The Confession

by Jessie Burton

  ‘Once, before she died,’ said Connie. ‘Purely as friends. She was in London a couple of years after all this, for the chat-show circuit after the Oscar win, and another film. We met in her suite at Claridge’s.’

  ‘Did you tell her that Elise had gone?’

  ‘No. I probably just said we weren’t in touch any more. I didn’t like to talk about it. Actually, I think Barbara was a bit embarrassed about her own behaviour during Heartlands. Her personal life was in such a mess – I was probably collateral damage. Unfortunately, so was Elise.’

  ‘And what happened to you, Con, when you returned to London?’

  Connie hesitated. ‘It wasn’t great. I sort of – cracked in two.’

  ‘You didn’t write another novel,’ I said. ‘Maybe Elise’s insults got to you, too.’

  She smiled. ‘Maybe they did. We knew how to get under each other’s skin. But when it came to writing, I had the feeling that I’d said everything I wanted to say. Everything felt – empty. So I travelled. Rented this place out and lived in Greece for a while. Then down in Sussex. It was a good time, in many ways. I wrote for myself. Had a go at a screenplay, which I shelved. Lived off the rent here, and royalties of the books and the film.’

  ‘But you’re an artist. Surely you had to . . . make art.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I couldn’t see the point to any of it, Rose. It depressed me. The loss of Elise, and my role in it, was haunting me, I suppose. Her absence was heavy. The lack of physical proof. The memory. I’ve never accurately been able to describe it.’

  ‘Until now?’ I ventured. ‘Until The Mercurial?’

  Connie gave me a wry look. ‘Until now. Rose,’ she began, then stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think it’s possible to free yourself of a ghost. You just have to want to do it.’

  I thought of the other ghost inside me, and even though I was so tired – even though I knew I was going to have to make some decisions very soon – I felt released. Lighter. Even free. ‘Just one more question,’ I said, taking a deep breath.

  ‘Anything,’ said Connie.

  ‘Did you really not look at me and wonder? Did you really not look at me and see Elise?’

  Connie gazed with weary eyes into my face, and gave me a smile that was almost loving. ‘Honest answer?’ she said.

  ‘Honest answer.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I looked, Rose. But I saw you.’

  49

  It was a minimalist, light room, with lots of trailing green plants and successfully inoffensive artwork. Someone had spent a lot of time thinking about this room. It reassured me, especially after having to walk past the placards and people outside. I couldn’t tell whether the decor was designed to be businesslike, blithe and blank, indifferent to the emotions emanating from the women who came here – or whether it was in fact chosen to be gentle, to acknowledge the need for a careful, neutral space.

  Maybe each woman felt it accordingly.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said the nurse, an older woman with grey hair and round glasses. ‘It doesn’t take long.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that. The thought that something like this could be over so quickly, compared to the years that were to follow, blank and unknowable.

  For the surgery, I was told to leave all my jewellery at home. I never wore much. In fact, the only thing I had on that day was my L necklace. I stood in Connie’s spare room and lifted it off my neck, holding it up to the light coming in through the window. It was such a beautiful, delicate piece of craftsmanship, but I knew that after today I would not wear it again.

  At the clinic, I changed into the gown the nurse indicated, wearing nothing underneath, and I got onto the bed. She put cool hands on me, and said she was going to inject the local anaesthetic into my cervix. She was not over-familiar, neither was she cold. She was respectful. I put my knees up and heard the sound of implements clattering gently in trays, the silent hum of concentration at the foot of the bed.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Just let your legs go a bit, breathe in.’

  I breathed in.

  ‘Now breathe out.’

  On the out breath, she slid a speculum inside me, and rapidly delivered the injection. I grew quickly numb, and heard the sound of the tube that must have been inserted inside me, sucking and sucking.

  Of all things, they call it removal by aspiration.

