The Making of Us (25 page)

The edginess was compounded that moment by a gentle knock at her door. She jumped.

‘Lydia,’ came a low, male whisper, ‘it’s me. Can I come in?’

She quickly tucked her ugly feet away beneath her office chair and picked up a sheaf of paperwork. ‘Yes!’ she said, in that strangely high-pitched voice. ‘Come in!’

And there he stood, in a simple t-shirt and distinctly heterosexual jeans, his hair messed and whorled like the coat of a guinea pig and his bare feet smooth and tanned.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Oh. Hi.’

‘Is this a good time?’

She looked at her desk, somewhat pointlessly, and then back at Bendiks, shrugged and said, ‘Yes. It’s fine.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Is it OK for me to come in?’

‘Er …’ She glanced around her office again, searching for errant items of discarded underwear or rotten food or bunched up gym socks or anything that could in any way be construed as an indication of sluttishness or freakishness. Finding none, she returned her gaze to Bendiks’ and said, ‘Yeah, sure, come in.’

He sat immediately on the leather chair in the corner and pulled his feet up on to the seat. She looked at them momentarily and tried not to allow any strange noises of longing or desire to escape from between her lips. ‘So,’ he began, running his hands up and down the arms of the chair in a way that seemed designed deliberately to stoke the coals of her imagination, ‘I just wanted to say hello. I’ve hardly seen you. And it feels a bit strange, to be living here in your house and never to see your face.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I know. It’s just, well, I suppose I don’t really get out much. What with work and the fact that Juliette does all my shopping and …’ She drifted off as she ran out of normal-sounding reasons for rarely leaving her house and started to run up against the weird ones, like the fact that she had no friends and no family and no hobbies and no interests.

‘Oh,’ he smiled and folded his arms across his chest, ‘good. Because I was starting to think you were trying to avoid me.’

‘Oh, no. No no no no. Not at all. I’m always like this. Honestly. Just a little hermit. Locked away in my office. You know. It’s nothing personal, I promise you.’

‘Good.’ He smiled again and then leaned forward and appraised her so frankly with his dark brown eyes that she felt herself blush. ‘Because I am so grateful to you for everything, and I would hate it if I was making you feel uncomfortable by being here.’

‘You’re not! Really! It’s good having you here.’

He looked at her quizzically, clearly still not entirely convinced. ‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his chin and smiling at her, ‘that is OK then. But you, you are a very hard woman to read. It is impossible to know what you are thinking.’

Lydia smiled, partly with relief. It was a blessing, she felt, that Bendiks could not see what she was thinking as for most of the time when she was in his company she was thinking about him lying on top of her.

‘So,’ he said, rearranging his feet, ‘how are you? How is everything going?’

‘Oh, fine. Not bad. I’m, er …’ she smiled at him apologetically almost, as if she was about to break some bad news ‘… I’m seeing my brother this afternoon!’

‘No way!’

‘Yes! He got in touch! Last week! And we’re meeting for a drink this afternoon.’

‘Oh my God, but that … that is amazing. You must feel so happy.’

Lydia considered his choice of words for a while. It had not occurred to her to feel happy. She had felt only fear mixed with mild excitement. Her brother’s name was Dean. He’d written her a very sweet e-mail the week before. Sweet, but not exactly inspiring. She hadn’t really known what to expect. It was probably unrealistic of her to imagine that these people should be particularly interesting just because they were her genetic siblings. But then again, she reasoned, a lot of people weren’t that expressive with words. Maybe when she met him she would be pleasantly surprised. She did hope so.

‘So,’ said Bendiks, ‘what time are you leaving?’

She looked at the clock on her computer screen. ‘In about forty-five minutes,’ she replied.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ he said, leaping to his feet. ‘Then I must leave you alone, to get ready. To prepare yourself.’

‘Oh, no, honestly. You don’t have to …’

‘Well, actually, I am going out now too,’ he said, ‘to meet a client. I might just jump in and out of the shower before I go. But, listen, wow, good luck for this afternoon. I’ll be thinking of you. And I’m going to send you a text message. What time are you meeting him?’

‘Five-thirty.’

