by Liz Bower
No, don’t call him Dad.
“Hi, do you remember my mum, Tracy? Pretty sure you slept with her.”
God, no. I couldn’t say that.
Okay, maybe I wouldn’t say anything to him. Just have some lunch and see if he was working. If I saw him, then inspiration of what I should say might come to me. And if it didn’t, then I could go back another day once I had come up with something.
I grabbed the key card and headed for the lift.
As I hurried along the streets towards the restaurant, I thought about how long it had taken me to find him. The months I’d spent searching for him online from the little information I had found on my birth certificate. I’d spent hours on social media trying to track him down. But if he had a Facebook account, or Twitter, or anything else, I hadn’t found it.
The only other information I had besides his name was his profession: Flying Officer. Lost count of the number of visits and hours I’d spent at the library in Marsdon scouring old newspapers and RAF publications looking for any mention of him.
I’d totally lucked out when the local newspaper had run a feature on his retirement from the air force and his return to Malta—not to serve that time. Victor and his wife were opening a restaurant on the island. A long-held dream they’d had, apparently, it reported.
I may have squealed when I found the article, which had earned me a dirty look from the librarian and a shushing. After which I had hurried home to use the Internet to carry on my research in the privacy of my home where I could make as much noise as I liked.
A quick search of the restaurants in Malta—there weren’t that many—turned up Saint George’s. So called after the rock and shoals out at sea located not far from the restaurant. A family-run establishment by husband and wife duo, Mr and Mrs Hardacre.
As I stood in front of Saint George’s, I wondered if they didn’t open during the day. The place was deserted. Metal patio chairs and tables were set out, but none of the parasols were open and they were all empty.
I weaved my way through the tables towards the entrance, but the only thing waiting for me was a sign taped to the window: Closed until further notice for family bereavement.
I don’t know how long I’d stood there, staring at that sign, wondering who had died. Wondering how I could find out. Until an elderly gentleman came and stood beside me.
“Terrible thing,” he said, nodding at the sign.
Murmuring my agreement, I considered asking him for details but before I could frame a question, he carried on.
“Out of the blue it was. One minute he’s prepping for dinner service, the next minute he’s keeled over on the floor, clutching his arm.”
He. He. My brain kept throwing that one word at me. My head swam. If the restaurant was closed, then he had to be talking about my biological dad. Light-headed, I dropped into one of the metal patio chairs before my knees gave way. The man shook his head as he stared at the sign.
“His poor wife didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t stay here after. You know, run the restaurant without him. She’s been back in England since the funeral. Not sure what she’ll do with this place.”
When I didn’t answer, he glanced my way, eyes widening.
“Here, are you all right?”
Nodding, I gave him a weak smile. “Too much sun, I think.” It wasn’t even that hot, but thankfully he took the excuse. And eventually left me sitting alone outside the restaurant. I’d sat there staring at the sign until my mind and heart stopped racing.
Until I realised that I was too late. I would never meet my biological father.
Chapter Eight
A week after I had left for the original flight, I was back home. The grey overcast sky seemed fitting for my return, a sharp contrast to the blue skies of Malta earlier that day. Malta had been a complete bust. I’d found out I was too late. He had died six weeks before I got to Malta from a heart attack. Six weeks.
It was only late afternoon, but I was exhausted. Kicking the front door closed behind me, I dropped my suitcase onto the hardwood floor, the sound of it echoing off the walls loudly in the quiet house. Leaning heavily against it, I closed my eyes against the all-too-familiar scratchy feeling in them ever since I’d set sight on that sign pinned to the restaurant window.
Flattening my palms against the wood beneath them, I opened my eyes to banish the memories of that day.
But back home, surrounded by reminders of my parents—their wedding photo hanging above the hall table, my mum’s collection of porcelain cats on the shelf—I felt…lost.
Searching for my biological dad had given me a sense of purpose. Something to focus on other than the loss and grief. With nothing to distract me from the emptiness of my life, I felt like one of those boats moored up in the harbour in Malta. Being tossed around by the waves with no clear direction where I was heading anymore. Cast adrift without the anchor of my family.
After the longest week of my life, I had nothing to show except unanswered questions and heartache for the loss of another dad, even though I’d never known him.
Maybe my brother had been right. Maybe I should have left it alone. Finding out Vinnie wasn’t my biological father didn’t change that for twenty-six years of my life, he’d raised me as though I was. Had loved me like I was his own. Had always been there when I needed him. Until he couldn’t be there.
Both my parents taken away from me too soon by an overturned lorry on the motorway. A freak accident. One I still remembered watching the coverage of on the BBC news. Overturned lorry laid across all three lanes of the motorway. Cars crumpled and piled up behind it. Not until the police showed up at my door later did I know one of the cars belonged to them.
Whenever I thought about Mum and Dad, my heart felt like it was being squeezed. I rubbed a palm across my chest as though it might ease the ache. But those thoughts weren’t going to get me anywhere. So I pushed myself away from the door and the depressing thoughts to the back of my mind because at some point I had to move on with my life. My parents wouldn’t want me hiding away only living half of a life.
