by Caro Fraser
Adam was probably going to be another one just like that.
She stared dejectedly out of the taxi window at Baron’s Court cemetery rolling by. In America they had clinics for people like her, serial seducers, people who couldn’t sustain nice, proper one-on-one relationships without getting bored, or resist gratifying their own impulsive desires. She never had the patience to wait for any man to take the initiative. The ones who did weren’t the ones she wanted. It was always the ones like Adam – the ones who were spoken for, or apparently not interested. Even gay men – the ultimate challenge. She swallowed a sigh. One day she’d get some serious therapy, sort herself out. In the meantime, she might as well just get on with being the way she was. Someone might turn up along the way, someone with whom she could go the distance. It might even be Adam. Maybe he was the one. In which case, sod the girlfriend. And sod the therapy. Maybe she and Adam would live happily ever after.
In this confused state, Bella paid the taxi, got out, crossed the road, and pressed the bell of Adam’s flat.
Adam was too wound up about the potential conversational minefield to pay a great deal of attention to the way Bella looked. Pretty as ever, he thought, as he let her in, but his thoughts shifted swiftly and nervously to what lay ahead.
‘Coffee?’ he asked as he led the way through to the living room.
‘A drink would be even better. I’ve had a gruelling day.’ She sat down on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her bare feet beneath her. Nothing like a little alcohol to get things mellow. She looked up at him and felt a shiver of pleasure.
Adam glanced at his watch. ‘What would you like?’
‘Any old thing – a beer will do. Cold, if possible.’
He went into the kitchen, and while he searched out beers in the fridge, Bella jumped up and wandered through to his study, which lay off the living room.
Adam came back through, realized where she’d gone and followed her in, a chilled bottle of lager in either hand, mildly annoyed at this invasion of his private sanctum.
She was perusing his bookshelf. ‘So this is where you toil away.’ She plucked a copy of The Penguin Book of Journalism from the shelf, glanced through it, then put it back. ‘Don’t you find it lonely?’
‘No. Never.’
She turned and took one of the bottles. ‘Thanks.’ She raised it to her lips. He was looking a bit distracted, clearly not yet in the kind of mood she required. Oh, well. Give it time. She went back to the living room, brushing past Adam, and sat down on the sofa. She sat to one side, leaving room for him, but Adam sat in a chair opposite, nursing his beer between his hands. He seemed preoccupied, nervous. Maybe he did have some hidden agenda, after all. She smiled to herself.
‘So–’ She put up a hand to ruffle her hair, ‘what’s this serious thing you need to talk to me about?’
‘I have to warn you – what I’m going to talk about, you may not find easy.’
She let her hand drop to her lap. Whatever was going to happen here this afternoon, it was not the seduction of Adam Downing by Bella Day. The atmosphere and the man were too intent, too serious for that. Her mental focus shifted.
‘I take it this is to do with the biography?’
‘Of course.’ What else, he wondered fleetingly, did she think he’d asked her here for?
‘Well, go on.’
‘A couple of weeks ago I met someone who knew Harry back in the fifties.’
She sat sipping her beer, waiting for Adam’s next words.
‘His name is George Meacher. Have you ever heard of him?’
She shook her head. Adam was acutely aware of how artlessly lovely she looked, sitting cross-legged, gazing at him. He wondered if the heart-stopping feeling he experienced was to do with that, or his own immediate anxiety.
‘He’s a photographer. That is – he was, once. Anyway, that’s not important…’ Adam took an anguished swallow of his beer. ‘Maybe I’m about to tell you something you know already, in which case–’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, get on with it!’
‘Right. Right.’ Adam took a deep breath. ‘According to this man, Harry and Cecile never had any children. He said that… you and Charlie were adopted.’
Slowly Bella put down the bottle of beer. The change in her expression, from mild annoyance to one of stark incredulity, told him that she had never heard anything of this in her life before.
‘Is that some kind of a joke?’ She stared at him. ‘I mean, is it?’
