First of all, let me apologise for the last time we met in New York. Suffice to say that neither of us was at our best. For my part, it pained me deeply to see my extraordinary youngest daughter having to resort to substance abuse to get through a dinner with her father. You know all too well how I feel about drugs and I can only hope and pray that you have decided – or will decide – to take the necessary steps to rid yourself of them for good. Any parent watching a beloved child destroy themselves will naturally be devastated, but there is only one person who can help you, Electra, and that is yourself.
Now, no more of that. I also want to explain why it may have seemed that I was not as obviously proud of you as perhaps you thought I should be. Firstly, let me tell you that every time I saw your photo in a magazine, my heart would fill with pride at your beauty and elegance. And of course your talent, for I understand it takes a gift to know how to make the camera love you. As well as the kind of patience that I’m not sure I could ever possess – and that I did not think you could either, for that matter! But you have somehow learnt it and for that, I truly admire you.
The reason that I became so frustrated with you when you were at school is because I could see just how clever you were, perhaps the most naturally clever of all your sisters. I only hope that, one day, you will be able to combine the fame you have earned with the brains you were born with. If that happens, you will be a force to be reckoned with. There are no limits to what you could become – a voice for those who can’t speak for themselves. Truly, my beautiful girl, you are capable of greatness.
I hope that this explains why I have often found it difficult to be your father; to see a child with so much potential yet to understand that she does not realise what she possesses can be very frustrating. And I do wonder if I failed you – you never did give me a proper answer as to why you hated boarding school. If you had trusted me, maybe I could have helped you, but I also know how proud you are.
Sadly now, I must leave you to discover for yourself who you are and the incredible person you could become. However, I will not leave you without offering you assistance. As you will know, all your sisters have been given a letter, and in each one I have provided them with enough clues to find the path back to their birth parents if they wish to find them. With you, all I can give is the name and contact number of your grandmother, who lives not so very far from where you do. She is one of the most inspiring women I have ever had the privilege to meet, and I only wish I had known her for longer. This information I enclose separately, with a photograph. The resemblance is unquestionable, and I feel confident that she will be there to help you when I cannot.
My darling Electra, I beg you to know you are, and will always be, deeply loved by your father.
Pa Salt x
I took another slug of vodka as I sat staring blankly at the letter. Maybe my brain wasn’t clear enough to take in what Pa had said, or maybe I just didn’t want to. I sighed, then pulled out something else from the envelope. It was a photo, and it was black and white and . . .
‘Oh my God! Oh jeez . . .’
I studied it again, but I already knew it was the same photograph as the one I’d seen a few weeks back, sent by a woman saying she was my grandmother.
I looked closer and yes, the female in the photo looked very like me – or maybe I looked very like her. I remembered Mariam saying she’d put the letter from my ‘grandmother’ in the safe, so I went to get it. Tentatively, I extracted the contents and laid the photograph the woman had sent me next to the one from Pa’s envelope. They were identical.
I turned over the photo from Pa and saw there was an address written on the back, along with a cell phone number. Then I looked at the creased letter that Mariam had insisted on un-scrunching and read the address at the top.
Again, they were identical. I then read the letter (written on obviously expensive paper) and in the same beautifully scripted hand that had addressed the envelope.
Apartment 1
28 Sidney Place
Brooklyn 11201
My dear Miss D’Aplièse – or may I call you Electra?
My name is Stella Jackson and I am your biological grandmother. I am sure you receive many letters, and I would also guess that a portion of them are begging letters. Let me reassure you that this is not such a thing. I simply decided that it was time to introduce myself.
I know you are a busy woman, but I feel it would be beneficial for you and I to meet. Your adoptive father described me as a ‘living clue’. I am not sure I appreciate the description, but for now, I enclose a photograph of myself and your mother. I can be contacted at the above address and my cell phone is on day and night.
I look forward to hearing from you.
