Are You My Mother? (18 page)

By the time Stella was twelve, all she ever talked about was becoming a fashion designer. The job was made for her. Designing clothes was a doddle – and not only would she get huge amounts of money for doing it, but she could also parade up and down a catwalk in triumph, the world’s press at her feet and the standing ovation of the glitterati in her ears. But also by the time Stella was twelve, she had already grown out of the black dress she’d insisted on making to wear to Mum and Dad’s funeral, eighteen months earlier.

Lifting a purple lacy Wonderbra off the edge of a picture frame on Stella’s mantelpiece, I gazed at a photograph of Dad and Mum on their wedding day. Their expressions were carefree, almost smug, and it was such a very Sixties photograph: with Dad’s huge tie and Mum’s white crocheted mini-dress and floppy-brimmed hat. The steps of the registry office filled up the rest of the frame, dotted with confetti and good wishes. Poor things, I thought. The couple in the photograph had no idea of the trauma in store for when they later tried to have the family they longed for. All those nights of pre-marital courtship, when they’d been tipsily suggesting names for their children.

Mum had, laughing, told me about this once. Before they were even officially engaged, they’d decided they wanted at least three or four children. They would be called Olly, Molly and Polly. Next might come Dolly, ‘…the show girl, obviously; and
then
, if we can face having any more, we’ll have Solly –
and
he’ll be the Jewish one
!’ Mum had wheezed, slapping her thigh with hilarity.

I never understood this joke, not for years. In fact, it made me feel uncomfortable and inadequate. They’d envisioned five children, and all they got for nine whole years was me, short, skinny, second-hand, and suffering from regular migraines. It was a bit like wanting the Swiss Family Robinson, and getting that sour-faced Mary from
The Secret Garden
instead.

I replaced the photograph on Stella’s mantelpiece, catching sight of her furry zebra-print Filofax across the room as I did so, half-hidden beneath a pink Stetson. Better still, she actually had written in Mack’s new mobile number, which I copied onto my palm in black felt-tip pen.

It was a measure of how completely I’d forgotten about my twelve o’clock massage – if I’d massaged anybody then, they’d have ended up with Mack’s phone number in black streaks down their back. As I wrote the last digit, I wondered why on earth I didn’t just walk out of the bedroom with the Filofax and replace it later; but somehow the whole operation had assumed a kind of furtive secrecy. I didn’t want Stella to know I’d been in her room at all.

I went back into my bedroom and dialled Mack’s mobile off my palm.

‘
Hi, Mack, it’s Emma.’ I noticed that my foot was jigging up and down.

‘
Emma! How are you? Is everything OK?’ Mack sounded surprised, but then, I never usually rang him during the day.

‘
Yeah, everything’s fine, thanks. I’m really sorry to bother you. I just wondered if I could ask you a favour.’ I winced, thinking how often this was the reason I contacted him.

‘
Oh, yes, look, I’m sorry I never got around to bleeding those radiators when I was over last night – are they still banging?’

Poor Mack. I made a mental note to buy him a really nice present for all the odd jobs he’d done for us recently. ‘No, no, not that sort of favour. Actually, it’s sort of a long story. I need some information, and I wondered if you could help me look it up on the internet. All that Lori Singer stuff gave me the idea. I meant to ask you last night, but I… forgot.’

‘
Sure. No problem. Want me to pop around again tonight? I’m playing squash but I could-’

‘
No…listen, would it be OK if I came over to yours? This sounds kind of weird, and I’ll explain it later, but….I don’t want Stella to know what I’m up to.’

There was a pause. In the background I could hear a voice in a thick Northern Irish accent shouting ‘JUST REBOOT IT! RIGHT NOW!’

‘
Well, I’ve got to go and see my mother tomorrow, but I’ll be back in the evening if you want to come over then. Although you’re probably seeing Gavin, aren’t you, on a Saturday night…’

‘
Um….no. No, that would be fine.’ I felt so uncomfortable that I had to clamp the receiver to my ear to prevent myself slamming the phone down, and pretending that the conversation wasn’t happening. Once it was done, it couldn’t be undone. I was going to have to look for her, and no more prevaricating.

