The Stranger In My Home: I thought she was my daughter. I was wrong.

by Parks, Adele

  ‘We’ll find room for her in our life. I do love her, Jeff. I don’t really understand how, I hardly know her, but there’s something instinctive.’

  Jeff collapses on to his back. For the first time in months I see some contentment in his face. We haven’t solved anything but we have, at least, redrawn the teams. We’re on the same side. There is only one side. ‘And we have to find room for Tom, too,’ he adds, taking a deep breath.

  I freeze. ‘Oh, Jeff.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t know the half.’

  ‘Then tell me,’ he mumbles.

  I know I have to. He needs to know what Tom said to me, that he suggested we could run away and make a family together, that he tried to exploit the fact that Jeff and I are not legally married, ignoring the fact that we feel married. He needs to know about the kiss. The thought makes me squirm. The first kiss, it was careful, tentative; maybe, it took me a beat too long to move away. The second kiss was horrible. Not at all careful but insistent, unpleasant. I don’t want to recall it. What was he thinking? Was that passion? I don’t know where to start. I have a tendency to blame myself for, oh, just about everything, and obviously this is no different. Tom suggested we could make a family, that I should leave Jeff. He wouldn’t have said that unless he thought there was some chance of it being received favourably. We have been talking, moving ever closer, for weeks now. I thought that was all about our relationship with the girls, but was I kidding myself? Was I fooling him? I turn to Jeff because I need to look him in the eye when I say what I have to say, but his eyes have closed. His breathing has slowed. He’s fallen fast asleep, a long day and sex finally staking their claim on his consciousness.

  ‘I love you, Jeff,’ I say, gently kissing his lips. He makes a semiconscious sound in response and rolls over. Maybe it’s best that I haven’t had chance to say anything more. I’m so tired myself I can barely think. I can’t imagine I’m going to explain things very well, because I don’t understand them myself. It’s tempting to forget the entire awfulness. I mean, maybe I am making too much of this? What if the last night meant nothing to Tom – after all, he had had a fair bit to drink. He is a widower. Sometimes, the loneliness must overwhelm him. He can’t have meant any of what he said, not really. I imagine he’s going to wake up tomorrow mortified, full of regret and remorse about his clumsy pounce, which, at best, was misplaced passion, at worst – well, assault. Maybe the best thing is to say nothing more. Least said, soonest mended.

  We have enough on our plates.

  32

  The café is shabby chic but clean. It has wooden floors and waist-height panelling painted in a shade I recognise as Mole’s Breath. A peculiar name, if you think about it. Not as attractive as the colour itself. The place has a friendly and industrious atmosphere, not something I was necessarily expecting when I first clocked the impossibly beautiful staff through the window. The waitress is slight, Mediterranean-looking; she fills the lulls between serving customers by wrapping cutlery in paper-napkin sleeping bags. The barista is lanky in a trendy, androgynous-model way rather than a geeky way. He has an Afro the width of his shoulders and bushy sideburns that suggest an acceptable level of vanity and confidence; acceptable, and appropriate because he is gorgeous. I like people to be confident. I don’t want people to take until they are forty-plus to know that being twenty is fantastic. However, as I’ve always found terrifically trendy young men intimidating, I suddenly blank on what I might order. A flat white seems inadequate. Here, they probably serve iced frappuccinos in five flavours with whipped organic goat’s cream on top. I need something. I’m too old to consume two thirds of a bottle of wine, have only six hours sleep and expect to be bright and breezy. I rarely drink more than a glass nowadays and this morning I’m reminded why. I ask for some sparkling water: ‘To start with. I’m waiting for someone.’ As soon as I say it, I regret it. Have I jinxed it? Will she come? After last night. After what she saw – or at least what she thought she saw.

  Each little wooden table has a vase hosting a modest sprig of evergreen rather than a bunch of flowers. There is an abundance of those old-fashioned but now spot-on-trend glass domes covering mouth-watering scones and tempting chocolate cakes. There are oversized jars housing oversized cookies and macaroons. It will be overpriced, too, but that doesn’t matter. There are fairy lights trailed about on every surface and hanging from the ceiling.

