Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part 1
1 Smitty
2 Abi
3 Smitty
4 Abi
5 Smitty
6 Smitty
7 Abi
8 Smitty
Part 2
9 Smitty
10 Abi
11 Smitty
12 Smitty
13 Smitty
14 Smitty
15 Abi
16 Smitty
17 Abi
Part 3
18 Smitty
19 Smitty
20 Smitty
21 Abi
22 Smitty
23 Smitty
Part 4
24 Smitty
25 Abi
26 Smitty
Part 5
27 Smitty
28 Smitty
29 Smitty
30 Abi
31 Smitty
Part 6
32 Smitty
33 Smitty
34 Abi
35 Smitty
36 Smitty
37 Abi
38 Smitty
39 Smitty
40 Smitty
41 Smitty
42 Abi
43 Smitty
44 Smitty
45 Smitty
46 Abi
47 Smitty
48 Smitty
49 Smitty
50 Smitty
Part 7
51 Smitty
Part 8
52 Smitty
53 Abi
54 Smitty
55 Abi
56 Smitty
57 Smitty
58 Smitty
59 Smitty
60 Abi
61 Smitty
62 Abi
63 Smitty
64 Smitty
65 Smitty
Part 9
66 Smitty
67 Julius & Heather
68 Smitty
69 Abi
70 Smitty
71 Smitty
72 Smitty
73 Smitty
74 Smitty
75 Smitty
Copyright
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781473507296
www.randomhouse.co.uk
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Century
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London SW1V 2SA
Century is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
Copyright © Dorothy Koomson 2015
Dorothy Koomson has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in the UK by Century, 2015
www.randomhouse.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781780893341
This book is dedicated, with love, to my dad –
sometimes disapproving but always supportive.
I’ve decided to say my thanks with KISSES (Keep It Short, Sweet and Especially Simple). So …
Thank you
to my gorgeous family who are everything
to me to Ant and James, my wonderful agents
to all the fantastic people at my publishers, Cornerstone (especially Susan, Jenny G, Gillian, Jen D, Richard, Charlotte, Natalie, Rebecca, Aslan)
to Emma D and Sophie, my great publicists.
A special thank you goes to those who helped with my research, particularly Sarah Marshall and Chris Manby, who also provided brilliant long chats as well as info.
And to E, G & M – thank you for being so amazing in every way. I love you.
As always, I would like to say thank you to you, the reader, for buying this book.
‘You will help me, won’t you?’ she asks.
‘If I can,’ I reply. I wonder what she thinks someone she has just met will be able to help her do when she has a whole family down the hall in the living room who are at her beck and call. ‘What is it you want help with?’
This woman, my grandmother, who has only really been in my life for the past hour, fixes me with a gaze that is determined and a little frightening; woven through with strands of defiance. Maybe I was mistaken; maybe those outside this room aren’t as devoted and loving as I thought. Whatever it is that she wants to do is clearly something they’re unlikely to agree to. She says nothing for a time, and the longer she stares at me with her brown eyes, the colour dimmed by age, the more a feeling of dread meanders outwards from the pit of my stomach. I should not be sitting here having this conversation with this woman. I should have brought her back here and left her to it. The longer I sit here, the longer things are going to go wrong for me.
Eventually, so eventually I thought she was planning on remaining silent, she speaks. Cautiously, haltingly, she says: ‘My time has come. I am too old … too sick … too tired to carry on in this world.’ She pauses but her eyes continue to drill into me. ‘My time has come. I want … I want to leave this Earth. I need you to help me.’
‘Miss Smittson, it’s good to see you again.’
‘You, too, Mr Wallace,’ I reply. I smile at him and shove my hands into the pockets of my combat trousers to avoid having to shake hands with him. I’ve met him twice before – both times I’ve had to do it and both times his hand has been hot and clammy. The images of what he could have done to get it that way were a horror movie that played constantly through my head.
Mr Wallace, in a shabby, too-tight black suit, offers me his hand to shake. I hesitate. The rest of him seems dry and normal, I wonder if he’d accept a hug instead? It would get me out of touching his hand without seeming rude and it’d be altogether better for my mental health. He pulls a smile across his face, sticks his hand out a little bit further. Defeated, I offer up my hand to be encased in his moist, sweaty palm. The touch of him sends a shudder through me and I can’t take my hand away fast enough, but not too fast in case he notices and his feelings are hurt. Maybe he can’t help being sweaty-palmed, maybe he has a condition and it’s not his fault. Maybe the horror movie in my head has got it all wrong and he doesn’t do unsavoury things in his car before he meets clients.
Mr Wallace’s attention strays to the older woman with wavy brown, grey-streaked hair who stands silently beside me. He smiles curiously at us both, waiting for an introduction.
Mum has obviously noticed how reluctant I was to shake the estate agent’s hand so has taken to holding her bag in both hands, rendering them incapable of being shaken when I do the introductions.
‘Mr Wallace, this is my mother, Heather Smittson,’ I say. ‘Mum, this is the estate agent who’s dealing with renting the flat.’
