by Lucy Diamond
Yes, I’ve still got this old thing, Alison thought, opening the car door and sliding into the front seat (tan fake-leather; you’d never get that now). She folded her arms against the steering wheel and rested her head there. Oh, Rich. Why did you have to leave me? she thought, as she always did, tears leaking out of her eyes. Why couldn’t you just talk to me about how desperate you must have been feeling?
The wetness against her forearms was enough for her to sit back after a few moments and pull herself together. ‘Sorry,’ she said aloud. ‘Don’t want to get mascara all over your car.’ Then she blew her nose and grimaced at herself for talking to thin air.
She leaned against the seat, trying to breathe in any last scent of his aftershave that might be clinging to the fabric of the vehicle, but it was no good – all traces of Rich had long since evaporated. These days the car merely smelled a bit damp and old. (‘Yes,’ said Robyn, exasperated, in her head, ‘because you never drive it anywhere! Because you never use it, other than for taking up space – in your garage, and in your head, Mum!’)
Alison took a tissue from her pocket and tenderly wiped some of the dust from the dashboard. She cupped her hand around the knob of the gearstick for a moment, ran a finger along the indicator and adjusted the rear-view mirror a fraction. Rationally, Alison was able to appreciate that her daughter had a point, but today she was grateful for the comfort of the Jensen; for the link it still held to happier times. Maybe at the weekend she’d give it a proper clean; sponge off the cobwebs that festooned the wheel arches, give the bonnet a good old waxing. Just in case Rich happened to glance her way from wherever he was now. Just so he’d know that she still thought about him.
‘We’ll be all right,’ she told herself after a moment, in the bravest voice she could muster up. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we? Of course we will.’
And then, feeling marginally better, the magic of the Jensen having done its work, she stepped out, gently closed the door and locked up the garage once more. Now then: dinner. Something really delicious, she decided. And maybe a good old box-set binge to take her mind off everything. Perfect.
‘Matt, is that you?’ called Paula, hearing the front door. ‘Come and have a look at this.’ She was perched at the kitchen table, laptop open, staring at the screen. Rewind, play. Rewind, play. ‘Matt, are you there?’
‘What is it?’ Matt walked into the kitchen, wet-haired, and chucked a pair of trunks and a damp towel down by the washing machine. He was a tree surgeon and had been working out near Castle Howard, taking the chance for a post-work dip in the lake there. Give her husband a stretch of water and he’d strip off and dive in like an enthusiastic spaniel, whatever the weather.
‘This,’ said Paula, her eyes still glued to the laptop screen. ‘Come and see.’
She hadn’t thought anything much of the email from the photographer when it arrived that day, with a zip file attached. It was her and Matt’s anniversary present to her parents, having a set of photos professionally taken of the party and compiled in a nice album. When she’d made the booking, though, the photographer had been running a special offer whereby, for only a small amount more, you could have photography and video footage of your special event, courtesy of his nephew, who was doing an apprenticeship with him and was very keen. Paula had always wished they’d shelled out for someone to compile a video of her own wedding day and was deeply envious of friends who could watch their happy celebrations again and again. ‘Go on then,’ she’d said to the photographer, giving him her debit-card details.
He’d emailed her today, asking her to check the photos and rule out any that she didn’t want in the album. The edited video footage would be arriving separately, on a DVD and bespoke memory stick, he said, although his nephew had made a mini-highlights film, which he had attached, too. Paula had a few minutes to kill before she needed to start making dinner, so she’d sat down with the laptop, meaning to have a quick scroll through, out of interest – only to have one photograph stop her short. It was a perfectly nice picture of her cousin Lisa, beaming into the camera, and Paula herself was captured in the background with her dad. But then she looked again. Because she’d definitely been wearing a sleeveless pink dress for the party, and yet the woman behind Lisa was wearing a pale-blue shirt and jeans. So that was weird.
Frowning, Paula zoomed in for a closer look, realizing that it wasn’t her after all. This woman, although she had the same dark hair and beaky nose as Paula, was younger and didn’t have a fringe. And then she noticed the way the woman and her dad were looking so intently at one another, and it hit her like a shovel: oh my goodness. Was this her then: Frankie, the mystery half-sister? Surely it had to be!