‘
Come round at about eight-thirty then.’

‘
Thanks, Mack. If that’s OK?’

The same background voice could be heard again: ‘Oh, you complete
tosser
!’ Then there was the sound of a muffled murmur from Mack, as he put his hand over the receiver. When he returned, he was brisk and abrupt. ‘Yeah, sure, Emma, that’s fine. Listen, I’ve got to go now. There’s a bit of a crisis going on here with a machine that they need help sorting out. See you tomorrow, then. Bye.’

I hung up, slowly, my foot still jiggling uncontrollably. There was an unpleasant squeamish feeling in my stomach, and sweat was prickling at my forehead, as if I’d started something I might not be able to finish. Still, it made a change from the dull ache of missing Gavin.

As I replaced the cordless telephone on its stand, I noticed the light flashing on the answering machine. I pressed the button to hear my twelve o’clock massage’s angry voice calling from a mobile phone, traffic noises audible in the background
: ‘I’ve been standing on your doorstep ringing the bell for five minutes, which was a waste of time, since you obviously aren’t even in... Well, just forget it. I’ll go to the Sanctuary in future if I need a massage – so much for stress relief! It’s a
joke
.’

Bugger, I thought, closing my eyes so tightly that little shards of colour splintered off into infinity behind my eyelids. The intercom must be playing up again. Sometimes you couldn’t buzz people in – but this was the first time the damn doorbell hadn’t worked either. And how could I not have heard the
phone
?

Something poked me in the stomach as I leaned forward, so I straightened up and investigated. It was the plastic bottle of sweet almond oil which I’d forgotten I had put in my trouser pocket when I went to look for Stella’s Filofax. It felt squashy, inviting.

As if in a dream I walked into the kitchen and over to the sink, uncapping the bottle and squeezing the woody-scented oil all over my hands so that it dripped through my fingers and in oily globes which fell golden on the white enamel. I stared at my coated hands, thinking of how much flesh they had touched and caressed, taut peachy baby flesh, old baggy diseased skin. But they had never touched the skin of any of my own flesh and blood – at least, not to my knowledge. I poured more and more oil out of the bottle, trying to get it to act as a protective covering over the fear which was making my hands shake.

A picture of the baby bird in
Are You My Mother?
came back to me again; his disconsolate face and wide-open beak as the snorting digger picked him up in his scooping metal maw and carried him off, squawking, into the unknown. Help had come from an unlikely quarter for that baby bird, and it had been the digger who’d ended up saving the day. It had deposited him right back in his nest, where the embrace of his real mother’s warm wings and a fat, juicy worm awaited him.

It had to be worth a try, I thought, as the last of the oil dripped like honey from the bottle and swirled slowly away down the plughole, leaving a pale greasy skin on the bottom of the sink.

Chapter 17

Saturday night. I had to endure what seemed like hours of Stella and Suzanne giggling and gossiping all around the flat: face-packed and tweezing, coiffing and buffing, the entire contents of Stella’s wardrobe alternately on each of their bodies and then discarded on the bedroom floor, running in and out of my room because my full-length mirror was, allegedly, more flattering than Stella’s.

‘
Honestly,’ I said, trying not to sound too disapproving. ‘I thought you were only going to the pub?’

‘
We are,’ retorted Stella, adjusting the ring in her bellybutton under a very short crop top. ‘Gotta look our best, though, haven’t we?’

‘
Why? Who’s going to be there?’

Stella pouted exaggeratedly in front of the mirror, before unscrewing a tub of gel and applying it to her individual curls, with a movement akin to a Victorian twirling his moustache. ‘Oh, you know, the usual crowd. Dan and Lawrence. Suze fancies the pants off Dan – ‘

‘
Stel- la!
’ came an aggrieved shout from the bathroom. I called out to her, ‘Don’t worry, Suzanne, your secret is safe with me,’ before turning back to Stella.

‘
And what about you? Who are you after?’

‘
Oh,’ said Stella, airily. ‘I dunno. I quite like Charlie, you know, that one you met that night – ‘ She stopped abruptly, not wanting to remind me of exactly which night.

