Jamie moves around and picks her up. 'Let's let Mum and Grandad talk, sweetheart.' He backs away with her and stands next to Lightfoot and Pete, who both look like they wish they were anywhere else - even at ITV.
'Grandad?' I hiss. A sneer forms on my lips as I look back at my fathe - sorry, Terry. 'What's his name? What's this mystery man's name?' I order.
'Lawrence. She called him Laurie though,' Terry replies.
Of course she did.
'Laurie what?'
Terry shakes his head. 'I don't know! I never asked more about him, and your mum never told.'
'So, you don't know where he came from?'
'No.'
'Just that he was called Laurie and was in the army?'
'Yes. I think he might have come from Boston, or somewhere like that.' Terry swallows hard. 'She loved him Laura. Loved him in a way she never loved me!'
Words fail me. Utterly.
Here is this man who I thought was my father, who left me as a little girl, standing here now and looking at me with a combination of fear and self pity on his face that makes me want to punch him in the mouth.
'Get out,' I order, discovering that words don't fail me after all, it's just that they're not very nice ones. 'Get out now.'
'But Laura - '
'Get the fuck out of my house!' I scream.
A few silent moments pass. Terry then gives Jamie and Poppy a last, regretful look, and walks out of the lounge and towards the front door.
I hear it slam behind him as he goes, and turn to look at my husband and child, both of whom have tears in their eyes. 'Don't cry,' I tell them. 'He's not worth it.'
'Oh honey,' Jamie replies. 'We're not crying for him.'
I open my mouth to say that I'm not even going to cry for me, so why should they, but realise that the tears are already flowing down my cheeks.
'What do you want to do, baby?' Jamie asks gently.
I think for a moment. 'I want to punch him,' I say with a sniff.
'What?'
'I said I want to punch him.' My hand curls into a fist. 'I'm going to punch him.'
I'm headed for the door in pursuit of Terry before Jamie or Poppy can say another word.
I should just let the old man walk away - that would be the mature thing to do, but I'm so fucking angry at him that the mature thing can go take a long walk off a short pier.
I fling the front door open to see Terry walking slowly down the driveway, his head hanging.
'You!' I holler.
He turns to see me barrelling towards him. 'Now wait just a moment Laura!' he says, arms held up.
I will do no such thing. I will however punch him in the face - or at least try my best to.
Sadly, my aim is off thanks to all that anger and betrayal, so I end up whacking him on the forehead, and therefore probably doing more of an injury to myself than him.
Given my ineptitude when it comes to fisticuffs, I resort to slapping like a mad fishwife at dawn. I can feel pain rocketing up my right wrist every time I do, but the adrenaline is powering me through it nicely at the moment, and I won't realise I need hospital treatment for another few minutes.
One thing to bear in mind here is that Jamie and I live in a nice residential area, where the inhabitants are not used to seeing a fully grown woman beating up an old man on one of the less well manicured front lawns in the street. Even through my rage I can feel the eyes of the neighbours turn swiftly in my direction to see what all the fuss is about.
And I'm not the only one who sees this.
'Laura! Sweetheart! Just stop!' Jamie cries, walking across the grass towards me, head darting around at all the nearby windows.
But I can't. I so want to, but I can't.
Terry is putting up no kind of defence now, other than one raised arm that I'm still slapping at in impotent fury. My hand hurts, my face is streaked with tears and I feel dizzy, and yet I can't stop hitting this stupid man. He's taken my feet out from under me in the worst possible way in the last ten minutes, and I want revenge, damn it.
Then Jamie says the one thing that does get me to stop.
'Laura! Poppy is watching this! You're scaring her.'
The anger drains completely out of my body in a split second. I turn to look at my daughter, who is hiding behind Jonathan Lightfoot's legs. The BBC producer has trailed out behind my family, and is looking on aghast at my actions. Pete, obeying some kind of universal journalistic law, is filming the entire exchange on his camera.
I see the upset expression on Poppy's face and hold my hands out to her. 'Poppy, it's okay honey. Mum's just a bit angry with Gran - she's just a bit angry right now.'
