by Jane Green
“I feel that too.” Kit had listened, shocked at how similar they were, even though she has never felt the need to turn to the same substances. Perhaps because she married so young . . . perhaps Adam had been her savior. Possibly, had she not met him, had her first child by the time she was the same age as Annabel is now, she would have gone down a very different path.
“I wish I had this,” Annabel said, gesturing around her.
“What? ” Kit laughed. “You wish you had a tiny little house and were a single mother to two kids, struggling to keep your head above water? ”
“That’s not how I see it,” Annabel said. “Your house is beautiful. Small, but perfect. When you talk about your family I can see how much you love them. Your kids sound great. You even have an ex-husband who sounds really nice. You have a family. That’s what I meant.”
“I’m not sure my ex counts as my family anymore.”
“I think he does. I think once you’re family, you’re always family. But this is what I always wanted. Kids. A home that feels like this. Hopefully, a husband.”
Kit smiled indulgently. “You’re only twenty-eight. You have plenty of time. I think one of my greatest mistakes was marrying too young. Neither of us had lived. Neither of us knew what we wanted, or who we were going to become.”
“And who did you become? ”
Kit laughed. “He became a big-shot banker, and I became a mom who didn’t want to have this marriage where I never saw my husband, who was lonelier in my marriage than I have ever been since.”
“That’s hard. I understand the loneliness. I’ve been lonely my entire life.” Annabel’s voice softened as her eyes welled up.
“You don’t have to be lonely anymore.” Kit reached over and laid a hand gently on her arm. “You have a family now.”
Kit had been drinking; Annabel had not, sticking to cranberry juice and seltzer. Some time around midnight the two of them found themselves riffling through Kit’s closet, with Annabel trying on Kit’s clothes, Kit trying on her own clothes, showing off her wedding dress (still kept just in case Tory should ever decide to wear it on her own wedding day).
They got the giggles at one point, both of them laughing in exactly the same way, doubled over as if in pain, eyes scrunched shut while tears poured down their faces; and realizing they both laughed in exactly the same way only made them laugh more.
“This is what I always wanted,” Annabel said, lying on Kit’s bed long after midnight, next to a pile of clothes Kit insisted on giving her, both of them still chattering away, so excited to have found one another. “A sister.”
“I know.” Kit smiled, as emotion threatened to overwhelm her. “Me too.”
They stayed up until the early hours of the morning. Kit couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. Maybe an election night one time? But she remembered it hadn’t been fun. This was fun. More than fun. Exciting. Exhilarating. It felt as if she had found a limb she never realized was missing.
That’s what it is, she thought with a start. She makes me feel whole.
“Kids? Buck? Tory? ” she yells up the stairs.
“I hate her yelling up the stairs,” Adam says, turning to Annabel. “She used to do it when we were married and I kept telling her it drove me nuts.”
“Well, luckily for me I’m not married to you anymore and I don’t have to listen to you. Buck? Tory?” Kit yells even louder up the stairs and Adam groans and covers his ears.
“What is it, Mom?” Buckley yells back. “I’m on YouTube. Can’t it wait? ”
“No it can’t. I need you both down here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Oh God,” they all hear Tory mutter with a groan as she emerges from her bedroom in a sulk. “Probably Mom’s new boyfriend.”
“Wrong guess,” Annabel says brightly from the bottom of the stairs, and Tory’s interest is instantly piqued.
She peers down the stairs at this pretty young woman who sounds like Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter movies.
“Who are you? ” Tory says.
“This,” Kit says, “is your aunt.”
Chapter Sixteen
“What do you mean, we have an aunt?” Tory looks utterly confused, while Buckley looks like he couldn’t care less and just wants to get back to his computer.
“It’s a very long story,” Annabel says. “Kit? Do you want to start? ”
“Come on, guys,” says Kit, ushering them into the living room, “let’s sit down.”
“Aw, Mom,” Buckley whines. “I’m in the middle of something cool. That’s great that we have an aunt. Seriously.” He turns to Annabel. “Welcome to the family. Now can I go? ”
“Buckley!” Adam reprimands him. “Don’t speak to your mother like that.”
