Sitting beneath the photograph was a small scrap of lined paper, torn from something larger. There was no need for Lucy to read the words; they were etched in her mind, imprinted, branded on her subconscious, allowing for perfect recall whenever the mood took her. The words, written in a social worker’s unremarkable script, were these:
No forwarding address is to be given and we ask that they do not make contact in the weeks leading up to full adoption, unless it is absolutely critical, and only then via the relevant agency.
It still hurt now, after all these years, that those in power, the adults she had had no option other than to trust, had made certain that any avenue that might lead to her changing her mind was closed off.
She knew that if things had been different, it was quite possible that she would now be in possession of a box of photographs, snapshots of her daughter’s world. A precis of Bella’s history might sit in Lucy’s hands, maybe even regular updates, the odd letter, and that would have been something wonderful! As it was, she had nothing of her baby girl, and neither, she suspected, did Bella have anything of her birth mother, except perhaps a host of conjured images based on nothing more than her imagination.
She handed the photograph to Jonah and watched as he squinted at the adorable little face of her daughter. ‘Oh my.’ He swallowed, looking at the child his wife had given birth to. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must have been giving her up, Lucy. Can’t imagine what it was like for you when you were so young.’
Very carefully, Lucy extracted a single tiny pink knitted sock and placed it in the palm of her hand. She inhaled its scent and felt its texture against her face. This little sock was more precious than any she had knitted. More precious than anything else she owned. It had been in contact with Bella’s skin, had covered her tiny toes until Lucy had stolen it, hiding it in her palm, understanding even in the storm of emotional turmoil in which she sat that it would be a thing to hold dear, more precious than gold. She inhaled the scent again, picturing her daughter’s minute, perfect foot inside its confines.
‘This was Bella’s.’ She smiled, handing it to Jonah, who gently took it. As if it was a thing too delicate to risk touching, he cupped his palms and held it in them, cradling it and keeping it safe. His deep sigh of sadness filled the room.
‘Every birthday, I wonder if she thinks about me. I picture her mum making her a cake and putting balloons by a big stack of presents.’ She smiled at Camille. ‘Or worse, I think she might be with a mum who doesn’t bother celebrating her birthday, and that fills me with a cold sadness and a desperate longing to give her a nice day. Christmas is the same. I wonder who she spends it with, and if she is happy. Maybe she dozes the afternoon away in a comfortable chair, watching the same movie as me on TV.’
Camille sniffed and Jonah made a strangled sound. She looked up to see him crying for the second time that evening. Finally, she pulled a thick white envelope from the basket. Taking the sock from his palms and returning it to the tissue nest, she handed the envelope to him.
‘Every year, on her birthday, I draw a kiss – one single large kiss – and then I put the date in the corner and pop it in this envelope. I say out loud, “Happy birthday, Bella. Happy birthday, darling.” And then I pop it in here. I sometimes think that one day, I might be able to give her all these birthday kisses that I have saved up for her. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing?’
‘How . . . how many are there?’ he managed, running his finger through the little white cluster of paper squares.
‘Twenty-four.’ She bit her lip and smiled. ‘There are twenty-four of them.’
‘I’m so sorry, Lucy. Sorry I reacted how I did. I understand now how hard it was for you to keep that secret and how brave you were to break it. You are so brave.’
‘I won’t ever recover from the fact that I gave my baby away, never. I spoke to Mum about it only recently, after I had told you, and I can see that she thought it was for the best. She believed that anything else would have thrown up so many challenges that I was ill-equipped to handle. I get it much more now, how it would have affected my life.’ She cast a glance at Camille, hoping not to frighten her. ‘But I long for my baby. I ache for her.’ She ran her fingers over the piles of knitted clothes.
‘I feel . . . I feel very lucky to have you and Dad to support me right now.’ Camille cried and hugged her knees to her chest.
Jonah dropped to the floor and held his child. ‘And you have got us, Cam. Always. You are not alone.’ He kissed her scalp.
