‘Well, then, what? It couldn’t be … No way. Not your mum.’ Holly had her back to Sophie but suddenly she spun around, beaming. ‘I’ve got it. Maybe you were Laura’s little girl and then you fell overboard and washed up on a beach somewhere and your mum found you and there was no one around so she took you home and looked after you.’
‘Babies can’t swim miles to shore,’ Sophie snapped. She wanted to throw up.
‘OK. Maybe a dolphin or a whale carried you on its back like that movie Whale Back Mounting or Humpback Rider or whatever it’s called.’
‘It’s Whale Rider, and I doubt that happened. Come on, Holly!’
‘There’s no need to bite my head off. I’m trying to help. Incredible things happen all the time. Look at that guy who was stuck on a mountain and sawed his arm off with a blunt penknife or a razor or his teeth or something and survived.’
Sophie threw up her hands in exasperation. ‘He was thirty-three years old!’
‘I’m just saying it shows that humans have survival instincts. People are always getting mauled by tigers or attacked by killer sharks but they survive.’
‘We’re talking about a baby girl, not a bloody fish. She couldn’t have swum miles in the sea to safety. She’d have died after a minute in the freezing water.’
Holly leaned forward and poked Sophie in the chest. ‘Well, maybe the boat was almost at the dock. Maybe it happened in the South of France in the summer and the water was shallow and warm. Maybe Laura took her daughter to mother-and-baby swim classes in preparation for the holiday in France so she did know how to swim!’
‘And my mother just happened to be strolling along the crowded beach in St Tropez in the height of summer at the exact moment when a mermaid child came out of the water and no one else noticed?’
‘I didn’t say St Tropez.’ Holly crossed her arms defensively. ‘I was thinking more Antibes or Saint-Raphaël.’
Sophie shook her by the shoulders. ‘What difference does it make where it was? It’s a ridiculous theory!’
Holly stepped back. ‘It’s a lot less ridiculous than implying that your mother’s a kidnapper.’
Sophie sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m freaking out here.’
‘We both need to keep calm. Let’s go back to the beginning. What exactly has your mum told you about being born and stuff?’
Sophie closed her eyes. Everything was bright red. ‘All she ever says is that my dad was an American architect. She had a very brief relationship with him and he went back to New York. Then she realized she was pregnant and she didn’t even know his second name so there was no way to trace him. She never heard from him again.’
‘I can’t imagine your mum having sex with a guy she barely knew,’ Holly said.
‘It does seem strange. But she said she was over the moon when she found out she was pregnant because she was almost forty and she really wanted to have kids.’
‘And then she came here, to London, when you were about two, which was when I met you.’
‘Mum said that when her mother died, she had no other family or ties to Dublin so she decided to get away and start a new life in London.’
‘And you’ve never met anyone from her past?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No one except Joe. He’s her only friend from back then.’
Holly frowned. ‘When you think about it, it is a bit strange. My mum has loads of friends and cousins and aunts and uncles. How can yours have no one?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘She was an only child and her parents are dead so there is no family.’
‘But what about school friends or college friends or work colleagues? I mean, she lived in Dublin for, like, forty years so how can she only have one friend?’
‘She just does. She’s not that sociable. Even here she has just a handful of people she’s friends with.’
‘I suppose you’re right. It just doesn’t seem …’
‘… to add up.’ Sophie finished Holly’s sentence.
It really didn’t add up. Anna never talked about Ireland. When Sophie asked about where she was born – which hospital, who was there, what did her granny say when she saw her, where was she christened, when did she take her first step – Anna was always vague and keen to change the subject. Something had never seemed quite right. And how could no baby pictures of Sophie have survived? She had asked Joe once when he’d come over to visit if he had any photos of her as a baby. He had stared at Anna, who had cut across him and said that of course Joe had no pictures of Sophie because he had been too busy taking pictures of his own baby, Mark.
And Sophie looked nothing like her mother. And Anna didn’t have synaesthesia. It had taken her ages to figure out what was going on when Sophie kept describing how she saw emotions, numbers and words as colours. The doctor told them that it was usually passed down in families, most commonly from mother to child, but Anna had never even heard of it. She’d thought Sophie was making it up at first, but after a few months she had begun to worry that there was something wrong with her daughter. She said it was a huge relief to know that it was just the way Sophie saw the world.
