by Liz Bower
Beck didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow at me. Maybe Tony had meant Beck too. Oh well, too late now. “I thought it was weird that he asked me that, but not unheard of. Anyway, on Friday I was working on their account and something didn’t seem right. But when I got into work today, Tony left me a note saying he’d taken care of it. Except the bank accounts don’t match, and I don’t know when someone could have racked up ten hours’ worth of work for them. It’s just…something doesn’t seem right, and I thought I should bring it up…”
My words trailed off as I ran out of explanation and the way Beck was looking at me so intensely. His jaw was tense and he wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Have you brought this up with Tony?”
“No,” I said as I shook my head. Straightening his keyboard, he glanced at the monitor beside him. Finally, he looked back my way.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. This is the first account you’ve worked on. Perhaps Tony should have explained the process to you better. But I’ll take a look at their records with us. Don’t worry about it, just do what Tony told you to.”
Beck picked up his pen and jotted something down on the papers on his desk. That was it? He wasn’t at all concerned? A quick pat on the head for me and basically saying I didn’t know what I was doing?
I waited for him to say something else, but he remained focused on whatever he was writing. My mouth dropped open to say something but then shut again. He’d pretty much dismissed me. What else was there to say?
I pushed myself up out of the chair and stood staring at Beck for a moment, but his head never lifted from over his desk. Turning away from him, I headed for the door. As my hand closed around the handle I hesitated when he cleared his throat.
“Oh, and Kimberly?”
I glanced over my shoulder at him.
“Best not to mention this little chat to Tony. Okay?”
Swallowing down the words I really wanted to hurl at him, I nodded instead. “Of course.”
Yanking the door open, I wondered if anyone in the office wasn’t keeping something from someone else. The childish part of me wanted to slam the door behind me. Instead, I closed it quietly and headed back towards my desk.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The rest of that day in the office, I kept replaying Beck’s words. And got more and more pissed off with him. I’d done what anyone in my position should have done—if you thought something was suspicious, you reported it.
So, maybe he didn’t think it was suspicious behaviour. That didn’t mean he had to act that way.
At five o’clock on the dot, I grabbed my coat off the back of my chair, slung my handbag over my shoulder, and shot Jaz a quick wave as I hurried past his desk. The journey home was spent toying with the idea of quitting or not. It was only supposed to have been a one-month contract anyway. I’d be no worse off.
Once home, I curled up on the sofa, laptop on my knee and logged into the agency’s website. Maybe I could find another company to work for. That would solve Beck’s problem of me being at the office.
And right then, my problem too. Because seeing Beck again at the office was the last thing I wanted.
Scrolling through the current contract listings, I got distracted when my mobile buzzed, vibrating against the coffee table. Beck’s name flashed across the screen, and I hesitated before grabbing the phone.
Hey. Still really busy at work but thought maybe we could do something this weekend?
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I read the message again. No, “Sorry for disappearing on you.” No, “Sorry I was an arse at the office.” Nothing. I dropped the phone on the cushion next to me and thought about answering him later. Maybe.
Eventually, I did reply. Told him I wasn’t sure of my plans for the weekend but I’d let him know.
I hadn’t heard from him since. And it was Friday already. Hadn’t seen him in the office either.
My plans for the weekend currently consisted of nothing. And I kind of regretted sending that text. I should have spoken to him and told him I wasn’t happy. Instead, my texts were being ignored and I felt frustrated.
Wishing Jaz a happy weekend, I trudged out of the office. Friday night. Alone. The prospect was depressing. The thought of cooking for one even more so.
As I crossed the street, there was a wooden sign pointing passers-by down towards the cobbled courtyard and the restaurant Beck had taken me to. They did takeout meals to reheat at home. That would solve one of my problems for the night.
So I headed down the alley that led to the courtyard, and through the open door of the restaurant. Even though it was only early the place was still busy. Joining the queue at the takeout counter I glanced around the few tables that were occupied.
Then did what would have been a comical double take if the blood hadn’t rushed from my head so swiftly that a wave of dizziness had me grabbing hold of the nearest thing I could wrap my hands around. Which happened to be the chair of a diner who looked up at me eyebrows raised in question.
“S-sorry.” I managed to mumble out before staggering towards the door. Leaning against the wall I dragged in a deep breath. Then another.
Busy with work. Well, he’d certainly looked busy. With something. With someone. From the smile plastered across his face, it looked like anything but work.
Didn’t help that she was gorgeous. Midnight dark hair in a pixie cut that I could never pull off. A piercing at the top of her ear had glinted when it caught the light. Dark eyes emphasised by black eye liner and the jut of her pointy chin gave her a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe when she glanced in my direction.
Then her slender fingers had wrapped around his arm where it rested on the table. Their dark heads bent close together, candlelight casting shadows over their faces. It had looked intimate. And who the hell was she?
Once again, I found myself questioning the trust I had placed in Beck. How many times would I wonder the same thing? But the weekend we’d spent together…
You couldn’t fake a connection like that, could you? It had been about more than just great sex. Beck had intimated it was. Or maybe it had only been that way for me.
