by Paige Toon
I jog over to Stuart. He raises one eyebrow at me over the hood of his car.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I’m just waiting for you to ask if you can go out with your friends,’ he says.
‘No.’ I open the car door and climb inside.
‘Huh,’ he says as he appears next to me and starts up the ignition.
‘Any news?’ I ask eagerly.
‘No.’ He shakes his head and looks uncomfortable. ‘This could take some time.’ He glances across at me. ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’
‘But you did contact his people, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘I left a message with his lawyer. I’ll try him again tomorrow if he hasn’t returned my call by then.’
It’s three whole days before we hear anything and by then I’ve chewed all of my fingernails down to the quick and would consider starting on my toenails if only I were that flexible. Stuart comes to find me at lunchtime. I’m in the library again, researching Johnny on the internet. I’m here whenever I get the chance. It’s like an obsession.
I can tell instantly that he’s heard something. His eyes are lit up and his body is practically vibrating with excitement.
‘What is it?’ I ask, pushing my chair back and turning to face him.
He glances around the library to check it’s deserted. ‘His solicitor called me.’
I gasp. He pulls up the chair next to me and sits down.
‘He said that you’ll need to do a paternity test.’
‘Oh.’ I feel ill. ‘But anyone can see that I look like him,’ I say. ‘Did you email them any photos?’
‘I haven’t done, yet.’ He presses the tips of his fingers together. ‘But don’t worry. I’m not surprised they want you to do a test. It’s probably just so they can be sure we’re serious.’
‘What does it involve?’ I ask with trepidation.
‘A DNA sample, so a piece of your hair would do it. You don’t have to go anywhere for it. They’re sending the test to us.’
‘What?’ I’m confused. ‘We don’t even have to meet anyone?’
‘No.’ He averts his gaze. ‘Maybe when the test comes back positive.’
They think we’re wasting their time. ‘They don’t believe us,’ I say dully.
Stu puts his hand on my arm. ‘They will,’ he replies solemnly. ‘But we’re going to have to jump through a few of their hoops first, OK?’ I meet his eyes and he regards me steadily. ‘The important thing is we’ve made contact,’ he reassures me, squeezing my arm. I’m glad he’s being positive.
‘Alright.’ I nod, feeling slightly better. At that moment, I’m really grateful to have Stu in my life.
The paternity test comes by UPS the next day. We carefully follow the instructions and send it back the very same day. It’s Friday and I don’t want to waste any time by letting this run into the weekend.
I plan to lay low for the next few days, so I’ve told Natalie I have a stomach bug. I just want to be with Stu right now. I feel closer to him than I ever have. I’m aware of the irony of that, considering my search for his replacement.
It occurs to me that night, the night after I’ve sent the test back, that Johnny may well know about me by now. I wonder if he’s told his wife. I doubt it. I suppose he’ll want to make sure I’m telling the truth before he does anything. But if Stu knew Mum as well as he thinks he did, then Johnny’ll have to tell her soon.
If Stu knew Mum as well as he thinks he did . . . That sentence carries a lot of weight. What if Mum lied? What if there was someone else, other than Johnny? What if Johnny Jefferson is not my dad, after all? Then I really will never know who my real dad is. Anxiety rushes through me, swiftly followed by an almost crushing disappointment as I imagine the paternity test coming back negative. I haven’t properly got my head around the idea that Johnny is my dad, but suddenly I desperately, desperately want him to be.
The following Thursday, Stuart is waiting for me in the corridor outside my English Lit lesson.
‘The result is back,’ he says quietly, taking me to one side as my classmates pour out of the classroom behind me. ‘It’s positive.’
My heart somersaults and I feel dizzy. Libby catches my eye as she follows Amanda out and I see her do a double take. God knows what I look like. I feel like I’ve seen a ghost.
‘Come on, let’s go home,’ Stu says, and I allow myself to be led by him, too dazed to point out that I’m going to miss my Art lesson.