Poppy gives Terry a grave look and my heart sinks. She should never have had to watch any of this. I am a terrible parent. But then so is my not-father for lying to me all this time.
'He’s not my Grandad then?' Poppy asks in a low voice.
'We'll talk about it later, Pops,' Jamie says, moving to stand by her again.
That is one conversation I doubt either of us is looking forward to. Trying to explain the cruelty and stupidity of adults to a child must be one of the hardest parts of being a mother or father.
Which reminds me...
I turn back to Terry. 'Leave. Just leave,' I say, all the passion and rage now gone from my voice.
The old man moves towards me, hands out again. 'I'm sorry, Laura!'
'Stop saying that. It means nothing.' I'm acutely aware that my right hand is throbbing like mad. I'm dog tired now as well. Funny, I was so full of happy energy just ten minutes ago, thinking the interview had gone really well. If anyone ever tells you that life is easy to predict, they are comprehensively lying to you.
'Just go, Terry,' Jamie orders, one finger pointing down the road.
Unbelievably, as the old man trudges away, Pete the cameraman moves to follow him. I step in his path and instantly fill the camera's field of vision. 'Pete, unless you want the next shot you get to be the inside of your own colon, I suggest you stop filming right this instant.' The camera drops to his side in a heartbeat. A skinny, clumsy woman I may be, but I wouldn't mess with me either right now, given how I look.
I hold out my arms to my daughter. 'Come here baby,' I tell her. 'I'm so sorry about all of this. It's all going to be okay.'
Now some children would be frightened of their mother right about now, having seen her so enraged, but if you've been paying attention properly, you'll know that my Pops is no ordinary child. She runs into my arms, and I gather her up, wincing at both the pain in my hand, and under the strain of her rapidly increasing size. 'So, my Grandad isn't him then?' she asks, her perfect little brow knitted in thought.
I could lie. I could sugar coat. But this is a girl who thinks nothing of entertaining a room full of complete strangers with a bad rendition of Umbrella. Her bravery is undeniable. 'No Pops. It turns out that he isn't.'
'No,' she confirms, as much to herself as anyone. 'My Grandad is somebody called Lorry. A man from America with a funny name.'
I stroke her hair. 'That's right honey.' And if I ever find Lorry, I'm going to drive him round the bend.
Now my hand is really hurting, so I give Poppy to Jamie and look round at Lightfoot. 'Jonathan. I think we're done here for the day.'
'Yes, I believe we probably are,' he replies, trying to sound nice and neutral. Disagreeing with this apparently psychopathic writer wouldn't be in his best interests - or the best interests of his documentary, which lest we forget, is supposed to be about comedy.
'I trust that you will cut any mention of that man from your interview with us?' I say.
'Absolutely.'
'And you won't say anything about my horrendously complicated family life either, will you?'
'No Laura, I won't.' He offers me a sympathetic smile. 'I'm so sorry.'
I roll my eyes. 'Don't be. I didn't even know that man a year ago. It's no loss.'
Oh, but it is. It really, really is.
'Jamie,' I say to
my quiet husband, as we watch Lightfoot and Pete drive away, no doubt delighted to be escaping this strange soap opera in suburbia, and looking forward to getting back to the safe haven of central London.
'Yes, sweetheart?'
'There are two things I need at the moment.'
'What is it?' he asks intently. 'Anything you need Laura!'
God bless him. I have one reliable man in my life, and that's probably all I need when you get right down to it.
'A hug.'
'Of course!' He wraps his arms around me.
'And a lift to the casualty department.' I hold the offending limb out as Jamie pulls away. 'I think Terry may have done me some damage.' The tears are back. 'In more ways than one.'
Luckily, it's just a bad sprain, rather than a break. A friendly nurse called Christina wraps a bandage around my wrist, and sends me on my way with a prescription for painkillers, and advice to let Jamie do the fighting for me from now on.