With kind regards,
Stella Jackson
Whoever ‘Stella’ was, she had certainly been educated. I wouldn’t know where to begin with writing such a letter; it felt (uncomfortably) like she was trying to set up a meeting to discuss the renovation of the common parts of a condominium building with a neighbour she’d never met. Rather than introducing herself to her long-lost granddaughter, if that’s what I actually was . . .
But even for me, the mistress of cynicism, it seemed impossible that this woman was not who she said she was.
‘Oh my God! I have a blood relative!’ I announced to the room as I stood up and wandered round it. ‘So, Electra,’ I said, imitating Theresa’s nasal intonations as I had her begin an imaginary conversation with me, ‘how do you feel about discovering you have a blood relative alive and living close by?’
‘Well now, Theresa, I don’t know yet. I haven’t met her.’
‘And are you planning to?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Well, it’s a pretty big deal, so take as much time as you need. And if you want to meet her, then you must prepare yourself well.’
‘What do you mean, Theresa? That I might not like her or something?’
‘No, I only meant that it’s dangerous to attach too much weight to such an occasion, in case you are disappointed.’
‘Please don’t worry, because I will prepare myself well. I’ll drink half a bottle of vodka and do a couple of lines beforehand, promise.’
‘Great idea, Electra, you need to be relaxed when you meet her . . .’
I giggled, then went to my special pot to pull out some White Heaven. After all, I thought, it wasn’t every day you discovered you had a real-life granny.
So, what are you going to do for the rest of today and tomorrow, Electra? I asked myself. Your diary certainly isn’t heaving in the next twenty-four hours, is it?
Well, it could be, but there’s no one I want to see.
What about Joaquim?
He’s in Mexico, remember? And he is a bad, bad boy. I waggled a finger at my insistent alter ego.
I went back to look at the two photos of my grandmother, wondering if the child in her arms really was my mom, then took a deep breath and picked up my cell. I dialled the phone number – at least having the surety that the number in Pa’s envelope was the same – and listened while it rang.
‘Stella Jackson speaking.’
‘Oh, er, hi, my name is Electra D’Aplièse and—’
‘Electra! Well, well . . .’ She sounded weirdly familiar and I eventually realised it was because the intonation of her voice sounded like me.
‘Yeah, I got your messages. Thought I’d better make contact.’
‘I am very glad you did. When can I come and see you?’
‘I . . . tomorrow maybe?’
‘I can’t make tomorrow – it’s a Sunday. How about tonight? Besides, how can I wait another whole day before meeting my granddaughter in person?’
‘Okay,’ I shrugged. ‘Come by tonight. Would seven suit?’
‘It would, yes. I have your address, so I’ll see you at seven. Goodbye, Electra.’
‘Er, right, bye.’ I ended the call, realising she would be here in just over an hour.
> ‘Okay,’ I nodded as I paced around the apartment in a daze. ‘So, my grandmother – like, my blood grandmother – is coming to visit me tonight. I’m cool, it’s all cool . . . Jeez, how did this happen?’
The good news, I thought as I frantically tidied up the living room and blew away any traces of white powder from the coffee table, was that I hadn’t gone into meltdown about Mitch and his boxes. And that was what my therapist would have called a real breakthrough. After setting things straight as best I could, I went to stand in front of my closet. What exactly should a granddaughter wear to meet her grandmother? I took out a tweed Chanel jacket, which I thought I’d pair with some jeans to tone it down.
But you’re inside your apartment, Electra, and it’s like eighty degrees with the sun shining through the windows.
In the end, I stuck with the jeans and put on a plain white T-shirt and a pair of Chanel flats to add some class. Next stop was the kitchen – old people drank tea, didn’t they? I rooted around inside the cupboards, but teapots weren’t a big thing in uber-chic rented New York penthouses.
‘Listen, she’s just gonna have to take you as she finds you, Electra,’ I told myself firmly. ‘Which means she’ll get offered some water or a vodka tonic,’ I giggled.