Immediately, Mr Wallace’s face does that thing. ‘That thing’ most people who don’t know my family do: he double-takes, then rapidly moves his gaze from one of us to the other, wondering why the visuals don’t match the words. After the staring comes the perplexed, suspicious frown and, right on cue, Mr Wallace’s confusion develops on his face until he is frowning very hard indeed at us.
We’re in the car park of a beautiful, reddish-yellow-brick, art deco block of flats on Hove seafront. This is going to be my new home, the place for my fresh start. Everything bad is three hundred miles away and in that place called ‘the past’ while everything good is here, and about to happen in that shiny new destination called ‘the future’.
Except little snags like this, a man who is nearer to Mum’s age than mine, giving us his version of Paddington Bear’s hard stare because he doesn’t understand why Mum is my mother and why I am her daughter. To him, it surely shouldn’t be possible.
Mum suddenly needs something from her handbag, and she pops the black leather rectangle open and starts to ferret furiously through it. Clearly what she is searching for is so important the world might end if she doesn’t find it RIGHT NOW. What she is actually doing is her version of ‘Lalalalalala not happening’, which she does every time she might need to explain our situation. If the handbag thing doesn’t work, she’ll simply wander off, pretending that she doesn’t know we’re in the middle of a conversation.
With Mum making it clear with every root through her meticulously organised bag that she isn’t going to be forthcoming, Mr Wallace returns to me. It’s now my job to explain. I’m supposed to say, ‘I’m adopted’. To let him know that Mum and Dad did the whole white parents taking on black children thing well before various celebs made it fashionable. He stares at me, I stare at him – he wants answers to his unasked questions, I’m not giving them. I haven’t got the energy.
As if someone On High knows I need rescuing, Mr Wallace’s left, inside breast pocket begins to vibrate before the tinny, tiny sound of ‘YMCA’ joins it. ‘Oh, excuse me,’ he says and reaches for it. He checks the screen, grimaces, struggles with himself. ‘I’m sorry, I have to get this. It’s an emergency waiting to happen. Do you mind?’ He’s pressed the answer button and put it to his ear before I even have a chance to react. He wanders away from us, heading across the promenade and towards the blue-green railings that separate land from sea.
‘Well, that was rude,’ Mum states. She removes her head and her hand from her bag, snaps it closed again with a loud click as the brass clasp shuts itself tight. ‘We were in the middle of a conversation.’
‘You mean I was,’ the person I am in my head says. ‘You were going, “lalalala, not happening”.’ The person I actually am says, ‘It’s fine, Mum. It gives us a chance to have a proper look at the place. So what do you think?’
This building is as beautiful as it is commanding. The bottom part of it is painted cream and looks from a distance like a short, satiny cream skirt, while the top half looks like it has been dressed in a blouse of russet sandstone. The corners of the building are curved instead of pointed and the whole of the top floor is apparently one penthouse apartment. My flat is on the first floor, and most of it overlooks the sea. I’d spent far too much money on renting it, even with the huge discount I’d got because it’d been empty for so long and the owners were desperate to fill it. It didn’t matter about the money right now, it would come out of my savings, and it was only for six months before I decided what to do next.
Mum, who rarely shows if she is impressed, rotates slowly on the spot, stares at the sea, which today is a shimmery azure, and takes in the matching-coloured sky that is crammed with white, floccose clouds. While she looks, I retrieve my small instant camera from the left knee pocket of my navy blue combat trousers and flick it on. I need to take a snapshot of this moment so I can write underneath it: With Mum, May 2015, Outside New Home (Brighton/Hove) and stick it up on my wall. A reminder of the moment my new life began.
In my right knee pocket my mobile buzzzz-buzzzz-tings for probably the fiftieth time today. I ignore my phone and take the shot, capturing our proximity to the sea as well as the look of the building.
‘Who is it that keeps sending you messages?’ Mum asks. She can’t ignore it any longer. She’s held her tongue all day but this is the text that has sent her over the edge. She sounds so miffed anyone would think it was her who was being texted at least six times an hour all day. Mum becomes diabolically upset with people who use ‘text’ as a verb. (It’s actually worth doing it just to see her nostrils flare and her eyes turn into hard blue lasers seeking to burn your tongue out of your head for such an evil act.) ‘They were sending messages the whole of the journey and even now when you haven’t replied. Who is it?’
‘Who do you think it is?’ I reply, a little more tartly than is necessary.
‘Didn’t you tell him that you don’t want to see him any more?’ she asks.
She says that like it was a casual fling – not a twelve-year, cohabiting relationship – that he should really be over by now.
‘Well, didn’t you?’ she demands to my silence.
‘Yes, of course I did.’
‘Then why is he still sending you messages?’
For the same reason that I’m still reading them: I don’t want it to be over; I don’t want any of this to have happened; I want to be living at home in Leeds with our plans for the future and my eye on that shop in the Victoria Quarter. I want to be making jewellery, and arguing about my mess, and planning days out in our campervan. I want the life I was promised and thought I was going to live before all of this happened. It’s the same for him, I’d imagine.