  I wonder if she’ll turn up.

  I congratulate myself on suggesting this place to meet. I only know of it because Katherine’s mentioned it a few times; it’s somewhere she and her schoolfriends sometimes like to come on the rare occasion they have Saturday shopping expeditions. I think Olivia will approve. I hope she will, but I can’t be certain because I don’t know her tastes and style. Yet, for me, the best thing of all, in amongst this overwhelming cuteness, is the choice of music: sweet tunes from the fifties and early sixties about love in a bygone era. An altogether different sort of love to the sort any girl expects nowadays. Yet, while possibly obsolete, it is still tremendously aspirational. At least I think so. The lyrics bring to mind Jeff’s gentle and genuine lovemaking last night. The songs include words like ‘forever’ and ‘true’ in their lyrics, instead of ‘bitch’ and ‘ho’. I like it.

  I got Jeff to drop me off at Tom’s before eight o’clock this morning. I figured he’d be sleeping off his hangover and I’d be able to retrieve my car without bumping into him. I’ve arrived here early. An hour early. I would have asked Olivia to meet me here at ten, or even nine, because since Jeff said she might be pregnant I’ve wanted nothing other than to hold her in my arms and tell her everything is going to be OK, I’m going to make sure of it. But then I considered that she might be suffering from morning sickness. I thought I had a better chance of her turning up if I suggested eleven, so she could have a lie-in, so that it wouldn’t be quite so much of a chore to meet me. In the same vein of thinking, I’ve resisted texting Katherine, so far. When she was younger and went on a sleepover, I usually texted around 8 a.m.; I simply couldn’t wait any longer. Since she’s now been on several school trips and completed her Bronze Duke of Edinburgh Award I am more used to her being uncontactable for a day or so. I know she prefers it if I don’t text to ask what she’s having for breakfast. It takes everything I have to give her some space.

  I suppose I also need some space. Space between being Katherine’s mum and being Olivia’s – what? Not mum, certainly. Not mum, exactly. She’s made it obvious enough that she doesn’t want that, but she wants something. She needs something. If I can, I’ll give her whatever it is she needs; I will. I spot her pushing open the door and let out a sigh of relief. She’s come: it’s something, it’s a start. She scans the room, finds me, scowls as I throw out a little wave, walks towards me with her head down. Now she is here I almost wish she wasn’t. I think of the last time I saw her. Her father’s face pushed into mine, his hands all over my body. It’s horrible, for both of us. I have to get past that. It’s not important in comparison to why I asked her for a meeting.

  ‘Hello, Olivia. You look very pretty.’ She looks irritated with me.

  ‘Don’t.’

  I am not sure if she is refuting my statement, as in ‘No, I don’t look pretty’, or telling me not to compliment her, not to bother trying to ingratiate myself, as in ‘Don’t go there’. I wish I hadn’t said something as banal but, really, she does look very pretty. Her skin is luminous, her eyes are sparkling. Oh goodness, she’s glowing. I’m not sure why I decided to open this way. I’d never say something similar to any of Katherine’s friends. I know well enough that such an overt compliment is likely to make a teen squirm. Compliments about an item of clothing or a hairstyle are acceptable, but a general compliment about a teen’s look is cringeworthy and met with despair. I guess being nervous has made me forget as much.

  She pulls out the wooden chair opposite me, it drags along the floor. Reluctance is oozing from her. I’d prepared myself for a prick
ly conversation, it’s already worse than that by ten times over.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The cakes look wonderful.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘A cappuccino, then?’ I don’t ever offer Katherine coffee, indeed I try to discourage her if she chooses it; I always think she’s a bit young for those artificial stimulants. I realise I think of Olivia as so much older; ridiculous, since they are the exact same age. I feel swamped with guilt. If artificial stimulants aren’t good for Katherine, then they aren’t good for Olivia either, especially not Olivia, considering her condition – what am I thinking! ‘Or an orange juice. Look, they squeeze the oranges here,’ I offer.

