thought is in my head, there’s no getting it out. I know Ellie was determined
that I should keep the texts to a minimum, but tonight I feel as if I’m in a padded cell: I have to know what he’s doing.

I try to keep it casual and friendly and am very glad he cannot see the vigour with which I text before pressing send. It’s over an hour and a half before he responds. An
hour and a half of hell during which I flit between sorting out a purely hypothetical list of online ‘favourites’ – blokes I’d consider dating – and imagining Jamie in
a Jacuzzi surrounded by melon-breasted women in bikinis the size of dolls’ handkerchiefs.