‘Frankie,’ she breathed aloud, staring intently at the screen and drinking her in. So here she was: Paula’s little sister, right there at the party.
Obviously that was dinner forgotten about. Paula had gone clicking through all the other photos like a madwoman, searching desperately for another glimpse of her. Her efforts led her to one more image where you could just see the interloper entering the hall, her dark eyes wide and uncertain as she looked around; but that was it, the full extent of the evidence. ‘Oh. My. God,’ she murmured to herself, flicking from one picture to the other. Before and after, before and after. And indeed, you could see a certain strain on her parents’ faces in the later photographs, once Frankie had made her brief surprise appearance and had churned up an old secret. Captured by the lens, her mum’s mouth looked wobbly, her dad’s jaw taut, presumably as they tried to process what had just happened. Bloody hell. Blink and you’d miss it.
Paula had felt so unseated by her dad’s revelation; upset with him, with this Frankie person, with the whole world, frankly, for playing such a joke on her. And yet just look at this little sister of hers, sidling into the hall in that second picture, where she looked almost scared. That wasn’t the face of a family-wrecker, marching in, hell-bent on trouble, not at all. In fact she looked very much as if she was standing there, thinking: Oh shit.
It was at this moment that Paula remembered the video footage. The photographer’s nephew was twenty-one, straight out of college and clearly had some artistic notions, because he had edited the highlights package as if it were a Hollywood trailer. There was the bunting going up. The cake arriving. The flowers and buffet being arranged and set out. Here came Jeanie and Harry, happy and excited to see the gold-foil banner fluttering, the beautifully decorated hall. Here were the guests, hugs and handshakes, joyful exclamations. Brief excerpts from the speeches, some dance-floor action – oh God, just look at Paula’s Aunty Pen, what was she like? – and then . . . Paula paused the film. And then there she was again, visible at the edge of the dance-floor shot, just edging into view. Frankie, all nervous and doubtful, those big, dark eyes sliding around the place.
Paula pressed Pause, watched it again. But there was more, because here came her dad in the background, the strangest expression on his face, as if Frankie were some otherworldly apparition. He had his arms stretched out towards her, his mouth open and marvelling. How can this be? his eyes were saying. Is it really you?
Then, almost immediately, Jeanie was in shot – and just look at her, puffing up like a defensive cat, grabbing hold of Harry’s arm, possessive and commanding, practically dragging him away. You could just glimpse the shocked expression, the agony of Frankie’s face, before the camera angle changed again, this time to show Bunny dancing with Dave, the two of them laughing as she tried to teach him a routine. Rewind, play. Rewind, play.
‘See?’ she said to Matt, showing him. ‘Look! It’s her – it’s Frankie.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he said leaning over and peering at the screen. ‘She doesn’t half look like you.’
‘I know!’ Rewind, play. She couldn’t help watching it all over again, a mini saga dramatized in a few short frames: hope, recognition, rejection. Rewind, play. Her sister.
Matt had wandered over to the fridge and was peering forlornly in
side. ‘What were you thinking for dinner?’ he asked. ‘Only I said I’d meet Gav at seven-thirty for a drink. Want me to start peeling anything? Chopping anything? Searching out a takeaway menu?’
He was always starving after a day’s work, Matt. Doubly starving if he’d been swimming as well. Reminded of this, Paula felt as if she’d been awoken from an enchantment and finally dragged her eyes away from the screen. ‘Oh. Yeah, sorry. Um . . .’ She’d been planning to bake some haddock fillets with lemon and black pepper, roast a tray of baby Jersey Royals, and dish it all up with green salad and garlicky tomatoes. Clearly none of that had happened, though. ‘Is it outrageous to get a takeaway on a Monday night?’ she asked apologetically.
‘Hell, no,’ said Matt, amiable as ever. ‘I’ll go up the chippy. Boys?’ he yelled, leaving the room. ‘What do you want from the chippy?’
