Are You My Mother? (32 page)

‘
Can I talk to you outside please, Stella?’

The temperature had dropped dramatically since darkness fell. Frost already glittered on the tree branches and the droopy nylon strings of a lopsided rotary washing line. Beyond the garden fence was nothing but a black expanse of fields, which the moon was still too low in the sky to illuminate. The clouds had dispersed, though, and stars already dotted the blackness above their heads. It was eerily silent.

Denise opened the back door and came out, carrying our coats, two cups of tea, and a tissue for me, which she distributed wordlessly, before patting my arm, and going back inside again.

‘
She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ said Stella wistfully, zipping up her coat and lighting a cigarette, almost simultaneously.

I nodded and sniffed and blew my nose. ‘Stell,’ I began, sitting down on a step which led to the lawn. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, and please, please believe me when I say that I will never, ever let it jeopardise our relationship.’

I told Stella everything; from finding Ann’s original letter and getting her surname from the tweedy-voiced librarian, to Mack printing off the list for me, and my intention of checking out each Ann Paramor individually, starting with our unsuccessful ‘stakeout’ in Harlesden. Stella listened and smoked, her breath showing in thick nicotiney plumes contrasting with my chaotic cloudy breath, which spilled out like my words into the frosty air. Our tea got cold, and our gloveless fingers colder, but neither of us really noticed.

‘
You’ve no idea how much I really wanted to tell you, but I was afraid it would upset you too much, especially after all that Charlie stuff. I’m so sorry, Stell. I can’t stand it when we have secrets from each other.’

Stella stared at the sky, exhaling a final drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out on the step and flicking the dog end into the bushes. I bit my lip and managed not to upbraid her for it. She plunged her hands into the pockets of her puffy jacket, and sank her chin deep into its collar.

‘
So why now?’

I wriggled over on the cold concrete step and slid my arm around her.

‘
You’re grown up now. You’ve got your own life, and you’re starting a career. You don’t need me so much anymore. It was meeting that homeless guy on the tube which suddenly got me thinking about it; how at some point people have to take decisions which change their lives one way or another. I just want to do something for myself for once, and I suppose I want some answers, really. I’ve been a bit, well,
down
I suppose, especially after Gavin dumped me…. I don’t for a minute think that Ann Paramor could be a substitute for Mum, though,’ I added hastily.

But even as I said it, I realised that it wasn’t entirely true. Whilst I didn’t think that Ann Paramor
would
turn out to be another Barbara, or maybe – and I hesitated to even think it –
better
than Barbara, I couldn’t suppress a deep-seated yearning that she might. Despite all the literature I’d read and all Mack’s advice, it would have been so completely wonderful to have a real mother again. I imagined being hugged by plump, perfumed, mummyish arms, and felt my heart constrict with guilty longing.

The back door opened again and Suzanne came out. ‘Mum says she’s made mulled wine and why don’t you two come in and have some, before you die of hypothermia?’

‘
Two minutes, Suze,’ said Stella. ‘We’ll be right in.’

Suzanne retreated back into the cottage, and all was quiet again. An owl hooted in the distance and Stella gripped my forearm. ‘Was that an owl? I’ve never heard one before.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, I suppose it must be. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard one, either.’ I looked at Stella, who was staring straight ahead again. ‘Are you OK about this, then? It’s really important to me.’

Stella looked at the sky, and I wondered what she was thinking.

Was she, like me, remembering the blank unfeeling swell of that motorway verge? Her shredded patchwork quilt? Thinking of how I’d comforted her at night, listened to her problems, had always been there for her? If our positions were reversed, I knew without a doubt that the idea of Stella finding a whole new family would have sent a spear of jealousy stabbing through me, so deep that blood would have oozed across the front of my jacket. It was intolerable, unthinkable. But that’s what I was asking her to understand.

