Mine: ‘A powerful, emotive and sensitively written story about love and loss' Louise Jensen

by Clare Empson

  ‘Things aren’t going well with Alice.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Rick says, voice heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘We grow more distant from each other every day. I don’t even feel like she’s an au pair any more; she’s become a complete stranger. And it hurts me that she cares so much more about Samuel than about me. I don’t seem to interest her at all.’

  ‘I’ll stop you there, shall I? Can you actually remember what you said to her the day you came back pissed and tried to have a fight over Samuel?’

  A small nugget of unease that has been lodged in my gut ever since that day flares up. I’m dizzy with dread.

  ‘No? Well, you reminded her that she had no claim on your child since she’d given her own away.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  I don’t bother to hide the fact that I’m crying, tears that tip down my cheeks, and I couldn’t care less.

  ‘She didn’t give you away. She gave you up. With good reason. Can you really not tell the difference?’

  ‘You’re angry with me.’

  Rick shakes his head.

  ‘More worried than angry. Why do I feel like this whole thing is about to blow up in our faces?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt Alice. I lashed out because she’s hurting me with her indifference. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘I warned you about this. But you rushed in, you and Hannah, like a couple of bulls in a china shop. No thought for what might happen if it didn’t work out. You’re bloody idiots, the pair of you.’

  ‘I’m not sure how to patch things up with her.’

  ‘You could try saying sorry. That usually works.’

  ‘I’m not sorry. I’m angry.’

  ‘With us for giving you up?’

  Rick’s voice has softened, his eyes too. There’s the gleam of tears, a crack in his voice.

  ‘For that, yes, and for the fact that neither of you will ever tell me about the weeks when we were together. Where did we live? What did we do? Where are the photos from that time? You’re my father, for God’s sake. Why won’t you tell me these things?’

  I glance up and catch a look of shame or guilt or fear on Rick’s face, I’m not sure which. And suddenly I know, with absolute certainty, that Elizabeth is right.

  ‘You’re not my father. Are you?’

  ‘I’m on your birth certificate, aren’t I?’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. You’ve been lying to me all along. Why would you do that?’

  The rage is back. I slam my hand down on the table and my little espresso cup rattles in its saucer.

  ‘Do you think we’re trying to deceive you? Or protect you?’

  ‘I need to know the truth. I need to know who I am. Is that so hard to understand? Are you my father? It’s a simple answer, Rick. Yes? Or no?’

  We are staring at each other while our coffees cool on the table between us. Rick’s face is kinder now; he attempts a smile. In the seconds while he chooses his words, I feel the rhythmic beating of my heart: tell me, don’t tell me, tell me, don’t tell me. I watch his mouth and his eyes, searching for clues. I’m not even sure what I’m hoping for. Do I want Richard Fields to be my biological father or not? The hesitation, the seconds of waiting, are too intense for either of us to breathe or take our eyes away from each other’s faces.

  ‘The answer is no. No, I am not your father. And yes, we lied to you. Your father, Luke, is … someone else.’

  Then

  Alice

  Disciples are playing a showcase gig at the St Moritz on Wardour Street. Twenty music journalists plus Robin’s elite guest list of beautiful people, guaranteed to make me, at seven months pregnant, feel fat and insecure. Rick is my plus-one, resplendent in mulberry velvet loons and a patchwork jacket of emerald green and gold; it’s a reality check for us both that in an hour’s time our lovers will be appearing on stage.

  This is the first show Disciples have played in a while, and it sold out instantly. They have been rehearsing the new songs for weeks, and even though the first single went straight into the Top 10, I know Jake is anxious. He is preoccupied almost all of the time. We’ll spend a whole night together and he might only speak a few words to me. I’ll be glad when the gig is over, except that then I am counting down the days until the band’s three-week European tour.

