by Sarah Clarke
As predicted, it’s busy when he walks inside, so he heads straight through to the kitchen to collect an apron.
‘Hey, how are you?’ Fiona is standing in the doorway. She’s trying to look casual but the fingers playing at her neck give her away.
Ben vaguely wonders what her story is, how she manages to look both badass and terrified at the same time. But whatever secrets she’s hiding, what’s most important is that she hasn’t divulged his. ‘Glad it’s Friday, I guess.’
‘Yeah, I remember school being like that. Especially during A-levels. Way too intense.’
It seems weird to Ben, someone that old having done the same exams as him.
‘Bet you can’t believe they even had A-levels when I was 18.’
What is she, a mind reader? Ben swallows his embarrassment. ‘Did you go to school around here?’
‘A grammar school in Battersea. I wasn’t exactly an A student though.’
‘Me neither. Well, except in Art.’ Ben flinches. Why did he say that? It’s not something he usually brings up.
‘I must remember to check out your coffee motifs then,’ she quips with a smile.
Ben smiles back. Whatever her background, Fiona seems pretty relaxed. He realises that he’s glad she’s joined. It had been starting to feel like a crowd of three.
Together they walk through to the café area. Ben accepts Fiona’s offer to clear the tables and wanders behind the counter where Hana is serving one of the regulars. He watches her listen patiently to the old guy’s story, then, clocking his shaking hands, offer to carry his pot of tea to the table for him. She winks at Ben as she moves past him and it takes a great deal of self-control not to grin like an idiot.
‘Looks like someone’s pretty into you.’ Fiona is back with a deep tray full of empty cups.
Ben feels his face reddening. ‘Not me,’ he spurts out.
‘Oh? Who then?’
‘I think Hana and Marco are pretty tight.’ Why is he saying this? Confiding in this stranger?
‘I don’t think so,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m pretty sure they’re just friends.’
Ben looks across at Marco, flirting with two mums, enchanting their children with some magic trick involving a coin. Perhaps she’s right. He thinks about Hana’s wink again and feels an unfamiliar surge of optimism. He didn’t expect that to happen tonight.
His reverie is broken when the café door flies open, its handle hitting the wall with a thump. He watches an old woman with heavy make-up sashay in, or stagger, it’s hard to tell at her age. As she walks towards the counter, she seems to be staring at him. Maybe she’s a bit confused, Ben thinks. That might explain her mismatched outfit too.
‘Fuck.’
It’s no louder than a murmur, but the swear word definitely just rolled out of Fiona’s mouth. Her face looks petrified too, like it did on that bus journey. What is she scared of this time? He turns back to the old woman, who’s now arrived at the counter, still gawping at him like he’s got two heads.
He’s about to ask what she wants when Fiona surges forward, pushing him out of the way.
‘Flora?’
Ben can tell she’s trying to sound normal, but in reality she only manages a margin off horrified. Ben can’t blame her really; he’d be pretty mortified if he knew this woman too.
‘Hello, Phoebe darling!’
‘Phoebe?’ Ben says, confused now. ‘I thought your name was Fiona?’
Chapter 19
Phoebe
Shit. What the hell do I say? Things had been going so well and now this. My son thinks I’m either crazy or a liar, and on top of that I have Flora to deal with.
‘Fiona is my middle name – I prefer it.’ I say it quickly, which makes me sound like a 12-year-old girl making some petulant anti-parent protest. I can tell he can’t decide whether to believe me or not, but his expression is definitely confusion rather than shock. Has he really forgotten his own mother’s name? The feeling is becoming all too familiar now, relief laced with disappointment.
I force myself to focus on the more urgent issue of getting Flora away from him. Holding her gaze, I will her to keep eye contact with me, and away from her grandson, as I scurry out from behind the counter. I put my arm around her shoulder, and with as much force as possible without looking like I’m manhandling her, guide her to the table by the window. It may be my favourite, but this is all about choosing the one furthest away from danger.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘What do you think?’ The words slur, slipping and sliding into one another.