“Like what? ”
“With that attitude. Enough. Sit down.”
“Thanks, Adam, but it’s okay,” Kit says. “You can get back to your computer when we’ve finished.” She is momentarily thrown, because it is so nice to have someone tell her son to behave, so nice to not be the only one dealing with the kids, attempting to teach them manners, reprimanding them. It is so nice not to be the bad cop all the time.
“Okay, so I know you love Gigi, and I also know that you both know that Gigi wasn’t exactly . . .”
“Who’s Gigi? ” Annabel leans forward.
“Ginny.”
“Yeah. She refused to be called Grandma,” Tory explains. “So she decided it would be Gigi, as in GG, for Gorgeous Grandma.”
“Figures.” Annabel snorts.
Adam laughs. “Yeah, no surprises there.”
“So, kids, Gigi wasn’t the greatest mother to me, and I know you—”
“Yeah, Mom, we know. Just because she wasn’t the greatest mother, doesn’t mean she can’t be a great grandmother . . .” Buckley is clearly itching to get back to his computer.
“Even though,” adds Tory, “we hardly ever see her.”
“Yeah, but she sends great gifts.”
“That’s why we love her,” Tory says, grinning.
“Can you just let me get to the point? So, long after I was born, Gigi, it seems, had another baby.”
“That would be me.” Annabel raises a hand.
“Right, and neither of us knew about the other. Annabel was raised by her dad in England, and hasn’t even met Gigi, and, well, you know about me.”
Tory’s eyes grow big. “Wow! That is so cool. So how did you find out about each other? ”
“My father just told me. I didn’t know anything. I didn’t even know who Ginny was until recently, and when I Googled her, I found your mum’s wedding announcement in the Times, where it said she was Ginny’s daughter, so then I had to track down your mum.”
“So did you really come all the way from England to find us? ”
“That’s right.” Annabel nods. “Virgin economy all the way.”
“Pity you couldn’t get upgraded to first class.” Adam grins. “It’s really something.”
“Tell me about it. I tried. I was standing in line waiting for the cute guy to call me over, so I could tell him my story and charm him into an upgrade, and instead I get the battle-ax who barely even looks at me. I didn’t bother trying.”
“So then how exactly did you find my mom? ” Tory is transfixed.
“Well, first I tried to contact Gin—Gigi, but her maternal instincts weren’t kicking in that day. Or any other day. She didn’t want to know, so I turned to the Internet. I found something about Robert McClore giving a talk at a local bookstore, and they printed the press release online. They said for further information to contact Kit Hargrove. I thought, how many Kit Har groves can there be? So then I had the town, and I already had your dad’s name from the wedding announcement, so I Googled him and when I found he lived in Highfield too, I knew I had the right person.”
“That is so awesome! ” Tory breathes.
“It is kinda cool,” Buckley grudgingly concedes.
“Do
n’t you think Annabel looks like your mom? ” Adam asks, looking from one to the other.
“No!” Tory is adamant. “Annabel’s beautiful! Oh my God! I’m sorry, Mom, it’s just that you’re—well, you’re Mom. You just look like you. Anyway, Annabel has makeup and highlights, and she’s wearing clothes that a mom would never wear. She’s cool.”
“As it happens,” Kit says, “the shirt she’s wearing is mine.”
“Oh. Well, it doesn’t look as good on you, then.”
“Great.” Kit attempts a laugh. “Any more criticisms before I kill myself ? ”
“I think you’re beautiful.” Buckley shoots Tory a killer glance before getting up and giving his mom a kiss.
Once a mother’s boy, always a mother’s boy, thinks Kit, trying not to focus on the fact that Tory is right.
Look at Annabel. She is gorgeous—no two ways about it. Admittedly, she is twenty-eight, has had no children, has not been ravaged by the stresses and strains of marriage and motherhood. But even at twenty-eight, Kit did not look like this.