‘Good. Then I am going to text you at exactly five-forty-five. If you do not like this boy, if you want to come home, just tell him that it’s an emergency and you have to go, OK? But if you’re happy, please reply, so that I know.’

Lydia smiled. She was touched by his instinctive desire to protect her. ‘Thank you, Bendiks,’ she said, ‘that’s really sweet. And I will, I promise.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Sick,’ she replied.

He smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. I am feeling sick too and it is not even me who’s going to meet his brand new brother.’ He smiled and then he put his hands in his pockets and turned to leave. ‘Good luck, Lydia,’ he said, ‘this is an amazing thing that is about to happen to you.’

Then he was gone and Lydia slowly unfurled her feet from beneath her office chair and exhaled. She waited in suspended motion until she heard him leave his bedroom ten minutes later and then the front door bang closed behind him and then she ran down a flight of stairs and into her bedroom to watch him from the window. He had on a denim jacket (gay?) and white trainers (more gay?) and carried his gym bag over his shoulder. He was talking to someone on his mobile phone and he was laughing. He turned the corner and Lydia let herself flop down backwards on to her bed.

She ate a peanut butter sandwich just in case it turned out to be the sort of night that required a lined stomach, and then she showered and changed and brushed her teeth and tried to ignore the distorted feel of her stomach and the knot in her bowels. She’d already decided what to wear. Jeans. Just ordinary blue jeans. And a billowy long-sleeved black jersey top and wedge-heeled sandals. She combed out her dark hair and she applied a little mascara and a little lip gloss and she stared at her face in the mirror for a little too long, until it looked warped and wrong and not at all the sort of face to be showing to a twenty-one-year-old man who just happened to be your brother. The edges of her world became more and more vague as she went through these ordinary machinations. She felt normality drifting away from her, like a dissembling dream. But it did not occur to her for a moment that she would not go. She was going. That was about the only thing that felt real.

At 4.50 she left her house and walked to the tube station. She was meeting Dean at a bar in the London Bridge Hotel, a pleasingly bland-looking place she’d uncovered on the internet on being informed that this was where his suburban train brought him. Dean lived in Deptford. As a relative newcomer to London, Lydia wasn’t entirely sure where exactly Deptford was but felt it had a slightly loutish ring to it. Just the sound of the word as compared, for example, to a word like Chelsea, put her in mind of tower blocks and juddering overhead rail lines.

She arrived at the Borough Bar at exactly 5.30 and scoured the room. Dean had been unable to e-mail her a photograph of himself as apparently he didn’t own a digital camera and his phone didn’t have a camera on it, but had described himself as tallish and slim with short brown hair. Lydia deduced that there was no one in the room who could conceivably be him so she headed for the bar and ordered herself a large gin and tonic. She took the drink to a small round table positioned close to a window so that she could scan the street for his arrival and, as she rested the tumbler on the table and was about to sit down, she saw him.

He looked like an overgrown lemur, thin and lean with a face full of eyes. He scanned the room with those big, scared eyes, hands at the ends of long arms stuffed into the pockets of a thin cotton jacket, long legs draped in over-large denim, a small silver stud in his left earlobe, big feet in blue trainers, and a carrier bag hooped into the crook of his arm. He had the face of a 1960s rock star, all lips and eyes and cheeks and skull, and his body was so spare it might easily have been made of nothing more than bone and muscle. He looked malnourished and shrunken but, beyond the cheap clothes and downtrodden demeanour, he was undeniably and ethereally beautiful.

He spotted her and smiled. He took a hand from his pocket and raised it to her in a kind of awkward salute. She raised hers to him and echoed his smile.

‘Dean,’ she said as he approached. She got to her feet and offered him her hand to shake, as though he were a student hoping for work experience rather than her own flesh and blood.

‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.

His hand was clammy and his face was set with fear.

He’s more nervous than I am
, she thought.

But she saw his features soften as he looked at her. ‘You’ve got my nose,’ he said, and she could hear a hint of childish delight in his voice. ‘Look.’ He turned to the side to show her his profile. ‘Don’t you think? It’s the same?’

It was.

She turned sideways too and he examined her nose and smiled.