‘
You know when Charlie… you know,’ she began. I nodded, holding my breath. ‘I missed Mum then, more than I ever have done since she died. I missed her so much that I woke up crying for a week after. I haven’t thought about her so much for years. It’s just not fucking fair, is it? Most people have parents who stick around for decades, become grandparents, get old, and even if they get irritating and incontinent and moaned about, at least they’re still on the scene. Ours didn’t even live to see me pass my eleven plus, let alone see me get into college. Even Linda McCartney saw Stella do her first Chloe show. Mum will never know what I’m going to achieve, or what you’ll achieve. It’s not fair!’

I listened in silence, too choked to speak, tears dripping down my cheeks again, cold on my face. Stella’s eyes were dry, but her breathing was ragged and every muscle in her body tense with sorrow. My first thought was that I obviously hadn’t been good enough for her after the attack. I had let her down.

‘
I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘
What for?’‘It feels like my fault, that you were crying for Mum after Charlie attacked you.’

Stella turned, astonished. ‘
Why
?’

I was sobbing now. ‘Because, because, I’ve tried to be your mother, ever since Mum died. I’ve tried to be Mum and Dad to you, to make it up to you because they were taken away from you so young. I feel like I’ve failed you.’

She turned to me, pulling her hands out of her pockets and clasping my frozen ones.

‘
Emma, you idiot. I don’t want you to be my bloody mother! I never have done! God, did you really think that? It drives me mad when you cluck over me. That was why I was so over the moon when you started taking me to parties with you - I thought, finally, you were beginning to treat me like a sister at last, a mate, and not some little baby to fuss over. In fact, I’ve been feeling guilty for years too, that you didn’t take your university place because of me. I feel like
I’ve
fucked up
your
life. So of course you should look for your real mother - I’ve always wondered why you didn’t do it sooner. You deserve all the happiness you can get, Em. Of
course
I’m OK about it - as long as you promise not to vanish off the face of the earth and never speak to me again.’

‘
As
if
,’ I blubbed.

‘
I’ll help you look for her too, if you like.’

‘
Sure,’ I said thickly, blowing my nose and taking a slurp of tepid tea. ‘Well, you’ve always wanted to be on TV, haven’t you? This could be your chance - Mack’s filming me for a documentary he’s been commissioned to make for the BBC. You can be in it too.’

‘
Really? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me
that,’
she said, instantly perking up. ‘Bagsy be the stylist, though. We’ll both have to wear my designs. It could be my big break!’

I laughed, and we hugged, pressing our cold cheeks together, instinctively slotting our arms and heads into the right places, from years of practice.

PART TWO

Chapter 27

An icy February wind blasted down the steps of Olympia tube station as Mack, Katrina, Stella and I emerged. Katrina was the girl Mack sometimes used as his sound tech, and she trailed behind us carrying a boom microphone and wearing headphones. It was making Stella feel extremely self-important and, I had to admit, it did give the whole outfit a lot more of a professional appearance than when Mack did it all himself with radio mikes. Katrina’s ears must have been lovely and warm, I thought enviously. My own were numb.

Mack hung back to film some small, artily-swirling pieces of charred paper as they blew in a teasing spiral towards our faces and made us jump.

‘
Check out old Roman Polanski back there,’ said Stella, nudging me.

‘
Guy Ritchie, if you don’t mind,’ replied Mack, panning slowly up the steps after us.

‘
I don’t
think
so,’ Stella said scornfully. ‘Does Emma hang out with many gangsters?’

‘
Not since she split up with Gavin, anyway,’ Mack ventured, fiddling with the zoom on his camera, probably reframing from a long shot to a tight close-up to capture my reaction to his jibe. I was learning more than I thought I even wanted to know about crash zooms, medium close-ups, and logging rushes.

‘
Bastard,’ I shot at him. Hardly sparkling repartee, but at least if I swore he’d have to edit out the entire exchange.