Paula was left alone with her laptop, the screen frozen on that last frame of her sister. Her sister. All of a sudden, Frankie had become real in Paula’s mind, no longer a shadowy threatening figure, but an actual person with a shy smile and a hopeful, questioning look in her eye. But over a week had now passed since the day of the party and, as far as Paula was aware, Frankie hadn’t made a second attempt to get in touch with the Mortimers. Had Jeanie scared her away? Was this minute or so of footage the only thing she would have of her brand-new sister? Because all of a sudden, to Paula’s surprise, she realized she wanted more.
The front door banged as Matt set off again, and Paula’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she composed a quick email to her brothers. Hi all, she typed:
So this is a bit weird. Pics – and a video!! – of our half-sister attached. No denying the family resemblance! I can’t help feeling intrigued; how about you guys?
Still no word from Mum, I take it. No news here. She didn’t even reply when Luke texted her a pic of the pie he made in Food Tech, which is so unlike her, I actually rang the hotel again to check she was okay. She’s fine apparently, but still doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Poor Mum. Feel so bad for her. I’ve arranged to meet Dad for lunch in town tomorrow, so will chat to him about it then.
Hope to see you all soon. John, are you still okay to drop the boys at cricket club on Sat? Give my love to your other halves,
P xxx
Chapter Eleven
Until Robyn met John she had never really held down a very long or enjoyable relationship. She was quite shy and awkward, ‘backward about coming forward’, as her mother put it, and never felt as if she was getting the whole boyfriend-thing quite right. Clearly she wasn’t, because men kept finishing with her after about six weeks – and to make matters worse, they almost always said the same sort of thing: Robyn, you’re a lovely person and you’ll make someone a great wife one day, but right now I just want to have fun. Implying, in other words, that she was no fun at all. Which didn’t exactly fill a girl with confidence.
The day she ended up sitting beside John at the ‘Unknown Universe’ lecture had been a pivotal one. At the end of the lecture she’d realized that her wet umbrella had been leaning against his bag and was terribly embarrassed, apologizing for her clumsiness, but to her relief, he’d laughed it off. ‘These things happen,’ he’d said, and she’d noticed what nice brown eyes he had, what an open, friendly face. ‘I suppose I could forgive you, for a glass of wine . . .’
Oh! Was he flirting with her? she’d wondered in surprise. Be fun, she reminded herself hurriedly. Not wifely – fun! She found herself thinking of Michelle Crossley, the most outrageous girl in Robyn’s sixth form, who’d gone off to work as a croupier in Las Vegas after A-levels and was still living the American high life, according to Facebook. Be more Michelle. ‘I thought you would never ask!’ she cried, laughing and trying to make her eyes go sparkly (she’d been practising in front of the mirror, for this very reason). ‘Hey, let’s go wild and make it a bottle.’
Goodness, but it was quite hard work being fun, she had decided after three weeks of dating John, when she’d drunk far more than she usually did, and her feet ached from dancing in wine bars along Swinegate. She and John seemed to be getting on brilliantly, but secretly she was starting to wonder if there was such a thing as too much fun. Maybe he was out of her league and she should stop pretending, and admit that she was actually quite a lot more sensible and boring than she’d made out. But then, a few weeks before Christmas, she met the Mortimers and changed her mind.
‘It’s our Paula’s birthday on Saturday,’ John had said, looking sheepish. ‘And Mum’s insisting I bring you along for one of her party teas. Do you mind? They’re a bit full-on, my family, so if you don’t fancy it, I won’t blame you . . .’
Robyn had been intrigued. More to the point, she’d always found meeting people’s parents a lot easier than necking cocktails and trying to dance in a sexy way. ‘Sounds good to me,’ she’d said cheerfully.