Back home, we sit in silence over tea, watching Poppy play with Winklehoven on the floor. We let her eat the turkey dinosaurs again tonight, and didn't complain once when she wolfed them down in a minute and left all her peas. It only seemed fair enough. Jamie didn't even complain when Winklehoven bit his finger. Both of us are just too shell shocked after the events of this afternoon to react much to anything.
The lassitude that has come over me is understandable, but not very productive. There must be something I can do to shake myself out of it.
A thought occurs as I'm slowly chewing on a mouthful of peas I can't taste.
'I think I'll do some writing this evening,' I tell Jamie after I swallow.
'Really? You think that's a good idea, baby? After what's happened today?'
'Yes. I need to do it. It'll make me feel better. I want to get all of this down. It'll help me clear my head.'
Jamie regards me with doubt in his eyes. 'Okay. I'll keep Poppy and the hellhound amused then. But call me if you need anything.'
'Thank you, sweetheart.'
I rise from the table and give him a kiss. I also hug Poppy, and tickle Winky behind one ear, before making my way slowly up the stairs.
I feel apprehensive as I do. Nauseous, in fact.
Why?
Because I'm about to sit and talk to the one person who needs to hear what I have to say following today's revelations. The one person I'm actually angry at - possibly for the first time in my life.
You, Mum.
How could you keep it from me? How could you let me think that idiot was my father? How could you never tell me the truth? Not even when you were dying? Not even when you were leaving me too? You didn't think it would be a good idea to let your bloody daughter know that her father was actually some Yank in the fucking army? Some man you had a brief fling with, before letting him sod off back across the Atlantic to be with his real family?! Why didn't you put up more of a fight, Mum? Why didn't you care??
And so here I sit, raging at the keyboard, and pouring my heart out to a woman who died of cancer years ago... a woman I thought I knew everything about!
I can hear Jamie downstairs right now, telling Winky off for biting his toes, while my glorious daughter giggles at the top of her lungs, and all I want to do is go and join them. But here I sit, tears coursing down my cheeks as I write, trying my hardest to understand why my dead mother would have kept me in the dark about something so important... and knowing that it doesn't matter how many words I type, or how many times I ask, because I'm never going to get an answer!
Why, Mum?
Why?
I love you, but I don't miss you at all today,
Laura.
Jamie's Blog
Wednesday 3 November
Snore.
'Jamie!'
Snore.
'Jamie, wake up!'
Snore.
'Jamie! For crying out loud, wake up!'
Sno -
Smack!
'Ow! Whasser matter? What? Whas going on?'
'Are you awake?'
'Fuck me no! I'm sleeping. Or I bloody was.' I sit up in bed, groaning as I do. That's when you know you're getting old, when just the simple act of sitting up in the most comfortable place on Earth is accompanied by a groan. 'What is it, baby?' I ask my wife, rubbing my eyes and looking at the clock. It reads 6.17am.
In the dim pre-dawn light I see that Laura is wide awake, her hair wild. There's a twitchiness about her I don't like one bit.
I'm sure yesterday was one of the worst days of her life, and I was rather hoping a good night's sleep would do her the world of good. From the looks of things though, she hasn't slept a wink. I guess I shouldn't be that surprised, losing a father for the second time, and discovering you're the illegitimate child of another man, would be enough to rob anyone of a proper night's kip.
When I went up to find her hunched over the computer and crying last night, it was the most heartbreaking thing I'd ever seen. I was almost in the car and driving round to Terry's to see if I could break my hand on his face too, but Laura persuaded me it would be a pointless thing to do. She told me she wasn't really angry at him anyway, and showed me what she'd written to her mother through all those tears.
When I'd finished reading, I put my arm around her and gave her a kiss. 'It's well written, but I don't think we should end the next book with it, baby,' I said with a rueful smile. 'It'd be a bit of a downer.'
'Very funny,' Laura replied, wiping her eyes. 'I can't delete it though, not yet. She doesn't deserve that.'
And who can blame her for feeling that way?