Adam looked at her helplessly. ‘Look, Meacher shared a flat – a room – with your father after the war. He knew Harry very well. He knew your mother. It’s what he told me. I’m really sorry. I thought – I hoped – you might already know. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m involved with the biography, I would never dream of–’
‘Oh, just shut up! Shut up talking!’ She put both hands to her temples, clenching her eyes shut, taking deep breaths. She stood up and walked to the window, then back to the sofa, dashing tears from her cheeks. ‘Well, clearly it’s a load of lies! I mean – clearly! She folded her arms, but he could see she was trembling a little. ‘Don’t you think my parents would have mentioned something like that? I mean, don’t you? You’re not a very good journalist, Adam, if you let people con you like that! Who was this man? Someone on the make, probably. Did you pay him for that rubbish?’
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘Well, what a horrible, stupid thing to try and tell me! I know for a fact that it couldn’t possibly be true.’ He couldn’t tell whether she was more agitated than angry. ‘I think it is utterly, utterly pathetic of you to repeat that kind of drivel! Do you know what?’ He gazed at her blankly, aware only of a physical wish to grab her and stop her, soothe her. ‘I think you should just pack this rotten book in right now! If this is the kind of nonsense you’re going to peddle, then just forget it! I don’t want to know about it, or you! And that goes for our entire family!’
She picked up her bag from the sofa and swung it on to her shoulder, sending the beer bottle flying as she did so. As the flat door slammed shut, Adam sat there, staring at the puddle of lager spreading on the carpet and wondering whether this whole thing was George Meacher’s horrible idea of a joke.
Bella paced the pavement until a cab appeared. Back in her flat fifteen minutes later, she sat smoking and thinking. Once or twice she wept. At the end of two and a half hours she rang Adam. Finding him out, she left a message on his answering machine. ‘I’m sorry. I should have been a bit calmer. I want to hear it all, properly. Everything this man told you. Ring me.’
Adam had gone out for the evening with Megan and some friends. It was late when they got in. He saw the message light flashing and was unspeakably relieved to hear Bella’s voice. He rang straight back.
‘It’s Adam Downing,’ he said, when she picked up the phone. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. No, don’t worry, you didn’t.’ Her voice sounded flat, distracted. ‘I’m sorry I got so upset today.’
‘I’m the one who should be apologizing.’
‘I think we need to talk some more. We can’t just leave things as they stand.’
‘No. No, I realize that.’
‘Do you have any free time tomorrow?’
‘As much as you need. You can come here, or we can meet in town.’
‘No, that’s all right. I don’t have rehearsals till after lunch, so I’ll come over around half eleven.’
‘That’s fine.’ He paused, hesitating, wanting to say something more, but she had hung up.
‘Who were you ringing?’ asked Megan, as he came into the bedroom.
‘Bella Day.’
‘Bit late, isn’t it?’
‘She left a message. I had to call her. She’s very upset.’
‘What about?’
‘Nothing important. Something to do with Harry. I’ll tell you about it another time.’ He couldn’t tell Megan. He couldn’t tell anyone. Until he had sorted out truth from fict
ion, this was between himself and Bella. He lay awake for a long time after Megan had fallen asleep, remembering the wild misery etched on Bella’s face, and how he had wanted to take her and hold her like a child, and make everything better.
The next morning, Adam found it increasingly difficult to concentrate as eleven-thirty drew near. It was almost ten to twelve when Bella rang the bell of his flat and he buzzed her up. Anyone else, he thought, taking in the grubby hipster jeans, trainers, beige denim jacket over a once-white T-shirt, would have looked a mess. But Bella, ethereal with dejection and tiredness, seemed to outshine the clothes she wore. Rather like George Meacher, thought Adam.
He made coffee, and once again she sat on the sofa, shoes kicked off, while he sat opposite.
‘Tell me about this man, the one you spoke to. What’s he called again?’
