by Jill Mansell
God, she was so excited she didn’t know what to do with herself!
How many times had she replayed the scene in her head? Meeting her real mother. And since yesterday, when Roz Vallender’s letter had arrived, she had had to adapt it, for in her imagination the meeting had always taken place indoors, in someone’s house.
Instead, it was happening at Paddington station, amid crowds of strangers and hissing, roaring trains. Natalie approved. She was adaptable, after all. Railway stations sounded very romantic, very Brief Encounter.
And totally, totally mind-blowing.
She hoped she was wearing the right clothes. Having watched her mother on television, she knew she was an extremely sharp dresser. Designer stuff, the real thing. And she had been tempted at first to go for contrast—torn Levis, the black micro T-shirt that revealed her midriff, the biker boots sprayed yellow.
At this point, however, her adoptive mother had stepped in. “You want the poor woman to take one look at you and deny all responsibility?” she had challenged Natalie with the ease of long practice. “Good heavens, girl, whatever would she think she’d given birth to? Wear something that won’t frighten her to death, at least.”
Natalie knew she was lucky. She had read enough problem pages to know that most adopted children wanted to contact their real mothers, yet many were afraid of upsetting the family that had brought them up as one of their own.
Few women were as totally secure as Christine Purnell. She and her husband, Tom, were a loving, down-to-earth couple who had faced the situation with generosity and understanding. When Natalie, after many rehearsals, had broached the subject, Christine had kissed her tall, dark-haired daughter and said, “I’d want to know if it were me, love. You do whatever it is you have to do.”
“I still love you, Mum,” Natalie had insisted, remembering the article she had read in Woman’s Own about adoptive parents feeling rejected. Christine roared with laughter.
“I love Tom, and you, and those two noisy brothers of yours, and there’s no rule to say I can’t. We don’t each have enough love for only one person. I daresay you’ll have enough for two mothers, if you’re careful with it.”
* * *
Roz, shivering despite the heat on the station platform, was beginning to regret her rashness. Urged on by Camilla, she had written to Natalie explaining which train to catch and where to meet her. She wished now that she had suggested instead a more private venue. Apart from Wembley Stadium or center stage at Covent Garden, there was almost nothing less private than Paddington station. Greeting long-lost lovers there was OK, but long-lost daughters was quite another matter.
And despite her black sunglasses and voluminous high-collared trench coat, three people had asked her for autographs already. Any minute now, she thought wildly as her teeth chattered with nerves, a film crew would pop out of the nearest siding, fix up a few spotlights, and set the cameras rolling.
Finally, the train slid into the station, and Roz rammed her fists deep into the pockets of her white Saint Laurent jacket. It was scarcely behind schedule at all, yet those three minutes had seemed like three hours.
And all she could do now was stand and wait. Natalie had the advantage. It was up to her to seek out her mother and introduce herself.
Shit, thought Roz helplessly. This was like preparing to go on the air without a script. She had no experience with greeting grown-up daughters for the first time. She didn’t know what to say to them.
As a stream of passengers poured out of the carriages, she scanned them with anxious eyes from behind the safety shield of her dark glasses. There was a plump girl with dark hair and terrible acne… She breathed a sigh of relief when the girl flung her arms around an equally spotty boy. Maybe that girl, whose eyes were brown but whose hair was bleached white? She was painfully thin and a hand-rolled cigarette drooped from her mouth as she dug in her jeans’ pocket for matches. Oh please, prayed Roz, realizing that the girl looked distinctly unwashed, don’t let her be Natalie…
* * *
“Hello,” said a voice to her left, and Roz felt time stop. Slowly, she turned to see a tall, slender girl with hauntingly familiar eyebrows, dark, catlike eyes, and razor-cut shoulder-length hair, wearing an absurdly adult navy-blue suit and carrying a huge plastic rucksack sprayed gold. “I’m Natalie. How do you do?”
To her astonishment, Roz found herself shaking her daughter’s hand. Natalie, it appeared, had her own ideas about mother-daughter reunions.
Glad that at least someone appeared to have a vague idea how the script should run, she said, “It’s good to see you. Er…how was your journey?”
Natalie shrugged, giving her a breezy smile. “The pits. Whoever said it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive must’ve been crazy. I’m just glad to be here…at last.”
“I’m glad you’re here too,” said Roz, praying that she sounded less awkward than she felt. Realizing that she was fiddling with her dark glasses, she shoved them into the pocket of her trench coat and tried to look decisive. “Shall we go find a cab?”
* * *
Where, she berated herself as they made their way out of the station, were her maternal feelings? This still felt like a blind date on the verge of going terribly wrong. Surely there should be something more between them than this stilted English politeness?
When they were settled in the back of a taxi, Natalie leaned over her gold rucksack, unzipped it, and drew out a bunch of drooping yellow freesias.
“These are for you,” she stated matter-of-factly. “They’re from my mum, actually. She thinks of things like that.”
