by Ruth Mancini
Helena swung her feet off the chair and picked up her champagne glass. “I didn’t say that. I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Right.” I nodded and picked up my glass too. I took a large gulp of champagne. I realised I hadn’t eaten anything since I’d got up that morning and that the champagne was going straight to my head. I stood up and went to the stove. “Are you having some dinner?”
I was half expecting Helena to get up and say that she’d have something later, that she was going to her room to study, but instead she said, “Yes, please. I’m starving. What are we having?”
Encouraged, I started opening cupboards and pulling out plates and cutlery. I put a nice crusty baguette onto the table along with a bowl of salad. “I’ve got all your favourite things,” I said. “Olives, some really nice goats’ cheese, and some camembert. The oven’s on. I’ll grill it, shall I?”
Helena nodded. “That’ll be great.”
“And I’ve got a couple of good steaks? How hungry are you?”
“Very. Sounds good.” Helena leaned forward and poured us each another glass of champagne. She stood up. “Here. Give them to me. I’ll do them. You always overcook them.”
I laughed. “That’s because you like yours practically raw!”
“That’s how they’re meant to be. Now watch and learn,” said Helena, slipping comfortably back from the sullen teenager I’d lived with for the past month into the Helena I knew and loved. Not that I hadn’t loved her, always, of course; it had clearly been a very hard time for her too.
“Okay,” I said. “You go ahead. You do know, though, that my botched attempts at the art of cuisine are a carefully disguised ruse to get other people to cook for me.”
Helena dragged the griddle pan across the stove and unwrapped the steaks. She shook her head. “No, Mum. You just can’t cook. If it wasn’t for Christian I’d still be eating beans on toast or pasta every day. You know the only time you’re safe near the stove is when he’s here to supervise you.”
I smiled. “He’s a good cook. I’ll give him that.”
“You should give him a lot of things,” Helena said, smiling at me over her shoulder. “He’s a lovely guy.”
“So,” I said, once we were seated at the table together, eating. “Tell me about Sky. What’s he like?”
Helena’s face lit up. “He’s amazing,” she said. “He’s like, so interesting. He knows so much stuff. About sport, and cars, and politics. And he’s so cool,” she added. “All the crowd at Uni think he’s amazing. The girls all fancy him,” she laughed. “We went to the pub one night after the ‘Introduction to Sports Psychology’ lecture at the science fair, and Sky met me there afterwards. Everyone thought he was my boyfriend at first. Then, when we told them that we were brother and sister, not boyfriend and girlfriend, one of them said it was funny, because she’d been thinking how alike we looked.”
I listened with an odd sensation of both curiosity and trepidation, as Helena talked on about Sky, becoming more and more animated. It was odd, because despite what she was saying, it felt exactly as though we were discussing a new boyfriend. It also felt as though we were discussing Martin. All Sky’s interests – sports, cars, politics – seemed to link back to him.
But if Helena was still upset with me about keeping him from her, her delight in being able to talk openly about Sky was greater. She was starting to seem like her old self again, and in spite of my misgivings, I could feel the relief flooding through me.
“So, what does he look like?” I asked.
“Well, good looking, of course,” Helena laughed.
“Of course,” I smiled. “Naturally.”
“He’s tall. But not too tall. Six foot one. He’s got lush hair. Long, same colour as mine, pretty much, but it’s down to his shoulders and he ties it back. I never really liked long hair on men before but now I do, because it looks so good on him. He makes me think of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean...”
“Johnny Depp’s got dark hair,” I pointed out.
“Yeah. But you know what I mean. And he’s really sporty – and muscly too.”
“Helena!” I admonished her. “Careful. He’s your brother, you know!”
“I know,” she laughed. “I’m just proud of him, that’s all. And in a way, it’s really nice, it’s even better than having a boyfriend. Because he seems more interested in me than in any of the girls we’ve met when we’ve been together and I know it’s because it’s me he’s interested in. As a person. Not... well, you know. Sex. Because, obviously that’s off the table.”
“Off the table?” I repeated, startled.
“You know what I mean,” she said, dismissively.
“I hope so,” I said. I picked up the empty salad bowl and walked over to the sink.
“Mum!” Helena laughed. “I’m not even thinking about anything like that. Although we’ve discussed it, and we’re both cool with it...”
“What? You’ve talked about sex with him?”
I clutched loosely at the oily heaviness of the salad bowl as it slipped out of my fingers and onto the tiled floor. I bent to pick it up. A big crack had appeared down the side. I swore and put it in the sink.
“Is it broken?” Helena stood up and pulled the bowl out of the sink. “We talk about everything, Mum,” she continued, examining the bowl, turning it back and forth before putting it back in the sink and sitting down again. “That’s what’s so great about him. We just talk and talk. We were saying how weird it is when you meet someone that you don’t know but that you’re actually related to and they seem like a stranger, but there’s such an amazing connection there. We both feel as though we’ve known each other all our lives, and missed each other all our lives. And yet, it’s better than a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, because we know that we will always be there for each other now, because we’re family, whereas when you get into a relationship with someone, you know, romantically, you have all that insecurity because, although you really like them, you don’t know if it’s going to last, or if that person will wind up liking someone else better and break your heart, but we both know that’s never going to happen with us. So in a way, it’s even better than love. Well, it is love. But it’s better than romantic sex-type love,” she finished. Then she said, “I can fix that.”
