‘Son? I’ve got a brother?’
Break it to me gently, why don’t you?
Terry nodded and chewed on his lip, his eyes wide, probably expecting me to explode again.
I had a brother. Half-brother.
My breathing came short and fast as if I was blowing up a balloon. Why had this possibility never occurred to me before? It was inevitable, really. My father had moved on. Started a new life. No wonder he hadn’t been interested in me and Mum; he’d replaced us with newer models.
Damn him. I could easily walk away from a father who hadn’t wanted me, who had shown no interest in me. But a brother? Different ball game! What about a sister-in-law, nieces, nephews? My arms prickled with goose pimples. My biography was being torn up and re-written, new pages, new chapters added.
‘How old?’
‘Twenty.’
Still a boy. I’d been thirteen when my brother was born. Hating the world and everyone in it, with a special brand of hatred for the man I’d never met.
‘Name?'’
‘Brodie.’
I was interrogating him. He probably felt like he was on trial. He was – crimes against fatherhood.
Now I should like to call Terence Stone to the witness box.
His eyes were darting left and right as if he was watching a Chinese ping-pong match.
‘He’s here with me, as it happens.’
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I shivered. Here? Had I walked past him in reception?
‘Not here here. In Nottingham. I left him at the university finding his feet. He starts his degree next month.’
Oh, I get it.
My head started to nod. To an outsider, it would have looked fairly benign. But the heat of my anger was rising rapidly from red hot to seething white.
Terry Stone hadn’t travelled to the UK to see me, his only daughter. He’d tagged it on to a trip to settle his beloved child – the chosen one – at uni.
University. I would have given my right leg and my entire Take That back catalogue to go to university. My life would have been completely different if I’d had the money to fund a degree.
‘Did you go to university?’ he asked. Wrong question, pal.
‘No. I did not.’ I crashed my cup back on its saucer. My father flinched. ‘We couldn’t afford for me to go to university. Like we couldn’t afford the school trip to Paris, or the geography expedition to … wherever it was. Do you have any idea how tough it was bringing up a child on your own in those days?’
My father looked genuinely bewildered. OK, I might have overdone that last accusation. It had only been the 1980s. I’d possibly been overdoing the Catherine Cookson novels.
‘That is a shame.’ He shook his head, sadly. ‘Further education can open so many doors.’
Really? You think?
That was it. I’d heard enough. There was no way I was going to cry in front of him.
I stood up, pushing my chair back roughly, my face set hard.
‘OK. Well, we’ve met. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. Presumably, so have you.’
I tried to ignore the look of hurt on his face. That wasn’t my problem. He’d got his precious Brodie to comfort him. He stood and gripped my arm.
‘Mr Whelan warned me that you weren’t sure about meeting me,’ he said, looking directly into my eyes. ‘I hope it’s not too late for us to get to know each other?’
I stared at him incredulously and brushed his hand away. He had to be joking! If he had been hoping for a happy ever after ending, well, hard cheese!
‘You’ve made no effort to see me for my whole life. Even this meeting was conveniently fitted round Brodie’s university trip.’
My words were laced with acid and I wasn’t surprised to see him recoil. So what?
‘I’m nothing to you. Mum was right,’ I continued spitefully.
‘How is your mother? Is she well?’ His eyebrows furrowed. ‘Still singing Abba songs?’
‘She’s fine. Lives in Spain. And it’s Madonna these days.’
My father’s face softened and his eyes adopted a lost in time look. ‘Ever the party girl,’ he smiled ruefully.
I bet she wasn’t partying in 1980 when she brought a newborn baby home to an empty house. He had no idea what our lives had been like without him. All of a sudden I couldn’t be bothered with this charade anymore.
‘Well, this has been a blast,’ I said, scooping up my bag from the parquet floor. ‘But all good things must come to an end.’
The smile slid off his face. He pushed himself up and reached towards me in a gesture of helplessness.
‘Sophie, don’t go. Please. I’ve come all this way and there’s so much more I need to say. To explain.’
