The Making of Us

by Lisa Jewell

  “Erm, hi, Juliette,” she began, filled with her customary awkwardness at being in the same room as someone doing her dirty work for her. “I was just wondering, have you seen Bendiks at all this morning?”

  “No,” said Juliette rather brusquely. “I have not.” She turned her back against Lydia and started to fold up fitted sheets, using some scientific approach that had Lydia spellbound for a moment.

  “Oh,” she said, somewhat taken aback, “right.”

  She stared at Juliette’s spine and noticed a certain tension in her body language. She considered leaving but went against her own instincts. “I just wondered,” she continued, “maybe he went to work? Maybe he might have told you?”

  “I told you,” snapped Juliette, still facing away from her, “I have not seen him. I don’t know where he is.”

  Lydia flinched.

  Juliette turned suddenly to face her. “I want to say something, if it’s okay with you?”

  Lydia nodded.

  “I want to say that I think this man, this Bendiks . . . I don’t like him.”

  Juliette’s usually soft face was contorted with embarrassment.

  Lydia nodded again and said nothing.

  “You know, I clean his room. I see the things he buys. Two new watches, just since he has been here. I see a bag from . . . what is that place?” She clicked her fingers urgently. “Marc Jacob! I see this bag, in his room. I see the creams and the perfumes and the greasy things for his hair, and is all designer, all of it! And then I see him, taking from you the fifty pounds! I am very sorry to be saying these things to you. I am very sorry and I hope I am not making you angry. But, Miss Pike . . . Lydia, I like you very much. You are a very kind lady. You make me happy to work for you. I like your house. I like it all. But that man—I do not think I like him.”

  Lydia stared at Juliette, her lips parted, waiting for some words to come and take this conversation to a more comfortable place. But none did and a silence ensued.

  “Anyway”—Juliette bunched a sheet together between her hands and smiled—“anyway, I’m sure is okay. It’s just, I wanted to say these things, okay? You are alone. I feel I want to be here, to look after you. I feel that it is my job too.” Her smile widened with these words and Lydia smiled back. As much as she was stung by Juliette’s low opinion of Bendiks and as much as she was slightly thrown by the possibility that he’d been spending her money on designer hair gel, she was also touched and heartened by Juliette’s declaration of caring. It served to fill the uncomfortable gap between Lydia’s need for someone to look after her house and her awkwardness with the reality of someone looking after her house. It made her feel happy.

  “Thank you,” she said, “I really do appreciate it. And I wanted to say too that I’m glad you’re here, and that if there’s ever anything I could do for you, to help you or your family, all you have to do is . . .”

  Juliette frowned and put a hand up between them. “No,” she said, “this is my job. You give me this job. You pay me well for this job. I like my job. My family is happy. I am happy. Thank you.” The smile returned and Lydia bowed her head, in an almost Asian gesture.

  “No,” she said, “thank you.”

  She tried to resist the temptation of opening the door to Bendiks’s room and seeing for herself the evidence of his profligate spending, but she failed. She wanted Juliette to be wrong. She wanted to find an old tub of Pond’s Cold Cream and a shopping bag from Next. But as she craned her neck around his bedroom door it was immediately clear that Juliette had not been exaggerating. The room was immaculate, the bed fully made and arranged with overlapping cushions in shades of steel and sage—and there, in almost every corner, was evidence of untethered, high-end shopping. A row of bags with rope handles stood along one wall. A leather jacket with price tags still attached hung from the door handle of the wardrobe. And lying at her feet, as though any further evidence were needed, was a cardboard price tag, bearing the words PAUL SMITH.

  Lydia turned from Bendiks’s door then with flushed cheeks and a sinking sense of disappointment. Disappointment, but not surprise. “Of course,” said a small voice inside her soul, “of course. It was all about my money. What else could it ever have been about?” She’d been a fool to think anything else could possibly have been behind his seduction of her. She’d been a fool, full stop.

  She stood for a moment outside Bendiks’s bedroom, her hand against her heart, holding back her tears. She felt sick with sadness and embarrassment. And then she pushed her hair from her face, took a deep breath and headed back to work.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Listen, can you talk?” It was Dean. He was speaking with some urgency.

  “Yes,” said Lydia, turning on her office chair to face away from her computer screen. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Something mad’s just happened. You won’t believe it.”

  “What? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve just had a text message. From her. The other one. From Robyn.”

  Lydia opened her mouth but no words came out.

  “She thinks we should meet up. Apparently, he’s really ill.”

  “Who’s really ill?”

  “The man. The donor. Our dad. He’s really ill and some woman texted her to say that she should go and see him now.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I told you, it’s mad.”

  “But where is he?”

  “Don’t know,” said Dean, “she didn’t say. Just that she was going and that maybe we could all go together.”

  “But why didn’t she ask me herself?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, it was just a text message. I haven’t replied yet. So what shall I say?”

  “Oh, Jesus, God, I don’t know. I can’t think . . . do you want to go?”

  There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “I don’t know,” he said, “it’s a bit . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s all a bit sudden.”

  “Yeah. I know. I just . . . I mean, what if he’s really ill? What if he’s dying? You know. And this is it? Our only chance?”