I'd be angry at my mother too, if she'd kept something like that from me. Hell, I generally am always angry at my mother for one thing or another, but nothing this bad. Booking a barbershop quartet that tells you you're going to die horribly is one thing, but it pales in comparison alongside keeping your real father's identity a secret all the way to your grave. I never knew Helen McIntyre, but by all accounts she seemed a wonderful woman. It's disconcerting to know she was capable of keeping such secrets from her own daughter. And if I'm disconcerted, then Laura must feel a thousand times worse.
Is it any wonder then, that at 6.17am, my wife is wide awake and looking at me with a wild look in her eyes.
'I've had an idea!' she says animatedly, sitting up on her knees in front of me. I notice her iPad is on and open on the bed beside her, its light bathing the ceiling in an eerie white glow.
'Does it involve sleeping?' I say, bleary eyed. 'Because any plan involving going back to sleep would get my vote.'
Laura takes my hand. 'I want to go to America.'
'You want to what?'
'I want to go to America, Jamie. Boston. In Massachusetts.'
'I know where Boston is. But why?' I ask, with a sinking heart, knowing full well what the answer will be.
'Because I want to find him.'
I grimace. 'Your real dad, you mean?'
'Yes! This Laurie person.' Her face darkens. 'I have questions, Jamie. Many, many questions. Mum can't answer them, but maybe this man can. Maybe he can tell me why I was lied to.'
'But we don't know anything about him. Terry said he didn't know more than his first name, and the fact he was in the army.'
'Exactly!' Laura crows with excitement. 'He was in the army... and he came from Boston.'
'Might have come from Boston.'
Laura flaps her hand. 'Yes, yes, alright, he might have. But it's still a lead.'
'Not much of one.'
Laura picks up the iPad. 'There's a veterans centre in the city. We might be able to find out more about Laurie there. Where he lives maybe. If he's still alive, there's a good chance we can track him down.'
I sigh. I have a horrible feeling that my wife is clutching at straws here.
But then I remember reading those heartbreaking words she'd written to her mother about needing answers, and can fully understand why Laura wants this so much.
How can I tell my wife that there may be no answers for h
er? Here, or in the USA? That finding this man will be like finding a needle in a haystack. A very large haystack of 50 states, with an obesity problem and a relaxed attitude to gun control.
I can't do it though. I can't let her down.
This is the woman I love - and sometimes, when love is involved, you just have to clutch at those straws and hope they hold.
'Okay baby,' I say with a grin.
'Okay? You mean we can go?'
'Yeah. Sure. If that's what you want to do.'
Laura throws her arms around me. 'Thank you, Jamie!'
'My pleasure.'
And it really is my pleasure, because oh my God, how could I ever deny this woman anything? In the dim white light cast by the iPad, with her hair dishevelled, and her vest pulled down slightly so one of her nipples is poking out, she looks absolutely beautiful.
Laura has given me everything. A daughter I adore, a career I love, a life I enjoy. How can I refuse her anything?
I would walk through Hell for Laura Newman. A manhunt across America should be no trouble at all.
There's a knock at the bedroom door. It opens to reveal a yawning Poppy Newman holding a stuffed Nemo, and looking decidedly unhappy about being woken up at this time in the morning by her excited mother.
'What's going on?' she asks, rubbing one eye. 'I was sleeping.'
'Poppy!' Laura exclaims. 'Would you like to go to America?!'
Never underestimate the ability of a seven-year-old to go from half asleep to wide awake in a nanosecond. 'America! Yeah! That'd be great!' With a smile of pure joy spread across her face, Poppy jumps up onto the bed and throws her arms around us both.
And there you have it. Even if we don't find Laura's real father, then at least we'll make our little powerhouse of a daughter happy. Which, when you get right down to it, is the best reason to do anything, as far as I'm concerned.
...also, we'll probably have to put Winklebastard in a kennel while we're away.
Don't worry, I'll make sure I pack something familiar from home, so that the dog can think about us fondly while we're gone. It's made of cardboard and Border Terrier shaped.
Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Page 24