I’ve resisted telling anyone else about what’s been going on, partly so I won’t have humiliation to contend with if Johnny turns out not to be my dad, and partly because I’ve wanted to keep this secret close to my heart. But now I feel like I’m going to burst.
‘What happens now?’ I ask when we’re in the car.
‘He’s asked us to go into his office tomorrow.’
‘Who?’ I feel panicked. Am I going to meet Johnny so soon?
‘Wendel Rosgrove, Johnny’s solicitor. His office is in London.’
‘But I’m going to miss school . . .’
Stu gives me a look. He knows I’ve skipped school quite a bit recently, and now I care about missing classes? My face breaks into a grin.
‘Cool,’ I say. ‘But what about you? Can you get the day off?’
He grins back at me. ‘I’ll call in sick.’
I crack up laughing and hold my hand up for a high five. He hesitates, leaving me hanging, so I let my hand drop and shrug.
‘I shouldn’t really,’ he says, more in line with the spoilsport stepdad I’ve come to know and, well, love, I guess. Ew. ‘But this is important,’ he adds.
I bite my lip and stare out of the window. He’s not wrong.
Chapter 7
I must go to the toilet ten times the next morning, and I’m still crossing my legs on the drive to London. I’m so nervous, so excited, so full of emotions that I never imagined I’d experience again, at least, not deeply. When Mum died, anything other than grief felt muted. My heartache dominated everything else, and I didn’t think I’d ever feel pure and unadulterated happiness again. I still don’t know if I will, but my present intense anticipation is a welcome distraction from my usual pain and anger, that’s for sure.
Wendel Rosgrove works just north of Oxford Street in a seven-storey shiny block of glass. That’s what it looks like. We’ve parked in a nearby car park, hanging the expense, and as we walk towards it, past a neatly groomed square surrounded by tall townhouses, I look around for a public loo to relieve myself in.
‘You don’t really need to go, you know. It’s all psychological,’ Stu tells me, reading my mind.
‘Whatever, I’m busting,’ I reply.
‘I’m sure there will be a toilet in reception,’ he says.
I hope he’s right, because we’re here. My reflection looms out of the shiny glass door and I see that I appear as small, scared and lost as I feel. I tried to look my very best today. I brushed my hair and fixed it up into a big, loose bun on the very top of my head. I’m wearing my nice yellow sundress again and my only pair of clean ballet slippers, and I resisted applying too much make-up.
But now I wish I’d caked it on. Now I wish I’d left my hair long and messy. I wish I’d worn a beanie hat and my camo jacket. I wish I didn’t look like I cared as much as I do.
Stuart pushes open the door and my reflection disappears with it. He stands aside to let me pass into the vacuous reception space. Two women sit behind the large desk ahead of us. One is on the phone. The other glances up and smiles.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
Luckily Stuart takes control because I’ve lost my voice. ‘We’re here to see Wendel Rosgrove.’
‘Names?’
‘Stuart Taylor and Jessica Pickerill.’
She scans a notepad in front of her, then nods. ‘Go straight up to the fourth floor.’
‘Do you have a toilet?’ I interject.
‘Of course. First door to your right.’ She points to
the corridor behind her. I half hop and skip my way towards it, but when I’m safely inside a cubicle, the urge to go vanishes. If this is what I’m like when I’m meeting his solicitor, what am I going to be like when I come face-to-face with Johnny Jefferson?
Another, smaller, reception desk waits for us on the fourth floor, but before we can take a seat as directed, a grey-haired man wearing a pinstripe suit opens the door and pokes his head out.
‘Mr Taylor?’ he asks, staring straight at Stu, but his blue-grey eyes flit towards me.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Stu says confidently, going towards him with his hand outstretched. The man shifts to push the door back with his other hand, relieving his right hand to shake Stu’s.
‘Wendel Rosgrove,’ he says.
‘And this is Jessie,’ Stu says, turning around and indicating me.
Wendel nods at me. ‘Come straight through.’ He pushes the door open and I meekly follow Stu through the door.