She had never taken Sophie back to Ireland, even though Sophie had begged her to. Joe invited them all the time, but Anna refused to go. She said she had bad memories of her parents dying and she didn’t want to go back there and relive sad times. When Sophie was about fourteen she kept asking her mother and pushing her to take her. Anna eventually lost her temper, which she rarely did. She had shouted, ‘There is nothing for us there. I don’t ever want to set foot in that place again. It will never happen.’ She seemed so upset and furious that Sophie never asked again.
Holly interrupted her thoughts: ‘Duh, we’re so stupid. What we need to do is Google this Laura woman and find out more. We need more information.’
She grabbed her laptop and they Googled ‘Laura, artist, Ireland’, and Sophie added ‘synaesthesia’ to narrow it down. Her name came up – Laura Fletcher, artist. They went into her website.
Holly gasped when she saw her picture again. ‘God, Sophie, it’s like looking at you but older. Freaky.’
Sophie clicked on to Laura’s bio page and scrolled down. There was a paragraph about her baby. It said that her daughter had been lost at sea on 14 August 1994.
‘You moved here in August 1994,’ Holly reminded her. ‘I have pictures of you at my second birthday party on the twenty-ninth and you’d only been living next door for, like, a week or two. My mum was thrilled when you arrived because she had a playmate for me right next door.’
Sophie began to feel sick again.
‘There’s a pictures folder.’ Holly pointed to the link.
Sophie clicked on it. There were pictures of Laura at various art galleries and exhibitions, and then there was one that said ‘Jody 1994’. She opened it …
‘Are you OK?’ Holly asked, as Sophie threw up into the toilet for the sixth time. She was holding her friend’s hair up and rubbing her back. ‘Look, maybe it’s just an incredible coincidence.’
Sophie wiped her mouth with a towel. ‘Holly, the picture of me is identical to the pictures Mum has of me as a toddler, and the final proof is the blanket I’m holding in Laura’s picture. It’s the same one I had as a kid.’ She had to stop talking and vomit again.
‘Oh, my God, Sophie, what are we going to do? This is huge. This is the kind of thing you see on Oprah. What does it mean? Are we actually saying your mum … nicked you? Abducted you?’
Sophie groaned and threw up again. Everything was red now, bright red.
Holly handed her a tissue. ‘She couldn’t have – she’s so serious and upstanding and honourable. She’s a headmistress, for goodness’ sake. My mum says your mum is the most trustworthy person she’s ever met. She always says, “You can tell Anna Roberts anything and it will go no further. She’s the soul of discretion.” Someone like that wouldn’t nick a baby.’
Sophie stood up and rinsed her mouth. She had to steady herself on the washbasin because her
legs felt like jelly. ‘Well, it looks as if she did something bad. Really bad. Illegal, unthinkable, incomprehensible and just wrong.’
‘Hold on – don’t jump to conclusions until we have all the pieces of the jigsaw.’
‘You saw the baby photo.’
Holly chewed a fingernail. ‘It’s pretty damning evidence but we mustn’t judge yet. We still need more info.’
Sophie sat on the side of the bath and sobbed. ‘Who am I, Holly? If I’m not Sophie Roberts, who am I?’
Holly rushed to her. ‘You are Sophie Roberts, my absolute best friend in the world. Wonderful, clever, creative, kind, beautiful … and soon to be extremely skinny if you keep throwing up like that. I wish I could throw up! I’m the one who needs to lose weight.’
‘I can’t handle this – it’s too much. It’s not right … It’s crazy! It’s madness!’ Sophie cried. ‘All I can see is red – everything is red.’
Holly took her friend’s hand and led her back to the living room, where she sat her down on the couch. ‘Breathe in and out … Come on, Sophie, there you go.’ She patted Sophie’s back as she began to calm down. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of it. We just need to be calm and think of a plan. Sophie, you’re the mature, clever one in this friendship – as my mother constantly reminds me – so I need you to think clearly.’
