by Isabel Wolff
‘Well, that’s just…irony. It’s a…joke.’
‘That’s crap. You do want people to be grateful to you, and to need you—because you’ve felt so inadequate all your life, because your own mother didn’t want you. You never talked about her to me, but do you think I didn’t work that one out?’
‘Stop turning this onto me,’ I snapped. ‘This conversation is about you. And I’m not “advising” you, Ed, I’m telling you that you’re going to help Jon and that’s all there is to it. Phone that number now.’
‘You can’t make me,’ he said calmly.
‘No. I don’t suppose I can. But I’m quite happy to write to your managing director if you don’t do it.’
‘Oh yes. Saying what?’
‘Saying that you’ll need to take a few days off work to go into hospital in an attempt to save your brother’s life. There’s no way you’ll be able to refuse to do it after that.’
‘But I’ve only just come back to work.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll write to him—no I won’t, I’ll phone him—if I hear that you haven’t contacted Jon’s hospital by six o’clock tonight.’ I picked up my bag and opened it. ‘I’ve said everything I came to say. Here are your house-keys.’ I put them on his desk. ‘I’m off.’
‘Yes, off you go,’ he said. ‘Back to Camberwell. Back to your little toyboy astronomer with his great big telescope.’
‘Oh don’t be pathetic!’
‘Well you’re obviously in love with him. Or perhaps you’re just star-struck. But I’m sure he’d give you a nice big bang!’
I stared at Ed. ‘I’ll ask my solicitor to press on with the divorce,’ I said quietly. ‘You’ll have to manage on your own now. Goodbye.’
‘That’s it,’ I said to myself, as I got the lift down to reception. ‘That really is it. Finally. No going back. It’s over.’ My knees trembled and I thought I might cry reactive tears, but my disgust with him kept them at bay.
‘His own brother,’ I repeated wonderingly. ‘His own brother.’ What an impoverished soul. As the automatic doors opened and I stepped out I felt a sudden rush of freedom. I wanted to throw back my head and shout. It was as though I’d been liberated—no more agonising, and weighing up, and to-ing and fro-ing; the decision had been made. I was free. And in that moment I realised that I’d known, deep down, that I could never go back to Ed, but now I understood why. I knew he’d get nasty of course—hence all that crap he threw at me about why I’m an agony aunt. I became an agony aunt because I genuinely want to help people and because I’m good at it. Suddenly my mobile phone rang. It was Theo.
‘Hi!’ I said, as I unlocked the car door. My heart expanded. I was so glad to hear his voice.
‘Rose, I’ve got something to tell you.’ His tone of voice was serious. My heart sank, and then suddenly soared—his flat had fallen through! He’d been gazumped. Someone had beaten him to it. He wouldn’t be leaving me yet.
‘Yes. What is it?’ I said.
‘Well I’m at home, and the second post’s just arrived. I’ve had a reply to your ad.’
Chapter 22
I got in the car and headed straight back. As I sped down Bishopsgate I called Bev and asked her to cover.
‘All right, but don’t be too long. What shall I say if anyone asks where you are?’
‘Tell them I’m at a conference.’
‘On what?’
‘On, er, oh I don’t know—Positive Parenting.’
‘So where are you really?’
‘I’m in the City—I’ve just been to see Ed. But something very urgent’s come up at home and I’ve got to get back.’
Theo said that he hadn’t opened the letter: I wondered what it would say. ‘Dear Box number 2152, I read your ad in the Chatham News and I would like to confess that it was I who left you in that supermarket car park forty years ago. I’m terribly sorry about this and I know you must think badly of me, but…’ But what? What excuse could she possibly have? ‘But I was thirteen and didn’t know I was pregnant/I was married and having an affair/I was forty and I already had six kids and I just couldn’t feed any more.’
I’d speculated so often as to who my mother might be and now I was about to find out. My body burned with adrenaline: I felt dizzy, breathless and sick. Every time I had to stop at a light I’d thump the wheel with the heel of my hand. If the car in front dawdled for so much as a fraction of a split nanosecond, I’d hoot. I was in an agony of anticipation—and also of deep, deep dread. Because all my adult life I’d snubbed my past, but now my past was coming looking for me.
