‘Yup,’ Niamh said as she inhaled deeply on her cigarette. ‘Longest seven years of my life. Fucking awful place.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh God, Leo, you haven’t got a clue.’ Niamh let out an elongated sigh and scratched at her scalp. ‘Imagine being the only one in your class whose car is a battered old Volvo. Or someone who spent their holidays in a caravan park on the Galway coast instead of the Caribbean. Imagine what it would be like buying your clothes from jumble sales and turning up on mufti day only for everyone else to be wearing brand-new Nikes and leather jackets.’
‘I guess.’ Leo perched on one arm of the sofa and sipped his own drink, completely at a loss as to what he should say.
‘It’s not money I object to,’ Niamh said after a while. ‘It’s the people who have it I can’t stand.’
‘Does this mean you can’t stand me?’
‘You’re different.’ She looked at him then, properly, for the first time since leaving the hotel.
‘I am?’
‘You don’t wear your wealth like a badge of honour. Or ask what someone’s doing in the holidays just so you can try and top them by announcing you’re going to your parents’ ski chalet by private jet.’
He slipped in next to her. ‘For the record, my parents have neither a chalet nor a jet.’
Niamh smiled and he resisted the urge to kiss her.
‘But you’ve always had someone there for you. On your side, no matter what.’
She thought of the moment during her first term when she’d finally understood what it meant for someone to truly have your back. There was a student newsletter, artfully entitled Pranks, Wanks & Armitage Shanks that was pinned up every week in all the college toilets. It was supposed to be light-hearted gossip, but the Christmas edition claimed that Niamh had borrowed several essays from a fellow history student and passed off his work as her own.
When Erika read the newsletter, she took down every single copy and set fire to them in the middle of the Fellows’ Garden. As a crowd gathered, she took great delight in informing them that in fact it was the other way round; he had borrowed Niamh’s notes because he (once again) couldn’t be arsed to do the work himself. What he didn’t know was that Niamh had deliberately put in false information in one of her essays about a rare book known as The Golden Turnip, which supposedly disproved all previous theories about the disappearance of the Princes in the Tower.
The student included this piece of evidence in his next essay, narrowly avoiding any punishment because his professor saw the funny side of his mistake. But he and his girlfriend (who just so happened to be the editor of Pranks, Wanks & Armitage Shanks), weren’t so forgiving. Luckily for Niamh, neither was Erika and it made Niamh adore her all the more.
‘Why did you grow up in a convent?’ The question was out before he’d thought it through, and she shifted her weight away from him before replying.
‘Because according to the Catholic Church, it’s a mortal sin to have a child out of wedlock.’
‘Surely you don’t believe that?’ Leo put down his glass, aware of how the whiskey was loosening his mind and spewing out words before he’d considered the repercussions of what he said.
‘It doesn’t matter what I believe,’ Niamh said as she reached forward to pick up Leo’s glass. ‘The whole system is screwed because it’s a sin to have sex unless you’re married.’ She drained the glass of its contents, then sat staring out at nothing at all. ‘It’s most definitely a sin to have a baby unless you’re married, but it’s illegal to either take birth control or have an abortion.’
‘Wait, what?’
‘Which means that if an unmarried girl, or woman, of any age discovers she’s pregnant’ – there was a tremor to her voice and he noticed the gathering of tears at the corners of her eyes – ‘more often than not she’s shipped off to a convent until the baby’s born. After which she goes home, back to her old life. But the baby stays with the nuns either until some poor sod takes pity on them, or they turn eighteen and can supposedly fend for themselves.’
Apart from Erika and Duncan, he was the only person she’d ever admitted this to. It was shameful, where she came from, to be an illegitimate child, and for years she’d pretended to ignore the whispers of ‘bad blood’ that followed her along the school corridors.
Niamh extinguished her cigarette, then tucked her feet up underneath her and leant against his shoulder. For a moment they simply sat, listening to the sound of one another’s breathing, neither of them quite sure what to do next.