I can’t talk about this with anyone, but especially not with her when she made it clear over the years how little she thought of him. ‘I don’t know why he’s still texting, Mum.’ Like clockwork her eyes harden and her nostrils show their annoyance at the text verb. ‘Maybe he thinks if he sends me enough messages I’ll change my mind.’
‘Typical,’ she mumbles nowhere near under her breath. ‘I never did like the way he was so confident and sure of himself.’
‘Really?’ I reply. ‘’Cos I always loved that about him.’
‘And look where that got you,’ Mum says. Shocked, I take a step back. She’s not normally that spiteful. Her words usually have a sting to them, but that was like a nasty stab from a vicious weapon and it’s hit me square in the chest, right over my heart, right where everything seems to ache from at the moment.
Mum, even though she must have seen my reaction, and noticed that I have stepped away from her, is openly unapologetic as she observes me.
‘Oh, get knotted,’ teeters on the tip of my tongue, while huge tears are cramming themselves into my eyes. I take another step back and force myself to look away because I’m not sure if swearing at my mother or crying in front of her would be the worst thing to do right now.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ The man who asked this question looked vaguely familiar, fitted right into this university world of distantly remembered, partially recalled faces.
He had come over and sat down on the stool on the other side of the table in the area of the student bar where Dylan, the absolute love of my life, had unintentionally annexed these last few weeks we’d been here. Dylan was like The Fonz in that people were drawn to him; they hung out near him like groupies around a rock star and didn’t seem to mind if he didn’t actually get around to talking to them during their time together in the bar. Today was one of those rare occasions where it was only Dylan and me having a drink after an additional early evening tutorial that only he and I had turned up for. Other lectures hadn’t started or were about to finish, and in that lull I’d managed to get him all to myself. I was relishing every last second – until this guy appeared.
Like most of the people I met at college, I wasn’t sure if this new bloke was someone I’d seen around – in halls, in the library, right here in the bar – or if I’d met him before I arrived at Liverpool University to study Political Science.
‘I’ll have a pint if you’re buying,’ Dylan replied to the new man.
‘I wasn’t asking you,’ the new man said good-naturedly. ‘I was asking your friend.’
I pointed to myself in surprise. ‘Me?’ Male or female, no one noticed me when I was sitting with Dylan. He was far too rock star-like.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘No. Thank you, but no.’
‘Make the most of it while you can,’ Dylan laughed. ‘Seth’s not exactly known for reaching into his pocket unprompted.’
‘Think you’re mistaking me for yourself there, mate,’ the new guy, Seth, replied. ‘Which is why I’m not offering to buy you a drink – you owe me a couple of thousand of them.’
Dylan laughed again.
‘Does your mum like Emmerdale Farm, by any chance?’ I asked. She may have had a special interest in Greek mythology but I was guessing modern-day TV was probably more her thing.
Seth nodded slowly. ‘I got off quite lightly,’ he said then laughed. When he laughed his pink lips moved back to show his perfect white teeth, while his hazel-green eyes danced with mirth and kindness. ‘My brother’s called Sugden. We’ve got Alans and Jacks in our extended family so Sugden he was named.’
‘That’s not true,’ I scoffed.
‘It is, actually,’ Dylan said. ‘I’ve known Seth since we were in nursery. Grew up near-ish to each other over the years. Now, apparently, he’s transferred to do Political Science here, too. Can’t get away from him, it seems. But yes, his brother is called Sugden. His family’s dead posh and all, you’d think his mother would have some shame about it, but she’s unrepentant.’
Seth nodded.
‘Seth,’ I said contemplatively.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing, I was just turning the name over in my mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever said it before.’
From the corner of my eye I saw Dylan’s head turn towards me before he frowned.
‘What’s your name?’ Seth asked.
‘Clemency Smittson. I’m only telling you my surname because my friends call me Smitty. My dad started it when I was about twelve, drove my mum wild with annoyance, but it stuck.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. ‘The question for me then is: are you a Smitty or a Clem to me?’ It was Seth’s turn to receive a small, suspicious frown from Dylan but Seth didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. Seth got to his feet, still staring intently at me. ‘I shall ponder which one I think you are to me on my way to the bar. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’
‘Actually, I think I will. Half a lager and lime, please.’
‘A half with lime it is.’
Once Seth had left our vicinity, Dylan sat back in his seat, his body slid down a bit against his part of the corner sofa we’d commandeered and he stared at me with his head slightly to one side as though sizing me up. Eventually, when he’d watched me study Seth at the bar, he said to me: ‘Don’t go there, Smitty.’
‘Go where?’ I asked.
‘You know,’ he hissed irritably. ‘Don’t do it. Not with him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just don’t, all right?’ He glanced over at Seth, which made me look at him too. ‘We’re all young, just starting college … don’t be getting involved with blokes like him.’
‘Why? Is he a complete bastard?’
‘Nah … He’s a nice guy. And if you do it with him, you’ll fall in love with him or something equally stupid and he’ll probably fall in love with you. It’s too soon when you’re still in college.’
‘You are pulling my leg,’ I said to him. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing.
‘No, no, I’m not. Not really. I just don’t think … Look, being honest, I wouldn’t like it. You’re my friend, not his.’
