by Louise Voss
I stopped, and backspace-deleted everything except the Dear Ann bit. Then I backspaced a little further, and replaced Ann with Mrs. Paramor, which I then amended to Ms. Trying to find the right words for the real letter was so much harder than my stream of consciousness ramble, but after a few drafts I settled on:
Ann Paramor
8, Back Lane
St.Aubin
Jersey
Dear Ms. Paramor,
My name is Emma Victor. If you are my birthmother, you’ll know why I’m writing. If not, then I’m terribly sorry to bother you; but I was adopted in 1970 and have been trying to track down my biological mother, who shares your name. I would really appreciate it if you could contact me to let me know either way, although if I haven’t heard from you in six weeks’ then I’ll assume this is either another blind alley, or that you do not wish to be in contact with me. It would be really good to know which, though. If you are my mother, and you would like to be in further contact with me, I would love to hear from you.
I toyed with the idea of enclosing a stamped addressed postcard with two boxes on the back: YES – I am your birthmother, or NO – quack quack oops, wrong again. Please tick as applicable. I’d been caught out by Ann Paramor not answering my letters before. The typed sentences looked strange, disjointed, words jumping out at me randomly, like biological, and blind alley, none of which seemed to make sense. Perhaps it was all the hormones stirred up by the events of the previous week - Gavin, Robert, Ruth’s baby - but I suddenly felt desperately emotional about it all. If this Jersey woman wasn’t my mother, then I’d pretty much run out of options. She might be dead, or abroad, and I’d never know. Also, if it wasn’t her, I knew I’d have to go back to Harlesden again, and even the memory of that unloved, dirty house made my throat constrict. I wasn’t sure I could face it. But I’d have to, if I wanted to know either way.
I printed out the letter, and was about to log off, when I suddenly thought of Ruth, and decided to send her an email to see how she was getting on. Maybe she was still in hospital, I thought, but she might like to have a supportive message waiting for her on her return home. When I opened Outlook Express, I found to my surprise and pleasure that there was an email from her in there already.
Dear Emma,
They let me out yesterday – none of that lying around being waited on by the nursing staff for two weeks! I’m typing this with Evie Imogen asleep next to me in her Moses basket (the ‘Imogen’ is for you). She’s adorable, and is already feeding up a storm and doing all the things which she’s meant to be doing – admittedly, not a lot, but it’s early days. I’m very tired, obviously, but otherwise fine. My Mum came over from Wales to help out, as soon as she heard.
Anyway, I meant it when I said I’d like us to keep in touch. I feel hugely grateful to you for ‘rescuing’ me like you did – God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been there. Well,actually, I do know. I’d have been on my own. Marty wouldn’t have come with me in the ambulance (not that I’d have wanted him to!!) and nor would the others, I’m sure. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk, but I really identified with you.
I’m coming down to London in a couple of weeks for an interview – did I tell you that I’m a graphic designer? I applied for the job ages ago, and just heard last week that I’d got the interview. I’d thought Evie would still be on the inside when I made the journey, but it’s not a problem, as long as the company don’t mind me bringing her. I’ve been thinking of moving to London for ages, you see, since I split up with Evie’s father (he’s married, and doesn’t want to know about her. Did I tell you that?). Maybe we could meet for a coffee or something. I don’t know many people in London, but Evie and I need a fresh start.
Anyway, hope you got home OK, and aren’t too upset about not finding your real mother in Nottingham. I’d love to hear from you if you have a chance. All the best, Ruth xx
I was insanely chuffed; by the fact she’d written so soon, that she wanted to see me again, and most of all that she’d really called her baby Imogen after me. I wrote back immediately, saying I’d love to meet up, and if she wanted a place to stay that night, she was welcome here, and I’d happily look after Evie for her while she went to the interview.
I sent the message off, immediately slightly regretting the offer of accommodation – perhaps I was being a little over-enthusiastic. But within ten minutes the reply came back, ‘Thanks for all this. Evie’s breastfeeding too regularly for me to leave her with anybody just yet; and I think I’ll drive home again this time, after we’ve met. But if I get the job, I would love to take you up on the offer of your spare room later – I’d need to be here for a couple of days to sort out a flat to rent. Email me your phone number and I’ll ring you nearer the time so we can arrange where to meet. Look forward to it!’