‘Didn’t you want to find out about your real mother?’ He hated the idea of her as a little girl, locked away in an institution with nobody to love her.
‘Of course I bloody did.’ She was crying now, and it hurt him, physically hurt him, to watch. ‘But it was never an option.’
‘Why?’
Niamh lit another cigarette, then changed her mind and stubbed it out before standing up and going over to the piano. She sat down at the keys and began to run her fingers up and down the octaves. The sound was calming, something else for her to focus on other than the raw fury that she carried with her always.
‘All documentation is sealed. It’s illegal for either the mother or child to try and find out about the other.’
‘Fuck.’ There was no other word to summarise all the feelings he was trying to process. ‘That’s awful.’
‘It could have been worse,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘How? How could it possibly be any worse?’
‘Pass me that, would you?’ Niamh said as she nodded at where her bag lay discarded on the floor. He picked it up and came across the room to her, holding the bag at arm’s length because he still couldn’t figure out if she would let him touch her.
Reaching inside, Niamh took out a small leather notebook. It was one she always kept with her, but there was something tucked away in the back cover that she’d never shown anyone at all.
‘She left me this,’ she said, handing Leo a sheet of folded paper that was worn thin by fingers and time. ‘Sister Ingrid gave it to me, though I don’t think she was supposed to. It means I wasn’t a mistake. It means she loved me, if only for a little while.’
Leo read the words written down over two decades before. Words from a woman to her unborn child, telling her she would have kept her, if only it were possible. It also explained so much about Niamh that Leo had never questioned before, but was now starting to make sense.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Leo handed the letter back, watching as Niamh folded it in half, then half again and tucked it back in her notebook.
‘I wish I could talk to her. Find out what she’s like.’ Niamh stared out of the window, then at Leo as he sat down next to her. ‘Do I look like her? Does she hate cheese as much as I do?’
‘You hate cheese?’ he asked, tapping out the beginnings of a tune on the piano.
‘And mushrooms.’
‘Everyone hates mushrooms. That doesn’t count.’
She took a long, slow breath, hating the way it caught around her heart. ‘Sometimes it hurts so much,’ she said, wiping at her eyes and trying to ignore how her hands were shaking. ‘It’s like I’ve got this knot of wire trapped in my stomach and every time I think of her it presses tighter.’
‘Do you ever think of looking for her?’
Niamh let out a short laugh of exasperation. ‘All the time. But where would I even start?’
‘What about the nun?’ He cocked his head to the side and looked at her. Even through her tears she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Even more so because of the vulnerability he hadn’t before thought was there.
‘Sister Ingrid?’
‘Yes. She could help.’
‘And end up being excommunicated from the Church? I don’t think so.’
‘If you don’t ask, you’ll never know.’
Niamh picked at a hangnail on her little finger as she spoke. ‘Tell you what, in my next letter to her I’l
l say you’re on your way to shake up the establishment with your pie-in-the-sky idealism.’
‘Now you’re just taking the piss.’ He reached out a hand to poke her in the side and she tried to swat his hand away, but he grabbed hold of it and pulled her along the piano stool to him. ‘Your mum would be proud of you,’ he said as she dropped her head to his shoulder and he held her close.
‘You think?’ The words came out barely more than a whisper, but just to hear someone say that, even if it wasn’t her, meant more than Leo could ever understand.
‘For sure.’
Just like that, a little piece of the wire in her belly wriggled loose. It allowed her, for the first time since forever, to hope that something more, something better, was still to come.
ERIKA
PAINTED TURTLE FIGURINE
London, 2005
The Browne house in the run-up to Christmas is so very similar to the family home back in Stockholm, filled with people and presents and copious amounts of champagne. It is one of my favourite places in the entire world (closely followed by Grandma Nelle’s house in the Bahamas), and I probably spend way more time here than would normally be polite. Luckily for me, Layla’s family are nothing short of welcoming, always happy to set an extra place at the table and keep your glass topped up to the brim.
