When friends came to have a look at the place I could see they were struggling to find something nice to say about it. Jaws dropped when I cheerfully announced that I’d taken a week off work to make it habitable, but I was confident I could manage it. They rolled up their sleeves, too, and lent a hand. Even casual acquaintances gave up their time to help me. Bryony, an out-of-work commercials producer, spent days with me steaming off years of filthy wallpaper and gloss paint from every wall and ceiling. She hung fresh wallpaper, I sanded and sealed floorboards, the caretaker knocked out a fireplace for me and I plastered the cracks with my bare hands. Having led the life of a gypsy on land and sea for so long, I didn’t own as much as a knife and fork, but several late-night trips to Ikea remedied that.
By the Sunday night I was sitting back and surveying my newly refurbished home with satisfaction. Only the small bathroom remained to be decorated, but I wasn’t too bothered about that and it wouldn’t take long. I was due back at work the next day, but first I had one more thing to do in the morning to complete my fresh start—and it took precedence over the bathroom. I had to pluck up the courage to see someone about pursuing my writing career.
Since making Geh Kinde Geh, I’d been given a lot of encouragement by Adrian Hodges who, as development executive of British Screen, had pushed to get my film made. Afterwards he had continued to support me with help and advice, nominating me for a residential writers’ course in Devon. As well as teaching me more about the craft and the business of writing, the course had given me a welcome opportunity to meet other new writers. On the last day, some of us exchanged telephone numbers, promising to stay in touch. One novelist, a young American called Jon Fink, asked me if I’d thought about getting an agent. It wasn’t the first time this had been suggested to me. Adrian had talked about it too, recommending someone called Michelle Kass at Hatton & Baker.
I hadn’t acted on Adrian’s advice, feeling unsure and apprehensive about what an agent might expect of me, but now, miles from London in the Devon countryside, someone from another country was giving me the same name. And he didn’t just mention the name in passing, he actually took my address book from my hand and insisted on scribbling down her phone number. ‘Call her,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll get along.’
With Michelle practically handed to me on a plate, I felt braver. On my return from Devon I had phoned her office and had been asked to send in some samples of my work. I’d duly posted off Geh Kinde Geh, along with another idea for a screenplay. A few days later, someone from Hatton & Baker had called to arrange an appointment for me to go in and talk to Michelle.
I wasn’t quite sure what to wear that morning. In the end I opted for a long black coat over a jumper and jeans, tied back my long hair and walked into the bathroom to put on some lipstick.
I thought back to the time my parents had been given their fresh start in a council maisonette. I’d spoiled that for them, and for myself, by moving into our new home concealing a teenage pregnancy that would shock them to the core. The whole experience had continued to reverberate throughout my own life but now it seemed as though I was being offered a second chance to steady that life, perhaps even to shape it into the one I should always have been leading—if only I had succeeded in finding the mould a bit sooner.
A small mirror hung perilously from the bathroom wall. I would get around to sorting out this bathroom soon, but for now I considered I’d achieved quite a lot in the past week. Having my own home for the first time in years, I was no longer at sea, in any sense of the word. I felt I was finally putting down roots in what the Captain would have described as a ‘shore station’.
Checking my make-up, I smiled at the memory of Seb’s recurring question on mad, drunken Saturday nights at the Westy. ‘What would we do if your daughter knocked on the door now?’ Well, if Sarah Louise knocked on the door now, I was ready for her at last. Maybe my home wasn’t a palace but my life was in order and I was leading it in a more focused way than I probably ever had before.
In fact, I thought suddenly as I gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, now would be the very best time for my daughter to come and find me.
I picked up my bag and left for my appointment in town.