We follow Wendel down a long corridor, with doors to our left and right. He opens the door at the very end and I’m almost blinded by the light as a view of London at its sunniest comes into focus. We’re inside the block of glass, and this is a floor-to-ceiling view of the city. Straight ahead, between a break in the buildings, I can see Oxford Street, bumper-to-bumper with black taxis and double-storey red buses. Mum used to take me shopping there . . .
‘Why don’t you get a Saturday job in TopShop?’ she says as we rifle through the racks. ‘There’s one in Maidenhead town centre.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I reply, vaguely aware of the irony of us coming to London when we have the same shop at home. But this branch is the biggest in the country. ‘I think you have to be sixteen,’ I reply.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ she says. ‘You could work in another clothes shop, though? You’d be good in fashion.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say thoughtfully. I’d love to get a job and have a bit of my own money, but I’m only fifteen – well, I will be next week. We’re here on a pre-birthday shopping trip so I can get something to wear at my party.
‘What about this?’ She holds up a dress in front of me. ‘Yellow really suits you.’
‘Do you think?’ I screw up my nose.
‘Definitely. I wish I had your skin tone.’
She’s always been quite pale. ‘I guess I must take after my dad, then,’ I say with irritation and she stiffens. Another moment spoiled by the secret that rests between us.
The pain that engulfs me at the memory is breathtaking. I thought this was enough to take my mind off Mum, but I was wrong. Everything about this search for my dad is linked back to her – how could it not be?
‘Take a seat.’ Wendel brings me back to the present as he goes behind his chunky, dark-wooden desk. Stu and I pull up black leather office chairs in front of him and sit down. The chairs look expensive. Everything in here looks expensive. I glance around at the wooden bookshelves against the wall, neatly stacked with pristine books, and the brown leather sofa to my right, accompanied by a highly polished black glass coffee table.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Wendel asks us.
‘No, thank you,’ Stu replies, and it seems to me that he’s lost some of his earlier confidence. Or maybe he never had it in the first place. I quickly shake my head and look away.
‘Soft drink?’ he asks, and I glance back to see him staring directly at me.
‘No, thank you,’ I reply quietly.
‘Right.’ He presses a button on his intercom and speaks into it. ‘Coffee for me. Nothing else.’ Then he turns and regards us from across the desk. ‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ he says in a clipped tone without a smile, making me think he’s anything but pleased we’re here. ‘Shall we get down to business?’
Business?
‘Can I be completely honest with you?’ he asks, and I nod, sensing Stu’s impatience beside me. Both of us are clearly wishing he’d get to the point, whatever that is.
There’s a sharp knock at the door and a woman enters with a tray. Wendel leans back in his chair as she places it on the desk in front of him. He continues to talk, ignoring her as she pours his coffee and adds a dash of cream.
‘We haven’t had a situation like this before.’ I’m a ‘situation’? ‘That may surprise you, considering my client’s reputation.’ So I am the only one like me.
The woman turns and goes out of the door without so much as a thank you from Wendel. The man’s manners are even worse than my own.
‘I have to tell you that I’ve imagined this day coming on numerous occasions.’
I feel like I’m sitting in the headmaster’s office. I’m surprised when Stu speaks.
‘In that case, you will have had plenty of time to think about where we go from here,’ he says, and I detect a hint of sarcasm to his tone.
Wendel clears his throat. ‘It’s not that straightforward.’
‘Have you told Johnny about me?’ I find myself asking. His eyes meet mine.
‘He knows,’ he replies, his tone neutral.
My heart jumps.
‘Does his family know?’
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that,’ he replies, making me shrink back into myself. ‘What I would like to know from you, is what you expect to come from this?’ He stops short of asking me if I can be paid off. But I know that’s what he’s thinking, so I answer his unspoken question.
‘It’s not about money,’ I tell him firmly. ‘I want to meet my real dad. I’ve always wanted to meet him, or at the very least know who he is. But my mum died nearly six months ago, without telling me who he was. I thought I’d never know the truth, but now I do I’m not going to miss out on this opportunity. So you tell Johnny Jefferson that he’d better come clean to his family about me. Because I’m not going away. I won’t be bought. I’m here. And he owes me the courtesy of meeting me face to face.’