  At the St Moritz, Rick and I are checked off the guest list and allowed backstage to the dressing room, a tiny, smoke-filled pit, ashtrays brimming with butts, an unhoovered carpet and nowhere to sit. They are all smoking, and passing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from one to the other, and I watch, alarmed, as Jake takes a sip.

  ‘You’re drinking,’ I say in as measured a tone as I can manage through the panic that throbs in my veins.

  ‘Just a little bit. I always drink before a show. I can’t do it completely sober. I’m nervous. What if the new songs bomb?’

  ‘You’ll be brilliant,’ I say, wrapping my arms around him, but only briefly. I can tell he needs the freedom to pace.

  ‘See you on the other side,’ he says, and I hear the instruction to leave.

  ‘He’s drinking,’ I say to Rick the moment we’re outside the door.

  ‘Jake is in a good place now, you don’t need to worry. Like he said, it’s just a bit of Dutch courage.’

  The St Moritz is a dark, subterranean, cellar-like space, so thick with smoke my eyes sting. We find Robin at the bar ordering wine, looking at the bottle in distaste when it arrives.

  ‘Utter plonk. I’ll have to hold my nose to force it down. Want some?’

  The three of us push our way through the tightly packed crowd until we’re almost in front of the stage, bodies pressing in all around us. I feel a little panicky here, that sense of not being able to fight my way out.

  ‘I’m a bit claustrophobic,’ I whisper to Rick, and he takes my hand and says, ‘Only for half an hour. I’ll look after you.’

  Robin points out the editor of NME, a reporter from Sounds magazine, the music critic from the Evening Standard, someone else from Time Out.

  ‘Jake’s nervous,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve never seen him like that before. He’s always so confident about his music.’

  ‘There’s a lot of pressure from the record company. They need album two to go well. But don’t worry. They were brilliant in rehearsal.’

  A surreal, out-of-body experience, seeing my lover walk onto the stage, standing just metres away from us. He is a beautiful man; I know this, of course, but seeing him raised up on stage like this emphasises it even more. It takes me back to that first gig at the Marquee, to the feeling of being vacuumed towards him. He raises one hand in salute and the audience cheers its welcome.

  ‘Tonight we’re playing the new songs from our album Apparition for the first time. We hope you like them.’

  And with that, they’re straight into ‘Sinister’, the rockiest number on the record. Jake is instantly at ease as he powers through the lyrics, mouth just centimetres away from the mic, his voice that addictive (for me, anyway) combination of purity and rawness.

  I should know by now how assured he becomes on stage, no hint of self-consciousness as he struts from one side to the other and dances with his head thrown back, oblivious to everything except the music.

  The audience is loving it, as far as I can tell. I’m scanning the faces of the journalists and I can see they are engrossed, eyes trained on the stage, no one talking.

  We are four songs in, just two more to go, and the mood shifts as the opening chords of ‘Cassiopeia’ strike up. I’m looking at Rick when Jake begins singing, his rant against homophobia concealed as an ambiguous love song. I wonder what Rick is thinking as he listens to the story of our night in Southwold. I turn back to look at Jake, who is now sitting on the edge of the stage with his guitar, just as he did the first time we saw him.

  When he sings the f
irst chorus – ‘They built each other up but you tore them back down’ – Rick takes hold of my hand and squeezes it.

  The fight comes out of nowhere. We are shoved from behind, Robin, Rick and me, as the crowd presses in against us, no space to fall. I find myself down on my knees, being hauled up by Rick, who is screaming, ‘Pregnant woman here! You’re going to crush her.’

  But it’s almost impossible to stay upright as the shoving and pushing continues. I feel the sharp thrust of an elbow in my stomach; my feet are trod on, painfully, again and again.

  ‘Rick, help me!’ I cry as I fall once more to my knees, a blur of bodies around me, and he hoists me up again.

  ‘Stop shoving!’ he is shouting. ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s going to get trampled.’

  The music stops, there’s the hiss of static, and then Jake’s voice through the microphone.

  ‘Chill out everyone. This is a peaceful show. Please can you all just calm down.’