  *

  Lying on the bed, I closed my eyes, wishing I’d been offered full anaesthetic, feeling it dreadful to be this conscious, hearing these sounds, even as the site of activity was hidden from my other senses. I felt rage – that I should be put in this position, that I had put myself in this position. That Joe would never be put in this position! Watching with a bird’s-eye view, I felt sorrow. Fear – for the images of dark blood gouts, dripping bits of placenta, the vulnerable softness of that place. I felt faint at the thought of having been vacuumed. I felt astonishment at the removal of a story I hadn’t asked for. I felt sick, and I felt hopeful.

  *

  Some days previously, and a few days after Connie told me about my mother, I came to my decision. I made the appointment, had the consultation, the blood tests. I thought about it, again and again and again. I felt relief at having come to a decision – and sorrow, and shame too – that I could experience both these feelings at once, that I could even allow myself them. When I told Connie what I’d decided, she held me tightly for several minutes as I wept, and had been gentle with me ever since. Cups of tea, suggestions for films we could watch on the TV, talking with me when I wanted to talk, leaving me alone when I didn’t.

  I did not want to be callous. I did not want to be cold. I just wanted to be me. I’d been feeling under such pressure – a pressure I’d found hard to name. Where it came from – from within me or without – I couldn’t say. But I just felt like a bad person.

  ‘You’re not a bad person,’ said Connie, as we were sitting in the living room, the evening before my procedure. ‘Far from it. You’re very brave.’

  ‘Aren’t I running away, too?’ I said.

  We fell to silence, thinking of another woman who had run away. ‘No,’ said Connie eventually. ‘First Joe. Then this. You’re facing the truth of yourself, Rose. But,’ she added, ‘I think there’ll be grief, either way.’

  ‘I guess so. I already feel like it’s begun.’

  ‘It’s good to acknowledge that. Let’s not pretend any more.’ She leaned forward. ‘And I’ll be there. When you go in. And when you come out.’

  I was grateful to Connie that she did not mention my own mother in all this. She’d made that mistake once before.

  *

  I had come to Connie looking for my mother, and instead she had given me myself. This was my realization: that I simply could not waste any more time hoping people would love me and respect me. Zoë and her friends had shown me that I’d learned more than I thought, in my thirty-odd years on the planet. Joe had freed me, my father had loved me. I had to stop looking at myself and finding myself wanting. I had to stop facilitating other people’s lives at the expense of mine. I had to hold on to Laura Brown’s self-confidence, her determination, and make them my own. My life was opening up for me, finally. Being here, in London, with a child; it was not my time. I didn’t know when that time might come, or if it ever would, but right now, it was not that time.

  It is often said of a woman that she is foolish to consider herself the mistress of her time. Her body has other plans. When it comes to children, people parrot, ‘there’s never a good time’ – but I would counter that with the truth that there can be a bad time, too. When it isn’t their own body and life – their own time – under discussion, people blithely generalize, even prioritize the myth of the perfect unborn over more complicated existences already here, now. It’s only those who have become mothers who might put their hand on your arm, and tell you, wait.

  It isn’t perfect either way. You might wait, and lose your chance. But now I do not
think that rushing will make you win.

  What I saw, when I closed my eyes in the bed afterwards, was a woman wandering on a beach. She stopped and I tried to reach out for her. It was my mother, the dark-haired slim little thing in Connie’s photo, standing by a Hollywood pool in a black dress. But it wasn’t just my mother: it was me. And it was also Margaret Gillespie, waiting in the shallows of the water, without her daughter, waiting to decide if she was going to drown or swim. I wanted to reach out to her, and when I did, to my astonishment, a hand met mine.

  Connie was sitting there, by my side. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she said, holding my hand. She put her other hand gently on my forehead, and held it there for a very long time.

  50

  There are always women, of course, who don’t feel the floor slipping out from under their feet, who see an unwanted pregnancy as a surmountable situation, whether they go through with it or not. They can see the world of difference between being a pregnant human female and becoming a mother. They will not be in thrall to unasked-for biology. They will not have their minds turned in directions they do not want.