‘George Meacher. He was a photographer. He worked for Vogue back in the sixties and seventies. He was quite well known.’ In his research, Adam had been surprised to discover that Meacher had been something of a celebrity, not least because he found it hard to reconcile erstwhile fame with the abject seediness of Meacher’s present existence. ‘A friend put me in touch with him,’ said Adam. ‘I saw him in a photo, one of the ones your mother gave me. Hold on a minute, I’ll show you.’ Adam went through to his study and returned with the photograph. He handed it to Bella and sat down again, watching her intently as she scrutinized the faces. ‘That’s him at the back, the little guy with the dark hair. Evidently he had known your parents, but your mother skipped over him when I asked her to name everyone in the photo.’
Bella laid the photograph aside. ‘Tell me everything he said.’
Adam told her.
Her face was expressionless as she listened, but there was something oddly dislocated about her gaze, as though it was shifting between mental states. Hardly surprising, thought Adam, as he drew to a close. Someone calmly telling you that you’re not the person you thought you were. He tried to imagine the incredible jolt, suddenly being set at a remove from everything that had ever bound you to family, blood and being. News that made you a stranger to yourself.
If she believed him.
She sat very quietly, staring at her coffee. Then she shook her head. ‘I think you’ve been had, Adam.’
He nodded. ‘Well, possibly.’ He felt embarrassed by his own certainty, by having to pretend he thought she might be right.
‘I don’t blame you for believing it. It’s the kind of revelation that helps your book. I mean, if it were true, it wouldn’t be anything especially scandalous or startling, but at least it would be something new.’
Again he nodded. He felt rather foolish. He didn’t really want to assist her to deceive herself. ‘Well, now you know.’
She put down her mug and covered her face with her hands. He thought at first she was crying, but she wasn’t. She took her hands away, her face tired. ‘The thing is – I don’t know, do I? I’m utterly convinced there’s not a scrap of truth in it, that he said all this just to stir up mischief. I mean, if it were true, wouldn’t my birth certificate show a different name? It just seems too farfetched to bother thinking about. But until I speak to my mother, I won’t know. I can’t believe she wouldn’t have told Charlie and me. I can’t believe it. You don’t let someone grow up not knowing the truth about themselves, do you?’
Adam shrugged. He remembered what Meacher had said. You get to a point where it’s more of a problem to tell the truth than carry on lying… ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’
There was a long silence. At last Bella said, ‘But you think George Meacher was telling the truth, don’t you? Otherwise you would never have said anything to me.’
He hesitated for a few seconds, then met her gaze. ‘Yes. I could be completely wrong. Completely. But I do think so.’
‘So – I have to speak to my mother. I have to ask her. God.’ She picked up the photograph. ‘Can I borrow this?’
‘Of course. It belongs to your mother, anyway.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I’ve started something that’s going to – to cause trouble.’ It sounded inadequate.
Bella gave a wan smile. ‘That’s your job, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t think my job was going to get this complicated.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly half twelve. Why don’t you let me buy you lunch? There’s quite a good–’
‘No,’ interrupted Bella. ‘I’m not really in the mood, I’m afraid. I’d better be going.’ She stood up and stuffed her feet into her trainers. ‘Thanks for coffee. And for your time.’
The more Bella thought about what George Meacher had told Adam, the more ludicrous and unlikely it seemed. Over the next few days, the little seed of uncertainty which had been planted within her almost shrivelled up and died. But not quite. She left rehearsals late one afternoon and went over to Dulwich to see her mother. She did this with the calm certainty that the whole thing was a fiction.
Cecile was busy in her workroom, engaged in the fiddly business of lining the jacket of a suit which she was making for a friend.
‘Darling!’ She kissed her daughter on both cheeks. ‘What a lovely surprise! I’m just busy in the back room. Time I stopped for a break. Come through.’
Bella followed her mother to the kitchen. She was aware of a growing sense of nervousness. This was such a weird and horrible thing to be asking her mother about. But it had to be done.
‘Drink or tea?’ asked Cecile. She put her hands together and raised her eyebrows in that lovely, smiling way which Bella knew so well. This is my mother, thought Bella. No matter what.
