The Other Daughter

by Caroline Bishop

  Maybe she could. But that wasn’t the point. Her argument with Jim had wounded something deep inside her. It was the first time she had truly recognised that the man she loved, the man who had always supported her career ambitions as much as his own, didn’t really understand the gulf that existed between their respective experiences. Because the barriers she faced – barriers created and sustained by members of his own sex – weren’t real for him, they were only abstract. Of course he thought it unfair she was paid less than Max despite the existence of the Equal Pay Act; of course he applauded the progress when, last year, it was finally made illegal to discriminate against women. He would say these things and he would mean them. But he’d never had to actually fight those battles himself. He’d never had a tutor who marked him up or down depending on the length of his skirt. He’d never been told he shouldn’t be ambitious because it’s not attractive. He’d never had an editor refuse to sign off his expenses because he’d turned down his sexual advances, as she knew had happened to Marnie in her previous job. He’d never found out that a fellow journalist with the same level of experience earned more because they pissed standing up. She wanted him to know how it felt. She needed him to feel how she did, or she didn’t know where they could go from here.

  ‘When I’m back,’ she said to him now, over the phone. ‘We’ll talk when I’m back.’

  * * *

  Though she hadn’t needed a reminder of how quickly time was passing, she was given one as the train rattled along the shore of Lake Geneva. It was nearly four months since she’d last taken this journey and she was struck by how different the landscape looked now. The mountains were no longer dip-dyed in white – only slivers of snow remained on their summits, topping green and brown and black. The sky was a hazy blue, and the train rushed past sailboats and rowers, their blades slicing through the calm surface like knives through warm butter.

  At Lausanne station she boarded a bus up the hill to St François, the cobbled square with the church and the cafe where she’d had a coffee and a croissant before leaving last time. As she stepped off into the square, her brain skidded momentarily into déjà vu, except it felt more like a snippet of another time, another life – a future life, perhaps. The sensation of having lived here, of sitting in that cafe every day, of knowing this town like it were her own. She stood still for a minute trying to hang onto the feeling, but it slipped away as quickly as it had arrived.

  She remembered the way to Rue Haldimand. Down the steep cobbled street with its intricate wrought-iron signs, across Rue Centrale and up into Place de la Palud, where the mechanical clock whirred into life every hour. Past the fountain and right into Rue Haldimand, number eight on the left.

  She pressed the intercom and waited.

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘Evelyne, it’s Sylvia.’

  ‘Oh mon Dieu!’

  She pressed herself on the door when it buzzed open and made her way up the four flights of stairs, feeling considerably more breathless than she had the last time she was here. The door to flat four was ajar and she knocked and pushed it open. ‘Allô?’

  The door opened wide and Evelyne stood in front of her in shorts and a loose white blouse, a pink patterned scarf barely keeping her hair in check. As Sylvia kissed her and was welcomed in, she saw Evelyne wasn’t alone. Behind her, standing on the tatty old rug in the centre of the room was another girl, a very young-looking girl, with straight brown hair that fell below her shoulders, arms like matchsticks and a vulnerability that made Sylvia want to reach out and pull her into a protective hug.

  ‘Sylvia, this is Anna,’ Evelyne said. ‘We’re going to have a full house.’

  JULY 2016 Lausanne/Montreux, Switzerland

  JESS

  From

  Darling Jess,

  For the first time since I persuaded you to go over there, I’m wondering if I did the right thing. I was so distraught to read your email and see how upset you are about the whole Julia thing. But are you sure, darling? Because I can’t contemplate what an extraordinary coincidence it would be if I’d pushed you into a job with someone so connected to your history. And I wonder, Jess, without wanting to dismiss what you’ve discovered, whether you’re reading a little too much into this? If there’s one thing I learnt from having your mother, the tenacious journalist, as a friend, it’s that fact is sacred. Don’t torture yourself with this unless you know it’s true. I’m so sorry this Daniel Buchs fellow has gone silent; I can tell how much you wanted him to help you. I wish with all my heart that I could help you, darling, but I’m afraid I’m a rather useless detective. But what you must know is that I am here for you, and that regardless of what happens out there, you’ll always have me, and your dad, by your side.

  He’s coming to London next week to see my new show, by the way. I can’t tell you what an utter nightmare it’s been working with such an upstart young director. Positively dictatorial! I shall never do it again. But I have to say I’m proud of my sets – particularly under such challenging circumstances. Fingers crossed I’ll make it a hat-trick at the Olivier Awards next year (but don’t tell anyone I said so!).

  Call me/text me any time, and take EXTRA good care of yourself.

  Lots of love,

  Maggie xx

  It feels strange to be in a dark room watching jazz when it’s still light outside. The audience is a dim mass of heads bobbing to the music, while the stage is lit up in soft yellow and purple, illuminating the band and causing sweat to bead on Jorge’s forehead. He’s sitting at the piano, pounding the keys with a practised fluidity, pumping the pedals so vigorously he occasionally unseats himself. He’s rocking his head to the music, eyes closed, feeling what he’s playing rather than seeing it.