‘You are never alone once you become a mum,’ Lucy said softly, ‘and even though I didn’t get to raise Bella, I have kept her with me every day, carried her here.’ She touched her shaking fingers to her chest. ‘I think of her all the time. I see her little fingers gripped around mine as she slept, as if I could keep her safe, but I knew I couldn’t. I knew my time with her was nearly up and it took all of my strength not to pick her up, run out of the door and keep running. But I was sixteen, a child in so many ways. Still at school, and in those days my mum’s word was the law. I believed she knew best, and I now think that is probably true. How would I have managed? What would I have done? I have to believe that, otherwise it makes everything pointless and that is too hard for me to even consider. But things will be different for you, Cam. You are going to be a great mum and we are going to be here to help you.’
Jonah stood up and blew his nose. ‘I think this evening is a cause for celebration.’ He dried his eyes and walked to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of champagne. ‘Only juice for you, Cam, but don’t worry – Lucy and I can celebrate enough for the three of us.’
Camille picked up one of the bundles of knitted baby clothes and handed it to Lucy to put back in the hamper. ‘No!’ Lucy shook her head and placed her hand over the basket.
‘Oh!’ Camille looked a little taken aback. ‘I’m sorry I touched them; I thought—’
‘No, darling, that’s not what I mean. I have spent hours and hours making these clothes, poring over every stitch, and there is no point in keeping them wrapped in tissue and shut away, not any more. I don’t want them to languish in this box, gathering dust. I want you to take them for your son. I want you to let him wear them and make sure he knows that they were made by me, with love.’
Camille held the beautiful, delicate matinee coats against her chest. ‘Oh! Ils sont si beaux! Thank you, my stepmum. Thank you.’
Lucy woke to a burst of winter sunshine dappling the bedroom ceiling through the trees.
‘Good morning, Mrs Carpenter.’ Jonah was propped on his elbow, watching her.
‘How long have you been awake?’ she asked, sleepily.
‘About eight hours.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ She batted at him. ‘I love waking up with you. I’d forgotten just how much.’
‘Ditto. I’ve missed you, Lucy. I never want to feel like that again.’ He ran his thumb over the inside of her arm.
‘Me either,’ she agreed. Lucy sat up in the bed and gasped, as if a sudden thought had occurred.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘I’ve just realised that I’m going to be waking up with a grandpa very soon!’ She pulled a face at him.
‘And me with a granny! Who’d have thought?’ He laughed.
‘I am not going to be just any old granny. I’m going to be the best granny on the planet,’ she stated, muffling her sadness at the fact that she might well be skipping motherhood. She was going to be a granny, something that in recent times had felt beyond her reach.
‘I think you might be right.’ He smiled.
‘In fact, I am going to start today.’ She jumped out of bed and grabbed her silk robe from the back of the door, fastening it around her waist.
‘Oh God, what have you got planned?’ He grimaced.
‘We are going to empty out that bloody study of yours and make a nursery for our grandson.’ When she turned back to the bed, Jonah had thrown the duvet over his head, as if he could hide fro
m her suggestion.
‘And don’t think you can escape by hiding in bed – you know me better than that!’ she called from the doorway.
‘I do.’ He peeked out from beneath the covers. ‘I do know you better than that.’
She smiled at him over her shoulder, feeling a wonderful surge of optimism about their future.
I thought long and hard about what my mum said, about there being agencies that you might have contacted, wanting to get in touch, and even the thought of this fills me with such a burst of happiness it is quite hard to describe. It feels like the night before Christmas when everything you have wished for might come true. Equally, I have considered the thought that you might not have registered with them and I would understand this too. As hard as it would be for me, I would accept it.