“What?” I looked up at her abruptly.
“The bowl,” she said, nodding at the sink. “I can fix it.”
“Oh. Yes. I see.” I looked over at the sink, still trying to take in everything she’d just said. Another strange range of emotions was overwhelming me. What was it? Was I jealous? Of this newfound relationship that Helena had with Sky? This newfound friendship – because that’s what it was. That’s all it could be. But as she said, friendships were often deeper. What Helena was describing, the closeness, the openness, the sharing of secrets – well, that had been the nature of my friendship with Catherine. But the difference was that I didn’t find her physically attractive. Well, I thought she was attractive but I didn’t want to kiss her; that was what it amounted to, that was the fundamental difference between friends and lovers. I hoped to God that Helena didn’t want to kiss Sky. Or that Sky didn’t want to kiss Helena. And then I felt bad for even thinking that.
It was all so weird. It wasn’t a situation that I or anyone else I’d known had ever been in before and I had no frame of reference. Except – Star Wars. For some reason, the image of Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker popped into my head. And then I thought of his name – Sky – and the similarity there, and my mind began racing around again, doing that crashing and banging thing with my thoughts. What had happened in the movie? Hadn’t Princess Leia kissed Luke Skywalker? But that was before they’d found out that they were related, wasn’t it? And then I realised how silly I was, making comparisons between my daughter’s life and a movie.
“What are you smiling at?” Helena asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just... glad that you’ve... well, made such a great new friend,” I
said. “As well as gaining a brother.”
Helena looked pleased. “Me too,” she said, getting up and throwing herself backwards onto the sofa with her legs in the air. Lily immediately got up and took her place at the table, begging for scraps. I gave her a piece of fatty meat from my plate and patted her head.
Well, it was true that using what happened in the Star Wars movie as a yardstick to measure the situation by was a bit silly. But there was one person who would understand how strange this whole situation felt for me, who I could talk to about all of this.
“So maybe you’d like to come to London with me this weekend? To see them?”
“Them?”
“I’ve been in touch with Catherine,” I said. “She’s asked me to come and stay. And I said yes. I’m going tomorrow. You’re welcome to come with me.”
Helena sat up. “You’re going to stay with Sky?”
“With Catherine. But yes, I expect Sky will be there too. You might want to phone him back and tell him you’re coming too? If you are that is?” I smiled. “If it’s too crowded at Catherine’s, I expect one of us could stay at Zara’s.”
Helena thought about it for a moment then beamed back at me. “Okay. I had a whole load of studying I was going to do but, hey. It can wait. I just passed my driving test. I should be celebrating.”
“Exactly,” I said. “You’ll be all the more refreshed and ready to get stuck in when you get back. So do you want me to book your ticket? My treat,” I added.
Helena nodded. “That would be amazing.” She picked her phone up off the table and started to text.
“Phone him,” I said, nodding towards the landline. “Use the landline if you want.”
Helena grinned at me and put her mobile phone down. “Thanks, Mum.”
She turned back to me as she walked towards the phone. “Mum?”
“Yes?”
“How did you find out? That I was in touch with Sky, I mean.”
I looked at her and silently allowed myself one last white lie. “I just... figured it out. The way you were with me. Different. And, well, moody. I knew there was something up. And then I spoke to Catherine and she told me.”
Helena seemed to accept that. “I’m sorry, too, you know,” she said. “That I kept it from you. About being moody. I didn’t like doing it, going behind your back like that. I could have just told you that I knew. I felt guilty. But I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I know,” I said. “I realised that. But you had a right to know about your brother. I was wrong to keep that from you. I didn’t like doing that either.”
“Oh well. At least now it’s out in the open,” she said.
“Yes.”
“No more secrets, right?”
“Right,” I said, with relief. I desperately hoped that would be true.
6
It was a beautiful afternoon in London. Sunlight spilled through the glass in the huge domed ceiling of St Pancras station as we stepped down from the train onto the shiny platform. As we walked through the doors from the arrivals area into the station, a male voice called, “Helena!” and I looked up to see a handsome, tanned young man in jeans and a white T-shirt, who was standing half way up the staircase in front of us, literally standing out from the crowd that was waiting on the concourse below. He ran down the steps and Helena also ran to meet him at the bottom. I tailed behind and watched a little awkwardly as he put both arms round my daughter and held her close, his shoulder-length fair hair falling against her neck, before extending a hand to me.
“Good to meet you, Mrs Taylor,” he said.
“Lizzie,” I told him, taking his hand. His grip was strong and warm. “Please. Don’t make me feel older than I already am!”
Sky looked me up and down with real consideration and made a “pfff” sound, before tucking his hair behind his ears. “You don’t look old at all. You certainly don’t look old enough to be Helena’s mum. And you’ve got great legs,” he added.