“Kimberly?”
Lifting my head from where it rested against the wall, I stared straight into Beck’s chocolate coloured eyes. They were tight, little lines creasing the edges with some emotion. Guilt? Worry? I wasn’t sure.
“Why didn’t you come over when you saw me?”
That wasn’t what I’d expected him to say, and my mind went blank. I’d expected an excuse, and I dropped my gaze from his. “I…er…didn’t want to interrupt.” His hand grazed mine then twisted our fingers together.
“You wouldn’t have been. She’s a client. It’s a business meeting. I would have introduced you if you’d stuck around long enough.”
Flicking my gaze back to his he looked sincere. “Sorry. You seemed busy and I…forgot my wallet at the office.” Oh, a total lie, but I felt stupid. My brain automatically going for the obvious conclusion.
“I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
I nodded and he brushed a chaste kiss across my lips before disappearing back into the restaurant. Leaning my head back against the wall, I closed my eyes briefly. With a deep breath, I pushed myself off the wall and headed in the direction of home.
With too much time and nothing to occupy myself with on the train, thoughts kept swirling through my head. How many times had I doubted Beck? Every time there was an innocent explanation. The more I thought about it the more the conclusion that it was my problem seemed like the answer. At some point, I had to trust him. Because if I didn’t? What chance did our relationship stand?
The sprawl of the city blurred past me as I stared blindly out of the train window. When had I lost the ability to trust? With a sigh, the answer came easily enough. If my own mum could keep the truth from me…why wouldn’t everyone else?
I leaned my forehead against the cold glass of the window, breath fogging up the patch in front of my mout
h. In a weird way—if I took myself out of the equation—I could rationalise the reasons my mum might have done it. To stop me from being hurt. Stop me from knowing that maybe my biological dad didn’t want me. There could be a million good reasons she never told me the truth. Including that my dad—Vinnie—had, for all intents and purposes, been my dad even if we didn’t share DNA. So why rock the boat?
Even understanding all that, I kept circling back to the same point. Regardless, she should have told me, and it hurt that she hadn’t.
“Next stop Marsdon. The train is now approaching Marsdon station.”
The announcement drew me out of my own thoughts, and I grabbed my handbag from between my feet. Made my way to the doors.
From the train station, it was only a short stroll along the canal side to home. The murky brown water hiding its own secrets. Someone had abandoned a shopping trolley, the handle still poking out above the surface.
Wound my way through the gap in the trees, the branches bare and lonely-looking. Down the potholed dirt back lane towards the four cottages at the end. My parents’ house—mine now—was the last of the row. As I passed Jean’s cottage I hoped she wasn’t curtain twitching, not in the mood for idle chit chat.
I jumped at a blur of movement along the wall. Then let out a shaky laugh as Penny swished her tail at me as she strutted past me on top of the wall.
Letting myself inside the house, the quiet was overwhelming. I closed the door and slowly climbed the stairs. Standing in front of the closed bedroom door I wrapped my fingers around the handle. I hadn’t stepped foot inside my parents’ room since I’d got back from Malta. Only once before then, after they’d died, and Leo had been there.
Twisting the knob, the door opened a few inches and I took a deep breath. Took a step inside and glanced around. My mum’s hair products and make-up were still out on the dressing table where she’d left them. Pyjamas still folded neatly on the pillows. It looked like they could come home at any moment. Like they were still alive. My eyes stung at the thought, and I sank down onto the edge of their bed, stroking my hand across the duvet cover.
But they weren’t coming home ever again. And maybe it was time I came to terms with that.
Because no matter why they had kept the truth from me, or what answers I tried to find, it wouldn’t change reality—they were never coming back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Leaving my parents’ room to change into something more comfortable, I left their door open. I tied my hair back into a bun as I thought about calling my brother. Instead, I decided I’d just keep anything he might want in the garage and he could look through it next time he was back in England. We’d already sorted through Mum’s office before the funeral to find the insurance policies and documents needed to inform everyone of their deaths, but neither of us had been ready to go through their personal belongings back then. I still wasn’t sure I was ready.
Armed with a roll of bin bags, I wandered back into their room. Most of their belongings could go to the charity shop. Everything else would probably end up in the garage. I started with the chest of drawers as I thought their clothes would be the easiest things to deal with. Faced with the neatly folded garments inside, I was wrong as the faint smell of my mum’s perfume still clung to them. A smell that invoked memories of hugs and laughter. Each item I placed in the bag made my eyes sting a little more, and it was so much harder than I’d thought it would be, even after all the time that had passed. Each piece of clothing was like saying goodbye over and over.
When I’d filled two bags, I took a deep breath and turned slowly in a circle. I still had the wardrobe, bedside tables, and my mum’s dresser to go. Dresser first. Her good jewellery I put to one side to add to my own later. The other pieces that I didn’t want I put aside to see if Jean might want them. A pile of photos from when my brother and I were kids stopped me short. We were playing on the beach. We’d gone to…Wales I think. Mum stood between us; Leo and I knelt proudly before the sand castles we had each built.