‘
Not that older one, the rugger-bugger? I thought he was awful – there was something really
sinister
about him.’ I remembered Charlie’s small lascivious eyes following Stella’s every move, and felt a wobble of unease.

‘
No he isn’t! He’s really sweet, when you get talking to him. I like older men – they’ve had so much more experience; know what I mean?’ Stella danced around me, running her hands over her own breasts and down her thighs in an effort to rile me. It worked.

‘
That’s not funny, Stell. You’re only nineteen. Besides, if you want an older man, why not Mack? I’m sure he’s got a crush on you, and he’s a sweetheart.’ But I said it very half-heartedly, knowing what her response would be. I couldn’t say I blamed her, either.

Predictably, Stella made a gagging face, and then pretended to yawn noisily. She looked like a puppy, clowning around, velvety-skinned and sharp-toothed, and my heart constricted with love and fear for her.

‘
Rightyho, I’m ready.’ Suzanne emerged from the bathroom in a tight Eighties-retro stripy dress with a big flower pinned on her left breast, trainers, and with her little dreadlocks corralled into a shock on top of her head. She looked bizarre and, I thought, bloody awful.

‘
Babes! You look awesome. Let’s go, shall we? See ya Em; wouldn’t wanna be ya!’

‘
Bye. Let me know if you’re going to be too late,’ I replied, weakly, feeling a sudden urge for a cigarette even though I hadn’t smoked for nine years.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind them I stripped off my jeans and slid on a pair of tights and my purple satin Whistles skirt, combed some semblance of order into my hair, and burrowed about in my make up bag to find my expensive lipgloss. It felt as if some sense of occasion were required: I was dressing up for the possibility of my real mother.

Squeezing several dropperfuls of Rescue Remedy on to my tongue, I took a deep breath and left the flat, less than ten minutes after Stella and Suzanne. On the way downstairs I saw that Percy’s door was open, and heard the sound of his TV blaring from inside. I almost stopped to check if he needed anything, as I sometimes did, but at the last minute the prospect of the terrible old-unwashed-man smell made my stomach heave, reminding me too horribly of the man on the tube. On top of the fearful churning at the thought of what Mack might unearth, it was too much, and I crept on past.

Inside of another minute, I was descending the six steep and broken concrete steps leading to Mack’s basement flat; steps so narrow that my feet had to go on sideways, and so perilous that I wondered how he managed not to break a limb every time he went down them. Maybe that was why he always wore Converse All Stars, I thought, for their good grip.

Mack must have seen me coming because the door swung open, just as my finger was hovering over the doorbell.

‘
Hi, Emma, come in,’ he said. ‘You look gorgeous.’

‘
Oh, I might be going out later. I like your hair, by the way.’

Mack had had quite a radical haircut. His blond wisps had all been clipped off close to his head, creating a sort of fuzzy-gangster look. The semi-skinhead image reminded me a little of Gavin; except that Gavin could have stepped out of ‘Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels’, and in comparison Mack just looked like a little boy whose mother had given him a buzz cut. I had an image of him at the barbers, sitting on up on a board with a huge black cape swathed around his neck, big-eyed and on his best behaviour, like Stella was when Mum used to take her for haircuts. I imagined that the barber never had to sweep up after Mack when he’d finished, because Mack’s hair was so fine that its trimmed ends wouldn’t show on the floor.

‘
Come in. Would you like a drink? Beer, wine, tea?’

‘
A beer would be lovely, thanks.’ I stepped inside Mack’s flat, thinking, as I always did, how much more tasteful it was than I would have imagined; with its enormous maroon crushed-velvet sofa and cream walls. Today there was also a vase of gerbera daisies on the mantelpiece, and Coldplay’s ‘Parachutes’
swelling out of hidden speakers. When I’d first met Mack, his red All-Stars had erroneously led me to assume that he’d have had a flat full of pink inflatable armchairs and posters of S Club 7. I’d been gobsmacked when he said he was a TV producer – I thought people who working in television were
cool
, and Mack so obviously wasn’t.