At present, there are all manner of people dotted around the kitchen, peeling potatoes, shelling peas and coating an enormous fish in rock salt. My job is to unwrap all the decorations from their tissue-paper cocoons and hang them on the tree by the back window. From here I can eavesdrop on the conversations being passed around like a basket of bread, with the soft timbre of Grandma Nelle’s voice acting as a reminder that the family origins are so very far from London.
‘It needs more spice,’ Nelle says, smacking her lips together and stirring the iced tea with a long silver spoon.
‘You mean it needs more rum,’ Layla’s mum replies with a laugh, touching my arm as she goes to the fridge to take out a handful of herbs. At first glance you wouldn’t have thought she and Layla were related, given her porcelain skin and light-blonde hair, but look closer and you can see the same slant to the eyes, the same full lips and wide, open smile.
‘You found yourself a fella yet?’ Nelle calls out to me and I see Layla give her a gentle whack. ‘It’s about time you found someone to keep you warm at night.’
‘I’ll keep you warm,’ Layla’s brother, Oscar, whispers in my ear and I swat him away because I am more than wise to the dangers of such devilishly handsome men.
‘Did I ever tell you about my Swedish godfather?’ I say, reaching into the box and taking out a glass bauble dusted with stars. ‘He lived up near a lake with nothing but a mad old goat for company. Drunk as a skunk on his homemade grogg most of the time, which meant he didn’t feel the cold even when it was the arse-end of winter. But he was kind and taught me how to throw the perfect uppercut if ever a boy got too frisky.’
‘Has Layla told you about our plans for Paris?’ Oscar winks at me before helping himself to a handful of peas. ‘I want to open a private members’ club within spitting distance of the Palais du Luxembourg.’
‘I’ve already told you,’ Layla says. ‘It’s not really the sort of thing the French would go for.’
‘Might be a way for you to ingratiate yourself with the locals,’ Oscar replies. ‘Plus it would mean you’d finally be earning your keep.’
‘You’re so annoying.’ Layla picks up a piece of bread and chucks it at her brother, who dodges the roll with a grin. ‘Erika, hit him with something, would you? Preferably something hard and sharp that will leave a mark.’
‘I need to go and fetch another box,’ I say, picking up the now empty one and heading for the hall. As I do so, I catch the tail-end of a conversation and turn my head to see Christophe at the top of the stairs, leaning against the bannister with his phone clamped to his ear. My French isn’t good enough to understand every word, but his tone suggests that the person he is speaking to isn’t, as he claimed when he left the kitchen, his boss back in Paris.
‘Erika?’ he says with a smile as he comes down the stairs, phone still in hand. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘Not at all,’ I reply, biting back the urge to slap that arrogant look off his face. ‘I was just on my way to the garage.’
‘Taking out the trash?’ He makes no effort to disguise the way his eyes sweep the full length of me.
‘Why are you here, Christophe?’ I ask as I make my way to the other side of the house, all too aware that he is following. ‘It seems like there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.’
‘What, pass up the chance to help stuff a turkey and listen to Grandma Nelle fart her way through dinner?’ he says, spreading his arms wide. ‘I’m surprised you’re not back in Sweden with your own family. Oh wait,’ he says with a smirk. ‘I forgot.’
I push open the door to the garage and dump the empty box on top of an old chest freezer, trying to ignore the desire to lock him inside of it.
‘You should be more grateful,’ Christophe says as he peers through the window of Layla’s father’s beloved E-Type. ‘Without Layla, you’d have nowhere else to go.’
I hate that he knows about my family situation. I also hate the fact he is the reason I barely see my best friend any more.
‘There you are.’
We both turn to see Layla approach, a little unsteady on her feet as she’s been sampling the rum Grandma Nelle brought with her from the Bahamas. Her hair is like a halo of curls all around her face and her cheeks are flushed a deep pink. She’s beautiful and creative and one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, but I’ve always feared that wasn’t enough for her husband.