There must have been a particularly propitious alignment of the planets going on in the heavens at this time, at least in terms of beneficial new friendships; Ruth’s message wasn’t the only pleasant surprise I had that day. Just as I was leaving for baby massage, the telephone rang. My heart jumped, but I made myself leave it, since I was already late. When the machine clicked on, I heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice, and my disappointment that it wasn’t Robert was immediately swept away by a split second’s conviction that it was Ann Paramor, the Ann Paramor, having somehow tracked me down. I clutched hard onto the edge of the open front door, frozen like a tongue on icy metal.
‘Hello, this is a message for Emma Victor. It’s Denise Hiscock here. I got your number from Suzanne. I – well, Greg and I – have been wondering how you’re getting on, if you had any luck looking for your birthmother. Anyway, we’re having a bit of a dinner party in two weeks’ time, Saturday 2nd, down at the cottage. We were wondering if you’d like to come? Bring a chap, if you’ve got one. And do stay the night, there’s plenty of room. Our number is….’
I defrosted rapidly, closing and locking the door behind me, delighted by the invitation, already mentally planning what I would wear. I permitted myself a small fantasy: me, all dressed up, hooking on my sling backs and combing my hair as my ‘chap’ waited, checking his watch and gently chiding me to hurry up. The chap had dark skin, sensitive cricketer’s hands, just the right amount of aftershave, and a full-beam smile which scrambled my stomach….
Funny how I didn’t once imagine that he was Gavin, I thought as I slotted the letter to Jersey Ann into the postbox at the end of the road. Oh well. Date or no date, I was surviving on my own. I’d be OK. And perhaps I’d soon be hearing from my birthmother.
But all the same, I did hope that I wouldn’t be the only single woman at the party.
Chapter 34
The buzzer sounded at ten a.m. promptly the following day. I was expecting it to - the new client who’d been booked in by his secretary the previous week was due at that time. As I pressed the button on the intercom, I found myself hoping that he was a nice clean businessman, and not one of the horrible hairy-backed sweaty ones.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s, ahem, Mr. Hawkins, come to see Ms. Victor,’ came a crackly voice.
‘Come on up,’ I said. ‘Second floor; the door will be open.’
Footsteps echoed solidly along the tiled hall, and I felt the quick squeeze of nerves in the pit of my stomach at the thought of being alone in my flat with a strange man. A strange, soon to be semi-naked man. I didn’t usually see new male clients without Stella in the flat, just in case, but I couldn’t really afford to turn down the business, and this was when his secretary had said he wanted to come. I’d heard her flicking over the pages of a desk diary, and the office buzz of other phones ringing in the background - surely a businessman with a bonafide job and secretary wouldn’t try any funny stuff. But as a precaution, I made sure my pepper spray was in my pocket, and fully intended to litter any conversation with references to my extremely large live-in boyfriend.
The footsteps were now heavy on the stairs. Oh God, what if it was Charli
e? No, I told myself, it couldn’t be. I was sure no woman would pretend to be that schmuck’s PA just to aid him in gaining access to our flat. I peered over the banisters to see a dark, cropped head and broad shoulders in a suit. Not Charlie, definitely, I thought with relief. I looked again at the nubbly shorn curls and thought, how funny, it looks just like –
‘Hello Emma,’ said the man, lifting his head and grinning at me. ‘Ten o’clock massage?’
It was Robert.
The red blotches on my chest flared up my neck and throat as if controlled by a dimmer switch. It was the weirdest feeling; delight and terror, outrage and amusement, all swirling together; cold, sweet, surprise.
‘I hope you don’t mind. My shoulder’s really playing me up, so I thought, hmm, lucky I know the number of a good aromatherapist, isn’t it?’