  “Well, yes, exactly,” murmured Lydia.

  “Yeah,” said Dean more decisively, “yeah. I think I’m going to go. I think I will. It just seems . . . all of this seems so obvious in a way. All of it. Sky dying, meeting you, the baby, now this. It’s like it’s all got to happen and it’s got to happen now. It feels . . . I don’t know, it feels right.”

  Lydia let a silence unfold while she collected her thoughts.

  “You still there?” said Dean.

  “Yes, yes. I’m still here. I just . . . I’m not sure. There’s been so much to absorb already these past few days. My head’s all over the place. I don’t know if I can—”

  “Please, Lydia,” he interrupted. “Please come with me. Please.”

  Lydia breathed in sharply. She felt something like electricity jolt through her at his words and the sweet, simple delivery of them. Please, Lydia. Her little brother. Of course she would go with him.

  “Yes,” she said. “Sorry, yes, of course. Tell her yes. And call me back the minute you’ve spoken to her. Tell me what she says, okay?”

  Dean called her back two minutes later. “She’s going tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon. We’ve arranged to meet at Liverpool Street station, at four fifteen. Will you come?”

  “Yes, I told you, yes! Don’t worry,” she laughed. “And how will we know her?”

  “She said that she will be wearing a red dress and dark sunglasses.”

  Lydia laughed at the description, picturing her as some kind of 1940s secret agent. “Okay,” she said. “And what—what did she sound like?”

  “She sounded nice,” said Dean, “she sounded all right. You know. London accent. Pretty friendly. Just like a normal girl, really.”

  “Good,” said Lydia, “good. But will you come here first? Come over earlier. We’ll go together?”

  “Sure,” said Dean, “definitely.
I’ll come over two-ish. Yeah?”

  “Yes,” said Lydia, gratefully. “Yes. Two-ish. I’ll see you then.”

  There was a short pause and then he asked, “Are you all right, Lydia?” in a voice tinged with concern.

  “Yes,” she said tightly, “I’m fine.”

  “You sound a bit sad.”

  “No, honestly, I’m fine. Really. I’ll see you later.”

  She turned off her phone and leaned against the back of her chair.

  And then, quite unexpectedly, she began to cry.

  ROBYN

  The day that Robyn was set to meet her brother, her sister and her father had begun bright but was now overcast and chilly. The previous day had been cloudless and hot; she’d walked to university in a strapless sundress, the kind of thing she’d normally save for holidays abroad. But today it was another season entirely and she had promised Dean that she would be wearing a red dress. The dress she’d had in mind was too summery so she surveyed her wardrobe, searching for glimpses of red. And then she saw the burnt orange prom dress, the one Jack had bought her for their anniversary. She touched the fabric of it and thought that, in a way, it would be the perfect dress to wear today. Because today was going to be the dictionary definition of auspicious and because the dress itself was auspicious and because in a way she quite liked the idea of wearing something completely inappropriate.

  She pulled on the dress and covered her arms with a red zip-up hoodie. On her feet she wore red ballet pumps, and she tied her hair up into a messy sideways-leaning bun, making sure to clear the back of her neck so that her tattoo would be visible. She looked in the mirror and thought, I look very young. She applied some black eyeliner and red lipstick. She looked at herself again and thought: I look like Lily Allen. And the thought made her laugh, in spite of her nerves.

  Jack smiled as she stood in front of him in his study a moment later. “You look really pretty,” he said.

  Robyn smiled.

  “And this is the last time I’m going to ask you this, but are you totally sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “Totally. Honestly.” She pulled a piece of fluff from his brown polo shirt and let it fall to the floor. Then she put her hand out and cupped his cheek. He felt stubbly and warm. He held her hand there with his and then kissed it. “Now remember,” he said, “I want you to make notes. I’ll need all the detail I can get my hands on when I write the novel of this.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, right,” she said. “And what would you write about this precise moment, then?”

  He leaned back and appraised her with a small smile. “I would say: She wore her favorite dress. Her amazing boyfriend had bought her the dress three months earlier. She loved her boyfriend. She was so very lucky to have him.”

  She punched him affectionately in the shoulder and laughed. “Okay,” she said, “I’m off. Last train back gets me in at midnight. Will you wait up for me?”

  “Yes,” he said, “of course I will. But . . .” He stopped and looked at the floor, as though considering his next words.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “No, come on, you can’t do that—what?”

  He sighed. “Well, what will you do if he’s on his way out, and . . . well, I mean, if it looks as though he won’t last much longer but you have to go and get your train?”

  She shrugged. She hadn’t considered that. “I suppose I’ll just have to come home and go back the next day.”