Annabel’s hair is long and wild, with copper and auburn highlights that whisper expensive hairdressers. Her makeup is subtle and understated; there is just enough chocolatey eyeliner to emphasize her large hazel eyes, just enough shimmery blush to bring out her cheekbones, just enough plummy gloss to show off her full, wide lips.
She is slim and tall. Tight dark jeans flare over beaten-up tan leather boots, stacked heels giving her even more height than she has already. A shirt of Kit’s, which always looked awful on Kit, looks amazing on Annabel, half tucked in, with a cluster of bohemian beaded necklaces around her neck. It is a style that is mismatched, but ineffably cool. And the accent! That cut-glass proper British accent! No wonder Tory is so mesmerized.
Kit has never looked this good in her whole life.
Even Adam can’t seem to take his eyes off her, which, Kit tells herself, only bothers her because Annabel’s twenty-eight. Twenty-eight, for God’s sake! At forty-two, Adam is almost old enough to be her father.
“I think you’re beautiful too,” Adam says quietly, and as Kit looks up, feeling as if she may be about to cry, she realizes he’s saying it to her.
“Thank you.” She smiles, and this time it’s genuine.
Later on, when Adam has left and the children are watching TV, Kit and Annabel clear up the plates after dinner, chatting quietly.
“I don’t blame Ginny—Mum—whatever it is I’m supposed to call her,” Annabel says. “Dad says he kept in touch with her, would keep her updated as to what I was doing; and let me tell you, for a long time what I was doing wasn’t pretty.”
“What do you mean? ” Kit puts down the sponge, takes the kettle off the stove and pours hot water into two mugs, letting the camomile tea bags steep while she goes to sit at the table.
“I had a rough few years. I fell in with a bad crowd after university, and there were a lot of drugs, a lot of bad stuff.”
“What kind of drugs? ”
“You name it, I did it.”
“Heroin? ” Kit breathes, hoping the answer is no.
“Among other things. Don’t worry”—she pushes up her sleeves and shows off her arms—“no track marks. I didn’t inject. Mostly, it was crack. Smoking it. I know it’s hard to imagine this, looking at me today, but for a long time I looked like Amy Wine-house. But without the beehive, obviously.”
“Ouch. That’s not good.”
“No. It wasn’t. Dad paid for rehab twice, but I didn’t want to be there, didn’t have any willingness, didn’t want to change; and unless you want it badly enough, it doesn’t work. I hadn’t reached my bottom.”
“What does that mean? ”
Annabel laughs. “It’s a recovery term. It means you’re not ready to get better until you’ve reached rock bottom.”
“Okay.” Kit is awkward. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about . . . well . . . drugs and alcohol, or . . . AA, I guess. This is all new for me.”
“And I know so much about it that I assume everyone is as familiar with the terminology as I am,” she explains.
“So what was your rock bottom? ”
“An overdose.” Annabel shrugs, as if she was saying, a headache. “They found me overdosed on a park bench on Primrose Hill.”
“They? ”
“Someone walking their dog. I’d been there all night. I know I’d been in Camden, scoring, and I don’t remember much else. I was rushed to hospital, and something changed for me: I knew that I was going to die if I carried on, and all of a sudden I didn’t want to die.”
There is silence as Kit digests what Annabel is saying.
“It’s odd,” Annabel says, looking at Kit curiously. “You don’t have the addict gene. I can tell.”
“What do you mean? ”
“I think we are either born addicts, or not. I don’t think my upbringing led me to that life—God knows my father did an amazing job—but I would have fallen into alcohol or drugs, or both, no matter what my family life had been. That was probably the biggest lesson I learned in rehab. I’d spent my whole life being a victim, thinking that if I’d had a mother, a normal family, I wouldn’t be the person I was, wouldn’t need to drink or do drugs to numb the pain, but rehab taught me that it has nothing to do with anyone else, that sitting on the pity pot just leads to more abusive behaviors. The only person who can take responsibility for my own life, is me.”
“So what did you mean about the addict gene? ”
“That you don’t have it. But I bet our mum does.”