  ‘No. Thanks.’ The ‘thanks’ was an afterthought. I wonder if she has just remembered her mother saying, ‘Manners!’ and prodding her, if not with an actual finger then at least with a look, because I think Annabel must have drilled the importance of manners into her children. I feel a flicker in my chest for this motherless child who is still trying to do the right thing by her mum, even though it’s all going wrong. Even though the adults around her seem to be doing the wrong thing.

  The waitress arrives at our table. I order a pot of Earl Grey and a slice of lemon-drizzle cake. I’m not especially hungry but, if I order cake, Olivia might be tempted to follow suit.

  ‘A glass of tap water, please.’ I understand her choice. She’s saying, I don’t want anything from you. I won’t accept anything from you. She flashes her eyes at me. She’s wearing a lot of eyeliner.

  ‘Oh, have something to eat, or at least a hot chocolate.’ She shakes her head. The waitress takes the menus away and leaves us to our awkwardness.

  We both stare at the table for what feels like an eternity. ‘I’m sure it will be worth the wait,’ I blurt, although, in reality, we haven’t been waiting longer than about five seconds and, besides, Olivia is waiting only for tap water. I wish I didn’t have an overwhelming need to fill in every conversational hiatus. It’s pathetic. Olivia clearly thinks so, too. She glares at me, loathing my insistent chirpy capability or, worse still, not believing in it at all.

  I have no alternative but to launch in. ‘So, it’s been difficult.’ She tilts her head, forcing me to elaborate. ‘All of it. Everything, since we met.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ Her tone is one of contemptuous incredulity.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ I glance about, looking for inspiration. It isn’t hiding behind the salt and pepper pots; it isn’t chalked up on the trendy blackboard displaying the menu. Jeff would probably know what to say; he’s the wordsmith. ‘I often find that the right words elude me.’ She looks at me quizzically. ‘Escape me.’

  Her expression instantly turns to one of total disdain. ‘I know what “elude” means.’

  ‘Of course, I wasn’t implying—’

  ‘Yes, you were. You think I’m thick.’ Her eyes slide across the table and then up at me. Cold with rejection.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I might not go to a posh private school but I’m not thick. I’m on for a bunch of As and A stars.’ She drops my gaze and mutters to the table, ‘Or at least I was, after last summer’s exams. Who knows now? This hasn’t exactly been the most normal of years.’

  So many thoughts skitter through my head at once, like a million flies buzzing around a jam scone; I don’t know where to start. It kills me that she’s given up already. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to relinquish the A and A-star grades. I won’t let history repeat itself. I also wonder whether she feels cheated out of the financial advantages that were her birthright. The thought has never occurred to me until now. I’m ashamed to admit as much. I haven’t once paused to see this from her point of view.

  ‘I didn’t go to a posh private school either,’ I offer. Olivia looks at me from under her fringe. ‘And, by the way, I certainly don’t think you are thick.’

  ‘Then why did you feel the need to explain what “elude” means.’

  ‘I wasn’t explaining its meaning. I thought I was coming over a bit—’ I search for the right word. ‘A bit standoffish by using the word, so I changed it. It wasn’t a fault in you that I was trying to compensate for, it was a fault in me.’ She glares at me, reading me, checking for sincerity, seeing if she is being palmed off with an excuse. I don’t dare move a muscle in my face: I hope she’ll find whatever she is looking for there.

  She must do, because she nods and says, ‘I’ll have a slice of carrot cake.’ I flag down the waitress and order it, and an orange juice. I hold fire until our order is delivered. I resist chatting to the waitress. I need to stay focused.

  ‘So where do we start?’

  ‘How about the fact I saw you with my dad’s tongue down your throat? That was disgusting.’ I make myself meet her eyes, but I don’t see disgust. She looks at me with a defiant, vulnerable glare. She now seems younger than fifteen.

  ‘I’m very sorry about that.’

  She waves her hand, feigning indifference. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘We didn’t actually have— I don’t want you thinking—’

  ‘Save it for Jeff.’ She cuts me dead with a cold look.

  ‘Will you tell Katherine?’

  ‘Katherine, Katherine, Katherine. It’s all you ever think about.’ It is. Almost all. I wouldn’t blame her for telling Katherine or Callum; she must be tempted to cause trouble for me. Olivia chews her nails, letting me sweat. ‘No, I’m not going to tell bloody Katherine. It may have escaped your notice, but we’re not exactly bestie buddies, gasping to share confidences.’