‘You said that I should stay away. Then you turn up yourself!’
‘You’re still here though, aren’t you? You didn’t listen to us.’
She thinks she’s whispering but it’s actually a sharp hiss that carries above the normal hum of conversation; I flinch at the thought of her words reaching Charlie. At least I don’t worry that he’ll recognise his grandma. She’s sunk too low for that.
‘And you think it helps? Coming here like this? Telling him my name?’
‘I couldn’t bear it.’
‘If he found out who I was?’ I’m struggling to follow her swerving train of thought.
‘You seeing him, and me not.’ Thank goodness her volume has finally dropped.
‘That’s why you came? To see him?’
‘He was taken from me too. In one day, just gone.’
I hold every muscle inside me taut, push away the image of that kind paramedic, holding my hand and asking if I’m okay. Of Charlie’s hand waving, his beloved rabbit creased between his slim fingers. Yes, I agreed to the adoption, but I wasn’t thinking straight back then. How long do I have to spend paying for one decision?
‘You’ve seen him now.’
‘He’s handsome.’
I nod; I don’t trust myself to speak.
‘He has our eyes,’ she continues. The unusual dappled blue that Flora inherited from my grandmother, the thread that links four generations. A swell of pride begins to build in my chest, but I can’t let her carry me away. I need to focus.
‘He’s a mix of all of us.’
‘And his new family, we mustn’t forget them.’ There’s a mournful tone to her comment but still, I feel annoyance rising up again. Why does she have to keep reminding me? A wave of anger surges over me. I need to get Flora out of Bittersweet, stop her tarnishing our new start. She may have loved Charlie, but not like I did. Otherwise she wouldn’t have walked away that night.
‘Um, Fiona?’
Oh God, it’s him. And he said the name cautiously, like he thought Flora might correct him. With a stab of panic, I think she might too, so I leap up.
‘Yes?’ I manoeuvre myself between my mother and son. There’s not much space so it’s awkward, but I can’t risk them starting a conversation. He takes a step backwards.
‘Marco and Hana usually finish early on a Friday if it’s quiet. I said they could go now that it’s thinning out, but they wanted to wait ’til you were finished with your, uh, friend?’
‘Mother,’ Flora corrects from behind me.
My teeth grind with the effort of smiling. ‘She was just leaving.’
‘She could stay, have a coffee.’
‘Thanks, but she needs to go.’ I emphasise the word ‘go’ too much; it sounds like I’m forcing her out, but I can’t rephrase it now. He puts his hands up in some kind of mock surrender and backs away.
‘It’s time to go home, Flora,’ I growl, once I’m sure he’s out of hearing range. ‘Or I’m calling Paul.’
My threat carries weight. Even the talented Flora can’t hide the look of fear that darts across her face. I know she wouldn’t have told my father about this visit; we both know his disapproval would extend to her interference too.
She pauses, flicks her hair off her shoulders, and stands up; the actress is back. ‘Well, I’m not one to outstay my welcome.’ For a moment she teeters, and I pray that she doesn’t fall; in here, i
n front of him. But she rebalances herself and throws me that phony smile that’s haunted me since childhood.
I watch her try to sashay out of the café. Does she know how damaged she looks? How people feel sympathy for her, not the envy that she likes to believe. Perhaps I’ll turn out the same. I understand the attraction of alcohol; the comfort blanket of oblivion it brings. I’ve watched it work its magic on my mother; calm the sting of her disappointments, create a false belief in future promise. It could easily have been a choice I made too.
I look up at my son, lost in his own thoughts as he wipes down the counter. What does his future hold for him? Will he turn out like Flora? Or Dan? He might turn out like me of course, except which version of me, before that night or after? He must sense me staring because he looks up.
‘One minute,’ I mouth to him, raising my index finger in explanation. I slip into the small toilet and pull the lock closed behind me. I need a moment to collect myself, to rebuild my easy-going Fiona persona. I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. The lighting is soft in here and the flecks in my eyes dance in the shadows. I practise smiling. Could the easy-going Phoebe ever reappear? If I can rebuild things with Charlie, then surely anything is possible. I retie my hair and unlock the door.