“They’re lovely. How kind of her,” said Roz, feeling more helpless than ever as she accepted the wilting blooms. Then she watched in horror as a large tear rolled down Natalie’s smooth, brown cheek.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” sobbed Natalie, searching wildly for a tissue. “I planned all this for so long. Right up until the train stopped, I was going to run up to you and give you the biggest hug in the world and you were going to burst into tears and it was all going to be so…wonderful…” She paused, sniffing loudly and gulping for breath. “And then I got scared and thought you might not like it because we don’t even know each other, so I decided to be all polite and businesslike instead…and now I hate it. I feel like I’m here for a job interview. Oh shit… Didn’t you ever miss me in all those years? I’ve wondered for so long about what my real mother was like. Haven’t you ever wondered what might have happened to me?”
“Oh my God, Natalie…” Roz felt her defenses crumble. The fear and passion in the girl’s voice clutched at her heart, and without even realizing what she was doing, she reached for her. “How can you even think that I wouldn’t? Of course I thought about you. Always. And now…I’m just glad you contacted me so that we can both find out about each other. If you hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t ever have been able to learn anything about you.”
* * *
It had been an exhausting day all around.
By the time Camilla, Loulou, and the children returned home at six—having vacated the house for the day so that Roz and Natalie could have some privacy in comfortable surroundings—their feet were aching and the Science Museum definitely knew that it had been visited.
When they entered the sitting room, they found Roz alone, smoking a cigarette and looking drawn.
“She didn’t turn up?” said Loulou, horrified.
“Natalie’s upstairs having a bath. I’m down here having a guilt attack.”
Camilla shooed the children into the kitchen. “How’s it going?” she asked, pouring out gin and tonics.
Shaking her dark head, Roz murmured, “Nothing like the movies. I had to lie a lot. I don’t feel like her mother—I haven’t had the practice, for God’s sake.”
“It’ll take time,” said Camilla reassuringly, handing around the drinks. “What’s
she like?”
A glimmer of humor showed in Roz’s eyes. “Me, I suppose. With a bit of a Geordie accent.”
Chapter Forty-Five
It was certainly not like the movies, thought Camilla later that evening as she watched Roz struggling to conceal her unease. Natalie was chatty, likable, and openly demonstrative toward Roz. It was fascinating to compare their striking looks and the inescapable similarities in their characters, but the differences were equally interesting. Roz had always been naturally reticent, an intrinsically private person. Within the space of one hour, they had all learned Natalie’s entire life history, her likes and dislikes, her views upon almost everything, and her aspirations for the future.
It also rapidly became clear that she was starstruck. Which wasn’t, of course, unusual for an eighteen-year-old girl, but it made Roz edgy; that much was very apparent.
Since discovering her mother’s identity, Natalie had scoured the gossip columns like a stockbroker devouring the FTSE Index. She adored Nico Coletto, was quite au fait with Loulou’s recent adventures, and was a great admirer of Mac and his work. And while she was clearly thrilled to be reunited with her natural mother, the fact that Roz was a celebrity was a wonderful bonus. It was so exciting. She knew so many famous people. And the small Tyneside town where Natalie had grown up couldn’t compare with the glitter and glamour of London. Natalie was due to go to university in September—a degree course in Geology—but that was so boring…she had always wanted to be a model or an actress…and London was the only place to be if she wanted to really make something of her life…
“I can’t believe it,” groaned Loulou, having followed Camilla into the kitchen on the pretext of helping her make the coffee. “Any moment now she’s going to ask Roz for her autograph.”
Camilla tried not to smile. “Or worse, ask for Nico’s.”
The following morning Roz and Natalie came dangerously close to having their first row, with Natalie pressing hard to be allowed to go to the TV studios where Roz was preparing a program and Roz reacting violently against the suggestion.
“Are you ashamed of me?” demanded Natalie with wounded eyes, and Camilla realized that she was expecting too much, too soon, of the woman who had so recently been thrust into the role of mother to such an ebullient teenager.
“Of course not,” parried Roz, agitated and unprepared. “But I need to finish two days’ work in one if we’re going to leave for Gloucestershire tonight, and none of it will get done if I have to waste time introducing you to the world and his dog. Some other time, OK?”
“Will you introduce me to Nico Coletto?” said Natalie with a smile that was both challenging and sly.
Roz’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Camilla stepped into the breach.
“Stay here with me today,” she said firmly, thinking that Roz would certainly have her hands full when she took Natalie down to her cottage in the Cotswolds for a few days. Natalie was testing her mother, seeing how far she could go and what she could get away with. Roz would have to make sure she didn’t allow her guilt to overcome common sense.
* * *
At two o’clock that afternoon, with all the desperate compulsion of an alcoholic, Loulou slid surreptitiously into the Kendall Fordyce gallery in Kensington. For days, she had been telling herself she wouldn’t come here. Last night, she had even thought she might have won. This morning, of course, she realized that she hadn’t a hope in hell.
No self-control, she thought gloomily. The story of my life. And taking care to adjust the charcoal-gray fedora over her eyes—every strand of her rippling blond hair was crammed beneath it—she purchased a catalog from the reception desk by the entrance and made her way into the gallery where the exhibition featuring Mac’s latest work was being held.
Loulou was able to look back and marvel now at the cocoon of serenity that had eased her through pregnancy. At the time, she had been unable to recognize it—it had just felt so wonderfully, perfectly right that she hadn’t questioned the strangeness of it all.