My suitcase bumped loudly over each step as I dragged it upstairs behind me. Once in my bedroom, I kicked off my shoes. The sage walls and silver bedspread comfortingly familiar after the sterile hotel room in Malta.
Pulled the somewhat bent business card out of my trouser pocket. Ran a finger over the raised gold lettering. A smile tugged at the edges of my lips. Maybe not a complete bust after all. Not a total loss as memories of Beck and our night together played through my mind.
I still couldn’t believe that was me. I didn’t do one-night stands. I’d blame it on the stress of trying to find my biological dad, the almost crash. That or the fact that Beck had a smoking hot body and I’d wanted him, pure and simple. Except it didn’t have to be a one-night stand if I stopped being a wuss and called him.
Slipping the card back into my pocket, I headed for the bathroom, shedding my clothes on the way. It was time to get back to reality. Stepping under the warm spray, I let it relax the tight muscles along my neck from the stressful week. Unfortunately, reality would have to include an agency job because the few kids’ birthday cakes I had orders for weren’t going to pay the bills that month. And I couldn’t keep coasting along like I had been.
Ten minutes later, I was curled up on the sofa in black yoga pants and a pink vest top. Hair piled up on top of my head in a messy bun. I pulled the blanket off the back of the cushion and got comfy as I wrapped it around my shoulders. Laptop open, I scrolled through my emails. No new orders had come in whilst I’d been away. The dream of running my own cake business full-time would have to remain a dream for a little longer. A soft sigh escaped my lips at that thought.
Most of my orders came through friends of friends and were cakes for kids’ birthdays, but after I created a website it had landed me one wedding cake order. I needed more orders like that.
The few orders I did get I could fit in around a “real job” which was a good t
hing because a “real job” meant money in the bank and food in the cupboards. But if I wanted to do it full-time, I needed to find more customers. A lot more customers. I just didn’t know where to find them. Yet.
With a resigned sigh, I logged on to the agency’s website. Scrolled through the listings of available jobs for that week.
A knock on the front door distracted me, and I quickly fired off an email asking the agency to forward my CV to any companies with vacancies they thought I would be suitable for, then closed my laptop.
Swinging the door open, I smiled when Jean appeared before me. My lovely—if not a little nosy—next door neighbour. She’d made friends with my mum as soon as we moved into the house when I was just a kid. And ever since my parents had died, Jean had kind of taken on the role of concerned grandmother.
“Kimberly, I saw the light on and was worried. I didn’t know if you were back yet or not.”
I leaned my hip against the doorjamb. “Yes, I’m back. No need to worry.”
Jean folded her hands together in front of her. Head tilted to one side and furrows of concern lined her forehead. “How did it go, love?”
I rocked my head from side to side, top lip curling up in answer. Jean meant well, but I didn’t want to rehash the whole story right then. And there wasn’t anything she could do. “It’s a long story. Why don’t I bring a cake around this weekend and I can tell you all about it over a slice and a cup of tea?”
“That sounds lovely. Give us a chance to catch up properly. And you must be exhausted what with all that travelling. Penny’s fine, though. I let her out this morning after feeding her.”
“Thanks for looking after her.”
“You’re welcome. Right then, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Bye, Jean.” I closed the door and locked it. She was right. I was exhausted. And a little sad that the highlight of my weekend would be cake and tea with my elderly neighbour. But I had no one to blame but myself. My friends were exactly where I’d left them when I moved out of my rented flat in Manchester after my parents died.
God, I missed my parents. And I was lonely. So lonely since I’d lost them and had shut everyone else out.
Wandering back into the living room, I was struck by the realisation that I wasn’t just surrounded by reminders of my parents—the entire room was no different than when my parents had been the ones living there.
My mum’s paperback thriller was still under the coffee table, never to be finished. Photographs lined the windowsill that looked out over the backyard. I picked up one of my mum when she was about my age and had just met my dad.
I’d inherited her pale complexion, but that was about it. She had fiery red hair to match her personality—she had to compensate for only being five foot two, she’d always said and that still made me smile. I guess I’d always assumed I took after my dad. After Vinnie. Had his almost-black hair and brown eyes, and at nearly half a foot taller than my mum, his height. My mum had been all curves whereas I was more long limbs and awkward feet. Even down to my too-long nose that I hated and my high cheekbones that made my cheeks look like a hamster storing food in them when I smiled.
Except if Vinnie wasn’t my real dad, I couldn’t take after him in looks and build, could I?
A knock on the front door startled me, and I wondered if Jean had forgotten to tell me something. But when I opened the door, it was Lucy on the doorstep. I tilted my head as I shook it. “Don’t tell me Leo sent you.” She grinned at me and I found it hard to be angry at her.
“Of course he did. He’s your brother, and he’s worried about you.”
I let out a huff. “I’m twenty-seven and perfectly capable of looking after myself. I told him not to worry.”
“And you think that’s gonna stop him worrying about you? Are you going to invite me in or leave me out here on the doorstep all day?”