I’d often thought about my parallel life—the one I would have had with my mother if she hadn’t abandoned me—and I’d wondered what that life would have been like. She could have been anyone so the possibilities were endless. She could have been poor or rich, British or foreign, fat or slim, bright or dim—I was about to replace decades of fantasies and imaginings with the truth. But the truth might not be that palatable. In fact it might well be vile. What if she’d been a prostitute, for example? Or what if I’d been born as the result of a rape? My mother could easily have been an alcoholic, or a drug addict. On the other hand she could have been a deb. And what about him? My father? I was about to discover who he was too. I’d assumed he was a good-looking rotter, a good ten years older, but perhaps he was the same age. Maybe they were infatuated teenagers, like Romeo and Juliet, and their parents didn’t get on. His folks didn’t think she was good enough—bloody cheek!—and they’d forced him to give her up. And so she’d gone bananas and dumped me in a shopping trolley one sunny day.
I was also, probably, about to learn my true date of birth. Maybe it wasn’t June the first. Maybe it was June the eighth, or June the twelfth, or maybe I’d been born in May. I had no history and no identity, other than the one I’d been given, and now I was about to find out.
I might discover too whether I had any siblings. In one way I hoped that I did, but at the same time I hoped that I didn’t—because it would crucify me to think that she’d had more children and kept them, having abandoned me. And where had my mother lived after she’d ditched me, and what had she done after that? She might have stayed in the area—we could have passed in the street—or maybe she’d moved up to town. Perhaps, driven by guilt, she’d worked obsessively hard and become a top businesswoman, or a scientist or a judge. Now, as I turned into Hope Street, all these possibilities jostled for space in my mind, rudely shoving and barging each other as they struggled to make themselves heard.
‘—Your mother went to art school and became a painter.’
‘—No, she went to RADA and became a star.’
‘—She became a primary school teacher actually.’
‘—She was a pianist!’
‘—Get real—she was a drunken slut!’
‘—No, no, no, she became an obstetrician.’
‘—Bollocks! She worked for the Beeb!’
I parked the car and ran into the house. In the hall were Theo’s boxes, packed and taped shut ready for the next day. I felt my heart contract.
‘Theo!’ I said breathlessly. I picked my way past his large suitcase and into the kitchen. I looked at him, and smiled.
‘Hello, Rose,’ he said gently. ‘Are you ready?’ I nodded. Then he handed the letter to me. Holding my breath, as though about to dive into a river, I ripped open the large brown envelope stamped Private and Confidential and pulled out a small cream one. It was addressed to the box number in neat blue biro capitals, but the feel of it made my heart sink. For I’d thought it would feel thick to the touch, containing, as I’d expected it to, several pages of explanation, apology and a detailed family history—instead it was disappointingly thin. It felt like the letter you receive when you know you haven’t got the job. I handed it back to Theo.
‘You open it,’ I said.
‘No, it’s yours. You should do it.’
‘I want you to. Please, Theo. You started this after all.’
H
e pursed his lips. ‘Well…all right.’ He drew his thumb along the flap and pulled out a single sheet of white vellum, written just on one side. He scanned it, nodded slowly, raised an eyebrow, then handed it to me. The address was twelve Cross Street, Chatham, Kent.
Dear Advertiser, I read you notice in the Chatham News with interest. But before I make any enquiries I would like to know two things. Is the name of the baby girl referred to in the advert by any chance ‘Rose’? And does this person have any distinguishing marks? It was signed Marjorie Wilson (Mrs). There was no phone number, just the address.
‘Do you think she’s my mother?’ I asked Theo. He looked at it again.
‘No. If she were she wouldn’t need to ask you your name. Your mother knows what your name is, and where she left you and on what day of what year. I also think from the trembly handwriting that this woman’s too old. I guess she simply knows your mother—or used to know her.’ My heart did a bungee jump. She knew my mother. This letter was from a woman who knew my mother! ‘You’d better write back to her straight away.’
‘And should I offer to meet her?’
‘Not yet. Just tell her that your name is Rose and see what else she has to say.’ I nodded, then went to my desk.