John had not been exaggerating about his family being ‘full-on’. Robyn had been overwhelmed initially by the hot crush of parents and siblings and their partners crammed into a flock-wallpapered living room in Bishopthorpe, all talking in loud voices and taking the mick out of each other, hooting with laughter at old shared jokes and reminiscences. This was a proper family, she had thought, feeling an ache of envy that she’d never had this herself, growing up. But then in the next minute, Paula, John’s sister, was making introductions and exclaiming in delight as Robyn shyly pressed a pot of winter jasmine into her hands, wishing her a happy birthday. ‘Aren’t you lovely? Thank you, it’s gorgeous!’ And then John’s mum, Jeanie, had bustled over with the pot of tea, urging a scone on her (‘Just out of the oven!’) and they were all so nice, so friendly and welcoming, that Robyn felt herself unfurling amidst their easy warmth.
She’d seen another side of John too: the loving son, giving his mum a squeeze and helping clear away the dishes; the big brother, asking after his siblings; the kind, attentive host, who made sure Robyn had a good time and kept the conversation flowing. ‘They loved you!’ he had said afterwards, back in his car, as they drove away, and she’d felt happiness soar inside her, as if she’d passed some crucial test. Maybe John wasn’t out of her league after all. Maybe being herself was going to be okay, if it meant his family liked her.
The weeks of dating had turned into months, and Robyn felt as if the colours and sounds in her world had been turned up, brighter and noisier; experiencing and appreciating life with more exuberance and intensity than ever before. The Mortimers were big on spending time together, she had quickly realized, and it had been a summer of barbecues and parties, day-trips to the Dales and the coast, meeting John’s cousins and aunts and uncles, with all of them telling her: Oh, it was about time John settled down, and Oh, what a lovely couple they made, and teasing John about how he should hurry up and get a ring on her finger quick, she was far too good for the likes of him. Robyn blossomed with the compliments and jokes, had been flattered when Paula asked her along to her hen night, had been faint with relief when she’d cooked a roast dinner for John’s parents and Jeanie had pronounced it ‘Not bad at all’.
And then, in September, it was Robyn’s birthday and John had said, again with that slight air of sheepishness, ‘Um, Mum wants to do a party tea for you sometime this weekend. Family tradition. Is that okay?’
Was that okay? Hell, yeah! she had thought with a rush of pleasure. Family tradition – and she was now part of it! For Robyn, it was like being giving the keys to the kingdom, her acceptance and belonging officially confirmed. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she was part of something bigger than just her and her mum; she’d been welcomed into this clan of fun, friendly people, initiated with a plate of scones and jam. And then the following Christmas, when John had given her an engagement ring and asked her to marry him, almost the first thought that had whistled through her head – other than YES! – was that she was going to be a Mortimer too. For better or worse. Better, of course!
Was it wrong that she’d felt the sa
me stunned delight at becoming a Mortimer as she’d felt at the prospect of being John’s wife? Would she have agreed so quickly to his proposal if he’d been an only child like her, from a small, quiet family?
Robyn thought about this now as she picked up Harry’s Gardeners’ World magazine from the sofa, plus Harry’s glasses case from the bottom of the stairs and then Harry’s breakfast things, which had been left, along with those of her husband, on the kitchen table all morning while Robyn had been at work. She hadn’t just married John, she’d effectively married the entire family – which she had been thrilled about! – and part of that involved rallying round when someone was in trouble. Right now that someone was Harry, who couldn’t bear to be home without Jeanie, following her no-show at the airport. Reading between the lines, Bunny had been less than ecstatic at the prospect of having her father-in-law to stay for a second week, and so John had stepped in with the offer of their spare room before Robyn had been able to say, ‘Of course I don’t mind.’
She didn’t mind, not really. She was extremely fond of Harry, who’d been the next best thing to having her own dad, with his kindness and steadiness, and his ability to come to the rescue at the drop of a hat. In the circumstances, Robyn felt it was the least she could do, to make up the spare bed and set an extra place at the table, in the hope of propping up the listing Mortimer ship. Not to mention pick up after him constantly and deal with his laundry, and try not to complain when he and John vanished for hours on end at their favourite fishing spots.
All the same, this was not the greatest time for a house-guest, when John had just lost his job and everything about the future seemed newly precarious. ‘Don’t tell Dad about it, yeah, he’s got enough on his plate and will only worry,’ he’d warned her – which was fair enough, but then he didn’t even want to talk about the redundancy with her, his wife, either, when she still had so many questions.