I ignored his pleading and shook my head. ‘I’ve heard enough.’
I shook his hand as briefly as I could, just long enough to feel callouses on his palms, the warm dry skin. My flesh and blood. The hand of a stranger. I wasn’t quick enough. He placed his other hand on mine.
‘I’ve carried you in my heart all these years,’ he said gravely, before I snatched my hand back.
‘Course he had.
I grabbed the door handle and fled and I didn’t look back.
twenty-two
I ran from the building without even signing out of the visitors’ book. Outside on the busy street, I was amazed to find that nothing seemed to have changed. Mothers were still coaxing toddlers along, the same group of smoking teenagers that I’d seen earlier were still pressing feet against the glass of Asda’s windows, pensioners at bus stops were craning their necks to see if the bus was coming. It all looked the same.
Life was still carrying on as usual.
Do you know what just happened to me, I wanted to shout.
My life had just changed beyond belief. I was no longer Valerie’s daughter; I was Terry’s daughter too. I would be able to conjure up both of their faces when I was filling in the blanks of their marriage, their breakup, my birth.
I hovered on the solicitor’s doorstep. I had half wondered whether Terry Stone would run after me, beg me to hear him out. I wouldn’t give him another chance, but I would have liked the satisfaction of telling him so.
Of course he’s not going to run after you, Sophie, he’s not interested. Probably already on the phone to his precious son, telling him what a narrow escape he has had, how awful I was.
The wind had stepped up its efforts, but at least the rain had stopped. A few weak-willed leaves had already fallen off their branches and joined the plastic bottles and crisp packets rolling along the gutter. I let the wind blow me too. I could feel the cold air through my stupid dress and jacket, it blew into my hair, lifting it off my shoulders. I smoothed it down, but it was futile, the curls were making a comeback.
I started to run and I kept running. Past Greggs, past Superdrug and past Sainsbury’s. I ran until my toes pinched and the balls of my feet burned and until the shops on the high street had disappeared.
I didn’t even know where I was or where I was going, but I didn’t care. If I couldn’t find a bus, I’d treat myself to a taxi home. I felt as if I’d sold my soul to the devil, but at least now my money worries were over. My eyes were bulging with tears. Initially, I let them fall, not caring that I couldn’t see. But after nearly treading in a pavement pizza, I wiped them away.
The back of my hand was streaked with black. I might sue Cosmo. They had specifically said that this mascara would withstand all the emotions of a busy day. Perhaps they hadn’t factored in a first and only reunion with a good-for-nothing, pathetic, irresponsible, uncaring, should-have-been-castrated-at-birth father. I retracted the castration bit for reasons of personal survival and replaced it with ‘nasty groin incident after my conception’.
Although I’d left the shops behind, I was still stomping along a busy road. My legs were tired, I felt wobbly and ready for a sit down. There were some wide gates ahead and a woman emerged with three little yapping dogs. A lo
ok of alarm crossed her face as our eyes met; I guessed I wasn’t looking my best.
A sign informed me that I’d entered a park; I would sit in solitude for a while, rest my feet and compose myself before going home.
I headed up the path and kept an eye out for a sheltered seat. There was a wooden bench ahead, underneath an oak tree. My feet were killing me, I stepped onto the grass and slipped my shoes off. The feel of the cold damp grass on my poor crushed toes was bliss.
I sat down on the bench and pulled my collar up to protect me from the dripping branches overhead. Rapid footsteps approached and I quickly hid my face under my hair. The last thing I needed was some do-gooder asking me if I was all right. I turned away as the steps got closer.
‘I tell you,’ I heard a familiar voice mutter, ‘Kevin McCloud’s got a lot to answer for. Everyone thinks they’re a bloomin’ architect these days.’
‘Nick?’
My architect stopped in his tracks and the dog jerked up on his hind legs as the lead strained. Nick stared at me. He glanced left and right and finally dropped his eyes to the ground. His face was flushed.