Dear Mrs Wilson, I wrote. My hand shook with nervousness. Thank you very much for your recent letter. Yes, the relevant name is Rose, which is my name, and I do have one distinguishing mark—a birthmark in the shape of India at the top of my left leg. If you have any information whatsoever about my natural mother, whom I am trying to trace, then would you please phone me, a. s.a. p., on either of the above numbers and I’ll call you straight back. Thank you so much for responding, and I look forward to hearing from you soon. I signed myself ‘Rose Wright’ to protect my identity, just in case she ever reads the Post. Well, I am still Rose Wright, I reasoned as I stamped it. Or rather Rose Wrong: Rose very, very Wrong to have thought I could go back to Ed. We were light years apart.
I ran to the post box on the corner and dropped it in, then glanced at my watch. It was half past two. I knew I should be getting back to work, but I just couldn’t face it. It had been such a tumultuous few hours.
‘What a morning,’ I murmured as I pushed on the door. And now, suddenly, the stress of it all caught up with me. Jon’s letter, and the thought of him lying in hospital, dying: the memory of my row—and final break—with Ed: the knowledge that this Mrs Wilson might lead me to my mother—my mother, my MOTHER!—the fact that Theo was leaving me. A wave of emotion broke over me like a tsunami. I sank onto a kitchen chair.
‘Rose!’ said Theo. He was taking his cookery books off the shelf. ‘Rose, what’s the matter?’
‘It’s just, oh…everything,’ I said. I looked at the half-empty shelf and felt my eyes brim. ‘It’s been…,’ my throat constricted, and I could barely speak, ‘…an overwhelming day.’
‘You’re obviously under huge emotional stress,’ he said gently. Then he came and sat next to me and covered my left hand in his. ‘You know that your mother’s probably not very far away now,’ he murmured. I nodded. ‘And I guess it’s frightening.’ I nodded again. It was. Because for years it had all been safely hypothetical: but now it was about to be real. ‘You’re doing the right thing in looking for her,’ Theo said gently. ‘You really are, Rose—don’t cry.’
‘I’m not crying just because of her,’ I wept. ‘It’s all the other things as well.’
‘Like what?’
I shook my head. ‘Oh—uh—uh—I can’t tell you. It’s just that I’ve had the most…’ I threw my eyes up to the ceiling, ‘…the most extraordinary day.’ I felt too ashamed of Ed to tell Theo about Jon’s letter. ‘Plus you’re leaving,’ I wailed. I looked at the boxes standing in the hall and felt my mouth twist with grief. ‘You’re leaving me, Theo. Everyone does. They love me and leave me—like her.’ I felt his arm go round my shoulder as a tear snaked down my right cheek. ‘Oh God, what a morning,’ I wept. I was crying so much I could feel tears gathering in the hollow at the base of my throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled as he passed me a piece of kitchen roll. ‘You must think I’m always blubbing.’
‘I don’t.’ The kitchen roll was soaked with a mixture of tears and mascara.
‘I must look such a mess.’
‘You do.’ Theo reached out and ran his thumb beneath my right eye, then my left. ‘But you’re a lovely mess, Rose.’ I tried to smile.
And now I studied his face, and realised how much I’d miss it. I looked at his blue eyes, behind their steel-rimmed frames, and at the faint line scored into his brow. I looked at his strong, lightly stubbled jaw line, and at the generous curve of his mouth. Ed had thin lips, but Theo’s were full ones I now saw, or rather, felt. For instinctively I’d inclined my head towards his, just a fraction, his gaze now locked in mine. And then I inclined my head a little more. I couldn’t help it. It was as though I was being pulled towards him by gravity, and suddenly I could feel the soft pressure of his mouth on mine.
‘Sorry,’ I said pulling back. I’d shocked myself. ‘I kissed you.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I spotted that too.’
‘You see I’m not quite myself today,’ I stuttered.
‘Didn’t you want to kiss me then?’ I looked into his eyes again, and noticed the flecks of pale green in the blue. ‘Didn’t you?’ he repeated gently. ‘Didn’t you, Rose?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I did.’
‘Well that’s absolutely fine then,’ he murmured. ‘Because I’d quite like to kiss you too.’