  ‘It hasn’t escaped my notice. I know you don’t want to meet up with her.’

  ‘What? It’s her that— Oh, forget it.’ Olivia glares at me. I can feel her eyes boring holes into my face. Eventually, she asks, ‘Why did you do it? Did you think we could make some sort of big, happy family?’

  So she has assumed that I instigated the kissing, or at least willingly went along with it: naturally, she has – she’s unlikely to blame her own father or think badly of him. I decide it’s easier to shoulder the responsibility rather than ruin him for her. He’s the only parent she has. ‘Pathetically, I did. Briefly. Yes.’

  ‘Really? I thought you were going to tell me it was dad who made the pass. That would be just like him.’ She says this with confidence, and now I wish I had come clean: I think she could have handled it.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Aren’t you old enough to know better?’ And I see it. I see what Jeff has been going on about. She’s so me. Under it all. For a moment, I think I know her well. Perhaps infinitely. She’s guarded. Realistic. Disappointed. To be fair, she has enough to be fed up about. Suddenly, she looks weary, bored. I wonder if she’s thinking about her own problems. ‘Look, what you get up to with Dad is your business. It’s nothing to do with me. Why would I care?’ A million reasons. ‘It’s your funeral.’ I think it’s an odd turn of phrase, considering everything. ‘But I feel bad for Jeff.’

  I do, too. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Ha!’ The spluttered sound is distrustful, incredulous. ‘Oh, come on. You fell for his charm ages ago.’ I decide I’m on the highway to nowhere. It doesn’t matter what has or has not happened between me and Tom, what I may or may not have to explain to Jeff. All that matters is that she’s pregnant. Olivia. A baby. So I move the conversation on: ‘Jeff told me that you go to the uni library.’

  ‘Yeah, he sorted it for me. It was nice of him.’

  ‘I’m certain he was happy to do it.’ I nibble at my cake but I can’t put off the moment any longer. ‘Jeff said he once noticed you reading a particular book.’

  ‘What – you’re spying on my reading material now? Checking out if I’m reading the Kama Sutra or Fifty Shades of Grey?’

  ‘No, no, certainly not. Well, yes, sort of. He wasn’t checking up on you. He was probably thinking it would be a conversation starter.’ I could imagine him glancing at the cover of
the book. Hoping to start up a conversation about To Kill a Mockingbird or Of Mice and Men. ‘You were reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting.’

  ‘So?’

  She looks entirely unfazed by my observation. Brass, as my gran would have said. I suppose I was expecting something else: contrition, embarrassment, defiance; she looks indifferent. ‘I wondered if there was anything you wanted to talk about.’ I stare at her meaningfully; she looks blank. ‘Olivia, you can’t pretend it isn’t happening. You really can’t.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, Olivia, I know you think I’m pretty appalling but I’m going to say this and I want you to know I mean it. You do not have to do this alone. I’ll help you. I’ll stand by you, whatever you decide to do. I know it must seem scary and insurmountable and—’

  ‘You think I’m pregnant?’ She practically shrieks this. I glance about. The people at four tables have stopped their conversations in their tracks and are staring at us. I glare back until they look away.

  ‘There’s no point trying to hide it any longer, Olivia. You can’t cover it up for ever.’ I glance at her stomach and her eyes follow mine. It’s softly rounded, but then it was when I met her: has she got any bigger? I wonder how far along she might be. She puts her hand over it protectively.

  ‘You cheeky bitch.’ There’s no need for language like that, but I remind myself she’ll be hormonal. ‘What makes you think you’ve got the right to—’

  I interrupt, wanting to head off her anger; she’s probably frightened. ‘I don’t want you doing this on your own. I want you to know you have someone in your corner.’ She gapes at me. I wasn’t expecting a hug, so I press on. ‘I’ll talk to your dad for you.’

  ‘I don’t need you to talk to my dad.’ She sounds really angry. Not scared, as I had been when I had to tell my dad I was pregnant. She’s furious. I guess that’s progress.