Without realising it, I’ve stood up, my body wracked with tension and my nose tingling as I stare him down from across the table. Whoa. I sit back down with a bump. Then I realise that Wendel is regarding me with something that I would almost call respect, if that didn’t sound so cringey. Maybe he’s not used to being spoken to like that. Well, like I care who he is?
‘OK,’ he nods, a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘I’ll speak to my client.’
Why doesn’t he just call him Johnny, like everyone else does?
‘But in the meantime, it would be wise for you to keep this quiet. Don’t go talking to any journalists—’
‘As if I would,’ I interrupt.
‘If she’d wanted to tell anyone, she already would have,’ Stu backs me up.
His faith in me is a little unfounded, as I discover the next day when Natalie stalks into work and insists that I go for lunch with her.
‘Where have you been?’ she demands to know as we sit in the coffee shop in the mall. It’s raining today and neither of us brought umbrellas so we don’t want to venture far. ‘Have you really had a stomach bug?’
‘Um . . .’
From the look on her face, she knows I’m lying.
‘It’s true that I haven’t been feeling very well,’ I tell her.
‘What’s been wrong with you?’ she asks with a frown, sipping her milkshake through a straw. ‘Tom was asking about you last night, you know.’
‘Really?’ I instantly perk up. I’ve barely thought about him in almost two weeks – I’ve been so consumed with everything that’s going on. ‘What did he say? Where did you go?’
‘Now you’re feeling better,’ she teases, tucking into her sandwich. ‘A bunch of us went round Aaron’s,’ she reveals between mouthfuls. ‘His parents have turned their garage into a games room so we hung out and played pool.’
‘What did Tom say?’ I urge her to get to the point.
‘He just asked where you were.’ She flicks her black hair back.
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No. But he did look a bit disappointed.’
I
can’t help grinning as I pick up my own sandwich. But before I can lift it up to my mouth, I have a thought. ‘Was Isla there?’
‘No, she wasn’t, actually. I’m pretty sure they’re not together.’
My smile pops back into place. ‘Who else was there?’ I ask as I take a bite. She fills me in on all the gossip.
‘You should have come,’ she says eventually, still sounding a little put out. She’s not used to me saying no.
I look down. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why not? What’s going on with you?’
I’m not sure how much more of this secrecy I can bear. I’m dying to spill the beans. I make an impulsive decision. I’m sure Natalie won’t tell anyone.
‘OK . . .’ I lean in towards her. ‘I’ve just found out who my real dad is.’
She frowns. ‘Oh. Wow.’ She sounds slightly deflated, like she was hoping for something better, and I realise that she has no idea how much I’ve wanted to know about him all these years. Why would she, when we don’t really talk about serious things? For some reason I picture Libby sitting opposite me and can’t help feeling a twinge of regret that she wasn’t the first person I told. Never mind, the next bit of my news is going to blow her away.
‘It’s Johnny Jefferson.’
I fight the urge to laugh out loud at the look on her face. Obviously she thinks I’m taking the piss.
‘Good one,’ she says with a wry look, turning back to her lunch.
‘I’m not joking.’ I shake my head slowly.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ she says sarcastically. ‘Have you really found out who your real dad is or were you joking about that, too?’
‘Natalie.’ I reach across the table and grasp her hand. ‘I’m honestly, honestly being serious. My mum was a Fence groupie when she was a teenager.’
She rolls her eyes and extracts her hand.
Bloody hell, she’s not going to believe me . . . ‘I’m serious!’ I exclaim. ‘Stu told me. I asked my mum time and time again who he was and she’d never tell me. Then she died.’ The smile falls from my face. Natalie still looks sceptical. She doesn’t say anything, too worried to look like a fool in case I’m teasing her. But I would never use my mum’s death to wind anyone up.