I was still speechless, but I managed the sort of inane giggle a twelve-year old would produce, whilst simultaneously hoping that he didn’t turn out to be an axe-murderer. By now we were face to face, and he looked even more delicious than he had at our last meeting, in a very angular good wool suit and a shiny tie. I didn’t know any men who wore suits.
Robert kissed me gently on the cheek. ‘Please don’t look so flabbergasted. Didn’t you recognise the name when my secretary booked the appointment?’
So that was why I hadn’t heard from him. I shook my head, feeling the imprint of his lips soft on my cheek. How on earth was I going to control myself enough to massage this man? My hands were shaking and my palms already sweaty enough to steam wallpaper off the walls.
‘I don’t think you ever told me your surname,’ I managed eventually.
‘Well, it’s the same as my parents’, and I presumed you knew theirs.’
Hawkins. Of course. ‘Oh yes. No, it never occurred to me. Do you come to London a lot?’ I burbled, cringing.
‘Yes. And when my flat’s ready, I’ll be here even more often. I really wanted to call you sooner, but I thought I’d surprise you instead. And I do genuinely need a massage, by the way. I think I strained something at football that day I met you – the next morning, I woke up extremely stiff.’
He said this with a poker face, and I didn’t dare call him on it. I had to retain some vestiges of professionalism. Instead, I returned his blank face, and ushered him into the flat, while a jubilant symphony crashed cymbals in my head. ‘Well, I’m definitely surprised. This way please, Mr. Hawkins. We’ll see what we can do.’
We had our preliminary consultation, and I wrote down as much of his medical history as necessary, my pen quivering as I asked him about his eating and sleeping patterns, his sore shoulder, and any past injuries; just about managing not to slip in a few questions about past girlfriends or preferred sexual positions while I was at it. Then I wafted the mingled smell from the lids from the bottles of my suggested oils under Robert’s nose, for his approval: rosemary, nutmeg and lemongrass.
‘Mmmm, gorgeous,’ he said, closing his eyes.
‘You don’t, um, have an enlarged prostate, or damaged skin, do you? Because if so, I won’t use the lemongrass. It’s not advisable. It’s quite a strong stimulant, you see.’ Oh God, why did everything feel like it had another meaning? This was too weird.
‘No. Not to my knowledge,’ he replied, without an ounce of embarrassment, suddenly taking off his jacket and tie. My head spun.
‘I’ll let you get undressed then, while I go and mix up these oils, and put some relaxing music on, if you don’t object. If you could lie face down on the couch when you’re ready.’
I had to lean on the back of the door after I’d gently closed it behind him. Robert is getting undressed in my flat. This was awful. What if he had this all planned, was treating me like some kind of a prostitute? What if he lunged at me, and said ‘you know you want it?’ But I did want it, I argued. Stop it, I argued back at myself. He’s a client with a bad shoulder. You’re a fully qualified aromatherapist – what are you going to, refuse to massage him on the grounds that he might want to sleep with you? Besides, for all I knew, I was only feeling this intensely about him in the light of Gavin’s treachery. It might be a rebound thing. But couldn’t he have called me sooner, just for a chat, instead of keeping me hanging on for ten days? Maybe he wasn’t interested in me, sexually, but just as a friend…
Ten minutes later, the most beautiful man I’d ever seen was lying on my massage couch, naked except for a pair of crisp cotton boxers. I was relieved that he’d kept them on, although the knowledge that I’d have to pull them down over his hips a little, to get access to the base of his spine, somehow felt even more erotic.
Stop it, Emma, I told myself again, horrified. I absolutely must not think of this in anything other than clinical terms. It’s not erotic. It’s not erotic. It’s – oh my god, look at those muscles. Wrapped up like a gift in that satiny brown skin. Before I’d even touched him, I was imagining myself whispering the sensuous poetry of massage strokes in his ear: effleurage, petrissage, frictions, tapotement…. It was a fantasy come true.