Bella smiled and sat down. ‘Drink, please. I really need it. I’ve had the lousiest day. I hate this play. I wish I wasn’t doing it.’
‘I never cared too much for Orton.’ Cecile fished in the fridge and brought out a half-full bottle of Chardonnay. ‘That mixture of silly and sinister.’
‘I just have a dud feeling about it. Something tells me nobody’s interested in an Orton revival right now.’
‘Oh, I know that feeling. The awful instinct that something’s a pre-ordained flop. You must inherit it from me. Bad luck. I’m sure it’ll begin to feel better closer to the opening.’ She handed Bella a glass of wine and sat down opposite her at the kitchen table. She lifted the tape measure draped round her neck and dropped it on the table. In the little silence which ensued, Bella picked it up and began to wind it round her index finger.
‘Mother, I’ve got something to ask you, and I’m going to do it right away so that it’s over and done with.’
‘My lord,’ said Cecile, ‘you do sound serious.’ Her mind ranged instantly over the possibilities, but did not come close.
Bella put down the tape measure. ‘Do you know a man called George Meacher?’
The question so stunned Cecile that it seemed to reverberate, rolling like thunder in her hearing. She let the echoes die away. She took a drink of wine. She became immediately conscious of the very set of her own features, wondered what her expression was. She did not think she had moved a muscle. What had her expression been before the question? Fear took a very hard hold of her, squeezing her insides.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ She essayed a smile.
‘A friend of Dad’s? Someone he lived with after the war?’
‘I didn’t know any of your father’s friends from around that time, darling.’ But the clear, poised features had suddenly begun to soften and tremble.
Bella picked up her canvas shoulder bag from the floor and took out the photo. She gave it to her mother. The effect was distinct and remarkable. Cecile’s jaw slackened, her eyes blinked warily. ‘Do you see him? There, at the back?’ Watching her mother’s reaction, Bella’s mind faltered. She felt the sudden sick surge of possibility well up within her.
Cecile’s words came out with a little gasp. ‘Oh, him. Yes, I remember him vaguely. What did you say his name was?’ The effort was supreme.
‘George Meacher.’
<
br /> Cecile nodded. Silence lengthened. ‘What about him?’
‘He told Adam Downing that Charlie and I were adopted.’ At the very words, Bella felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes. The gaze which she kept fastened on her mother’s face was almost pleading.
Cecile said nothing for a long, long moment. She felt shaky, sick.
Bella continued to regard her mother, but tears blurred her vision. The sense of certainty that now gripped her was cold and heavy and awful. She put out a hand and grasped her mother’s. ‘Mother?’
Cecile’s strong, handsome face had grown weak and fearful. ‘Oh, darling… You are my daughter. You are!’ She clutched Bella’s hand with both her own.
‘Is it true?’ She had to fight against the awfulness of her mother’s distress. She had to know.
Her mother began to sob. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Her voice was a rasping whisper. In that instant, Bella felt Cecile’s tears on her hand, and was shocked by how repulsed she felt at their wetness. This was not her mother. This was Cecile. But she was not her mother, never had been. That thing she had told herself – whatever happens, she is my mother – was suddenly untrue. The shock hit her, and seemed to pass through her mind and body with a shudder. She felt as though she were free-falling. Suddenly cut off and pushed out into a great void.
‘Who am I?’
‘You’re Bella! You’re mine!’ Cecile dropped Bella’s hand and reached forward, trying clumsily to embrace her. But Bella pulled back.
‘How could you never have told us? How could you let our entire lives go by and never have said a thing? Not a thing!’ She stood up and walked across the kitchen. She turned and looked at Cecile, who was weeping.
‘Who am I? Who’s Charlie?’
Cecile drew a hand across her eyes and looked at Bella. Bella was astonished to see anger on her face. ‘You’re who you always have been! Who do you think you are?’ Cecile’s expression collapsed pathetically. ‘You’ve both been mine since you were only days old! You’ve never belonged to anyone else. You’re my children! I’m your mother… Nobody else.’