‘You okay?’ It’s almost like he cares.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Family tension is my specialist subject.’
‘Really?’ There it is again, me enjoying his bad news.
‘So that was your mum?’
I nod.
‘Are you close?’
I think about how tangled up our lives are, how we hold on to each other, but perhaps only to shift the blame between us. ‘Yes and no.’
‘Families are complicated, I guess.’
‘Are you close to your parents?’ My heart thuds hard against my ribcage. He has no idea how much his answer matters to me.
‘I owe them a lot.’
‘But?’ There’s a ‘but’, I know. God, I hope there’s a ‘but’.
‘But it’s a pain in the arse. Always trying to repay them. Always remembering to be grateful.’
‘You, grateful?’ I’ve spurted it out, can’t turn back now. ‘Shouldn’t they feel grateful to have you?’
‘I’m not sure that’s how they see it.’
I look at his face. The young are so easy to read. They think the swagger, the attitude, hides what they really feel, but it doesn’t. It’s not hard to see the loneliness and self-doubt behind it all.
‘Maybe it’s just not how you see it.’ I say it gently because I don’t want to be categorised as one of them, lecturing him, but it carries no gravity. He wafts it away.
‘Luckily, there’s Rosie.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Good guess.’
I fix a smile; will him to move on.
‘Rosie’s perfect. Sporty, clever, musical. Oh, and really nice. Mustn’t forget that.’
‘And your parents compare you?’
‘Not really. I was just some messed up 5-year-old they took pity on. They don’t expect me to achieve anything much; although that doesn’t stop them hassling me constantly.’
I pause. It would be suspicious if I didn’t ask, but still, I feel like I’m sinking into shark-infested water. ‘You’re adopted?’ I try to keep the tremble out of my voice.
‘Yeah. Rosie is theirs naturally. But they couldn’t have any more children after that, so they adopted me. They wanted a baby I think, something cute to parade down Northcote Road. But supply is a bit lumpy in the orphan trade.’
‘You’re an orphan?’ The sharks snap at my feet. I struggle to stay upright.
‘May as well be.’ He looks down at the floor.
Tears well in my eyes. He couldn’t be clearer; I’m nothing to him anymore.
And yet, he’s not happy.
Perhaps that’s the problem. Feeling like an orphan. And if I can become someone to him again, maybe then he will start to feel better.
‘And how is it, being adopted?’
He shrugs. ‘Rosie and I are only five months apart. Such a small age gap isn’t usually recommended, but here I am. My parents swung it somehow. But it means we’re in the same year at school.’
‘So everyone knows.’
He nods. ‘She’s the real deal, I’m the fake.’
‘That must be tough, being the outsider.’
He looks at me quizzically. ‘Most people would say that I’m not fake, that being adopted doesn’t make me less of a Moreton.’
My cheeks burn. I’m getting this all wrong.
‘You’re the first person to see it from my point of view,’ he continues. ‘To accept what’s so fucking obvious to me.’
I look up. Was that a compliment? Our eyes catch for a moment, and then he shakes his head and looks away. ‘We’d better clear up,’ he murmurs.
And that’s it. Conversation over.
*
I slip the key in gently and pray for a silent house; my body is crying out for sleep. I sigh with relief as I enter the darkness – no welcome committee this time. I take off my jacket and try to hang it on the peg, but it just slips off on to the floor and I’m too tired to retrieve it.
It’s when I step into the kitchen to get a glass of water that I see her. Sitting in a rotting wooden chair in the tiny garden, staring back at me through the window. The whites of her eyes glisten in the moonlight and her freshly painted lips make her look almost doll-like. For a moment, I wonder if I can leave her there. But it’s close to zero degrees tonight and I can’t be sure she won’t fall asleep, and then into some hypothermic coma. I think of Dan, his motionless body, and realise I can’t risk it. I open the back door and step outside.