  I was not quite like that. I know we all mourn what hasn’t happened to us; a lover, a child. A different life. But in many ways, my own life had been a phantom to me. I needed to make it more solid if I was ever to build a life for someone else.

  After the abortion, I spent the two following days in Connie’s house in a quasi form of bed-rest. She had insisted I move back in after my stint at Zoë’s, and it was what I really wanted. I felt as if I belonged to myself again. The feelings of exhaustion and nausea vanished, to be replaced with a sense of self-possession and weirdly heightened energy. When the money from the van sale came into my account from Joe soon after Connie and I returned from the clinic, I chose to gloss over the vague irony about the timing of these two events. When I saw the sum he had sent me, my eyes boggled. It was the beginning of February in London; the worst time of the calendar year, without doubt – and this strange gift was like a small candle burning in a window.

  I texted Kelly. Coffee?

  Yessss!!!! I miss you, she wrote. Where the hell have you been?

  Long story.

  After making arrangements with her, I sat on my bed in Connie’s spare room and dialled my father’s number in France. After a few rings he picked up, which surprised me; usually it was Claire.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Rosie. It’s good to hear you! I’ve been thinking about you.’

  ‘Me too, Dad. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Actually, Dad.’ I paused. ‘I’m at Constance Holden’s house.’

  There was silence on the line. ‘You’re what?’

  ‘It’s fine, Dad. It’s fine.’

  *

  I told him everything and he listened in deep silence. I told him about the job I’d got with Connie, and the trust I’d broken between us by pretending to be someone else, and the way she’d forgiven me for this as a means to atone for her own mistakes. I didn’t mention Shara. That was for another time – or maybe never. It had been in another lifetime, one that didn’t involve me, and one that he’d long ago left behind. But I did tell him the things he didn’t know: the final argument between Connie and Elise, Connie’s suggestion of my adoption. The cheque she left on the coffee table. The vicious words.

  ‘Daddy?’ I said. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ he said.

  ‘I know it doesn’t sound good. But Connie isn’t who you think she is. She’s been so good to me. You were the one who gave me her books. Don’t hate her.’

  He still wasn’t saying anything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ my dad said eventually. His voice was low and I could hear he was trying to keep himself together.

  I closed my eyes, the tears rising inside. ‘I know you are. It’s OK.’

  I pictured him in the gloomy vestibule of Claire’s Breton cottage, amongst the waxed coats and old boots, the wind howling outside. It seemed impossible to me that my dad had once lived on the Californian coast, and surfed the waves in a young man’s body.

  ‘So Connie paid Elise to leave,’ he said, a hardness in his voice I hadn’t heard before.

  ‘I don’t think it was that simple,’ I said. ‘I think Connie was trying to help. She was emotional and it went badly. Maybe Elise was always going to run away?’

  ‘Is that what Connie says?’ I could hear the irritation in his voice. I said nothing, because it was exactly what Connie had said.

  ‘Did Yolanda go back to Puerto Rico?’ he asked.

  ‘Connie doesn’t know for sure. But she couldn’t find her when she went back to New York.’

  ‘I can’t believe this.’

  ‘Dad. You started this.’

  ‘I know.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Dad. You and Connie knew each other once. You could have found her number. You could have made contact—’

  ‘I took you back to England, Rose, and just tried to get on with raising you. Connie was a big star. I couldn’t believe how she talked to me after your mum disappeared. You’d think she was the bloody Queen. It was easier not to talk about it.’

  ‘Easier for who?’ I said.

  There was a pause on the line. ‘I just didn’t want you to be unhappy.’

  ‘I’m not unhappy, Dad. Not now.’

  I heard a heavy sigh and wondered if he might be crying. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he said.

  ‘And in the spirit of better communication, I think I should tell you that I’ve broken up with Joe.’

  ‘What? On top of – are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m really fine.’

  ‘He didn’t do anything, did he? Another woman?’