‘Oh. Not you,’ he said.
‘No, it is me. It’s just that I look a mess.’ I peeled my hair back off my wet face and saw his eyes widen in surprise.
I must look like a chuffin’ panda.
Norman seemed to recognise me and immediately began licking my bare feet.
Despite my black mood, I began to giggle. I was incredibly ticklish and Norman’s tongue was very soft.
‘I meant, you’re not a would-be architect,’ said Nick, trying to rein Norman in. The dog wagged his tail merrily and carried on licking between my toes. I lifted my feet off the ground to escape his tongue. Norman barked, thinking it was a game, jumped up and knocked me sideways, presenting his master with a bird’s eye view of my gusset.
‘Christ, I’m so sorry.’ Nick looked mortified. He instantly dropped the lead, helped me back up to a more dignified position and gawped at my bare knees which were now covered in muddy paw prints. Norman scampered off to sniff the oak tree.
‘It’s OK, I’m fine,’ I said, still giggling. Nick produced a tissue and for a moment I thought he was going to spit on it and scrub my knees himself.
I took it off him, thanked him and wiped away the worst of the mud. The poor man looked so awkward, dithering around in front of me, shuffling from foot to foot. I gestured to the other end of the bench and he sank down with a sigh.
‘What I meant, when you heard me, rather embarrassingly, talking to the dog, was that sometimes I work with clients who, after watching Grand Designs, think they know everything there is to know about architecture.’
I bit the inside of my cheek while I weighed up whether his comment was an insult or not. I was pretty sure I was guilty of falling into this category. And hadn’t I mentioned to him that I had watched every episode?
Definitely an insult. How rude!
I glared at him. He offered me a tentative smile in return. I huffed back and his smile wavered. He unbuttoned his coat, clasped his hands in front of him and jiggled his leg.
Nick Cromwell had to be one of the most insensitive, socially-inept men I had ever met. Five minutes of peace in the park to get my head together. That was all I asked. Then he turned up and got me all riled up again.
‘Well, I don’t,’ I retorted. ‘That’s why I appointed you. I’m sorry if you think I’ve somehow offended you, muscled in on your professional territory.’
Nick held his hand up in apology. His face was as contorted as if he was suffering from painful trapped wind.
‘I keep saying the wrong thing.’
I raised my eyebrows and waited, giving him the chance to say the right thing, unlikely as that seemed.
‘It’s just that,’ he paused with a sigh, ‘some people are too quick to jump on the latest bandwagon: technology and ecosystems and fancy glass.’
Nick took his glasses off and rubbed them on his pale pink shirt. He had long delicate fingers, nothing like Marc’s – he had Cumberland sausages for digits. His aftershave was more delicate too, earthy and woody. I resisted the urge to press my nose against his cheek and inhale his scent. Marc always sprayed deodorant as if he was using a fire extinguisher on a chip pan fire.
‘I’m more old-school, I’m afraid,’ he continued. ‘The beauty is in the form, the shape of the building, the way people use the house and the way it uses the space. All these gimmicky details – well, it blurs the beauty.’
His awkwardness had been replaced by sincerity. There was no doubt how much Nick cared about good design. Even so, I couldn’t help grinning at his earnest expression.
‘I thought God was in the detail?’ I challenged him with a smirk.
His face lit up and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me
‘Mies van der Rohe?’ He threw his head back and gave a whoop of joy. ‘He’s been a huge inspiration to me! You're a fan too?’
I gave a non-committal laugh and shrugged my shoulders. No. Obviously. It was just one of those sayings, wasn’t it?
Nick’s cup looketh liketh it runneth over.
He is going to kiss me. He is looking at me as if I’ve invented a cure for Asperger’s. What have I said? Change the subject quick.
I clicked my fingers at the dog, who obligingly trotted over and sniffed my feet again. I bent down to rub his furry head.
‘My feet probably stink.’ That ought to do it. I glanced back at Nick. Yup, his nose had definitely wrinkled, even if he still looked very happy.