‘Ma chère femme,’ Christophe says as he pulls Layla close and kisses her full on the lips, but not before darting a look at me.
‘I think I’ll leave you to it,’ I say as I leave, pausing in the hallway before deciding not to go back to the kitchen. Instead I go into the main living room, which has a vaulted ceiling, deep cream sofas and fresh flowers adorning every surface. There’s another, smaller room set behind sliding, panelled doors, which I open to find a reclining chair by the window and a wall of books.
I make my way around the room, stopping to peer at some of the titles and taking down a copy of Colette, just like the one I had at university but never got around to reading. Where has all the time gone? What have I actually done during the intervening years, and how did life become so hectic that I never seem to have the time to breathe, let alone ‘find a fella’ as Grandma Nelle seems to think I should? Except I did find someone, only to push him away.
Putting the book back on the shelf, my eye falls on a stack of CDs. Running my finger along the plastic edges, I stop when I spy one that is all too familiar. Glancing around, I open a cupboard to reveal a sleek, black music system that seems out of keeping with the rest of the décor.
There is no crackle, no gentle hiss before the music begins, which sort of spoils the anticipation. But the music is as rich and powerful as ever, transporting me back to an attic room that was always filled with the sound of a bass guitar and a woman singing about all kinds of love.
‘Stevie Nicks,’ Layla’s mother says as she enters the room and I nod my head in reply. ‘Such a beautiful voice.’
‘I haven’t heard this for years,’ I say, turning the CD over and staring at the face of a stranger, but one who reminds me of someone I used to know.
‘Is everything OK?’ Layla’s mother asks, and I suspect she’s noticed the tears collecting in my eyes, or the way I can’t stop biting down on the inside of my cheek.
‘Fine,’ I say with a smile, putting the CD back on the shelf. ‘Work’s pretty full-on at the moment.’
‘I do worry about you.’
‘There’s no need; I’m fine.’
‘But still. This time of year can’t be easy.’
I wait, listening to the end of the song because I’m already sure of what�
�s coming next.
‘Do you not think it might be time to reach out?’ she asks, one hand resting on my arm. ‘Speak to your mother?’
‘I can’t.’ I can’t because I have no idea what I would say, or even if she would listen, if any of them would listen to my side of the story. How long has it been since we were all together back in Sweden? Ten years? It all seemed so perfect, at least for a moment, because looking back on it now, I think that’s when everything started to unravel.
Layla’s mother tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and the sentiment, the kindness, is just one more reminder that Christophe is right: without Layla I really have nowhere else to be. ‘You say that, but families forgive one another eventually.’
I laugh, a bitter note of disappointment and regret. ‘That depends on your definition of family. Besides, it’s not as if they’ve ever extended the olive branch to me.’ Nobody ever came looking or tried to listen to my side of the story, which tells me exactly how little they all care. I think part of me knew it would happen, that they’d abandon me when they found out what I’d done. But that never stopped me from hoping I might be wrong.
‘Perhaps if you told me what happened, I could help? Speak to them on your behalf?’
‘That’s very kind, but . . .’ Before I can finish, Layla bursts into the room, grabs me by the hand and drags me into the garden.
‘Layla, stop,’ I say as I stumble on the path.
‘He’s leaving.’ Layla is holding on to a bottle of white rum with one hand and swiping at a nearby bush with the other.
‘Who? Christophe?’ I wrap my cardigan around me and tuck my hands into my armpits. It’s freezing out here, but Layla seems oblivious. I watch as she unscrews the bottle and takes three long swallows.
‘Says he has to go back to Paris.’
‘Why?’ I take the bottle from her and sniff at its contents before taking a swig. It’s not quite as punchy as some of the other rums Layla’s grandparents produce, but it’s enough to make every single one of my hairs stand on end.
‘Work, of course. He says it’s too important to let any of the juniors handle it. I hate being married to a lawyer.’
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