Sophie could feel her heart racing. Her head ached. She willed herself to breathe slowly and try to make sense of what was happening around her. Her mother an abductor? She couldn’t be. Holly was right: Anna was the most conservative, strait-laced, law-abiding person in the world.
Holly poured her friend a glass of wine. ‘Drink this – you need it for the shock.’
Sophie knocked it back and felt it burn her throat.
‘You don’t look like a Jody,’ Holly said, examining the website again. ‘I think you’re much more of a Sophie. Although I could imagine you being a Katie too.’
Jody Fletcher. That was Sophie’s name. Her other name. Her baby name. Her mother was not her mother. Her identity was not her identity. Who was she? What was she?
‘Sophie.’ Holly turned Sophie to face her. ‘My mum’ll be back soon so we have to decide what to do.’
Sophie stared at her blankly.
‘OK, I can see you’re going to be no help at all. You may be smarter than me and more mature, but you don’t handle shock well. OK, Sophie/Jody, you are going to have to try to behave normally. If your mother sees you in this state, she’ll know something’s up. Come on, snap out of it.’ She clicked her fingers in front of Sophie’s eyes. ‘I’m going to walk you home and you’re to go straight to bed and turn off the light. In the morning I want you to stay in bed. Tell your mum you feel a bit off, and when she goes to work, I’ll come over. We’ll have a snoop around your house and see if we can find any clues.’
Holly pulled Sophie to her feet. ‘Now, one foot in front of the other.’ She marched her out of the door, down the path and to her house next door. ‘Sophie, I need you to get some sleep. Our heads have to be clear tomorrow when we’re looking for evidence. I may not be Carol Vorderman at numbers but I’m turning out to be quite the Miss Marple. Maybe I should go to detective school instead of doing the horticulture, landscape and sports turf management course, which was the only thing I could get into.’
‘You’ll be great at it,’ Sophie muttered, longing for bed. She needed sleep.
‘Don’t fob me off. We both know it’s a ridiculous thing to study. What the hell is sports turf anyway? I hate sports and I didn’t even know what turf was when I applied. I read it as “sports surf ” and thought there’d be lots of gorgeous guys in wetsuits but it turns out it means mud! I’m going to study sports mud with a bunch of wellington-wearing muckers. Argh!’
Despite everything that had just happened, Sophie began to laugh. It felt wonderful. She laughed until her cheeks hurt, her sides ached – and she realized that she was crying. Everything turned light green, her colour for pain.
Holly hugged her. ‘It’s OK, I’m here for you. You haven’t lost me to the country bumpkins yet!’
‘Thanks. I need you, Holly – you’re the only person I can trust.’
‘Luckily for you, it looks like I’m going to be an excellent sleuth.’
13.
Laura
Killduf, June 2011
Laura put on her makeup slowly and deliberately. She wanted to look as if she had made an effort but she knew that if she put on too much it would be commented on. She felt sad and tired. It was a beige day. She wished things were different, better. She knew this celebration would be fake and hollow. She longed to be in her studio, alone, listening to music and painting. It was the only time her mind switched off. The only time she got away from it. The only time she felt any sense of peace.
Laura smoothed down her black dress. She had opted for a conservative look. She knew her more Bohemian ‘arty’ clothes would be criticized and she wanted to avoid any kind of confrontation.
Frank had organized dinner in a fancy restaurant in Dublin. There would be just the four of them. Laura willed herself to be calm and cheerful. She didn’t want to argue; she didn’t want to get upset. She really wanted it to go well. She desperately wanted to bridge the divide between herself and Joan, but there was an ocean of blame, anger, guilt and heartache between them.
She looked at her watch. Damn! It was a quarter past seven already.
‘Mandy, are you ready? We need to go,’ she called up the stairs.
Silence.
‘Come on, you know how much Joan hates anyone being late. The traffic could be bad. I really don’t want to give her an excuse to be cross.’
She heard a door slam. ‘Chill out, I’m coming.’ Mandy stomped down the stairs. ‘Jesus, Mum, you’re such a Hitler.’
Her sixteen-year-old daughter was wearing skin-tight ripped black jeans and a black T-shirt with Queen Biatch! on it.