I automatically glanced down at my legs and up again at Sky, who was grinning like a schoolboy. He didn’t look like a schoolboy, though. He was very definitely a man. He looked much older than eighteen – older than Helena – and he was unmistakeably Martin’s son. He had Martin’s colouring – Helena’s colouring – and I recognised his features: the roman nose, the laughing hazel eyes, and the slight stubble that covered his chin. But he also reminded me of Larsen. He had the same boyish charm, the same strong masculine features and the same long hair that softened his masculinity a little and gave him the appearance of someone you could trust. I could see immediately why Helena was so passionate about him. And I could also see immediately that everything had changed, where my relationship with my daughter was concerned.
“You don’t look like Catherine at all,” I commented, a little stupidly.
“I told you, Mum,” said Helena. “He looks like me.”
Sky shook his head. “No, Helena. You look like me.”
Helena whacked him playfully across the back. “I’m the oldest, remember?”
Sky put his arm round her and started to tickle her in the ribs. “Yeah, but I’m the strongest. Remember?”
I stood next to my suitcase, not knowing where to look, as my daughter wriggled and squealed in the middle of St Pancras Station, in the arms of this handsome man that I’d never laid eyes on before. A man in a bowler hat was playing “The Entertainer” on an old piano behind us. One or two people glanced over at Helena and Sky and smiled as they passed or stopped to look at the arrivals board, and I wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or proud.
“Shall we go, then?” I asked, after what seemed like a long time. Sky released Helena, who gave him a small shove, and they both walked over towards me. Sky picked up my case.
“No really, it’s fine,” I said, “I can carry it.”
“I insist,” Sky said, and strode off in the direction of the Piccadilly Line. Helena ran after him and caught him up quickly, while I tagged along behind.
*
Catherine was waving out of the upstairs window as we walked up the steps to the front door. Her flat was part of a large converted mansion house in a suburban street just minutes from the heart of Bounds Green, just off the North Circular Road. Bounds Green, by contrast, was very ethnic, with lovely smells emanating from Greek and Turkish food shops, which lined the pavements on the walk up from the tube. Her living room was small, but bright and airy, with high ceilings and tall sash bay windows, which stretched almost from floor to ceiling, letting in lots of light. A black cat was sleeping on the window seat. Catherine hugged me and waved me onto the sofa, which was piled with brightly coloured cushions.
Sky opened the door to the hallway and disappeared with my suitcase. He reappeared a moment later. “It’s in my room,” he said, to me. “We’re going to get something to eat. See you in a bit.” Then he and Helena disappeared out of the front door again.
Catherine sank down beside me. She looked at me and grinned and I could see her false tooth, which was a very slightly milkier colour than the rest of her teeth. I thought back to the time that she’d arrived on my doorstep with that tooth missing, and a purple bruise spreading across her cheek behind her sunglasses. She leaned forward and touched my hair. “It’s still beautiful,” she said. “You always had such lovely red hair.”
“It’s auburn,” I said. “At least, that’s what it says on the packet.”
We both laughed. “Mine’s ‘darkest brown’, said Catherine. “And I’ve probably put on a bit more weight since I last saw you.” She nodded down at her tummy, which was hidden under a white chenille blouse and a dark blue gypsy skirt.
“Nonsense.” I shook my head. “You look just the same. You look lovely. It’s so good to see you.” I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and leaned forward to hug her again. She clung to me and rested her chin against my shoulder.
“It’s been too long,” she said.
“So. Where’s that t
eapot, then?” I asked. “And I believe I was promised some biscuits.”
Catherine stood up. “Follow me. The kitchen’s this way. But start talking, lady. You first. I want to know everything. And I want to know now.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
As Catherine made tea and put an assortment of biscuits onto a plate, I told her about my decision to leave England, about my arrival in France, about Helena being born and about the first months of her life, when we had lived in the rue du Faubourg St Denis, before moving out to the countryside a year or so later.
“What happened to Tim?” she asked. “Wasn’t he your boyfriend at the time?”
“He wasn’t really my boyfriend. He’s married now. To a lawyer. They’ve got twin girls. He lives in Shoreditch. Works at the Homerton. I think he’s very happy, from what Zara says. They’re still in touch and I’ve spoken to him on the phone or via email a few times, too. It all worked out how it should for him and I’m pleased. I could have taken the easy option, but I’m glad I didn’t.”
“The easy option? What was that?”
“When he found out I was pregnant with Helena, he offered to help me with her. To bring her up and be her dad.”
Catherine looked up. “There’s no chance that he actually could have been her dad?”
“I wish he had been,” I said. “Things would certainly have been easier. But, no.”
“No.” Catherine repeated. She lifted the lid of the teapot and gave it a stir. “They look so alike, don’t they? Sky and Helena?”
“Yeah. His genes even dominated ours. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised.”
“He dominated everything,” Catherine poured the tea and handed me my mug. She was silent as she picked up the tray with the teapot and biscuits and carried it into the living room. I wasn’t sure if she minded me referring so casually to what had happened all those years ago, or of how she really felt about it, deep down. Was she upset with me still? Or was she just upset with Martin, and what he’d done.
“So, what happened?” I asked as she set down the tray. “With you and him? Did you marry him?”