‘Sorry about Norman’s bad habits. Sometimes when I’ve been for a run he’ll lick me all the way up to my knees.’
Too much information.
I winced as I slipped my shoes back on. I was regretting all that angry stomping away from the high street. I would probably have to walk for miles in pain to find a taxi.
We sat in silence as Norman spotted another dog and lolloped over to say hello. It suddenly occurred to me how bizarrely my day had turned out: I was miles from home in a smart outfit, sitting in a park with my architect watching his dog sniff another’s backside.
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ I frowned.
He scratched his chin. I heard the rasp of his fingers against his five o’ clock shadow of stubble. What was the time? A quick look at my watch told me it was, in fact, nearly five.
‘See that building through the trees?’
I nodded. Almost concealed from view was a rather grand two-storey old mansion house.
‘That’s the council’s office for this area. When we apply for planning permission for your new house, that’s where we’ll send it. I had a meeting with the planners this afternoon.’
By the way he was clenching his jaw, I guessed it hadn’t gone well. Hence the muttering when I’d first spotted him.
‘What about you?’ he asked, running his eyes over my ensemble for the first time.
‘Me?’
Without warning a lump as hard and immoveable as coal lodged itself in my throat. I tried to speak but no words appeared and my throat started to burn. To my horror, huge fat tears sprang out from nowhere.
Nick’s face had panic written all over it as he patted his pockets. I held up the muddy tissue and dabbed my face with it.
‘Sorry, that was my last one,’ he said.
He watched as my shoulders shook, my nose ran and my mouth performed a reverse clown smile.
I couldn’t tell him about my meeting at the solicitor’s; once I started, the floodgates would be open and my entire family history would escape. I wasn’t embarrassed exactly, but not particularly proud either.
After a few minutes the tears stopped and I began to get my jerky breathing under control. Nick was looking at me expectantly. He inched his way closer and patted my arm. I got the feeling he would have been better at comforting a dog.
Please don’t say anything kind or I’ll cry again.
He waved a finger in the direction of my face.
‘Um, there’s mud on your cheek and a black smudge, actually smudges – plural – under your eyes.’
For once I was grateful for his inability to say the right thing. Irritation was a welcome distraction from my misery.
‘Anything else?’ I snapped.
He hesitated and then plunged on. ‘Your neck’s gone blotchy.’
My mouth gaped and he gave a helpless shrug. ‘I’m not very good in these situations.’
You don’t say.
‘But are you all right?’ He peered at me nervously.
I nodded and dragged myself up. It was time to take my muddy, make-up-streaked, blotchy face back home. Pain shot through my feet and I yelped. My shoes had mysteriously shrunk by two whole sizes.
Nick didn’t look convinced.
‘It’s my birthday today,’ I said flatly. ‘I always get a bit emotional.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, brushed imaginary specks of dust off his trousers and stood up.
Ah? What was that supposed to mean? Ah yes, at your age, it’s only natural to feel depressed?
Nick was saved from further cross-examination by Norman, who reappeared and sat down between us. I wondered how often Nick’s dog had rescued him from awkward social moments. Plenty, I imagined. I bent to stroke him. Nick chose to do exactly the same thing and I squealed in pain as our heads crashed together.
Nick got the brunt of it; I had nutted his cheekbone with my skull. We both rubbed our wounds and stared at each other in stunned silence.
A vivid red mark appeared on his cheek and I could feel an egg-shaped lump on the top of my head.
‘You imbecile,’ I yelled, snatching up my handbag.
The rest of Nick’s face joined up with the red mark until his face resembled a setting sun, and his shoulders slumped towards the horizon.
He looked so pathetic that I instantly felt guilty.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, still rubbing my head. ‘It’s your dog, you get first pat.’
For some reason a line from a children’s nursery rhyme popped into my head: ‘We all pat the dog.’
The idea of us taking turns to pat the dog made me smile. I looked at Nick and saw his mouth twitching too.
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