Oh, Bella. I know nothing about you, and the chance to know something, anything at all, would be more than I have any right to hope for, and yet it would fill the rest of my days with happiness! Any snippet, no matter how small, would for me be a big thing. Are you still called Bella or did your parents give you a new name? Did your eyes stay blue? Do you still have a button nose? Have you been happy? What’s your favourite colour? What was your favourite subject at school? Do you play an instrument? Do you have an accent? Do you have brothers and sisters? What’s your favourite food? The list of questions I have for you is long and always growing. My thirst to know all about your life could never be sated. I don’t want to interrupt your life or cause you any pain or a single moment of worry. I wish for you nothing but happiness and good, good things. I wonder if you even know about me? I shall stop writing now and get these ramblings of mine sealed and sent off. And then the waiting game will begin. Strangely, writing down these thoughts, ideas and my innermost feelings has helped me feel close to you. Even though we are in one sense strangers, I am still your mum. I am your mum! And that one fact fills me with more pride than you could ever know.
With love,
Lucy
X
TWENTY-ONE
With Camille’s latest scan picture framed and resting on the chest of drawers, Lucy covered the whole thing with a greying dust sheet before dipping the roller into the pale blue paint and climbing the stepladder to better reach the ceiling.
‘This is looking great!’ Camille clapped her hands. ‘I love it!’
‘Wait until I add the clouds; it’s going to look awesome.’ She smiled, enjoying being part of the transformation of the room from a dusty office to the baby’s very own space, trying to keep at bay the thought that this room and this design had always been destined for her baby. The plan was for Camille and the baby to stay with them until she had a clearer view of what came next. She and Jonah had decided that while it was tempting to scoop Camille and her baby up and keep them close, it wouldn’t be the best thing to help Camille grow into the woman she needed to become. They would instead parent Cam from a safe distance, ready to catch her if ever she fell.
‘What do you think of Nelson as a name?’ Camille asked, as she dipped the narrow brush into the white gloss and continued to tackle the woodwork.
Lucy spat her laughter.
‘Okay, we’ll take that as a no. What about Hudson?’ Camille suggested.
‘As in the river?’ Lucy asked.
‘Oh yes, good point.’ Camille was quiet for a second or two. ‘How about Chester?’
‘Are you determined to name this child after a monument or a river or a place? Why can’t you go for an ordinary but gorgeous name?’ she suggested.
‘Like what?’ Camille stared at her.
‘I don’t know, Cam. How about Jonah?’
‘Oh God, no!’ The girl pulled a face of disapproval.
‘How about Jonah what?’ Her husband poked his head in from the landing. And this time they both laughed.
‘We’re just thinking of names, darling.’ Lucy smiled sweetly at him.
‘Oh, I rather like Hector,’ he suggested.
‘Hector?’ they both shrieked.
‘Yes! That was my grandfather’s name and he was a fine man.’ Jonah defended his choice.
‘Think I prefer Nelson,’ Lucy whispered.
‘What was that?’ Jonah cupped his hand over his ear.
‘Nothing, darling!’ She and Camille laughed once again.
‘Well, I can see I am being ganged up on. I shall leave you two to it.’ He smiled at his wife with a look of sheer delight and left the room.
‘I think because he now understands how crappy things were for you when you were pregnant, that’s why he’s being so great with me. I know he loves me and I don’t think he wants me to go through anything similar.’ Camille spoke to the wall as she painted.
‘He does love you, very much,’ she confirmed. ‘Have you thought any more about telling Dex?’ She broached the subject, which was still a little thorny.
Camille sighed. ‘I think about it all the time. I don’t know what to do. I want him to know because I think he has a right to, but I don’t want to ruin his time in New York, this one chance he’s got to do something that he has always wanted to do. In fact, I’ve stopped texting and emailing him. It felt too odd – asking about the weather and what he’s had for lunch when I am sitting here like this.’ She pointed at her stomach. ‘I think it’s probably easier if I just let him drift away. And then tell him in the future, maybe, when things are calmer.’
‘But what about what Dex wants? What about if he wants you and you are not giving him that chance? Have you thought about that?’ she urged.