  I’ve been drinking my wine far too quickly, as I tend to when sat in a bar on my own, so my head’s spinning a little when the lights go up for the interval and I see Jorge making his way over to my table. He grins and greets me with the obligatory three kisses.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Jess.’

  ‘That was really incredible,’ I say.

  ‘Merci.’ He smiles, sits down at the table and signals to the waitress to bring him a beer. His face is glowing, and not just with sweat from the lights and his exertion at the piano. His pupils are huge and I can see he’s buzzing from a natural high. This is Jorge, I think. His other job’s just for money; this is what makes him him.

  ‘How have you been? Are you doing okay with… everything?’ He looks anxious, as though he has to tread carefully lest I disintegrate in front of his eyes. But I’ve had two years to absorb the fact my entire life has been a lie; he’s only recently learnt it.

  I nod, give a dismissive wave of my hand.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. I don’t tell him that my mind is constantly whirring, creating scenarios, that I’ve had trouble thinking of anything but Daniel Buchs and Julia and Anna and Thun, that I can’t shut my brain off at night so I spend each day dizzy with tiredness, that it feels like I’m going mad.

  Fact is sacred, Maggie had said.

  But I haven’t got any facts, and I don’t know how to find them. All I can do is work with what I’ve got – and, right now, I’ve got Jorge. I don’t feel brave enough to tell him what I might have discovered, though. I may have blurted out my life story to him, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him I was snooping in Julia’s private documents again. I’m so ashamed of my behaviour that I haven’t even told Maggie, and I suppose I could tell him what I told her – that Julia mentioned her maiden name and left a letter from A. Meier lying around in the kitchen – but it’s one thing to put that in an email, another to be able to say it out loud and not have my face betray my lie.

  ‘Have the Chevalleys ever seen you play?’ I ask Jorge. Even if I don’t tell him my suspicions, I can pump him for information.

  He looks surprised at the question. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, no. Why?’

  ‘No reason. I just thought your
parents might have talked to them about your playing. They must be proud of you.’

  He takes a swig of his beer. ‘Yeah, Mom’s my biggest cheerleader, as all moms are, right?’ I see his eyes widen as he realises what he’s said. ‘Joder. I’m so sorry, Jess, I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Other people still having their mothers is a fact of life I’ve learnt to get used to. ‘So you don’t see the Chevalleys that much?’

  He sinks back in his chair. ‘I guess not. Sometimes.’

  ‘Your mum’s worked for them a long time?’

  ‘About ten years.’

  ‘Do you know much about their background? Is Julia from the area? Do her parents live around here?’

  He looks at me, cocks his head. ‘I don’t remember. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Oh, just curious.’ I look down at the table and swirl my wine in the glass. I wish he’d give me something. I was hoping he’d be a mine of information. ‘So you’ve never met either of her parents?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ He shifts in his seat, looks uncomfortable, and I wonder if he knows something he doesn’t want to share.

  ‘Or Michel’s?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Er, no.’ He puts his hands on the table. ‘Can we talk about something else please?’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ Perhaps when I go to Thun this Sunday, I’ll find another connection between Anna and Julia. Even if Anna’s no longer there, perhaps someone will know her and be able to put me in contact. I wonder if I need to prepare anything in Swiss German, a message I can show people to read just in case they don’t speak English.

  ‘Do you speak Swiss German?’

  ‘What? No. Why?’

  ‘I might need someone to translate a short text for me. Do you have any friends who speak it?’

  ‘No, and it’s not a written language anyway.’ He shakes his head and lets out a short laugh, adding, ‘You’re a strange one, Jess.’

  I don’t know what to say, but my surprise obviously shows on my face.

  ‘I invite you here because I wanted to see you again, because I thought – despite first impression, oh and second impression – that you might actually be a fun person to hang out with. And perhaps you might have wanted to hang out with me too, being a newcomer in a foreign city. But all you can do is ask me about the Chevalleys and if I can translate something into Swiss German? Sorry, I’ve got better things to do.’ He gets up from the chair and grabs his beer from the table.

  I feel heat rising in my face as I play back the conversation in my head and hear myself. ‘Wait!’ I stand up too. ‘God, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I did – do – want to hang out with you. I wanted to see you play and I’m really glad I have because you’re just incredible. I’m sorry that I’m a little distracted. I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment, but I know I need to try to think about other things. Can we start again?’

  He looks at me. ‘We’re playing in five minutes.’

  ‘Then I have five minutes to attempt to be more scintillating company than before. Please,’ I plead.

  His face softens into a smile and he sits back down again. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  So I drop the ball in my teeth and we actually have a proper conversation. I ask about him, and he asks about me, and I realise I’ve become so obsessed with my quest that I haven’t appreciated all the experiences I’ve collected during my stay in Switzerland so far. I wish I was here with no agenda other than to enjoy living in a foreign country with all its surprises.

  ‘You have to do your laundry on a certain day?’ I say, when he tells me about the quirks of Swiss living that foreigners don’t understand.

  ‘Yep, there’s a rota up in my apartment block for the communal machine in the basement. If you don’t keep to it people start getting passive–aggressive. Notes on the machine, a knock on the door and a polite telling off.’