‘Time for bed, Flora. It’s freezing out here.’
‘How could I possibly sleep, knowing what you’re doing?’ At least her voice has lost its slur. I sigh and sink down into the chair next to her.
‘I’m not hurting anyone.’
‘You’re stalking him.’
‘We just work together.’
‘It’s against the law.’
I snort. ‘Like you ever cared about following the rules.’
I watch her grapple with that. She’s always been proud of her rebellious streak. She chooses to change tack. ‘And what about Charlie? Do you think it’s fair on him?’
‘Look, there’s stuff you don’t know, Flora. He needs a friend.’
‘I’m sure he has friends.’
I dig the heel of my hand into the wooden armrest. ‘So maybe he needs his mum.’
‘He has one of those too.’
‘Not a good enough one,’ I throw back at her.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He seems so lost, intent on self-destruction. What if he did something terrible? I couldn’t stand it, and neither could you. I can’t just walk away from him.’ I reach across for her hand, hanging limply over the chair. ‘Please let me help him.’
She takes my hand in hers, and aimlessly strokes my fingers. It’s the closest she’s come to affection in decades and I’m not sure whether to feel shocked or elated by her touch. We both remain quiet for a while and I listen to the sounds of London at night: the wail of a police siren, the strangled cry of a fox.
Eventually she finds her voice. ‘If you can’t walk away, then you have to tell him the truth.’ She places my hand back against the cold wood.
‘I can’t. He’s not ready; I don’t want to hurt him.’
‘It’s you who’s not ready.’
She’s right, of course. I’ve only just found him; I can’t risk losing him. ‘If I tell Charlie now, he might never forgive me,’ I start. ‘But the Phoebe who left him wasn’t the real me. I need time for him to see that. Don’t I deserve a second chance?’
‘But, darling, what about him? Surely he doesn’t deserve to be lied to?’
‘I know!’ I scream it, frustration spilling over. ‘I will tell him
, soon.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I need longer.’ I try not to sound pleading – it’s not her decision after all – but I can’t manage it.
‘Parenting is about sacrifice. His needs should come before yours.’
A snort escapes from my nostrils; I’m not letting her claim the moral high ground. ‘Really? When did that rule ever apply to you?’ My voice is getting louder. ‘Not when I was a kid, and you couldn’t get me to school on time because you were too hungover. Or when I was older, and you’d disappear for days on end just because you’d get a sniff of an audition. Even once Charlie was born, I couldn’t rely on you, could I?’
My words pierce the air with their true meaning. How things might have been different if she’d cared a bit more.
‘I did my best.’ Her voice is low, strained. ‘You can’t blame me.’
But the memory has flustered her, and I seize on the opportunity. ‘Please, Flora, he’s fragile. It’s not fair on him to suddenly announce who I am.’ I wait, but she doesn’t speak, so I keep going. ‘I will tell him, but I need time to prepare him.’ I stare into her soft features and plead with my eyes, will her to remember that she played a role too.
‘How long?’ she finally asks.
‘A few weeks Flora, just a few weeks.’
She pauses, weighing up my request. Putting someone else first isn’t normal behaviour for her and I can almost see the rusty cogs whirring. Finally, she makes her decision. ‘One month, Phoebe. Otherwise, I’m telling him.’ Then she pushes off from the armrests and stands up. She hesitates for a moment as though she’s got something else to say, an apology or explanation maybe, but then just turns towards the house and I listen to the back door slam shut behind me.
It’s freezing out here, but I don’t want to go inside yet; the stillness of the night sky is too comforting. I sink further into the wooden chair, hoping it will give me some protection against the cold air, but it creaks and groans and I’m not sure it isn’t going to disintegrate beneath me. Suddenly a wave of fury grabs hold of me. How did my life turn out like this? Haggling for precious moments with my son. It could all have been so different if I’d been stronger, had more self-respect. I stand up, look down at the rotting chair. Then I pick it up and throw it across the garden. The sound of it smashing against the fence gives me the strength I need to walk inside.