I can’t believe I’m doing this.
That disgusting nettle tea must have held some kind of devilish magic potion. Because how else can I explain the fact that after deciding I was going to stop the search for my real mum even before it started – and instead, just feel thankful for the wonderful one I already had – I’m now in Jake’s passenger seat, my stomach in knots, watching the scenery in a daze on a return visit to Maple Tree House?
‘Okay?’ murmurs Jake.
I turn and smile at him. ‘No.’
He chuckles. ‘I think that’s to be expected.’
‘I think I might be sick.’
‘Deep breaths.’
I do what he suggests and, actually, I do feel calmer.
But then we turn into the cul-de-sac and Maple Tree House comes into view, and my heart starts banging so loudly, it feels as if it’s about to break out of my chest altogether in a desperate bid for freedom.
Only Jake’s calm and reassuring presence is keeping me from flipping the door lock and hurling myself from this moving vehicle!
We draw up outside Maple Tree House and Jake turns off the engine. Then we sit in silence for a while, looking over at the house with its perfectly manicured garden and the spotlessly clean, white Mini Clubman parked on the driveway.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Then another and another.
‘Right. I’m going.’
Jake nods. ‘Good luck. I’ll be waiting here.’
A wave of gratitude washes over me and I smile at him. ‘Thank you for this.’
‘Hey, no problem. If your birth mother really does live here, this is her lucky day.’
I groan. ‘Let’s hope she thinks so.’
I get out of the car and walk through the garden gate on legs that feel like they might give way at any moment. How am I even going to introduce myself with my tongue welded with fear to the roof of my mouth?
I ring the bell and stand there, holding the pink handbag behind my back, waiting for someone to answer the door. And at the same time, desperately hoping no one comes.
Through the bevelled pane of glass, a figure appears, walking towards the door. The shape is definitely female. There’s a whining noise in my ears and I feel a little faint.
What shall I say? What shall I say?
Hi there, I really hope you don’t mind me coming here but is this your handbag by any chance? And if it is, do you think I might be your long-lost daughter?
Oh God, no, I can’t say that. The woman might think I’m a deranged bunny-boiler-stalker-type person.
Breathe, breathe.
The door opens and the woman Clemmy and I saw the other day is standing there. She glares at me and looks pointedly at her watch.
‘Hi there,’ I begin, aiming for warm and friendly, and definitely not strange weirdo. ‘I really want to apologise for just turning up—’
‘Late?’ she snaps. ‘Yes, you most certainly are!’ She brandishes her watch at me. ‘I honestly don’t know why I persist in using this agency – it would probably be less hassle to do my cleaning myself! Still, now that you’re here, you might as well get on with it.’ Her frown deepens. ‘Where’s your uniform? I thought at least you cleaning minions could be relied upon to dress appropriately. Jeans and a flimsy top are hardly suitable. Still, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.’
I stare at her in dismay.
She thinks I’m the cleaner!
I shake my head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong. I’m not here to clean. I—’
‘What do you mean you’re not here to clean?’ she barks. ‘You have to. Do you know who I am?’
I wince.
‘I’m Arabella of Arabella Exclusive Designs.’
When I look slightly bemused, she shrieks, ‘The women’s clothing emporium on the high street?’ From her glare, she might as well have added, you blithering idiot! I feel a brief pang of sympathy for any cleaner sent to Maple Tree House.
‘The thing is, I’m holding a very important event tonight – a meeting of top VIPs in the world of high-end couture – but I can’t possibly have people round with the place looking like this!’
She pulls the door open further to let me observe the chaos within.
But all I can see is a neat and tidy hallway, with not a single speck intruding on the smooth perfection of the mushroom-coloured carpet.
‘I’m really sorry but I’m not from the cleaning agency,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Perhaps you should give them a ring?’
She sighs and folds her arms, looking thoroughly disgruntled.
I try to imagine things from her point of view. There’s nothing worse than having people round for dinner when you feel your house is a tip. Even when it isn’t.
Children’s voices beyond the gate float over and we both glance across. A group of kids in high spirits are kicking a ball along the street. There’s a thud and a cheer as the ball whacks against Arabella’s fence.
‘That had better not land in my garden,’ she calls in an imperious tone, ‘because you won’t be getting it back.’
I can well believe it. And so can the kids, clearly.
There’s an instant silence beyond the fence.