It was the morning of Monday 5 November 1990. I took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and made my way to Jermyn Street. I was about as far ‘up West’ as a number 8 bus from my old home in Mile End could possibly have taken me. All I had known about it then, courtesy of my father, was that Sir Isaac Newton had lived here during his time as warden of the Royal Mint. It was more famous as the street where the wealthy man-about-town traditionally purchased his shirts. Hatton & Baker’s neighbours in this unambiguously upper-crust and masculine milieu included cigar shops, shoe and bootmakers, the barber George F. Trumper and Tramp nightclub, as well as the quality shirtmakers, such as Turnbull & Asser, for which it was renowned. You could almost smell the expensive cologne, fine leather and puffs of Havana smoke.
I paused outside number 18 and asked myself what on earth I was doing here. I wasn’t even sure what an agent did, let alone what an agent might want me to do. What I did know, because I had looked them up, was that Hatton & Baker represented a long list of famous names. On their client list was the actor Richard Harris, whom I remembered especially for his performance in the 1963 masterpiece This Sporting Life. I had seen this film as a child, but Harris was still working prolifically—he would soon go on to play Dumbledore in the Harry Potter films. They also looked after Leo McKern of Rumpole of the Bailey, one of my favourite television shows, and Leslie Phillips, whose portrayal of a hapless sub-lieutenant in The Navy Lark I’d so enjoyed listening to with my parents in the 1960s. There were many directors, too, including Nicholas Roeg, who had made the unforgettably mysterious feature film Don’t Look Now, set in Venice and starring Julie Christie.
All I had to offer were some sketchy ideas for future projects and the first draft of a film script for a romantic comedy called Lucky Break. Inspired by Elizabeth Ashley’s incongruous visit to the Westy, this featured a character, based on Seb, who takes advantage of the unexpected arrival of a Hollywood star at his dilapidated house in Notting Hill to try to rescue his floundering acting career.
At the heart of the story was the old screwball comedy idea of a clash of two contrasting worlds leading, ultimately, to love. A few development producers had read the script, including Adrian Hodges. He had been supportive, as ever, but the general view was that the idea was too far-fetched. Almost a decade later, Richard Curtis’s film Notting Hill was to meet with box-office success. It wasn’t connected in any way to my script which, by then, I had long since abandoned. No one had really believed me when I had told them my story was based on fact. My life at the Westy certainly had been stranger than fiction.
I wondered now whether, if I had started writing earlier or stuck with it after I left college, I might by this time be further established in a proper career. But this was just wishful thinking. I knew that, however long you worked at it, with writing there were no guarantees. In many ways, Geh Kinde Geh had been my own ‘lucky break’.
Looking at the door of 18 Jermyn Street, I was beginning to question whether I might be pushing that luck by even coming here. In short, I was suffering a serious loss of nerve. In an effort to muster my courage, I took a deep breath and made a quick mental inventory of all the events that had brought me to this office. Two unrelated people had urged me to call Michelle Kass; one had even written her name and number in my address book. I had spent my entire life either reading or writing works of fiction and had recently been fortunate enough to have a little film made. The girls at work, with irrepressible optimism, had convinced me that all things were possible. Now was not the time to start disputing that. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? Taking another deep breath, I rang the bell.
A few moments later, I was shown into Michelle’s office. She was, I would later learn, the youngest partner at Hatton & Baker. She immediatel
y got to her feet to shake my hand, a friendly, approachable woman a few years younger than me with tight, dark curls that brought to mind my far-off experiences with the straightening tongs. Michelle, however, wore her curly hair with confidence. I would have been put at my ease straight away had I not been distracted by an extraordinary machine that was sitting on her desk, a real Heath Robinson contraption. I couldn’t imagine what its function might be, and once it had caught my eye I found it hard to ignore.
Michelle saw me looking at it.
‘It’s a milk expresser. The Rolls-Royce of its kind,’ she explained. ‘I’m renting it from the National Childbirth Trust.’
She told me that it was helping to solve one of the dilemmas of the modern working mum. She had a demanding job and needed to be back in the office fairly soon after giving birth to her baby son, but at the same time she wanted to breastfeed him for the first six months of his life.