  ‘That’s hilarious. Why don’t you just have your own machine?’

  He looks at me in mock horror. ‘What? Have a noisy machine right there in my flat?’ I laugh and he takes a swig of his beer and smiles back. ‘You get used to this stuff when you’ve been here a while.’

  ‘How long is that?’

  ‘Since I was fourteen.’

  ‘So you’re a Swiss citizen now, right?’ I calculate that, if Jorge’s about my age, he’s been living here for around twenty-five years. Surely that makes him Swiss.

  He shakes his head. ‘No. You can apply after a decade or so, less if you grew up here, but it’s expensive and you have to jump through so many hoops I just haven’t bothered.’

  ‘But do you feel Swiss?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess. I mean, sort of. I don’t feel more Spanish than Swiss in any case – apart from when I mess with the washing rota.’

  ‘I wish I had the opportunity to have dual citizenship. I’m just boringly one-dimensional,’ I say, and then my stomach jolts as I realise what I’ve said. Biologically, I’m presumably at least half Swiss. But for a twist of fate, I’d be more Swiss than Jorge. I might have a Swiss life like Julia’s, with her kids and husband and high-powered job and posh house above the lake.

  I don’t know what happens to my face just then but he must see it cloud.

  ‘I can find someone to translate what you need into German,’ he says, and his gaze is so direct I want to look away.

  * * *

  It’s late by the time the gig’s over and I really should be getting back to Montreux. But part of me doesn’t want to leave because I feel a weight’s been lifted. Somehow, during the course of the second half, I actually managed to switch off from my worries, stop thoughts of Julia and Anna swirling round my head and enjoy the here and now. Perhaps the feeling of lightness that came over me while talking to Jorge in the interval – I mean, really talking – helped.

  I’m nevertheless thinking of slipping away when he comes over, ignores my protestations and grabs my arm to steer me in the direction of another table where his bandmates and friends are congregating. The audience is gradually trickling out the door and the waitress is clearing up.

  ‘The bar manager usually lets us stay for a bit, so we can have a drink and wind down,’ he says to me before addressing the group. ‘This is my friend Jess, she’s going to join us. Jess, this is everyone.’ He proceeds to introduce me to them individually and I undergo a lengthy round of three-kisses before sitting down next to Jorge. His friends are all talking in French and I can’t understand a word. A man with long hair and tattoos asks Jorge something and they laugh and chat for a minute, until he turns to me. ‘Sorry, is this okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ I smile. It really is. Just being in this atmosphere, with people my own age who are relaxed, having fun, enjoying life, is good for me. It’s been so long since I’ve done that. Too long.

  ‘Sam, the saxophonist over there,’ Jorge nods to a slim guy in a black shirt currently pouring wine for someone else, ‘has just been invited to play at a music festival in Bucharest. It’s a big deal.’

  ‘Wow, that’s great.’

  ‘And Elliot – he’s our drummer – recently won a prestigious jazz drum competition.’

  I nod, eyebrows raised. ‘And you?’

  He laughs. ‘Oh, I haven’t done anything particularly impressive lately.’

  I look at him. ‘Well, you impressed me,’ I say, and then feel my chest lurch. ‘With your playing, I mean.’

  He looks at me and smiles. ‘Thanks, Jess,’ he says, and then we’re quiet, and I don’t know what else to say to break the slight embarrassment I feel. I look away from his brown eyes and think of Patrick, and the wedding ring I still carry in my purse, and the way we spiralled from such a good thing into hurt and frustration and mutual incomprehension; the way I couldn’t even look at him the day he left, the way his betrayal lingers like a bad odour I can’t wash off. The air in the club feels hot and oppressive and I feel my throat constrict, my palms start to sweat.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got
to go now,’ I say, and I stand up and run out of the club.

  * * *

  The feeling of lightness I briefly achieved in the jazz club trickles away throughout Friday, and by the time evening comes around I’m so impatient to get to Thun at the weekend that I can barely sit still. It’s 9pm. Maria’s been and gone. Dinner’s cooked and eaten. The kids are in bed. I’m trying to watch a film with Michel, but I feel jittery, like I’ve had too much coffee, and I keep checking my phone every two seconds in case Daniel emails me, though I’d have thought if he was going to, he would have by now. He clearly knows Anna – why not just give me her contact details? Perhaps I should write to him again, ask him to at least pass my email on to her.

  I know I’ve been fidgeting the whole way through the film because Michel keeps staring at me sideways, a brief – but ever so brief – flash of annoyance shadowing his eyes.

  ‘Are you okay, Jess?’ he says when I change position on the sofa for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ I smile, put my phone down, and try to stop fidgeting.

  The news has come on. The anchor introduces a segment and then I see a reporter standing outside what I think is the Swiss parliament. The camera trains on a group of people celebrating something. My eyes fix on a particular woman in the group. She’s a dignified figure, maybe late sixties or seventies, dressed in a smart navy trouser suit, grey hair in a neat shoulder-length bob, a string of pearls around her neck. She’s embracing a man and there’s such emotion in her face. There are people all around her, but I can’t take my eyes off that one woman.