‘There’s a big ceremony on the last night and everything,’ Maddy was saying.
I stopped thinking about paradoxes with a jolt as a shiver of excitement zipped up and down my spine. Talking about prizes and ceremonies and winning brought out the competitive side of my nature. I wanted to win an award, no matter what.
Chapter 6
Cam
The hardware shop was dark, even on the sunniest of days. Natural light tried to get in through a roof light in the ceiling at the back of the shop, but that was so fuzzed up with spiders’ webs that it didn’t have much success. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with racking, all stacked with tiny boxes of screws and packets of vacuum-cleaner bags, Kilner jars for home preserving and rubber washers for leaky taps. If I was the sensitive type, I’d have said the shop was claustrophobic. The passageways between the columns of stock were narrow and a tall stepladder was needed to reach the stuff at the top.
After a week, I was getting into the swing of life working full time in the shop. I’d arrive with Papa John to open up and sort through the post, usually an assortment of bills and brochures, then onto the first brew of the day. Papa John wasn’t one to forget his northern roots. Part of his identity was drinking tea that looked more like the creosote we sold for preserving fences. Then he’d disappear into the back to do accounts or to ring suppliers or check on stock, and I’d be left to amuse myself behind the till. I’d started out by sorting the counter into some sort of order, then progressed to the higgledy-piggledy display of bargain trade-paint. Earlier in the week, I’d added my own touch to the marketing campaign with a slogan that read ‘Who said you can’t whitewash it?’ handprinted on a piece of cardboard I’d found out back which I propped up next to the pots of lime paint.
Papa John had given me free rein, which was odd – I wouldn’t have trusted me with his business. At lunchtime, I had half an hour off and I’d bolt for the door, like a bird from a cage, and head down to the bench on the quay, eating my sandwiches there and staying until the very last second before legging it back up the hill to the shop.
It wasn’t that I hated it. It was just I could think of better things to be doing. I would have been lonely if it hadn’t been for Nell, who kept popping in and sitting on the box behind the counter. I kept pushing her to go back to the deli and see about that job. But she wouldn’t. And she wouldn’t tell me why she’d hidden when her mum came into the shop either. That was proper weird. I didn’t push her. She’d looked terrified. I’m guessing she wasn’t supposed to be out, or was supposed to be somewhere else. Her mum’s uber-protective, and has gone into hyper-drive since Nell’s accident.
In between customers, once I’d tidied up, there wasn’t a whole lot to do, which left me with a lot of thinking time. I tried to find things to do – even brought in a crossword book to take away some of the mind-numb – but it was no good. I kept thinking about what would happen after I left Papa John and Jackie. I’ve been with them for three years, which is the longest I’ve been with any foster-family by miles. My mum died when I was eight and I lived with my gran for a bit until she got too sick to have me. Funny thing is I never usually worry about not having any ‘proper’ family. Perhaps what set me off was that I’d just done my GCSEs, and was thinking about what I’d do next. Whatever it was, I couldn’t get the question out of my head: who is my real dad? And by real, I mean birth father. Papa John was only going to be there for as long as he was paid to be. And when I got to eighteen, I could choose to stay or move on. But what if they wanted me to move on before then? Even if I stayed till I was twenty-one, in five years’ time, I’d still be on my own.
Since finishing my exams everything felt different. My future was approaching fast and I couldn’t see what it was going to look like.
But I had a birth father. That was blood. There was no end to that. Where was he? Who was he? Was he still alive, or had he gone the same way as my mum, so broken by drugs that his body had given up on him?
I tried to stop thinking about him and for a few days I managed it. I spring-cleaned the shop, washing the windows and hooking down the cobwebs that hung between the shelving units.
I had managed three whole days without thinking about my real father when Jackie gave me a form to fill in from the doctors.
‘Now you’re sixteen, it’s probably time you started filling forms in for yourself,’ she said.
She’s getting me ready to leave, I thought. Perhaps this is a hint, perhaps they’re going to break it gently to me over the summer. Still time to settle into a new foster home before college – ideal time, really, if you think about it.
The form was fine at first, just name and address, easy stuff, but it asked about diseases in your family. I guessed that my foster-family’s medical history wasn’t what the doctor was after.
‘Jackie? What should I put?’ I asked. I didn’t know what diseases, if any, my blood family had.
‘Just tick “don’t know”,’ said Jackie, as she carried on folding the washing.
I ticked ‘don’t know’ and handed it into the doctors on my way to work the next day, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t know. I didn’t know if my father had a condition that was hereditary. Didn’t know if something inside me was a ticking time bomb. What if I had something that was easy to fix, if only I knew about it? Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. I’m perfectly healthy. There’s nothing wrong with me. But the hours in the shop gave me mulling time and I couldn’t escape the what ifs.
So, one day, when the shop was quiet, I logged on to the internet using the main computer on the counter which we usually used to find out how long replacement stock would take, or how much our competitors were selling stuff for.
I knew two things about my father. His name and where he’d met my mum. My mum hadn’t put him on my birth certificate and the social workers never knew who he was. My mum had been so against ‘the social’ that she hadn’t told them a thing. But she’d told me his name. And once, when she was sober, she told me all about the summer they’d spent together. I typed in his name: Phil Mirren. A list of links appeared: Twitter, Linkedin and Facebook.