“Why? ”>
Annabel shrugs. “It tends to run in families. Addicts beget addicts, all that stuff. My dad doesn’t have it, so my guess would be Ginny does. Even if she hasn’t ever acted out, she’s still got the gene.”
“Okay, so it’s not like I’ve spent a ton of time with her, but I would have noticed if she were drinking a lot, or,” Kit splutters into laughter at the thought, “snorting cocaine.”
Annabel smiles. “It doesn’t have to be drugs or alcohol. Addicts can be addictive, or compulsive, around pretty much anything. A lot of recovering alcoholics turn to sugar once they give up alcohol, using sugar in exactly the same way, to numb the pain.”
“Yeah. Not so much. Mom’s been a size two ever since I can remember. She’s totally obsessed with her figure and eats almost nothing. And she exercises like a crazy woman.”
“That’s something. They call it exercise bulimia. It’s when you use exercise as a form of control. That could absolutely be her addiction. It can also be sex . . .”
“She has gone through five husbands. And I think she’s found her sixth. Do you think that counts? ”
“You think ? ” Annabel laughs. “And of course there is my favorite addiction of all. Shopping.”
“Aha! Now I think you’ve got it. That’s our mother all over.”
“Figures. I haven’t met her, but in every picture I’ve ever seen of her, and God knows there are enough of them all over the Internet, she looks like she’s seriously high-maintenance.”
“It’s true. She uses Chanel like I use Old Navy.”
“That’s what it looked like from the photos. Some of those diamonds are so huge I thought they must be fake. But they’re not, are they? ”
“Fake? On Mother? Good Lord, no! ” Kit’s hand flies to her chest, feigning horror. “Seriously, I look in the mirror and wonder how on earth she could have had me. No wonder she didn’t want anything to do with me. The very fact of my naturally curly hair was probably enough to send her running.”
“Oh God! ” Annabel giggles. “I know this is awful, but it’s so nice to be able to talk about these things, and with you! Someone who’s been through exactly the same thing. Anyway, I love your hair.”
“Right. Because you’d just love to trade your fantastic mane for my untamed mess.”
“You should let me dry it for you,” Annabel says. “I’m an ace at straightening.”
“Maybe I will.”<
br />
And maybe she should. Maybe this is what she needs, a breath of fresh air, someone who can take her in hand and help her realize her full potential. Not that she’s ever wanted to do this before, but she saw the way Adam looked at Annabel, knows that if she put just a little bit of effort into her appearance, if she could actually be bothered to do more than tug a brush through her hair before shoving it back in a ponytail, it might be . . . fun.
The phone rings, disturbing Kit’s inner fantasy of a Cinderella-like transformation.
“It’s me.”
“Charlie? What’s the matter? You sound awful.”
“I . . .” and Charlie breaks into tears.
“Charlie? What is it? What’s going on? ” Kit’s heart leaps in her chest. “Is it the kids? Has something happened? ”
“No! Everything’s fine. I mean, the kids are fine. Keith is fine. Kit, we’ve lost everything.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about? ”
“Keith’s lost his job. We’re in serious debt, and the bank is about to foreclose on the house.”
“Oh shit.”
There’s silence as Charlie breaks into a fresh round of tears.
“Can I come over? ” she asks eventually, when she has gathered herself.
“Come over right now.”
Annabel looks at Kit with concern. “Is everything okay? ”
“Doesn’t sound like it. That was Charlie, my best friend.” She notes Annabel’s raised eyebrow and adds, “It’s a she. Charlie’s short for Charlotte. Her husband works in finance. Or . . . did.”
“Oh dear. A Wall Street casualty? ”
“It seems so. God, I feel awful. You keep waiting to hear of someone who’s been affected, but you don’t think it’s going to happen to your best friend.”
“Is it really bad? ”
“I don’t know. She says he’s lost his job and they’re about to lose their house.”
“Oh God.”
“She’s coming over. I guess we’ll find out more soon.”
The back door swings open. “Hello? ”
“Who’s that? ”
“It’s Edie. My neighbor. Hi, Edie!” she shouts. “We’re in here.”