This explanation proved to be something of an icebreaker, which was just as well, as the milk expresser wasn’t going anywhere. It remained between us on Michelle’s desk, reminding me of the flow of my own milk twenty years before, leaking on to a tie-dye dress at the Hackney Wick dog track. Once coffee had been brought, Michelle and I settled down to discuss the purpose of my visit. We talked through my own few projects, our conversation ranging over films, plays and novels we had both enjoyed and some we hadn’t.
Michelle had strong opinions, a keen sense of humour and a welcome curiosity about me and my work. We laughed a lot and I felt comfortable in her company. Finally, she asked if I had read any short stories by Elizabeth Taylor—not the Hollywood actress, but the English novelist. I had to admit that I hadn’t. We chatted on as we finished our coffee. Before I left, Michelle agreed to take me on as a client and handed me a paperback collection of short stories, The Blush, recommending that I read one in particular.
As I stepped out on to Jermyn Street, I felt encouraged. It had been a brief meeting, but it was long enough for me to know that I liked Michelle and to feel that we had a good rapport. On the busy platform at Piccadilly Circus tube station, I jostled with commuters, shoppers and tourists before finally wrestling my way on to a train. I was pleased to be able to get a seat, because I wanted to take a proper look at the book she had given me. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the paperback and thumbed through it until I found the story she had mentioned. It was entitled ‘Perhaps a Family Failing’. Before settling down to read it, I allowed myself the thought that maybe, just maybe, something might come of this.
Chapter Fourteen
Three O’Clock at the Pagoda
I was in my office the next day when the call came through.
It was Michelle. I could tell instantly from the tone of her voice that something was wrong. At our meeting she had been self-assured, businesslike in a friendly way. Not intimidating, but definitely a woman in control. Today her voice was awkward, uncertain, tight with worry. ‘I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing,’ she began. ‘But there’s something I feel I have to tell you.’
I automatically assumed that she had reconsidered and decided against taking me on. Even that didn’t seem to explain the dramatic difference in mood: as an agent, she must have been used to letting people down gently. But I’d only met her once—what else could it be? I braced myself for disappointment and told her not to worry, whatever it was she had to say, I would be OK with it. There was a long pause before she spoke again.
Choosing her words very carefully, she began to recount how, earlier that day, she had asked a young secretary to come into her office and take some dictation. The girl worked for another agent at Hatton & Baker but was helping out because Michelle’s own secretary was away. It had been Michelle’s intention to send on a copy of my Geh Kinde Geh script to her brother, Harvey, a film producer, but she didn’t get that far. While dictating a note to him, she had handed the script to the secretary, indicating that it was accompany the letter.
Suddenly, the girl had put down her pen and turned white as a sheet.
Michelle paused for a moment. ‘It was the same girl who brought us coffee yesterday,’ Michelle went on. ‘Do you remember her? Because I’m sure I introduced you.’
I racked my brains, but I couldn’t remember. Surely I would have made eye contact, smiled, said I was pleased to meet her? Somebody had certainly brought us coffee but she had set it down on the desk and disappeared quickly: a brief and inconsequential encounter, like passing a stranger on the stairs. Perhaps at that moment I had been put off my stroke by the milk expresser. I had to confess I had no recollection of being introduced to anyone in the office.
Michelle continued her story. ‘I knew none of this until today. But just a couple of hours ago this girl confided to me that she had been adopted as a baby.’
I listened, becoming curious now.
‘A while ago she gained access to her birth certificate, and from that she learned the name of her mother. The name she recognised on a script I passed to her this morning. Julie Wassmer.’
The buzz of the busy office, phones ringing, keyboards tapping, the low murmur of voices, every sound seems suddenly to recede, as if someone is turning down the volume on the room. All I can hear now is the voice on the other end of the line.
‘She’s twenty years old,’ Michelle is saying. ‘And her name is Sara. Does this mean anything to you?’
Silence now, a numbing hiatus as I attempt to rationalise what is happening. I know Michelle is waiting for a response. I try to speak but nothing comes out.
Michelle fills the silence, a tremor in her voice. ‘She’s waiting in the other office right now. But I’m alone, the door is closed, and whatever you say can stay between us.’