I toyed with calling Mariam and asking her to rustle up a tea service and a cake, but for whatever reason, I didn’t want her to know I was meeting Stella Jackson. I wanted a secret – of the positive kind.
I had no more time to ponder, because the concierge called to let me know that Miss Jackson was downstairs and asked if he could send her up.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I agreed, and spent the next minute pacing the apartment once again, my heart banging in my chest. The doorbell rang and I took a deep breath, trying not to think what this meant to me. What if I hated her? After my sisters had found their happy endings through meeting their relatives, that would just be typical, I thought as I went to open the door.
‘Hi.’ I smiled simply because I was used to automatically smiling for the camera, or, in fact, producing whatever expression the situation required.
‘Hello, Electra. I am Stella Jackson, your grandmother.’
‘Please, come in.’
‘Thank you kindly.’
As she walked in front of me, I felt as though I was having the hugest déjà vu of my life. Tommy hadn’t been joking around when he’d said she looked like me. It was like looking at a freaking reflection of me, only older.
‘You look so young!’ I said, because I couldn’t stop myself.
‘Why, thank you. Actually, I am almost sixty-eight years old.’
‘Wow! I’d have put you at forty-five max. Please, sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ I watched her looking around. ‘This is some fancy apartment you’ve gotten yourself here.’
‘Yeah, it’s very convenient.’
‘I once lived on the other side of the park. It’s a good neighbourhood. It’s safe, very safe.’
‘You used to live on the Upper East Side?’ I said, staring at her.
Now she was standing in front of me, I noticed she was dressed in a shirt which I could see was well made and a pair of tailored black trousers. What looked like an Hermès scarf was tied jauntily around her slender throat and her hair was trimmed in a short afro. All in all, she exuded a natural elegance and beauty – and she looked rich!
‘Yes, for a while, I did.’
I realised she was staring at me as hard as I was at her.
‘How tall are you?’ she asked me.
‘Just over six foot.’
‘I beat you then.’ Stella looked pleased. ‘I’m six foot one and a half.’
‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Okay. I’ll just fix one for myself then.’ I walked to the bar and acted as though I couldn’t find the vodka before I poured it and added some tonic.
‘You like vodka?’ she asked me.
‘Sometimes, yeah. You?’ I responded as I took a slug.
‘No, I’ve never developed a taste for alcohol.’
‘Right,’ was all I could manage. ‘So, you said in your letter that you wanted to see me?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Why?’
She stared at me for a while, before she offered me a small smile. ‘You’re probably asking yourself what I want, aren’t you? Thinking I’m here to take advantage of your fame and wealth?’
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. This lady sure didn’t mess around.
And who does that remind you of, Electra . . .?
‘Yeah, a bit.’ I decided I should fight fire with fire.
‘Well now, I can assure you I’m not here to ask you for money. I have enough of my own.’
‘Right. Good,’ I said, listening to her American accent, which was very refined. In other words, she was a classy gal. ‘Shall we sit down?’ I indicated the couch, but Stella Jackson made straight for one of the two upright chairs and settled herself in it.
‘Are you going to ask me the big question?’
‘Which one would that be? Like’ – I shrugged – ‘there are so many.’
‘Where did you come from maybe?’ She eyed me.
‘That would do for starters,’ I agreed, trying to take a small polite sip of my drink, then failing and taking a gulp.
‘You are descended from a long line of princesses, or the equivalent of them anyway, in Kenya.’
‘Isn’t Kenya in Africa?’
‘Well done, Electra. You’re right, it is.’
‘And were you born there yourself?’
‘I was, yes.’
‘So how did you – or was it my mom – wind up here?’
‘Now, that is a long story.’
‘I’d like to hear it if you’re prepared to tell it.’
‘Yes, I am, of course I am. It’s what I came here to do. Before I start, maybe I will take a glass of water.’