“Sorry. Come in.” I swung the door open for her. And that’s when I saw the overnight bag hanging from her shoulder. I liked Lucy and had been gutted when she had split up with my brother in their last year of high school. Although I thought it was a bit weird they’d stayed friends afterwards. But I’d known her for as long as I could remember.
“I take it from the bag, you’re staying the night?”
“I thought we could have a girly night. Watch a chick flick, make some popcorn, drink a bottle of wine or three. And Tom’s having a poker night so…” She shrugged which I took to mean she’d rather not be at home for that.
And even weirder than Leo still being friends with Lucy was that he was also friends with her current boyfriend, Tom.
The idea of still being friends with John…it would be odd being friends with someone who knew what I looked like naked, had slept with. Okay, not for a long time because we’d been together for almost five years, but the last year? We’d pretty much turned into flatmates with our non-existent sex life. The six months following our split, I’d wanted to be single and then my parents had died…
And Beck was the first guy I’d slept with since then. And he couldn’t be more different from John.
“Kimberly?”
I’d totally spaced out and had no idea what Lucy had said. “Sorry. What?”
“You up for a girly night? I can go home if you’d prefer.”
I waved away her question. “Girly night sounds great.” It had been far too long since I’d had one of those.
The following morning, my head reminded me I was out of practice with girly nights. We’d polished off nearly two bottles of wine and ended up watching Bridget Jones’s Diary on DVD. It had been fun, but I was regretting it a little.
I rolled over onto my back staring at the ceiling as my stomach lurched in protest at the movement.
And I’d told her about Beck. Well, not everything. I hadn’t told her I’d slept with him. But she’d encouraged me to call him. I smiled at her enthusiasm and couldn’t help but wonder what Beck was up to. Wondered if he’d sorted whatever had come up at work that meant he couldn’t make the flight.
I wanted to call him, but every time I thought about doing it I kept thinking that it was only his business card he left. What if he’d just wanted to offer support to the poor girl who was scared of flying and her sob story of trying to find her biological father? What if it was only a pity message? Or worse—pity sex.
I growled at my own infuriating thoughts. Beck had been sweet that night. And I was turning it into something it wasn’t because I was scared if I rang him, he might not want to see me again. There was only one way to know for sure.
I climbed out of bed to find the business card I thought I’d left it in my trouser pocket, but my trousers weren’t in the bedroom. Hunted through my laundry hamper without finding them. Checked the bathroom floor but nope, not there either. I could have sworn I left them on the floor by my bed after having a shower when I got home. Making my way back into my room, I wondered if I’d put them in the suitcase. But when I checked, it was empty still.
Clearly I needed coffee to wake up and figure out where I’d left them. I headed for the kitchen after pulling on yoga pants and a hoodie. Froze in the doorway at the sound of the washing machine finishing its spin cycle.
She wouldn’t.
But then I saw the bright pink Post-It note on the breakfast bar.
K, put the washer on for you and gone to get breakfast supplies.
Be back soon, L
No, no, no, no. Why? Why would she do my washing? Christ, did anyone think I was capable of taking care of myself?
I squatted down in front of the washer and pulled open the door. Dragged out the wet clothes until I found the trousers. Slipped my fingers into the back pocket and came back out with a mushy pile of white paper. I dropped it onto the breakfast bar, separating the clumps out.
Pieces were smudged black with ink. The gold numbers faded, and all I could fit together were a zero and a seven. A three and an eight. That was it. Not even half of the number had survived. The pile of soggy paper
blurred before my eyes, and I shoved my feet into the trainers at the back door as I yanked it open.
Headed straight for the back lane without thinking about it. Because that was typical me. All hesitation and doubts, thoughts swinging one way then the other until it was too late.
I’d had so much time in Malta to call Beck. And yeah, I’d had my biological dad taking up most of my thoughts but still…five minutes to make a phone call or send a text.
My feet crunched over the gravel of the lane as I avoided the potholes filled with rainwater. Climbed over the small wall that divided the back lane from the canal and parked my butt on the damp moss-covered stones.
I’d decided to call Beck, and that wasn’t an option anymore.
Staring down into the murky water, I drifted off inside my head. A replay of my life. Where I spent so much time trying to decide what I should do that I ended up making a decision out of frustration. Like deciding to do A-levels in maths and computing because I was good at that shit, even if I didn’t particularly enjoy it. But it would look good when I applied for jobs.
I grabbed a handful of stones from the path and threw one into the canal. Watched it sink out of sight and the water settle again before throwing another.
My friends had all gone off to uni, seemingly confident in what they wanted to do, whereas I hadn’t had a clue except I didn’t want to go to university. Didn’t see the point if I had no particular career in mind. Ended up in some crappy admin job until the firm had closed down. Struggled to get another job until I started temping through the agency.
Making a job out of my love of baking hadn’t even occurred to me until after my parents had died. And I still worried I’d end up hating baking if I made it into a job. That the joy I got out of creating something would disappear somehow.
I threw the last stone into the canal and stood, brushing off my pants. But the thought of not being able to see Beck again was…depressing.
I might not be good at making decisions, but I hated having them taken from me.