Laura chose her words carefully. She knew that if she openly criticized Mandy’s clothes a massive row would ensue. Mandy was very touchy, these days, and Laura was finding her teenage moods difficult to navigate. Everything Laura said was wrong, ‘lame’ or ignored. ‘It’s a nice restaurant, Mandy. Can you at least put a cardigan or a jacket over the T-shirt?’
‘This T-shirt rocks.’
‘I don’t want to argue with you, but please just put on a jacket.’
‘Fine, whatever, but I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Gran.’
Laura drove to the restaurant. Mandy sat beside her, texting. In the time it took to get there, barely a word passed between them. She wondered if all mothers struggled with their teenagers. Mandy had been a very sweet baby, but by the time she was three her stubborn streak had made itself known and had gone from bad to worse. She was constantly pulling away, trying to assert her independence, while Laura was desperate to rein her in. She knew she was an over-protective mother – but how could she not be with her history, her fatal mistakes?
When they arrived, Joan was sitting alone at a table discreetly tucked away at the back of the restaurant. They could hardly see her behind an enormous bouquet of Happy 60th Birthday balloons. Her face was like thunder.
‘Late! You’re all late! Some birthday this is. I’m sitting here like a fool on my own with these ridiculous balloons announcing to the world what age I am.’
‘Chill, Gran, it’s eight oh three. We’re only a hundred and eighty seconds late.’ Mandy sat beside her grandmother.
‘Sorry, Mum. I organized the balloons, I thought they’d be cheery for the table.’ Laura leaned down to kiss her mother’s cheek.
Joan turned to her granddaughter. ‘What type of an outfit do you call that?’
‘It’s called a young person’s outfit. It’s 2011, Gran, not the nineteen hundreds. Sorry to tell you, but we don’t wear white gloves and hats with nets any more.’
‘You cheeky lump.’ Joan smiled at her. ‘How do I look?’
‘Like a sixty-year-old.’ Mandy gr
inned.
‘You look lovely, Mum,’ Laura said. Her mother was wearing a very stylish blue shift dress. ‘That’s gorgeous. Is it new?’
‘I treated myself to it.’
‘It really suits you.’
Joan attempted a smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like to order a drink? Why don’t you have a glass of champagne to celebrate?’ Laura suggested.
‘Can I have one too?’ Mandy asked.
‘No!’ Joan and Laura said in unison.
‘For God’s sake, it’s like being in prison around you two,’ Mandy grumbled.
Laura ordered one glass of champagne and two Sprites.
When the drinks arrived, she raised her glass and toasted her mother: ‘Cheers to you, Mum. I hope the next sixty years bring you happiness and health.’
‘Well, they couldn’t be worse than the last sixty, could they?’ Joan sipped her champagne.
Laura willed herself to be calm.
Mandy’s stomach throbbed.
Joan shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t die of a broken heart after Jody. Thank God for you, Mandy. You saved me. You’re the only reason I’m still alive.’
Mandy blushed. ‘Am I really?’
Joan squeezed her granddaughter’s hand. ‘Yes, pet, you are.’
Mandy hugged Joan, and Laura felt a pang of jealousy. She wanted to scream, ‘I suffered too, I need a hug too, I’m a person too,’ but she wasn’t allowed to. Joan had taken ownership of the grief. Laura wasn’t allowed to grieve in front of her because it was her fault, her neglect, her drunken, irresponsible behaviour that had led to Jody’s death. If you cause something, you can’t complain about it afterwards.
The only kind thing Joan had done was not tell Mandy that Laura had been drunk when Jody disappeared. She had at least spared Laura the humiliation of Mandy knowing what a wretched human being she was.
Laura was glad that Mandy got on with Joan but she was envious of how relaxed they were together. There was no awkwardness between them. Mandy never hugged, kissed or even let Laura touch her. If Laura tried to put an arm around her, Mandy shrugged her off. She longed to be closer to her, but all they seemed to do these days was fight. As for Joan, their relationship had been destroyed after Jody’s disappearance. Joan could barely be in the same room as Laura: she hated her daughter for what she had done.
This Child of Mine Page 10