Arabella shakes her head. ‘Little brats. I mean, I don’t mind children but I definitely couldn’t eat a whole one!’ She laughs at her own joke – a series of strange high-pitched snorts – and there’s an immediate response from one of the ‘little brats’ beyond the fence. His impression of her laugh is really rather good. I have to fight to look solemn.
‘This is a lovely house. Have you lived here long?’ I ask, my heart beating fast.
‘Oh, most of my life. I grew up here, and then when Mummy and Daddy wanted to downsize, I was doing well enough to buy it from them.’ She leans closer, taps the side of her nose and murmurs, ‘Cash,’ in a confidential manner.
‘Gosh,’ I respond obligingly, since it’s clear she expects me to be impressed. ‘So … did you have to bargain with your brothers and sisters to get the house?’
She shoots me a sharp look. ‘I don’t have any siblings. Thank God. What is it they say? You can pick your friends but you can’t choose your family? No, I was far too deliciously spoilt as a kid to have ever wanted to share Mummy and Daddy with some pesky brothers and sisters.’
My heart sinks. It must be Arabella, then. She’s the only daughter of Maple Tree House. But could she really be my mother?
My feelings about this are mixed, to say the least.
There’s no denying we look alike. We both have straight dark hair and hazel eyes, and there’s something about the mouth that seems familiar, although I could be imagining that.
If she’s the owner of the handbag Mum kept all these years, she could well be my birth mother.
So why am I feeling this sinking sense of anticlimax? And keeping the handbag clutched firmly behind my back, the pink plastic making my hands sweaty?
I suppose that what I feared all along is actually coming to pass. I was worried that, after all my imaginings, I was bound to be disappointed by the reality.
But whatever my feelings about Arabella, I need to know one way or another if she’s my real mum. And this is my one opportunity to find out.
Arabella’s mobile starts ringing. She answers it and is immediately into an intense conversation about artichokes, presumably with her caterers for tonight. Forgetting all about me, she closes the door without even bothering to find out why I’d rung her bell in the first place.
I stand there for a few seconds longer, feeling strangely numb.
Then I turn and walk quickly back to the car.
Jake leans across to open the passenger door and I slip inside gratefully.
‘Bad?’ he asks, seeing my face.
I blow out a long breath and shake my head. ‘I wish I hadn’t come here.’
‘Is it her? Is she the owner of the bag?’
I shrug helplessly. ‘I don’t know. She shut the door in my face before I could figure out a way to ask. But she’s an only child and she was definitely living here in her teens, so I guess it must be her.’
‘You can always go back,’ he says at last. ‘If you want to.’
I nod. ‘I just need to work out how I feel, having met her.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
We drive back in silence. Toby won’t be back for a few hours yet and, to be truthful, I’m glad. It will give me some time alone to think about this weird day. And Arabella.
But when Jake pulls up at the glamping site, I see to my surprise that Toby’s car is there.
‘He’s back,’ says Jake, looking over at me with a strangely tense expression. I suppose he guesses I’d have liked to be alone for a bit to think.
‘Yes!’ I try to look pleased.
‘So … do you think you’ll be going on any more woodland walks any time soon?’ asks Jake. He’s switched off the engine, which surprises me because I assumed he’d drive straight off once he’d dropped me off.
‘I … yes, probably.’ Suddenly I’m covered in confusion. Is he inviting me to pop by again? ‘I mean, obviously it depends on what Toby’s doing …’
‘Of course.’ He shifts in his seat and starts the engine. ‘Right, well, if you need any more support in your quest, just let me know. I’m happy to be the getaway driver.’
We smile ruefully at each other, and it hits me that, actually, given the choice, I’d rather go back to the woods with Jake now, than go in and see Toby. It might be pretty basic at Jake’s camp – and that’s a bit of an understatement – but I can relax there and just be myself.
I feel as if Jake has found out more in the past few days about the real me – all my dearest hopes and dreams – than Toby has in the entire three months we’ve been together.
I feel a twinge of guilt. It’s not Toby’s fault if his work puts such pressure on him and limits our time together.
It’s been lovely talking to Jake about everything – especially the writing – and just knowing he was waiting for me in the car definitely helped give me the strength I needed to knock on Arabella’s door. But he’s obviously still grieving over his lovely Laura. That much was clear from our conversation earlier.
Laura’s death has totally devastated Jake. He’s not likely to be looking for a replacement any time soon.
Also, I need to get back to Toby.