With the gentle strains of an ambient CD playing in the background, I tucked Robert up like a baby in fluffy white towels, which looked even whiter next to his brown skin. I began by pressing down gently and firmly with my forearms along his back, leaning my weight on either side of his spine to ground him and establish our connection, and then I peeled away the towel to expose his back again. I couldn’t help sucking in my breath at the close-up sight of him as I began to work the oils into his shoulders.
I felt like an oversexed schoolboy with an erection in assembly, and found myself employing similar techniques to get rid of it: trying to visualise buckets of vomit, or imagining that Robert was William Hague, or somebody equally repugnant. It wasn’t working. Right from the first touch of his skin, I felt a tingling between my legs, and as he groaned with languid pleasure when I kneaded my thumbs underneath his shoulder blades, I realised I was damp with arousal. How on earth was I going to get through a whole hour of this?
I decided to talk. Not something I normally did during a massage, unless asked a question, but this wasn’t a normal massage.
‘So,’ I said, rearranging the towels and starting work on his (wonderful, smooth) right leg, ‘Nutmeg’s an analgesic. Very good for muscular aches and pains, and so should really help your shoulder. It’s also a very good mood lifter – ‘
‘I don’t think my mood could be lifted any further,’ came the muted response through the face hole in the couch. ‘This is fantastic.’
‘Did you know,’ I gabbled, cradling Robert’s right foot in my arm and squeezing each of his toes in turn, ‘that nutmeg has a similar action to MDMA? If you grated a whole nutmeg and ate it, you’d get high?’
‘Mmmm,’ said Robert, non-committedly, his chunky square toes wiggling in my face. I wanted to bite them.
‘And rosemary is analgesic too. Lynford Christie allegedly had a rosemary sports massage before every race. I wouldn’t use this oil on you if it was night-time, because you should never take it before you go to sleep. It’s a massive stimulant, mental and, um, physical.’
Oh no, I thought, now he’s going to think I only gave it to him because it’s a stimulant… I was sweating now, feeling the damp patches under the arms of my t-shirt. The sharp but musky tang of the combined oils pervaded the small room, connecting us together as we both inhaled it.
‘So what are you going to do next about finding your mother?’ he mumbled suddenly.
I paused, bending down to pick up my little bowl of oil, keeping one hand on Robert’s leg the whole time so as not to break the connection. I suddenly could no longer picture what he looked like, and had to stifle an urge to peer under the table and up into his face, framed in the face hole.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said cautiously, replacing his right leg and picking up his left. ‘The only other Ann Paramor on my list lives in Jersey, and I wrote to her a few days ago. Originally I wanted to just turn up and check them all out, but seeing as she’s
most likely to be the one, it seems more fair somehow to warn her. Plus I don’t really want to traipse all the way over there in case it’s a wild goose chase and she turns out to be the wrong Ann too.’
‘And what if she is the wrong one?’
I didn’t mention the other possibility: Harlesden Ann. I was still too ashamed of myself for not following it through. ‘Well. I’d always told myself that if I didn’t find her straight away, I wasn’t going to spend years and years wondering and spending more money on searching. I don’t need to know that badly, but…. I don’t know, really. My friend Mack is making a documentary about the search for a BBC series, so maybe when it gets shown, there’s a chance that someone who knows the right Ann might see it. Or even Ann herself. Although that would be a bit of a shock for her - if she saw me on TV looking for her. And obviously, a very long shot for me.’
‘So you’re going to be on TV. Perhaps I’ll have to start representing you. Is Mack your boyfriend?’ I felt a distinct tightening of Robert’s quadriceps muscle as I kneaded it, and the jealousy which slipped unmistakably into the flirtatious tone of his voice was a secret thrill which reverberated down my spine.
‘No. He’s just a mate. He’s a freelance producer for the BBC, but this is his first full-length film.’
I momentarily forgot whether I’d done both his legs, or just the right one, even though the sequence usually came as second nature to me. Oh, this was impossible. I’d initiated the conversation because his flesh was distracting me, but now I wasn’t focussing on the job in hand at all.
‘I’m sorry to be bossy, Robert, but please would you shut up? I can’t concentrate.’
I saw the side of Robert’s cheek curve upwards in a smile. ‘Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.’