How would I know which was him? I scrolled and clicked and searched. There were some which I could ignore immediately, either too young or too old. After an hour, I’d looked through all the social-media ones – there was only a website left. I clicked on a link to a Phil Mirren business page. On the page were tiny photos of the people running the company. I scanned down, looking for Phil Mirren’s name. But it wasn’t the name that stopped me. It was the photo. It was of a middle-aged, slightly balding man in a suit with a solemn face, as in all business photos. But he had my nose. And chin. Or rather I had his.
Could that be him? It had to be.
My mouth was dry, my fingers trembling, as I tried to find out more about him. Now I knew where he worked, I’d be able to figure out roughly where in the country he lived. Not that I was going to do anything about it. Of course I wasn’t. I was just curious. There was no harm in looking. Researching a bit.
The business was based in Plymouth. That was only just over an hour away on the bus. Not far. Which made it feel a bit more real. A bit more possible.
‘How’s it going?’ said Papa John as he came into the shop from the back office.
I jumped. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be working. I minimised the screen and started looking at washers.
‘Great,’ I said brightly. ‘No problems.’
‘It’s a bit quiet this afternoon.’ He looked around the shop. No one had been in for half an hour.
‘It’ll pick up,’ I said. I clicked through from the supplier’s website to another one. I just needed to look busy, that’s all.
‘Well, I’ll be out back if you need me.’
‘OK.’
He disappeared through the office door. When he’d gone I pulled up the details about Phil Mirren again.
What should I do? Nothing of course. The guidelines ar
e very clear when it comes to contact. Only through official channels, and only if both parties agree to it.
I texted Nell. Hey, think I’ve found my real father online. Should I contact him?
Nell: What? Don’t do anything. I’ll be right there.
I stared at the man who looked like an older, maler version of me. It was weird. So weird. Within five minutes, Nell had burst through the shop door, the bell jangling loudly.
‘I came as fast as I could.’
‘Honestly, you shouldn’t have rushed. It’s not like someone’s died,’ I said. But I was glad she was there. Nell’s super-cautious. She would be just the right person to stop me doing anything stupid.
‘So?’ said Nell. ‘How do you know it’s him?’
I pointed to the picture on the screen. She looked at it closely.
‘He’s the spit of you,’ she said finally. I knew this. I had eyes. His eyes actually.
‘I feel like I want to know more about him,’ I said. And I did. I could feel my inner stalker dusting herself off. Come on, Nell. Here’s your chance to talk some sense into me. Save me from myself.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘All sorts. The big stuff, the small stuff. Everything. I was only looking cos I was curious. But now I’ve seen him…’ I paused to work out what I actually did feel. ‘He seems real. Like there’s a connection. Does that sound crazy?’
Nell shook her head. ‘Not crazy at all.’
‘What do I do?’
Nell looked at me closely. ‘I guess the question you have to answer is: which would you regret the most – finding out something you didn’t like about him, or never knowing him and missing out on the possibility of him being a good thing?’
Great. So much for Nell being a restraining influence.
Chapter 7
Sasha
We went to pick Clarisse up from the airport. It was blistering. It seems that Geneva in August has two weather variations: hot and hotter. And this was hotter. I was constantly on the lookout for the next air-conditioned room, or car, or shop. How people could function wearing the clothes they wore, I had no idea. As we waited in the arrivals lounge, I tried to imagine what Clarisse would look like. Probably a French, chic version of my mum. Perhaps a bit older, as my mum’s a few years younger than my dad. Dad said she worked in sales, that she’d lived in Marseille all her life, and that they’d been together for nearly a year. And he hadn’t thought to mention this sooner?
‘Clarisse! Par ici! Over here!’ Dad called. I looked to where he was waving. A trickle of people was coming through the double doors. There was a couple with a baby, an elderly gentleman and a young woman with enormous heels and massive sunglasses. Clarisse couldn’t be any of those.
Dad pushed his way past people waiting, went up to the young woman and kissed her. As in really kissed. As in, get a room kissed. So, two things. One: that must be Clarisse. And two: gross. Not her exactly. Them. Together. Just no.
I waited a bit. They clearly didn’t need me bounding up and wrecking what looked like a fairly passionate reunion. (Did I mention the gross thing?)
I decided that I’d wait it out further away, so I walked back through the lounge, picked a chair right under the air-conditioning outlet and got out my phone.
Me: Guys, you’ll never guess what, my dad’s gf is really young. As in Really Young.
I waited for their replies, scrolling through photos while I did so. They all must be busy. Cam usually replied quickly cos she was bored in the shop, but I guessed Hetal was arm-deep in chemicals or Bunsen burners or something. I wondered what Nell was up to. It felt weird not to know. I didn’t like it. A massive wave of homesickness engulfed me. I was sat in some swelteringly hot airport missing being with my friends because I’d decided to spend time with my dad, who was currently kissing the face off a girl who looked literally half his age. My dad may be having the summer of his life but I sure as hell wasn’t.
