Anna and the girl hug once more. When they part, my daughter and I continue down the street together.
***
She takes me to a café on South College Street. I queue behind her, noticing the scuff marks on her grey backpack and the Diesel tag on the back pocket of her jeans. She orders a skinny latte in a neutral, private school accent.
‘Anything to eat?’ the waitress asks.
‘I’ll try one of the apple muffins, please,’ replies Anna.
Hardly a proper lunch, I want to say. Have something more substantial. The waitress gives her a wooden spoon painted with the number six, and Anna carries it away. I ask for a green sencha tea and take my numbered spoon to the back of the café.
A long bench runs along an exposed stone wall with individual tables in front of it. I claim the table next to Anna before anyone else can. As I sit down, she looks up from her phone and my heart stalls. What if she recognises me? If she knows my full name, she could have spent hours scrutinising numerous Grace Walkers online, myself included.
She looks away again. Only her backpack separates us on the bench. I keep very still, hardly daring to breathe, as though she is a rare animal in the wild that could bolt at any moment.
A waiter in a Ramones T-shirt brings her order over.
‘Thanks,’ she says, laying her phone on the table, ‘that looks lovely.’
A moment later, the same waiter returns with my tea. The pot wobbles as I pour. I peek at Anna’s side profile. She definitely has my mother’s long, straight nose and a hint of Dan in her high cheekbones.
I want to talk to her. Nothing dangerous, just a casual exchange between strangers in a café. I could ask her what the coffee is like here and what other cafés in the city she could recommend.
She sips her latte and nibbles the outer rim of the muffin. Gazes at the wall opposite us. Is she thinking of me? Do I descend on her during quiet moments? I hope so. I hope not.
Her phone beeps. She picks it up, glances at the message on the screen and launches into a reply. I admire her long, elegant fingers, her dextrous thumbs. Maybe she plays the piano, or paints, or cooks? What talents lie in her strong, young hands? Jealousy hits me at the thought of Mrs Mackenzie witnessing each stage of their growth.
But I kissed her first. The heat of her tiny palms against my lips, the marvel of her miniscule fingernails. Her first kiss came from me, and I want to tell her that. I need to tell her that.
She tucks her hair behind her left ear, revealing a diamond stud high up in the cartilage. I could stare at her for hours. This is why I never visited her after the birth. I knew if I got too close I would have surrendered myself to her for good.
Now she’s swiping through photographs. Shifting position, I glance sideways at her phone. My heart leaps at a shot of her standing beside the famous twisted tree roots in Angkor Wat. There she is again, on a beach this time, her arms around an earnest-looking, athletic young man. Her boyfriend?
An alternative future opens up. One in which my daughter and I know each other and talk about travelling, maybe even go away together. Why not? I don’t have to take the assistant director of studies job recently offered to me by a school in Buenos Aires. I could stay here, and the two of us could start again.
Yet my life abroad wouldn’t have happened if I’d kept her. All the countries I’ve lived in, the people I’ve met, the adventures I’ve had—it’s impossible to imagine myself without these experiences.
I am the real woman, and the mother I might have been is the ghost.
‘Would you mind keeping an eye on my bag for a minute?’ she says.
I nod, too shocked at this direct contact to reply. She squeezes between our two tables, nudging my teapot as she passes.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ I whisper, but she is already on the other side of the café, opening the door to the toilets.
Get up and leave now. Before it’s too late.
I pull my puzzle ring off my finger and, making sure no one is watching, I unzip Anna’s bag and drop it inside.
Get up and leave. Now.
The toilet door opens again, and she is back.
‘Thanks,’ she says. Her phone beeps again, and she beams at the new message. The boyfriend perhaps?
I want to tell her who I am. I want to claim ownership of her. I have so much to share; so much she needs to know. She thinks she doesn’t need me, but she does.
She grins as she types a reply into her phone.
If I reveal myself, she’ll want to know why I gave her up. I would either have to lie and risk the truth festering between us or tell her everything and risk her hating me for her narrow escape. What if she never forgives me?
And there is another truth, one I could never share. I’m glad my daughter is alive, but I sometimes wish I hadn’t continued with the pregnancy. Two contradictory ideas I may never reconcile. I can’t help wondering how my life might have turned out if I’d made a different decision twenty years ago. If I’d put myself first.
Not having a child can change your life as much as having one. Nobody tells you that.
She laughs aloud at what appears on her phone.
If I drop uninvited into her world now, everything will change. This carefree girl will be saddled with the past, and she will never be the same again.
Still giggling, she slips on her jacket. I wrap my hands around my cup to stop me reaching out for her. She lifts up her backpack and manoeuvres between the tables.
This is it. She is leaving.
‘Excuse me,’ I say.
She looks at me—quizzical, expectant.
‘The… your… your bag is undone,’ I say.
‘Oops. Thanks.’ She closes the zip and gifts me a wide smile before walking away.
And at last, I let her go.
Acknowledgments
I have to start with my agent, Charlie Brotherstone. He championed this story and its subject matter from the start, and I am truly grateful for his support and guidance.
My thanks to everyone at Legend Press for believing in the book and for making it happen. Special thanks to Lauren Parsons for her perceptive and sensitive editing and for sticking to her guns on the points that mattered!
This novel had several incarnations and more people have helped with research than I have space to mention here. To those I’ve missed, my apologies and my gratitude. To the following, thanks for your expertise: Dr. Peter Copp, Dr. Mark Flynn and Dr. Victoria Barker. Susan Stevenson, Philip Weir and everyone at BSC Edinburgh. Laura Stephenson, Michael Brown, Stephen Grant and Andrew Palmer-Smith.
I’d like to thank the Creative Writing lecturers at The University of Edinburgh, past and present. They have played a big part in my writing journey, as have the fellow writers I studied with there. A shout-out too for Scottish Book Trust, who gave me a place on their mentoring scheme when I was starting out and who continue to offer support in many different ways. I must also mention Simon Willoughby Booth and all the DART team members for encouraging me in the early days and for letting me scribble away in my lunch hours undisturbed.
My gratitude to Miriam Johnson for my website and all things tech, as well as for her belief in the writing. Thanks also to Louise Blamire for her gorgeous photography and to Claire Wingfield for the invaluable advice on author marketing.
Liz Barling… your insightful readings of early drafts and your generous cheerleading were crucial. Lesley Glaister… couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks for your numerous readings and for those structural light bulb moments! I am also indebted to Claire Baldwin for her editorial work along the way.
Not everyone who saw me start this book is here to read it: Anne Melville, who opened her home and heart to me whenever I needed it. Helen Lamb, my first writing mentor and good friend, who backed me from the start and whose wisdom and straight talking I will miss for ever.
And of course, my beautiful mum, who didn’t get to hold this book in h
er hands but who will be with me every time I hold it in mine.
Huge thanks to my Dad, for everything, and to Susan, Charly and Billy for all the love and encouragement. Thanks also to every member of the Emerson and Costello clans, past and present.
Finally, Susie and Mary. Without your love and support, this novel would not exist. Thank you for making this dream come true for me.
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She Chose Me Page 26