  I thought of Shara and winced at my father’s hypocrisy. ‘No. He didn’t do anything. It was just time for it to happen.’

  ‘When was all this?’

  ‘A little while ago. I’ve been – working through some stuff.’ I closed my eyes and was briefly back in the clinic. ‘We’re friends. It’s fine.’

  ‘So, what now? Are you still working for her? For Connie? I can’t believe I’m even saying these words.’

  I laughed, looking out of the bedroom window onto Connie’s grey and windswept garden, its trees spindly and naked. I thought of the van money. ‘I’ve got a few ideas, Dad. I’ll let you know. I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Kelly.’

  ‘Send her my love.’

  ‘I will. Bye, Dad.’

  ‘Rose—’

  ‘Yes?’

  I could sense him rallying himself all those miles away. ‘Connie definitely doesn’t know where your mother is?’

  ‘No, Daddy. She doesn’t. Elise has gone.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re right. Of course. She’s gone.’

  *

  Kel was already in the cafe, waiting for me. She was really big now; there was only a month or so to go. ‘I know,’ she said when she saw my expression. ‘I look like I’m going to give birth to a football team. And the football.’

  ‘You OK?’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘I’m really good. Apparently you’re always bigger second time round because your abs are fucked. Can you hug me from here, though? I can’t be arsed to stand up.’

  ‘Course.’

  I embraced her. ‘Ooh, you smell nice,’ she said. ‘New perfume?’

  I told her it was Chanel and she gave me a look. ‘From the girl who normally wears Impulse body spray,’ she said.

  ‘Kelly, fuck off. That was in 1995.’

  ‘So,’ said Kelly. ‘Radio silence. New perfume. What’s his name?’

  ‘No name.’

  ‘Come on. What’s new?’

  ‘I’ve decided to stop looking for my mother,’ I said.

  Kelly couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Well, Rosie, I think that’s a good idea. It’s a brave idea. I’m proud of you. Well d
one.’

  ‘Thank you, Kel.’

  ‘You seem . . . lighter. It’s that woman, isn’t it? The one you’re working for?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I think it is. I think you’d like her, Kel. You’d be really interested in her story. You should speak to her. She’s got a new novel coming out. She’s quite . . . a powerful personality.’

  Kelly nodded thoughtfully. ‘I can see that. I still think she’s a witch.’

  ‘Joe sold the van,’ I said.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Kelly, her eyes wide. ‘That is big.’

  ‘I know. He gave me half the money, Kel.’

  She laughed. ‘What’d he give you? £3.50?’

  ‘Two and a half grand.’

  ‘Get out of here.’ Kelly beamed and slapped her thigh. ‘That is amazing.’

  I felt a kind of joy bubbling up inside me. ‘I know.’

  ‘What a good break-up gift. I’m beginning to respect the guy now. Bit late, but still. What are you gonna do with it?’

  ‘I’m going away for a bit,’ I said.

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘I don’t quite know yet.’

  This was a lie. I knew exactly where I was going: I just wanted to hold the secret of it to myself a little longer. The magic of it, the possibility.

  ‘OK,’ said Kelly. ‘You are going to be around for the birth though, aren’t you?’

  ‘I – don’t know, Kel.’

  There was a beat. ‘Right – no, of course. You do what you’ve got to do, Rosie. But send me a postcard. If they even have postcards where you’re going.’

  I couldn’t believe how much this had unsettled her. ‘I am going to come back,’ I said.

  ‘Of course. Unless you don’t.’

  We sat in silence. ‘Well,’ I said eventually. ‘There is always that possibility. But I’d miss you too much.’

  She laughed. ‘Just tell me an address when you know where you’re staying, OK?’

  I promised I would. She looked ruminative. ‘It’s just the hormones,’ she said. ‘I’m cool.’

  ‘I know.’

  Impulsively, I stood up again and went over to her, taking her up in a big hug. ‘I love you,’ I said.