Tears pricked behind my eyes as memories of that day hit me. Getting ice cream cones on the beach and dripping them down ourselves. Strolling home sharing a bag of chips. God, I missed them both so much. Missed being able to pop ‘round and see my brother.
For the hundredth time, I wondered if we would be better off selling the house so I could start somewhere new. It hadn’t made sense to carry on paying rent on my flat in Manchester when my parents’ house sat empty and mortgage-free. But I hoped that one day the memories within these walls would make me smile rather than bring me grief and remind me of my loss.
I put the photos with the pile of jewellery and carried on. It felt wrong to be going through their things, but I couldn’t leave the room as a shrine to them forever. I needed closure of some sort. My biological father wasn’t alive, and my mum couldn’t explain why she’d kept the truth from me. It was time to try and put it all in the past because I couldn’t change anything that happened. I needed to start living my life again.
I pulled out a black notebook from the drawer and flicked through the pages. Skim reading a page before I flipped it shut when I realised it was my mum’s diary. Reading that would be wrong. Putting it to one side, I twisted around on the stool surveying the disarray the room was in. Maybe I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do this. But then when would I ever be?
Turning to close the drawer my hand froze in mid-air when I saw a letter stuck up, half slipped down the back to the drawer underneath. Carefully I tugged it out.
The handwriting was unfamiliar, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was the blue airmail sticker and postage stamp that did on the slightly age-yellowed envelope. A sand coloured building with a green doorway. But it was the word in red writing down the side that I couldn’t tear my focus from.
One single word.
Malta.
I dropped the envelope as though it was a hot baking tray scalding my fingers. It could be from anybody, I told myself. But there was only one person I knew who lived in Malta. It had to be from him. Victor. My biological dad.
Tracing a finger across my mum’s name, the lines of the address, the letter felt like my own personal Pandora’s box. If I read it? Well, I couldn’t unread it. Yet knowing it was there…how could I not read it?
It might be about me. It might not. It could be Victor writing to say he wanted nothing to do with me. Holding the envelope in both hands, I stared at it as I debated what I should do. Whatever was inside was quite thick. Too thick for a simple rejection letter? I flipped it over and the flap of the envelope was tucked inside. All I’d have to do was slip the flap out and read it.
Instead, I dropped the envelope back on the dressing table and paced over to the window. I knew I’d end up reading it. I just wasn’t prepared for what it might reveal. But it couldn’t be worse than the scenarios I was making up in my head though, surely? Was anything ever as bad as you built it up to be in your head?
Worst-case scenario? My biological dad didn’t want me. What was I losing out on? I’d never known him. Would never know him. But I couldn’t lose something I’d never had. Yeah, it might hurt, but I could live with that because I’d had Vinnie.
Wandering back over to the desk, I stared at the envelope one last time. Sat back down on the stool and picked it up. Slipped the flap out and pulled out several pieces of folded paper from inside. I opened them out flat on the top of the dresser and started to read the neat handwriting. Read it with disbelief.
Halfway through the letter, I looked up to stare blankly at the wall in front of me. It was all a mix-up? The person who had written the letter joked about remembering the mix-up at the hospital with the names of the fathers on the birth certificate. How she couldn’t believe her daughter—also called Kimberly—was turning twenty-one. How long ago was this letter sent? And I wasn’t seeing the funny side of it. They had found the incorrect birth certificate and had wanted to contact my mum again to catch up with her. Somehow the
hospital had switched the father’s names for me and this other Kimberly? I didn’t understand, so I carried on reading the rest of the letter hoping it would shed some light on the situation.
As I did, guilt and shame washed over me for ever doubting my mum. And my dad. My real dad—Vinnie. Victor wasn’t my biological dad. He was the father of the other Kimberly the letter mentioned.
But I was mortified at the thought that I could have turned up on this man’s doorstep unannounced, proclaiming to be his daughter. The birth certificate I had found in my mum’s office with Victor Hardacre’s name on it—that had spurred me to go to Malta in the first place—had the wrong father’s name on it.
There had to be another birth certificate for me somewhere—the correct one stating that Vinnie was indeed my biological dad. I dropped the letter. If my real birth certificate was here, where was it? Not in mum’s office. It had to be in here. With my brother’s probably.
I yanked open the rest of the drawers in the dresser, but they were filled with underwear. My gaze landed on the bedside table. It felt like an invasion of my mum’s privacy going through it, but I had to find it. Hold the truth in my hands.
Dropping to my knees beside the bed, I pulled open the drawer. Inside I removed a small suede photo album off the top of the items cluttering the drawer. A scrapbook that when I flicked through it saw it contained memories of our family over the years but not what I was looking for. I dug around to the bottom of the drawer. Ticket stubs to shows and places we’d visited. Everything except what I was looking for.
I rolled over until my arse hit the carpet and pulled my knees up to my chest. Where else would she keep it? The wardrobe doors were still open and there was a pile of shoe boxes in the bottom of it. I crawled my way over to it. Pulled the lid off the top one then threw the box to the floor when there was only a pair of shoes inside. Moved on to the next box, and then the next. I was beginning to think I was wasting my time, or you know, going crazy.