I gasp, brought back to life. I hear myself replying: ‘Tell her it’s me.’
There is another pause as Michelle takes this in. Before she can speak again, I say that I will have to call her back. I put down the receiver.
How many times in my life had I used the word ‘stunned’? I had written it in a thousand descriptions without ever really understanding the full force of its meaning—until now. ‘To render unconscious by a blow; to stupefy or daze.’ It was the right word. I was stunned.
On the other side of the desk, my new assistant, Vicky, was on the phone. I could see her lips moving but what she was saying was of no consequence to me. I began to act without thinking. Instead of dialling Michelle’s number I got up from my chair, crossed the office floor and picked up my coat from its hook.
Debbie was coming downstairs from the mezzanine floor behind me when she saw me making for the door. Her voice stopped me in my tracks.
‘Where are you off to?’
I looked back at her. Strangely calm, I told her exactly what I had just heard on the phone.
Debbie stared at me, open-mouthed, for several long seconds.
‘Fifty-five million people in Britain and your agent’s secretary turns out to be your long-lost daughter?’
I had no answer. My body, moving of its own accord, was drawing me towards the door. ‘I have to go to her, Debbie.’
By now she had registered that I was in shock. That I was behaving like the victim of an air crash asking whether the luggage will follow on before sliding out of the emergency exit.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Hold on.’
She hurried back up to the mezzanine floor where Jools and Tina were working. A moment later they were all coming down, high heels clacking on the metal stairs. They ushered me off to the only place where it was possible to have a private discussion: the ladies’ room.
All four of us squashed into the office loo, where the girls persuaded me that I needed to take time to think through how I should handle the situation. Theories and suggestions bounced off the tiled walls. Chance encounters like this simply didn’t happen, they said, and there wasn’t a precedent for dealing with them. I might do terrible damage if I went charging in like a bull in a china shop. People searched for years to find eac
h other, and when they did, they were given counselling before they met. Someone decided that perhaps that should be the next step. I leaned back against the washbasin, dazed, while the girls took over. Tina was nominated to speak to Michelle and work was suspended while they addressed the crisis.
We went back into the office and, returning to my desk, I made a point of explaining to Vicky what had just happened. I knew she wouldn’t have had a clue what was going on and I didn’t want her to think that we had squeezed into the toilet to discuss her. Once I had finished my story, she stretched out her arm across my desk. ‘Look,’ she said. Every fine, pale hair on her forearm was standing on end.
The girls made an appointment for me at the Post-Adoption Centre, a charity that provided counselling and support to all parties affected by the adoption process. Michelle called Tina back with the news that Sara, having received similar advice at her workplace, was going to approach Norcap, another support agency, with which she had been in touch before in her teenage years. Everyone agreed that the professionals would know how best to cope with an event like this. They would tell us what we should do.
The girls encouraged me to stick to the plans I already had for the evening, and so I went out for dinner with Jools and some friends and business associates as had been arranged. We met up in a restaurant in North London. It was the night after Bonfire Night and the sky was still filled with the customary multicoloured explosions. My face was a mask of calmness and capability but the news had yet to sink in. All I could think about was that somewhere, in some other part of London, my baby girl was out there—grown up now, but there were surely going to be emotional fireworks for her, too.
After dinner, I took up an offer from friends to stay overnight with them in Stoke Newington. When I woke up in the early hours of the morning I was trembling, suffering from delayed shock. I was desperate to communicate with Sara. I made myself a cup of hot, sweet tea, sat down and wrote her a long letter explaining the circumstances of her birth. I forced myself to revisit all the details of my concealed pregnancy. As I wrote I began to weep for my lost child. I wept in a visceral way, a way in which I had never been able to cry for her in twenty years. It felt as if layer upon layer of scar tissue was being stripped away, exposing a wound that had never healed. Fireworks were still banging and fizzing outside. Or was it fallout from the final, cataclysmic collision of my two worlds?
More Than Just Coincidence Page 16