But now she was back to quite her old self, and very frustrating it was too.
Here I am, she thought with indignation bordering on despair, chasing after Mac again and knowing full well that he’s only keen on me when I’m not chasing him.
And would he even be here today? She was terrified that he would, yet the prospect of coming here and not seeing him was equally appalling, just as she had been unwilling to come here but unable to stay away.
Which was why she had borrowed Camilla’s gray fedora and Roz’s baggy white trench coat, donned a pair of very black glasses, and was sporting unfamiliar pillar-box-red lipstick. Hopefully she looked like an Italian banker’s wife and not a bit like Loulou Marks, idiot extraordinaire.
The gallery was more crowded than she had expected, which was good. Holding her catalog up to her face, she squeezed between a couple of expensively fragranced men and came abruptly face-to-face with Cecilia Drew.
Not the real Cecilia, although the image still managed to leave her breathless.
Taking a step backward, Loulou stared at the enormous black-and-white photograph of her rival, clad in shorts and a miniscule camisole top, curled up in a wicker chair. Sunlight, streaming through a torn lace curtain, dappled her long, slender body with shadows and light. Her long hair gleamed and her eyes were directed just above the camera, capturing yet more light and an exquisite sense of longing for whoever stood behind it.
Loulou didn’t see it as exquisite. She found it nauseating. And you could see her dark nipples through the thin camisole, she thought with disgust. Why, it was practically pornographic.
A young man with incredibly muddy sneakers paused beside her, studied the picture, and nudged his friend.
“Wouldn’t mind giving her one,” he said, grinning.
Loulou sniffed loudly. “I doubt if she’d be interested,” she said, tilting her hat and turning away.
There was no sign of Mac anywhere, when she finally dared to look. Wandering around the well-lit gallery, she began to relax and enjoy herself, although there were far too many pictures of Cecilia around for her liking, and the sight of each one pierced her with jealousy.
He’s only using her to advance his career, she told herself, but it was disheartening all the same. No woman wants her man to go off with an ugly girl, but Cecilia was right off the other end of the scale. Loulou, who had never considered herself unattractive or lacking in physical attributes—although bigger boobs would have been nice—realized that each time she surveyed a new photograph of Britain’s current highest-paid model, she felt as if she were shrinking. The cuts and bruises, legacy of her disastrous liaison with Simon, had completely cleared now—at least she had that to be thankful for—but her crazy, spiraling blond hair couldn’t compete with Cecilia’s sleek black mane, her wide gray eyes seemed merely childish next to Cecilia’s exotically tilted topaz ones, and to add insult to already considerable injury she was several inches shorter.
No one ever called me a jungle animal, she thought gloomily as she gazed at a photograph of Cecilia in a skin-skimming bodysuit lounging gracefully along a tree branch and overheard someone say, “What a tiger.”
At that moment, she heard a commotion behind her, a rising swell of excitement among the knowledgeable crowd who had attended this exhibition because it was undoubtedly set to be one of the most successful of the year.
Without moving, Loulou felt the back of her neck prickle and knew that Mac had arrived. Instantly she wished she hadn’t come. It was a ridiculous disguise…Mac would spot her immediately…please God don’t let him have Cecilia Drew with him…
Cigar smoke attacked her throat, and she stifled a cough. Turning around—because it would look odd if she didn’t—she saw through the black glasses that Cecilia was indeed with him, clinging elegantly to his arm while with his other Mac shook hands with a variety of guests, admirers, an
d journalists. Everyone was congratulating him. It was a magnificent show. Now Mac was truly being recognized as one of Europe’s great photographers.
Silent and still, Loulou watched from her position at the back of the crowd, remembering how different it had once been. The years of struggling when Mac had bought film rather than food, the terrible little studio apartments they had shared with mice and cockroaches, the furious rows when Mac was too proud to let her support him, the happy, happy times when a small cash prize in a photo competition had meant a night out celebrating, the way Mac had always been able to make her laugh…the wonderful sex they had shared…
Without warning, two helpless tears rolled down her cheeks, and she pushed them fiercely away, taking a deep breath to calm herself.
The man standing in front of her puffed energetically on his King Edward cigar and clouds of smoke billowed past him, catching in Loulou’s lungs once more. She coughed loudly, tried to quell the irritation, and coughed again, tears streaming down her face now as she gasped for breath. People were turning to look at her, she realized and doubled over as another choking fit seized her by the throat. This was terrible…
Suddenly, the young man with the dirty sneakers was beside her, slapping her on the back. She tried to knock his arm away—Christ, a slap on the back was the last thing she needed—and staggered forward as he hit her again.
Then her hat flew off and she felt her hair tumbling down over her shoulders. The famous silver-gilt, waist-length hair that was so unmistakable.
And so impossible to miss.
Mac watched the fedora cartwheel along the black, polished floor and felt his insides contract. For a second, the old familiar longing for Loulou had engulfed him, mingling with other, conflicting emotions whose nature he didn’t dare pin down. She had hurt him, caused him more pain than any other woman he had ever known, and he had too much pride to allow himself to forgive her for that.