  And then his voice explodes.

  ‘My girlfriend is down there. She’s pregnant. Chill the fuck out.’

  I’m in blackness now, head down in a mass of bodies, partially held up by Rick, who is soothing me as you might a child.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. We’ll keep the baby safe.’

  The evening collapses. Security men, four or five of them, a cliché of bulk, push through the crowd, yelling, ‘Everyone out. Show’s over. Everyone leave now.’

  Rick and I stand in the middle of the room, wrapped up together, while the storm dissipates. It is only now that I notice my breathing, ragged and uneven as if in the aftermath of tears. Rick says, ‘Oh Alice,’ and I rest my face against his chest.

  ‘I thought I was going to lose the baby.’

  ‘Me too. But you’re all right.’

  ‘There was a fight at the back, apparently, and everyone started stampeding away from it. Could have been really nasty,’ Robin says, coming to find us minutes later. ‘Alice, my dear, are you all right? Let me get you some water.’

  When I’ve drunk my glass of water and my breathing has returned to normal, the three of us go backstage.

  ‘Well, that was a disaster,’ Eddie says, tipping his head back and pouring a stream of whisky into his mouth.

  I watch in horror as Jake snatches the bottle from him and does the same.

  ‘Jake? Don’t drink any more.’

  ‘Those fuckers,’ he says. ‘They could have hurt you, Alice. And the baby.’

  ‘Well they didn’t,’ Robin says. ‘Let’s be thankful for that.’

  ‘Robin’s right,’ Tom says. ‘No one got hurt. We should try and forget about it.’

  ‘How about we go somewhere we can get a decent drink? I’ll take you to the Chelsea Arts Club,’ Robin says.

  ‘Jake? Can you and I go home? Please?’

  He sighs.

  ‘I need to be on my own for a bit. Sorry. I can’t shake this off as quickly as you all seem to be able to. You could have been badly hurt.’

  But I won’t let him go down, I won’t allow it.

  ‘Jake?’

  I wait until he looks at me.

  ‘That was pretty scary. I really need you right now. Please can we just go home?’

  I watch as the clarity comes back into his eyes; I feel as if I am dragging him back from the pull of darkness.

  ‘Of course we can,’ he says. ‘It was just so hard, knowing you were in that crowd, not being able to help you.’

  He passes the bottle to Rick.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘I don’t need to be drinking this.’

  When I glance over at Eddie, I see that he is watching me. He dips his head in an almost imperceptible nod, and I understand. Eddie and I are in this together, we always will be. Crisis averted, he seems to be saying. For now.

  Now

  Luke

  I take a taxi from Clerkenwell to Clapham, too wretched and confused to face the Tube or the office or anything apart from the confrontation that must come next. My head is filled with Rick’s words – ‘I’m not your father’– and then his refusal to tell me anything else.

  ‘Do you think she kept his identity from you for no reason?’

  His frustration had returned, this man whom I’ve admired so much, first as art-loving bystander and then with what I believed was some biological claim upon him.

  ‘Well, if you won’t tell me, Alice will have to,’ I said, all bravado, though I don’t feel like that now.

  It’s around 2.30, several hours before I am due home from work, and as I put the key into our front door, I wonder momentarily what I will find on the other side. I hear singing from the kitchen – oh God, that bloody song again, an anthem that penetrates right through to my core.

  Alice has a lovely voice, and she sounds happy as she sings, happy and absorbed. When I enter the kitchen, for a moment she doesn’t see me. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with her sketchpad, Samuel in front of her in his bouncy chair. She has her head to one side, examining him, a small smile on her face. I feel as if I could watch them for hours, but perhaps I am signalling something through the airwaves, for she glances up and gives a shriek of surprise.

  ‘Luke! Don’t creep up on me like that. You gave me such a shock.’

  There’s something in her face here, something I can’t identify: guilt perhaps? As if I’ve caught her at something.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work? Are you ill?’