Dylan and I had been ‘friends’ since the first week in college when I sat next to him in our Political Foundations class. I had turned to ask him what time the lecture was due to finish and found my voice had abandoned me. He was simply the most beautiful man I had ever seen. With his dark olive skin, close-cut black hair, huge brown eyes, and easy, natural smile, I fell for him straight away. It was impossible not to. Over the next few lectures we’d discovered we had the same sense of humour and liked the same music and films so I rather easily slotted into becoming one of his groupies. For the most part I didn’t mind because very few of the other groupies had all the same classes as him, so didn’t get to spend as much time with him in and out of class as I did. What he was saying now, though, was that I was a cut above the entourage of good-looking women who seemed to draw his attention; I was different. He would be bothered if I slept with someone else.
‘Are you seriously saying you wouldn’t like me going out with Seth because he’s a nice guy?’ I asked.
‘Going out?’ Dylan said despairingly. ‘Smitty, you’ve just met the guy. I’m only saying I don’t think you should go there, all right?’ He shrugged. ‘Please. I’ve known him a long time, me and him are good mates. Me and you are good … well, whatever. Just don’t.’
‘It’s nice of you to care about my feelings so much,’ I replied casually. Inside … Inside all my internal organs were dancing: Dylan liked me enough to be jealous.
‘I’ve thought long and hard,’ Seth stated. He placed our two drinks on the table, ignored Dylan’s grumbles about being left out and focused on me. ‘I’ve decided you’re going to be Smitty to me. Mind if I call you Smitty?’
My grin must have taken him by surprise. He had done me the hugest favour – he’d made me interesting and desirable in Dylan’s eyes. Dylan wanted me. I never thought that would happen. Not ever. ‘You certainly can call me Smitty. In fact, I’d be offended if you didn’t.’
‘Excellent,’ Seth replied.
Really excellent, I thought as Dylan sat up, and with one hand picked up his almost empty glass and took a sip, while under the table, his other hand moved possessively on to my leg and stayed there. Really, really excellent.
Mr Wallace finishes his call and starts his way back to us. I am furiously blinking away tears, trying to sweep aside the pain from my mother’s words and slowly the agony starts to recede while calmness takes over. Mum is still staring at me but I ignore her and focus on Mr Wallace, concentrate on not revealing how much she’s hurt me. ‘Many apologies for that, ladies,’ he says. ‘Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you into your new home.’
Oh yes, like things aren’t bad enough, my mother is also moving in with me.
To: Jonas Zebila
From: Abi Zebila
Subject: Purple Day
Monday, 25 May 2015
Dear Jonas,
Today is a purple day.
That’s what Lily-Rose told me, anyway. Not quite sure where she got that from, or what it means, but when I came in from work earlier that was the first thing she said to me. It made me smile and it made me think of you. And I had to ask you what you think it means. Today is a purple day. It’s also two years since you’ve been in touch and that’s long enough now, don’t you think?
Brother, dear brother, you’ve been gone from her for nearly half her life. You are her favourite uncle, she still talks about you. And I still think about you. We were a team, you and me.
I’ve read all this stuff online about how when a person decides to go ‘no contact’ with their family they have to cut everyone out, including the people you love because they’re the ones who drag you back into the toxic mess, and I get it, I really do. But it’s not fair. I didn’t do anything. Remember? I’m the one you actually like.
I have no one here, apart from Lily-Rose and Declan, obviously, but no one knows I’m still seeing him – they all assumed we’d finished, which is why I moved back here. Yes, I came back to live with Mummy and Daddy. Really, I moved back in because Gran’s seriously ill now and I decided to help Mummy with her meds and feeding her (most days she can’t do that for herself) and other stuff.
So, what’s new in the past two years apart from me living back here? Well, nothing much is the short answer. Ivor still lives here, and shows no signs of leaving – ever.
Mummy and Daddy are still the same. They don’t argue, argue, but they do snipe at each other a lot still. It’s definitely got worse since you left. Mummy blames him for you cutting us off but she won’t say it, and Daddy pretends it hasn’t happened.
The other bone of contention is that Mummy thinks Gran should be somewhere where she’ll get specialist care. I hear them talking about it sometimes. Daddy’s not having it. They talk quietly, but I swear, Daddy, when he speaks, raises his voice on words like ‘duty’ and ‘loyalty’ and ‘respect’. ’Course, he can say all that because he doesn’t have to do much. He talks to Gran whenever she makes it into the lounge, he goes in to say hello and goodnight to her most days. Yes, I wrote that right – most days he goes into her room. He has to pass her room to leave and enter the house but he doesn’t even make it in to see her every day. Denial about how sick his mother is do you think?
And then there’s Lily-Rose, Lil’ ‘Purple Day’ herself. She’s my entire world. You should see her now, she’s so big. Tall, beautiful, funny. Remind you of anyone?! You never got to know how funny she was, properly. The other day she disappeared and after I looked in all her favourite hiding places in the house – I eventually found her in Gran’s room, telling knock-knock jokes she’d made up. They were all pretty random, a lot didn’t make sense, but some were hysterical. I could tell it was just what Gran needed.