Dad and Clarisse walked up. Dad was holding her hand, which was weird cos they looked like they could be father and daughter. Like she was my older sister. New waves of gross hit me.
‘I’ll be in the car,’ I said and walked off towards the door. Dad did a low-level protest call after me, but it’s not his thing to make a public scene. Wouldn’t sit well with the ultra-cool thing he’s got going on.
‘She’ll come round,’ I thought he said in French. Come round, my arse. Didn’t matter which way you dressed it up, the age gap was just freaky. And I wasn’t going to change my mind.
I stood by the car, melting, and wishing I’d gone somewhere air-conditioned to make my point, when Dad and Clarisse walked up. Dad unlocked the car. I got in the passenger seat. Dad gave me the evils. I gave them right back with an added twist of ‘What are you going to do about it?’ He apologised to Clarisse, who elegantly tucked herself into the seat behind Dad. He gently shut the door for her and got into the driver’s seat, still frowning my way.
I turned my head and looked out of the window. None of this was my fault. He could have said before I decided to come to Geneva. It would have been easy: ‘Say, want to know something? I’ve got a girlfriend and she’s like half my age. You cool with this?’
And I would have said, ‘Hell no, you complete weirdo,’ and I would have stayed at home. With my mum. Who is the right age. And my friends, who were cool with me leaving them for the summer, despite us having made a ton of plans.
I watched as the tall city buildings turned to smaller suburban ones, until finally buildings were less frequent than fields. Dad had put the radio on to cover the awkward silence, which totally didn’t work. Out of the corner of my eye, I had a look at Clarisse. She still had her sunglasses on and she was typing quickly on her phone, her long nails tapping on the screen. She wore cream linen trousers which were annoyingly crease-free. She’d just been on a flight? Where was the justice in the world? Why hadn’t she arrived looking like me? Hot, sticky and wearing her holiday clothes. She looked up and caught me watching her.
Now call me overly-sensitive, but if you were meeting your boyfriend’s teenage daughter for the first time, you might try cracking a smile, or saying hi, or asking about school, or anything really. But no. Clarisse didn’t smile. She lifted her head, looked around, then back to her phone. Not a flicker of a smile. Not a flicker of anything. She didn’t even see me. Complete disinterest. Stunning.
Well, two can play at that game. I pulled out my phone. Nell had replied.
Nell: How young? Surely she can’t be that young.
Me: Like she could be my older sister.
Nell: Nooooo! Is she nice?
I thought about it for a minute. What she was like didn’t come into it. She was too young. End of.
Me: No. She isn’t.
Nell: Ouch. That’s going to be one long summer.
Me: Yeah, cheers for that!
Dad pulled into the apartment car park.
‘I’ve got to pop to the office. I won’t be too long. You’ve got a key to get in, haven’t you, Sasha?’
I looked at Dad. He was abandoning me with her? I glanced back at Clarisse. I couldn’t read her expression behind her enormous sunglasses. Can’t imagine she’d be that impressed being left with me either.
‘Yeah, sure, Dad,’ I said, digging it out of my pocket. He was doing what he did best. When the going got tough, he left. Classic Dad.
We stood and watched as he pulled out of the car park and away down the road.
‘Come on,’ I said to Clarisse, before walking towards the entrance, leaving her to haul her own bag. I could let her in, show her the place, but there was no way I was going to make her feel welcome.
I walked up the stairs, listening to her bumping her bag up the steps and cursing quietly in French. This would crease up those linen trousers a bit.
I held the door open nearly long enough for her and went in to make myself a cold drink, before sitting down on the sofa in the breeze of the air-conditioning unit.
Clarisse kicked open the door and I felt a twinge of envy. How was she staying upright, kicking a door and standing on one foot in those heels and still looking amazing? She dragged her bags in and dropped them in the hallway, letting the door slam shut behind her. She pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, her eyes looking around the apartment, taking in the doors to the balcony, the small kitchen and me on the sofa.
She walked over to my bedroom door and looked in.
‘That room’s mine,’ I said.
She didn’t flinch, but walked on to the next door and went inside. I sat on the sofa, too mad to drink my drink, too mad to read my book. I was stuck here, babysitting Dad’s girlfriend. I could be out somewhere now, doing something, but instead I was stuck here with her.
A few minutes later she came back out again for her bags.
‘My dad didn’t say you were young,’ I said before I could help myself. ‘How old are you exactly?’
Clarisse looked at me, her dark eyes glittering, her red lips pursed. ‘Well,’ she said in a thick French accent, ‘your dad didn’t tell me he had such a spoilt brat as a daughter.’ She pulled her bag across the sitting area and into Dad’s room.
Nell was right. This was going to be one hell of a long summer.
I downed my drink, picked up my phone and sunglasses and walked out of the apartment. How dare she talk to me like that? The rage bubbled under my skin as I walked down the hill to the restaurant by the lake. It was nearly empty, the sun was overhead and all sensible people were indoors.
I found a shady corner right next to the lake edge. I looked over the low wall into the water below. It was crystal clear and there were large fish swimming in and out of the weeds.
Summer of no Regrets Page 4