  You could say that. Ill in the head, sick in the heart.

  ‘Why did you lie to me about who my father is?’ Less of a question, more of a rant. ‘Why would you do that?’

  And here’s the thing: her face collapses instantly. She puts her hand across her mouth and stares down at the table, and I see the telltale tremor of her shoulders.

  ‘You asked me if I was ill just now and I’m beginning to think I might be. Hannah thinks I’m having a breakdown.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘In so many words. She thinks this reunion of ours has pushed me over the edge.’

  ‘Same here,’ Alice says with a small smile.

  And something about that smile, her casualness, snaps the final string. My rage is volcanic, bigger than me, bigger than everything. I can do nothing but submit to it, shouting like a tormented child.

  ‘Who is my father? Tell me! TELL ME.’

  Alice shrinks away from me; I see it, yet I cannot stop. I feel … violent. I slam my hand down on the table so hard it hurts.

  ‘Tell me who my father is. You have to.’

  I’m wailing, I’m demonic, and Alice has her hands against her face.

  ‘All right!’ She’s shouting too. ‘Sit down, Luke. And, for God’s sake, please calm down. Think of Samuel, if not me.’

  Through all this yelling, the baby has remained asleep. And the sight of him – I can just see the top of his head peeking out above his chair – soothes me. I sit down opposite Alice. I breathe in slowly and let the air out in a long rush.

  ‘Christ. Sorry. I lost control.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise. I understand how hard this is on you. But I haven’t been able to talk about your real father for a long time. Twenty-seven years, in fact. Your lifetime. I haven’t said his name out loud in all that time. I’m not even sure that I can.’

  ‘Then write it down. Write me a letter. Just tell me the truth. Please, finally, can I know the truth?’

  ‘A letter is a good idea. There’s so much to explain.’

  ‘Are you my mother, Alice? Or is that a lie too?’

  ‘Of course I am!’

  ‘I don’t understand why you would lie to me about Rick.’

  ‘Because your real father had gone by the time you were born and Rick stepped in and cared for you and loved you as if you w
ere his. He was like your father.’

  ‘So he left you? My dad? Your lover?’

  ‘He did. And I never got over it.’

  ‘Who was he, Alice?’

  ‘I’ll write you a letter, Luke. I’ll tell you everything, I promise. I’ll do it tonight.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry for shouting. I only want …’ I hesitate, unsure of how to continue.

  Alice says, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I want things between us to improve.’

  She nods, but I see that again she is on the edge of tears.

  ‘I hope that your knowing the truth is the right thing, then.’

  ‘Let’s start again. Can we do that?’

  I remember now I’ve said it where this phrase comes from: my other mother, Christina, the words she always used when we’d had a fight: ‘Shall we start again?’

  And perhaps Alice recognises its childish connotations too, for she laughs and holds out her hand for me to shake.

  ‘I’m on for that,’ she says.

  We smile at each other, and there’s a glimmer of understanding; you might call it progress.

  ‘I should probably get back to the office.’

  And that might have been it, the most constructive, bonding talk we’ve had for weeks. The promise that at last I’m going to find out the truth.

  I stand up and peer over the top of Samuel’s bouncy chair at my sleeping son. And, in that moment, everything slides, my world pivots and this momentary warmth between us is replaced with the bone-freezing suspicion of old. For Samuel is dressed not in the Gap T-shirt and combat trousers we favour, nor even in one of his sleepsuits, but in old-fashioned orange and yellow striped dungarees that seem too small for him. Clothes that are old, dated, hand-made. Clothes that belong to another time, another era. Another baby.

  ‘His clothes,’ I say, and I find that Alice is watching me intently.

  ‘Just for the drawing,’ she says, but I know with a gut punch of instinct that this is not the truth.

  She is dressing up my baby like her baby. This little chat we’ve just had means nothing. All she wants is for Samuel to be me, to be hers. Alice wants her baby back.