Look, please get in touch. Two years is long enough. You used to think life was too short to hold a grudge, that you should let bygones be bygones. I know Gran was terrible to you and Meredith, and the results of what she did were devastating, but deep down, don’t you still believe in not holding a grudge, especially against the people who didn’t do what she did? Aren’t you even a little bit curious about us, about Lily-Rose?
Today’s a purple day. What does that mean to you?
Love,
Abi
xxxxxx
I slide open the side of Lottie, my red and white camper van, and am greeted with a great wall of brown cardboard boxes. The suitcases, holdalls and bags have all been transported up to the flat in the last eight trips, and now I have the boxes to start on. I stare at them. I’m sure they’ve quadrupled in number since I stacked them in there last night.
Last night, he was out like I’d asked him to be so I could move the boxes into Lottie ready for today’s trip, but I wasn’t sure how long he’d stay out or if he’d be back to try to convince me to give us another chance, so I had shifted boxes without really noticing their number or weight. There were still some left in our flat, which is why I didn’t want to tell him to leave me alone. I’d have to arrange a time to go and get the rest. Now, I don’t really understand how I have so much stuff. It’s not as if I have lots of clothes and shoes and bags, and the like. I took no furniture, I took no appliances, I left them all for him back at the flat, and yet … I have what seems like a million boxes.
They can’t all be work-related. I read the words on the boxes as if I didn’t label them myself: ‘Tools’, ‘Old Tools’, ‘Wire’, ‘Polishers’, ‘Finishers’, ‘Rollers, Barrel Roller, etc.’, ‘Journals, Books, Swatches, etc.’, ‘Finished Pieces’, ‘Toolboxes’, ‘Findings’, ‘Beads’, ‘Resins, Glues’, ‘Samplers’, ‘Texturisers’. Maybe because I’d worked at Karina’s Jewels for so long and I had a lot of my regularly used tools there and my other stuff at home, I didn’t notice how much work stuff I’d accumulated.
I’m a jewellery maker, much to the upset and disapproval of my mother. With a good political science degree I was obviously on the road destined for Parliament, final stop Prime Minister. I had a different path to tread, though. We’d frequently rowed about it over the years (and I’m sure she still holds out hope for my great political career to emerge) but nothing gave me joy like making jewellery. From coming up with the initial design to handing over or displaying the finished piece, my job gave me real pleasure. My true love, though, was reloving people’s old jewellery.
Nothing was sadder than jewellery that languished in a drawer or box, mostly forgotten, partially unloved, because it didn’t fit into someone’s life. I made people want to love their jewellery again. Unwanted things that used to be precious, could be precious again, were my speciality. I would do my best to make the jewellery fit the person’s life, make them look at it again and see that they could love it, they did want it, they didn’t want to forget it existed because for a time it wasn’t quite up to scratch.
I sit on the edge of Lottie’s footrest, momentarily defeated by the number of boxes I have to unload, by the task ahead of me. I have to start again. Establish my business down here, find new clients, set up my workshop, open my shop, all while living with my mother. I’d lived with her when I left my flat, and for the months before that, but I’d always known it was temporary so I could endure it. This is permanent. I close my eyes, allow the ebb and flow of the sea to wash over me. I can do this. I know I can. I need to believe that. It’d be easier, of course, with him. But, I can do this. Because I have to.
‘How about we break with tradition this year and I kiss Smitty under the mistletoe first?’ Seth asked.
We had all arrived separately at the Social Sciences department’s end of term party in the dining hall, with me turning up last. Our department always went all out for their parties and waited until everyone had officially left so they could hire the dining hall and make it look spectacular. As soon as I walked in the door, Dylan and Seth both descended upon me – Seth was holding mistletoe. I looked from one to the other.
It wasn’t as if I was going out with either of them, or that either of them didn’t have girlfriends because I wasn’t and they did. But for the last two Christmases, whenever they spotted mistletoe, I was their first port of call.
‘How about we don’t make this a tradition which could be seen as Smitty being a bit “free” with her affections around two men who have girlfriends?’ I replied. Girlfriends who were probably in this very room, glaring at me.
Dylan snaked his hand around my waist, tugged me towards his body and kissed me full on the mouth, as he’d been doing for the last two Christmases, before anyone could say anything else. His lips, tasting of the rum-laced punch he’d obviously been drinking, lingered on mine. This was about to turn into a proper, full-on kiss where he would push his tongue into my mouth, he’d pull me closer to him and we’d forget anyo—. Abruptly, Dylan stepped away. As always his kiss was enough to tease me but not enough to promise me anything.
‘You are such a git,’ Seth complained. ‘You don’t even have mistletoe.’
‘I’ve got mistletoe in my heart,’ Dylan replied. He focused on me with his enormous black-brown eyes and I knew he was about to finish with his latest girlfriend. He always gave me that look, said something like that, when he was about to dump someone – it’s not like anything had ever happened between us, or that he’d make a move once he was free, he just did this to let me know what he was thinking. And the only time he ever kissed me properly was at Christmas.