An electric charge shot through me as he took my face in his hands. And he pressed his mouth to mine, his light stubble scraping my skin. He was kissing me again, at first gently, and then harder, parting my lips with his tongue. We stayed there, like that, for a few minutes, just kissing.
‘Oh, Rose,’ he said. And now he pulled me into a standing position, and we kissed for a little longer. ‘Oh, Rose.’
I felt his hands begin to explore the inside of my shirt as he pushed down the straps of my bra. My hands went down to his waistband, and began to undo his jeans. And he slipped my shirt off my shoulders, still kissing me, and now we were going upstairs. We were going upstairs together, and I could hear our combined tread on the steps. And I opened my bedroom door and pulled him inside, and we fell on the bed in a tangle of limbs. He pulled down my skirt, and stepped out of his jeans, then quickly took off his shirt. And now I saw his broad shoulders, and his chest, and his lean, muscled stomach.
‘Oh, Rose,’ he sighed as he kissed my breasts, first one and then the other. Then he lifted himself up. And as he poured himself into me, with increasing urgency, I suddenly knew. I’d got it. At last. I’d finally realised what the anagram of Theo Sheen is—‘He’s the one.’
‘He’s the one,’ I sighed as he moved above me. ‘He’s the one,’ I reiterated as he came with a great shudder. ‘Theo Sheen—he’s the one.’ He fell forward, panting, his back wet with sweat, and his right cheek pressed hard against mine. We lay there like that for a few minutes. Now he turned over and I locked my arms round his chest, our knees drawn up, his pelvis folded into the hollow of mine. I gazed at the gold freckles which spangled his back, like stars. I traced them with the tip of my finger, and imagined what constellations they might be. This one on his right shoulder looked a bit like Orion, and the light smattering on his left one, the Plough. That ‘W’shaped one at the base of his neck could be Cassiopeia, and these four here, the Southern Cross.
‘I’ve wanted to do that for so long,’ I heard him say quietly.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. But you didn’t see it. Did you?’
‘No. I thought you were just being…kind to me,’ I murmured. ‘Kind and empathetic.’
‘You didn’t read between the lines.’
‘No,’ I murmured. ‘I guess I didn’t. And when did you…first…?’ I ventured.
‘Oh, I don’t know, months ago.’
‘Really?’
&nb
sp; ‘Hmmm.’ I was amazed. ‘I was dimly aware that I was attracted to you when I first came to see the house,’ he murmured. ‘I must have been because you were so bloody tricky, and yet I wasn’t put off.’ He turned over now and gazed at me. ‘But it was when you came out to star-watch with me on New Year’s Eve. That’s what did it. Your reaction was so passionate. I felt you had a lovely soul…’
‘Thank you.’
‘…and that I’d touched it.’
‘You had.’
‘But I thought you were a bit crazy.’ I laughed. ‘You were so prickly, Rose.’
‘Thorny.’
‘Hmm.’
‘That’s what people say.’
‘A bit neurotic.’
‘I guess I was.’
‘And you were clearly very troubled about your mother, and about your marriage, so I was naturally wary of you. I was upset enough myself at that time about Fiona so I didn’t want to take the risk. Plus you were my landlady—it was all very awkward. And then Ed was around again, and I didn’t know how you felt, or what you really wanted to do. I just wanted a sign from you that you liked me, Rose. A sign. But I didn’t get it. Until now.’ We stayed like that for a minute or so, just looking into each other’s eyes. ‘You’re such an enigma to me, Rose,’ he added quietly. ‘Such a…puzzle.’
‘I’ve been puzzled all my life.’
‘I know. And that’s why you like doing anagrams, because you’re an anagram yourself.’
I could see the truth of that. For I had been ‘muddled,’ I had been ‘disordered,’ I had been ‘mixed up,’‘confused’ and ‘upset’. Because the letters of my life had been in the wrong order, but Theo had helped me to sort them out.
‘Eros,’ said Theo gently. ‘That’s your real anagram. And you do look like the Botticelli Venus, you know.’ He ran his fingers across the high ridge of my collar bones. ‘You’ve got such lovely clavicles.’