  Jack nodded. Robyn could tell he had other thoughts on his mind but she didn’t have time to hear them. She kissed him again and left the house. The world reeled toward her like a slightly frightening drunk as she walked the few yards to the tube station. Nothing seemed as it had the day before. Nothing seemed as she’d expected it to seem. In her burnt orange prom dress and dark glasses she felt herself taking on another persona as she walked down the road. For a while she couldn’t quite think who it was she was pretending to be, and then, with a start, she remembered: she was pretending to be herself.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Robyn retained this strangely unnatural sense of impersonating herself as she climbed the escalators at Liverpool Street half an hour later. In fact, the closer she got to the appointed meeting spot of “next to Burger King,” the more thickly she plastered it on to herself. She’d been such a reedy, insubstantial thing these past few weeks and she could not possibly come to these new people, her brother and her sister, as anything less than the person she used to be. She checked the time. She was two minutes late. She checked her hair, she pulled at the neckline of her dress, she adjusted the waist. She felt a sheen of perspiration spring to her skin and quelled her sense of rising nerves with a deep breath and a reminder to herself that she was Robyn Inglis, the Robyn Inglis, and that this was cool.

  She slowed her pace and then she stopped entirely when she saw them. And she knew it was them. There had been no need for anyone to describe dresses or accessories. It was absolutely beyond doubt. A tall thin woman with dark hair in a side parting, and a tall thin boy with dark hair, cut short around his face. The woman was dressed expensively in smart jeans, a blue T-shirt and a fine-knit cardigan, and the boy was dressed cheaply in what looked like Primark casual wear. Standing separately there would have been nothing obvious to connect the two people, but standing as they were, side by side, they could only be brother and sister.

  Robyn walked toward them in a daze, all her concerns and preconceptions fading away, all her efforts to present a certain façade forgotten. As she drew closer she saw their noses, their hollow cheeks, their full lips, their square jaws. They were not identical, but they were alike. They were like her. She increased her pace now as the enormity of this moment began to well up inside her. She wanted to get closer and closer, she wanted to see more and more of these people. She wanted to be inches from their faces and to stare deeply into their eyes.

  The woman looked up then and saw Robyn approaching and immediately her beautiful serious face opened up into a smile. She said something to the boy and he turned, too, and looked and smiled a smaller smile. And then they were all walking toward each other, like particles of metal toward an invisible magnet.

  Robyn would remember this moment in minute and full sensory detail for the rest of her life. She would remember the smell of oil and meat coming from the Burger King kiosk, she would remember the disembodied boom of a train announcement from the other end of the concourse, she would remember a slice of sunshine falling from the glass ceiling and onto the marble floor beneath her feet, and then she would remember being held in a brief embrace by a woman called Lydia, who smelled of clean hair, and then by a boy called Dean, who felt like a child in her arms, and she would remember their faces, their eyes, all three of them searching each other for whatever it was that had been missing for all their lives: that vital sense of recognition. It was almost as though she were watching the meeting from above, as though she were both studying and participating in the moment. It was like something from a dream.

  She couldn’t really remember what was said; it was all just words. If the moment had been a scene in the film of the book of her life there would have been no dialogue, just a rousing sound track playing behind it, maybe something epic like “Chasing Cars.” But she could remember the overwhelming sense of being part of a gang, and her unparalleled feeling of pride as she walked with her beautiful sister and her handsome brother toward platform nine and onto a train bound for their father.

  LYDIA

  Lydia gazed at her father in awe.

  He stared back at her.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Lydia.”

  Daniel looked at her intently and then he smiled. “You are very pretty,” he said, his voice croaking. He turned his gaze from her to Robyn then and said, “And so are you.”

  The two girls laughed, nervously, happily. And then he saw Dean and put out a thin, clawlike hand. “And you are very handsome.”

  He
closed his eyes then, as though the effort of keeping them open had been too much for him. But his mouth remained curved in the shape of a smile and his hand still gripped Dean’s. The three children stood and stared at him.

  The room rang with silence, a silence of shock and awe and coming to terms, a silence of absorbing and thinking and not knowing what on earth to say. It was clear that no one was feeling what they’d expected to feel and that everyone was rather unsettled by the terrible appearance of the dying man lying flat against the bed. And it was clear that this was not going to be a moment plucked straight from the dénouement of a saccharine made-for-TV tearjerker. The conversation would not be torrid and affecting but awkward and mundane. Meeting this strange man in the final hours of his existence was not going to change Lydia’s life. Nor anyone else’s, for that matter.

  But of every remarkable thing that had happened to Lydia in the past week, this was probably the most remarkable yet. She was standing with her father. Surrounded by her brother and her sister. And across the room stood a man who was her uncle, and not only that but her father’s identical twin. Nearly every person in this room was related to her by blood. The thought left her feeling giddy with fulfillment. She turned to Dean and smiled, and he smiled back at her. She wondered what he was thinking. Unlike Lydia and Robyn, this was the first time that he had ever looked upon a man who could call himself his father.

  “How are you feeling, Daniel?” asked the nice woman called Maggie, who had told them in the car on the way from the station that she was Daniel’s “friend.”

  He tipped his head slightly to one side to indicate a neutral answer. “I’m happy,” he said.

  The woman called Maggie lit up at these words and tears came to her eyes. “Good,” she said, “that’s really, really good.”

  And Lydia could sense that that was all the blond woman called Maggie had ever wanted. And maybe, for all her cynicism, there it was, the grand finale, the happy ever after. Those three simple words: “I’m happy.” And “good.” A full circle, a story brought to its gentle conclusion.