‘Happy Christmas, Smitty,’ Seth said. ‘I’m still here, you know?’ he was actually saying.
I managed to tear my eyes away from Dylan, refocused on Seth. ‘Happy Christmas, Seth,’ I replied.
He held up the mistletoe, its white fruit unusually plump and large against its long, slender oval-shaped leaves. ‘Any chance?’ he asked. I hadn’t even got my coat off or unwound my scarf.
I glanced at Dylan. He stared down at his feet, prodding at something invisible on the floor as though he wasn’t bothered, his body language plainly broadcasting how bothered he was. I wasn’t the one going out with someone else, I was single and able to kiss whoever I liked – no matter how chaste it really was. Seth, though … The mere idea of him and me bugged Dylan. He hadn’t been bothered when I’d been out with or slept with other men, even with friends of his, but when it came to Seth, his jealousy was clear and evident.
‘If you want to,’ I told him.
Seth nodded in understanding. ‘Next year,’ he said. He tossed his mistletoe on to the buffet table, between the pile of greasy mini sausages and the large crystal punchbowl. ‘I’ll make sure that I get my kiss in first.’
Mum hasn’t brought much stuff with her. ‘I only really need my clothes and my photographs,’ she’d said, and she was as good as her word.
Considering her house in Otley was crammed with enough ornaments and knick-knacks to keep a small charity shop well stocked for a year or two, and she’d never shown any inclination to get rid of them, I was impressed that she really only brought her photo albums, clothes and beauty items. ‘I won’t take up much space,’ she’d said during the conversation where I asked her to move in with me. That’s how she tells it to anyone who’ll listen – she even tells that to me and I was there for the conversation. ‘Clemency was moving and she couldn’t do it on her own, so she asked me to come with her. She’s my only child, so I couldn’t say no.’ What really happened was this:
‘Mum, I know the timing could be better but I’m moving. I’ve got one more week to complete at work and then I’m going to tie up everything here and move to Brighton. Well, Hove, actually. That’s where the flat I’ve found is. It’s near enough to Brighton. I’ve got a workshop down there, too.’ I decided to tell Mum I’d also got a shop space another time – too much information gave her too much to worry about and too much to mither me about.
‘Oh, that sounds like a fantastic idea, Clemency. I’ll get your uncle Colin to look after the house and I’ll come with you. Thank you for suggesting it.’
‘What?’ I replied.
‘Don’t say, “what”.’
‘Wha— I don’t understand what you’ve just said.’
‘Or maybe Nancy and Sienna could move in?’ she said to herself. ‘They’ll need a bigger space, I won’t need to charge them rent and they’re family so I know they’ll take care of the place. Or maybe I shouldn’t involve family? Maybe I should just look at renting it out through an agency.’
‘What are you saying to me, Mother?’
‘Your uncle Colin can help out. When are you going?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Perfect. That’s plenty of time to pack and have an estate agent value the place with a view to selling or renting.’
‘But I’m moving on my own.’ (I’m still not sure if I said that out loud.)
‘This is perfect, Clemency. I won’t take up much space. Just my photographs and personal belongings and clothes. I was wondering what I would do with myself now. I don’t want to be here any more. Too many memories, especially from the last few months. But you’ve solved that problem for me.’
And created a whole world of problems for me. Mum and me in confined spaces, with nothing much to do … It is a bad combination.
‘Clemency? Is that you?’ Mum calls. I heft the first box through the front door. There are eighty-seven steps and three sets of doors between Lottie and this flat. I only noticed that while wrestling my way here with this box labelled ‘Tools’.
‘Who else is it going to be?’ I call back.
‘A simple “yes” will suffice,’ she replies.
‘What is it that you want, Mum?’ I ask. Down the long wide corridor with large block, parquet flooring in a rich honey-coloured wood, I follow the sound of Mum’s voice until I find her, in the second bedroom. Her bedroom. This was going to be my work-at-home place. It didn’t have the sea views of the other rooms, but it had an en suite shower and loo, space for a desk as well as a (guest) bed and, most importantly, a large amount of wall space to pin up my designs and have a shelving unit to keep all the tools and materials – wire, beads, findings, bottle tops, trays, glues, resins, cords, etc., etc., etc. – I used at home.
‘Yes, Mum?’ I say. ‘How can I help you?’ I have sprinkled positivity, the type of sunshine drenching the outside world, into my voice because this is all going to work out. Everything is going to be fine. To make sure it is, I need to stay positive no matter what is sent to try me.
‘This room is going to be fine for me,’ she says.
‘That’s great,’ I say.
‘There isn’t much natural light, though,’ she adds, in case I get too comfortable with doing something almost right.
‘I know. This side of the building overlooks the internal courtyard and because there are other parts of the building on all four sides, not much light comes in. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ she says.
Mum has eyes that are so blue they appear translucent in certain lights. When I was younger I was convinced she could use her eyes to hypnotise people into staying still, staying silent, while she said something important or cutting. I’m not one hundred per cent convinced she can’t do that now because she is fixing them on me while she opens her mouth to speak. I want to turn away, to leave before I hear something that will be negative and draining; which will nibble away at the positivity I have been building up, but I can’t move.