As undeniably terrified as I felt at the thought that I might be about to meet my mother, there were elements to the filming process I was really beginning to enjoy; the creativity of it, and the feeling that we were all in it together as a team. It was great, having Stella involved too. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done anything together like this.

‘
How’re you doing, Em?’ Stella asked, sensing my mingled trepidation and excitement. She linked arms with me, briefly leaning her head on my shoulder as we walked up the stairs, the boom mike wobbling over our heads like a small furry angel.

‘
Nervous. But I’ll be fine. Look out for signs, the map says it’s right next to the tube.’

‘
It is - look.’ Stella pointed at a sign indicating that the entrance of the Exhibition Centre was around the corner.
‘Ten
pounds
?
’ she screeched as we came in sight of the main doors, noticing the admission fee prominently displayed. ‘Daylight robbery, if you ask me. And that’s before you’ve bought any of their crap crystals or paid to have your chakras fondled, or whatever the hell it is they do in there. Pay for me, Em, would you? I won’t be able to afford lunch otherwise.’

I rolled my eyes, but was about to pull out my wallet anyway when Mack stopped me.

‘
Don’t, Emma, the BBC can get this. I’ll expense it.’

‘
Are you sure? Comparative to what I might have paid for a private detective, it’s not all that much.’

But Mack had handed me four ten pound notes. One was crisp and fresh, but the others were old and softly wrinkled, reminding me of the scene in Starbucks, with the tramp’s horny fingernails under the ten pounds I gave him. It seemed like years ago, although it was only a few months. I wondered how he was doing, and if the money had gone on alcohol and fags, or sustenance and shelter. I felt newly grateful to him for spurring me into changing my life.

I handed over the forty pounds and the wide-eyed cashier let us all through the turnstile.

‘
BBC film crew,’ said Stella smugly.

It was incredible and frankly, ridiculous, how many people gawped at Stella and I, just because we were being followed by a camera and a boom mike. The crowds parted to let us through at every turn – which was, admittedly, quite handy in the hippy crush.

Stella was basking in the attention, hamming it up to the maximum and swanning about like a true luvvie. I was glad she was there, since it meant that less of the attention was consequently focused on me, although I was attracting a lot of stares too, in the outrageous electric-blue fake-fur jacket she’d designed. I felt like a Furby. Stella herself was resplendent in a very Eighties tartan blouson affair - so, on reflection, perhaps the reason people were staring at us wasn’t so much to do with the film crew at all…

A barrage of sound and activity greeted us when we entered the hall, a sort of spiritual indoor marketplace. There was something almost biblical about the hubbub and strange smells in the air, perhaps due to the baggy hessian shirts many of the men were wearing, and the sound of a whiny snake-charming instrument floating above the heads of the nirvana-seeking punters. A middle-aged half-naked belly-dancer wobbled her way past us through the crowds, accompanied by a dark skinny man who was the source of the whinging trumpet.

The belly-dancer’s stomach fat jiggled and undulated, swirling softly like kneaded pizza-dough. The bottoms of her heavy breasts were escaping from underneath her spangly bra-top, and a couple of wiry pubic hairs were clearly visible above the silk loon pants which cinched her hips, cutting hard into the fleshy love-handles.

Stella stared, blinking with horror. ‘That’, she said, too loudly, to camera, ‘is unacceptable.’

I had a sudden irrational flash of panic that this woman, cavorting in pyjama bottoms with her tummy doing impressions of jelly on a trampoline, might be Ann Paramor. Shaking my head to dispel the notion, I consulted the floor plan and exhibitors’ guide to try and figure out where Ann might be. But the stands were listed by company only, and I couldn’t see any mention of her name.

‘
Come on,’ I said to Mack, a lot more bravely than I felt. ‘We’re just going to have to take it stand by stand.’ My knees were shaking.

We plunged into the melee and began walking up and down each aisle, staring at and then dismissing the occupants of each stand, despite their breezy sales pitch and welcoming New Age smiles. None of them resembled me in any way.