Camille gave a small, resigned smile that was heartbreaking to see. ‘Plus . . .’
‘Plus what?’ Lucy stopped painting and looked at her stepdaughter.
‘Plus, I don’t want him to be with me because he feels he should be, out of duty or because he feels guilty. I want him to be with me because he loves me, and once he knows about the baby I won’t be able to tell which it is. And there is always the chance that he will just ignore me and tell me to get on with it. What did Bella’s dad do when you told him?’
Lucy pictured Scott and briefly closed her eyes. ‘I . . . I never told him.’
Camille whipped around. ‘What, never? Are you saying he doesn’t know?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘Wow! I hadn’t thought about not telling Dex at all – I was trying to work out how and when – but if you think that’s best—’
‘No, Camille. No, I don’t think that it’s best at all.’ She shook her head and climbed down the stepladder to sit close to the girl. ‘I can tell you hand on heart that it was a mistake. He did have a right to know; I should have told him. Not because I wanted anything from him, not even a relationship. We were just kids who found comfort in each other – whatever we shared had truly run its course. But I can see now that not telling him was disingenuous.’ She bit her lip as she acknowledged this truth.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Camille promised, as she resumed her painting.
A fortnight later the grand celebration for the new nursery and combined baby shower was in full swing. Music filled the house as the playlist shuffled between her favourite eighties pop and Jonah’s preferred soft rock.
‘This poor baby is going to have no taste in music,’ Camille moaned, as she cradled her bump.
‘Don’t worry about that, darling,’ Jan reassured her. ‘My husband played nothing but Carly Simon during both my pregnancies and neither of my girls has ever favoured the music.’
‘Who’s he?’ Fay wrinkled her nose.
‘See what I mean?’ Jan tutted and rolled her eyes.
Lucy could see and feel the seismic shift between her and her mum. Gone were the staccato conversations, the nervous suggestions, the feeling that they were walking on eggshells and the self-conscious awkward embraces that had plagued every arrival and departure for as long as she could remember. Jan now looked at her in the way she did Fay, with ease. It was a blessed relief.
Th
e family were crowded into the kitchen. As the sandwiches were passed around, a fancy cake from Pru Plum’s was topped with a sugar-paste baby lying on a blue-and-white blanket. It was beautiful and simple. The tea flowed from the pot and everyone fussed over Camille and her burgeoning bump. Lucy smiled to negate the flame of jealousy that threatened to ignite. How she would have loved this day for herself.
Her stepdaughter delighted in every gift, laying tiny denim dungarees over her rounded stomach and confessing that she was struggling to imagine a little person bringing them to life in a little over three months. Fay had, as ever, put a lot of thought into her gift and presented Camille with a white basket filled with creams, potions and lotions to help moisturise skin, cure cracked nipples and provide bubbles to soak in when weary muscles might need a spot of rejuvenation. The whole thing was wrapped in cellophane and finished off with an enormous blue bow.
‘Thank you, Fay!’ Camille grinned.
‘You’re welcome, and it’s the least I can do for my niece and Rory’s favourite cousin.’
She saw Camille beam; being part of this family was good for her.
Geneviève and Jean-Luc had sent a card, which sat in pride of place on the mantelpiece, and a packet of muslin squares.
‘They’re an essential!’ Fay nodded at the gift.
Camille had started a dialogue with her mum, and with Lucy’s encouragement had even managed a FaceTime chat. She noticed an easing of her stepdaughter’s stress after this interaction and understood this only too well.
She gave Jonah the nod and he made his way to the shed, coming back into the kitchen with a pushchair and baby seat travel system in a gorgeous lime-green design on a pale grey background with chunky tractor-like wheels. Camille would never know how Lucy had stood in the shed in the dark of night with her hands gripping the handles, sobbing, as she stared at the empty pram, feeling a pulse of longing at what was not to be.
The Idea of You Page 30