‘Clemency, about what I said earlier,’ Mum starts. She sighs and steps towards me. ‘Don’t take everything to heart so much.’ She presses her hand on to my shoulder, reassures me with that touch that I am being oversensitive and what she said about the end of my relationship was completely justified.
Dylan stood beside me, our heads close together while someone took a picture of us in our black and purple gowns. I had a mortar board on my head, the tassel constantly hung just low enough to be an irritating distraction at the corner of my eye. The other distraction at the corner of my peripheral vision was Mum, glaring at me because, in her mind, merely standing next to a male was enough to impregnate me. ‘We made it, eh, Smitty?’ Dylan said.
I took my camera back from the person who’d snapped the shot, thanked them. ‘Yes. Although it looked doubtful at times.’
‘Don’t just disappear now it’s over, OK?’ he said.
‘If anyone’s going to do a disappearing act it’ll be you, don’t you think?’ I replied. ‘Speaking of disappearing acts, what happened to Seth? I saw him in the ceremony but I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Maybe he finally got the message,’ Dylan mumbled.
‘What message would that be?’ I asked. ‘And can you clue me in on it?’
‘Come on now, Smitty,’ he said.
‘No, you come on, Dylan. I’ve finished college, am I allowed to sleep with Seth now? Or is that still against the rules of being your mate?’
‘Smitty … me and you …’
‘Are mates, that’s abundantly clear.’
‘It’s not that simple. Before you, I’ve never been friends with a girl without it being either purely sexual or purely platonic. It’s both with you. And the longer we’re mates, the more I feel for you. It’s more than sex and more than just frienship with you.’
‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ I said in response.
Unexpectedly he stepped forward, our bodies now so close they almost touched. My breathing became quick and shallow; the pupils of his eyes dilated as he began to breathe quickly too. ‘I’d love to kiss you,’ he said, his gaze linked to mine, ‘but I think your mum would probably lay me out with one punch. Meet me later? I’ve got a family meal, but come over to my house around ten o’clock?’
‘I can’t. Mum and Dad are taking me home after this. We’re all packed up. We’ve got a family thing over in Otley. My cousin’s having problems, too, Mum wants to get back for her.’
‘Can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘Are you going to come back any time soon?’
‘Do you actually ever listen to a word I say? I told you, I’ve got a summer job, working six days a week so I can save up for my course to train to become a silversmith and jeweller. You can come and see me?’
‘Will your mum smack me if I kiss you now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your dad won’t stop her?’
‘Nope.’
‘All right. I’ll come over to see you.’
I knew he wouldn’t. I desperately wanted him to, but I knew he wouldn’t. It was easier for us both to pretend that he would.
Mum’s stopped hypnotising me with her stare. She’s instead focused on the butterfly pendant I wear around my neck. It is large and fashioned from silver, and one of the first things I made after I qualified as a silversmith. The pendant represents a lot of things to Mum, not only the fact I took no notice when it came to her career advice, but also that I still have an obsession with butterflies. And that obsession, to Mum, is hurtful. ‘Try not to be so sensitive,’ I should say to her. Instead, I tuck it away under my T-shirt, out of her sight, out of her mind.
Now the butterfly is hidden away, she goes back to admonishing me while rubbing my shoulder. ‘Clemency, you should know by now that you mustn’t be so touchy about things,’ Mum tells me. ‘You should try to grow a thicker skin, so you aren’t so sensitive.’
‘OK,’ I say to her, because it’s easier than explaining that while I have normal skin like everyone else, I spend a lot of time pretending the snide comments, the sly digs and the outright vicious remarks about not knowing who my ‘real’ parents are don’t bother me. Mum doesn’t realise that I spend my life feigning the existence of a thick, impenetrable outer layer so that I can be seen to be able to ‘take a joke’, ‘not be so sensitive’, ‘not take everything to heart’. She has no idea that for years I would cry alone because no one understood that every comment made me feel worthless and made me believe that those snipes were true.
And anyway, all this talk about not being oversensitive would be more credible if it wasn’t coming from the woman who can’t even bear to hear the word ‘adoption’, let alone talk about it in relation to her only daughter. That’s why she has ‘issues’ with my butterfly obsession – it’s a reminder of the fact I’m not biologically hers.
‘Clemency,’ she says, before I shut the door behind myself.
‘Yes, Mum?’ I reply tiredly. There’s only so much I can take, only so much the positivity I’ve stretched over this new start can handle before it peels away, and starts flapping about uselessly like unsecured tarpaulin in the wind.
‘Your father would have loved it here,’ she says. ‘He adored the sea. He always wanted to live by the sea again before … He would have been so proud of you.’ She smiles. ‘Even more proud of you than he was.’
I nod. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I mumble, and leave.
I don’t need her to tell me Dad was proud of me. I knew he was. He told me so all the time. Right up until he died.
To: Jonas Zebila
From: Abi Zebila
Subject: Please reply. PLEASE!!!!!