‘I’ll get you one right now.’ As I stood up and walked to the kitchen to take some bottled water from the refrigerator and pour it into a glass, my head spun, but it wasn’t from the vodka. The lady sitting on my couch was just nothing like I’d expected. The burning question in my head was how come, when she looked so well off, had I ended up being adopted? And where and who was my mother?
‘Thank you,’ Stella said as I handed her the glass and she took a sip. ‘Now, why don’t you sit down?’
I did so tentatively.
‘You look afraid, Electra. Are you?’
‘Maybe,’ I admitted.
‘I understand. Now, it’s been a long time since I recounted this tale. Bear with me, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, of course I will.’
‘So, where shall I begin?’
I watched my grandmother’s fingers tapping on her thigh. It was such a familiar gesture – I did it all the time when I was thinking – that the last shred of doubt I’d had about this woman’s claim to be my blood vanished.
‘Pa always said one should start from the beginning.’
Stella smiled. ‘Then your dear pa is quite right, and I shall . . .’
New Year’s Eve 1938
‘Cecily, honey, what on earth are you doing lying there on your bed? We’re leaving for the party in half an hour.’
‘I’m not coming, Mama. I told you that at lunch.’
‘And I told you that you absolutely were. Do you want everyone who is anyone in Manhattan gossiping about the fact that you didn’t show up tonight?’
‘I don’t give a fig for gossip, Mama. Besides, I’m sure they have more interesting things to talk about than me and my broken engagement.’ Cecily Huntley-Morgan cast her eyes back to The Great Gatsby and continued to read.
‘Well, you might not care, missy, but I wouldn’t want the indignity of everyone thinking that my daughter was hiding away at home on New Year’s Eve because she was heartbroken.’
‘But, Mama, I am hiding away on New Year’s Eve. And I am heartbr
oken.’
‘Here, drink this.’
Dorothea Huntley-Morgan proffered her daughter a champagne flute filled to the brim. ‘Let’s toast in the New Year together, but you have to promise me you’ll take it down in one, okay?’
‘I’m not in the mood for it, Mama—’
‘That is simply not the point, honey. Everyone drinks champagne on New Year’s Eve, whether or not they are in the mood for it. Ready?’ Dorothea raised her own glass encouragingly.
‘If you promise you’ll leave me alone afterwards.’
‘Here’s to 1939 and new beginnings!’
Dorothea chinked her glass against her daughter’s.
Reluctantly, Cecily drank down the contents of the glass as her mother had asked. The fizz made her feel nauseated – probably because she hadn’t eaten anything more than the odd spoonful of soup for the past four days.
‘I just know it will be one, if you let it be so.’
Cecily allowed herself to be embraced in a bosomy hug and, from the smell of her mother’s breath, knew that it wasn’t the first alcoholic beverage she’d downed that afternoon. And it was all because of her: Jack Hamblin had broken off their brief engagement two days before Christmas, while her family had been gathered for the festive season at their house in the Hamptons. She and Jack had known each other from childhood, his family owning one of the neighbouring estates in Westhampton. They had summered together and Cecily couldn’t remember a time when she had not been in love with him. Even when he’d told her on the beach at the age of six that he’d brought her a present, then handed her a crab that had immediately bitten her finger and made it bleed all over her bathing suit. But she had not let him see her cry then, and almost seventeen years on, neither had she cried when he’d told her he couldn’t marry her because he loved somebody else.
She’d heard rumours about Patricia Ogden-Forbes – who hadn’t in New York society? A Chicago heiress, the only daughter of a hugely wealthy family, her beauty had been the talk of the town since she’d appeared in Manhattan for the Christmas season. Jack – who Dorothea never tired of reminding her and anyone else who cared to listen was a distant relative of the Vanderbilts – had apparently taken one look at Miss Ogden-Forbes and all bets had been off. Including his forthcoming nuptials with Cecily.
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