‘Yeah,’ he smiled, ‘yeah. I was kind of hoping there’d be something, you know, something the same. Just to make me feel like this wasn’t just …’

‘Meeting a total stranger?’ she offered.

‘Yeah.’ He smiled and sat down.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ Lydia said. ‘What would you like?’

‘Oh, right, yeah. What’s that you’re drinking?’ He pointed at her glass.

‘Gin and tonic,’ she replied.

‘Yeah. I’ll try one of those. Thank you.’

Lydia brought the drink back to the table and Dean took it from her with two outstretched hands like a toddler reaching for a cup of juice.

She watched him peel off his thin jacket to reveal a shirt. Worn ’specially, she couldn’t help thinking, to impress her.

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. He grimaced. She lifted her glass then and held it aloft. ‘A toast?’ she suggested.

‘Yeah, why not?’

‘To us.’

‘To us,’ he concurred, and they knocked their glasses together. Matching drinks, matching noses.

‘Couldn’t believe it when I found you on there,’ he said. ‘I have to be honest with you and say that I was pretty wasted when I signed up.’

‘Me too.’ Lydia smiled.

‘What, really?’

‘Well, actually, no. I was wasted the first time I went to sign up, but I didn’t go through with it then.’

He nodded his understanding. ‘I don’t even remember doing it.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah, I know. Luckily the person I was with when I did it remembered.’

‘Pretty impressive that you could remember all that detail, though.’

He tapped his head with his index finger. ‘It’s all up there. Donor number. Clinic. Address of the clinic. It’s been sitting in there for three years.’

‘That’s when you found out?’

‘Yeah. When I was eighteen. My mum told me. What about you?’

‘Three months ago.’

‘No way?’ His thick eyebrows pressed together. ‘That late, huh?’

‘Yes. Been in a state of ignorant bliss up until then.’

‘So what …?’

She shrugged, and then appraised him with widened eyes. ‘I got an anonymous letter. Well, not even a letter. Just some paperwork. From the clinic. And an article about the Donor Sibling Registry.’

His eyes widened in sympathy. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘and you’ve got no idea who from?’

‘Not really. All I know is it was someone in Wales. Someone from home. Which could be absolutely anyone, I suppose. My mum and dad are both dead and I’ve totally lost touch with all my relatives so,’ she shrugged, ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out who it was. But I have my suspicions.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Yes, my uncle Rod. My dad’s brother. He was very close to my mum and dad. If anyone had known about this it would have been him.’

‘And your dad? Did he know?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He never told me he knew, but now I think back on it, he obviously did.’

Dean shook his head slowly from side to side, in disbelief. ‘And I thought my life was fucked up.’

Lydia smiled at him. Of course his life was fucked up. You could tell just by looking at him that his life was a stinking mess. But for now his face was sweet and soft and Lydia could tell that he was enjoying her company and that this experience was turning out better than he’d imagined or hoped. She felt the same way too. From the moment he’d turned sideways to show her his nose, she’d felt fine about everything. And the longer she looked at him, the more she shared with him, the more relaxed and comfortable she felt, not just about this meeting, but about herself. Dean was her, ten years ago; too thin, badly dressed, hunched and apologetic for her existence. And then she felt it,
plunk
, another piece of the jigsaw falling into place. An overwhelming sensation enveloped her, took the breath from her. It was new and it was remarkable and it was something she’d waited all her life to feel.

She felt
maternal
.

Here it was finally, for the first time since her dog had died, a sense of love and affection. She wanted to touch this boy. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to hold him to her bosom and keep him safe.

She finished her gin and tonic and Dean finished his and then he went to get them some more. She watched him at the bar. He was a pathetic specimen. Pathetic and beautiful. She smiled fondly at his back.
Her brother
. Her baby brother.

He put down another gin and tonic in front of Lydia and a pint for himself. She wouldn’t let him buy another round. He was clearly penniless. She remembered only too well the sense of painful extraction she’d felt paying for drinks in pubs when she had no money. She remembered the days of pulling out a solitary £10 note from a hole in the wall and squeezing every last drop out of overdrafts and borrowing crumpled fivers from friends. She remembered it all as though it were yesterday. She had, after all, been poor for a lot longer than she had been wealthy.