Friday, 29 May 2015
Dear J,
Another email from me where I hope all is well with you. You didn’t tell me about your purple day. All is not well here, unfortunately. Gran was rushed to hospital while I was at work yesterday.
Daddy didn’t even bother to leave work. Mummy had to call my office to get me to pick up Lily-Rose. I had to bring her back to work with me because I was up to my ears in client reports and billing, and the billing had to go out yesterday. Lily had a great old time, she was the centre of attention from all the residents. Mrs Lehtinen was the worst for it, practically adopted her there and then, showing her off as something as close to a great-grand-daughter as she could get.
Did I tell you Mrs Lehtinen is here at the home now? Do you remember her? She was from Finland and her family lived next door and she was great friends with Gran. Her family moved away when I was about five or six. She loved you, I remember that. She’s not been here long but on the first day she recognised me even though I hope I’ve changed a little in twenty years. I didn’t really remember her until she reminded me that it was her who had given Mummy the idea for those sleep boxes that we slept in as babies. And then, of course, she asked about you and it all came flooding back: how you were always her favourite because you used to wolf down those God-awful Jim bars she kept giving us. (I looked them up on the net to find out why they were so boak. Marmalade foam covered in chocolate. I can’t believe Mummy let us eat them.)
Like I say, Mrs L practically stole Lily-Rose from me and kept telling her stories about what I got up to when I was her age. It would have been embarrassing if they didn’t all show me as being the most amazing five-year-old!!
On the way home we dropped by the hospital to see Gran, Lily-Rose and I, but she wouldn’t see us because she didn’t want us to see her like that. Three days ago Lily’s telling her jokes and now Gran won’t see her. So much pride. So much stupid pride. That’s what our family’s problem is – too much pride, don’t know when to swallow it. I mean, would it have hurt Gran to see Lily? I know it can be scary seeing someone looking frail, but she may not come out of hospital. We may never see her again because her pride makes her worried we’ll see her looking vulnerable.
I’m gutted, Jonas, really gutted.
Tell me. Just tell me something. Anything.
I love you.
Abi
xxxx
P.S. Do you want some pictures of Lily-Rose? I may have a few (thousand).
My bedroom in the flat is pretty incredible.
The main bedroom, my room, has panoramic views of the sea from the six, double-glazed sash windows. ‘Triple aspect’ I think it was called in the agency description. Triple aspect, three views of the sea, three chances to see the expanse of water while reclining in this king-size bed. I’ve made up the bed, I have unpacked my clothes, stashed my bags and cases at the bottom of the double wardrobes.
Now I’m doing what I do wherever I live: putting up my photos.
One of the first photos I have pressed on to the wall is from 1996. I am with Seth and Dylan. We are in the bar, in the booth where we were sitting when Seth first came over. I’m in between them, they’ve both got their arms around me, and I’m overwhelmed because I’ve never had so much male attention in my life. Under that photo I have scrawled:
With Seth & Dylan, Xmas 1996, Uni Bar. Mistletoe madness!!
Another photo:
With Dylan & Seth, Xmas party 1998, Liverpool (end of term party) Dylan has his arm slung casually over my shoulder, Seth is standing beside us but a little apart, as though not really wanting to be there. I have my hand on his forearm, trying to draw him into the photo.
And another:
With Dylan, July 1999, Graduation Day
Dylan and I have our gowns on, I have a mortarboard, he doesn’t. We’ve got our heads close together and are grinning at the camera. I’m looking pensive because Mum is off camera glaring at me.
With Mum & Dad, July 1999, Gradation Day
I’m in between Mum and Dad, grinning at the camera. Dad has plucked my black mortar board off my head and plonked it on his. He’d originally gone to put it on Mum’s head but the look she fired stopped him. Seth had taken the photo but had only stopped by to say goodbye before he went off with his family.
With Seth, March 2003, Party at Seth’s House (everyone’s invited)
Seth was standing in the kitchen of his house, putting together a buffet for the party he was having. He turned and sort of smiled at the camera, just as I shouted, ‘Say cheese’. I was staying with him at that time. I’d had a row with Mum that escalated into me sofa surfing for a few weeks with various friends and acquaintances. I was always careful not to stay for more than two days – three at the very maximum, so as not to wear out my welcome. The last sofa I washed up on was Seth’s, a grey-black Muji put-me-up job that was easy to fold out and surprisingly comfortable – no metal bars or buttons in the wrong places. Dad had been on the phone almost daily trying to mediate between Mum and me but I wasn’t ready to go back, especially since whenever I tried to leave, Seth kept telling me to stay and he never made a move on me, not once. That night he was having a party and it’d be the first time I would have seen Dylan in nearly a year. I was so excited that I didn’t even mind when my cousin Nancy gate-crashed.
In my hand I hold the final photo from that sequence. There were others, of course, over the years, but those were the most significant, those were the ones that made it to the wall every time, move after move. And in my hand I hold the final one, the one that came after we got together. In it, it’s the start of a new year, January 2004, I am sitting on his sofa, wearing his T-shirt, my hand in my very messy hair, beaming at the man taking the photo because we were finally together. I was finally happy.
With Seth, New Year’s Eve 2003