It was the week before Christmas and Lydia’s house was tastefully decorated with sprigs of holly and mistletoe. In the sitting room, lighted candles in ornate holders adorned the mantelpiece. A fire crackled and sparked, and Harriet, Amy and Rupert knelt in front of it, watching their chestnuts blacken. I thought of that Christmas song – chestnuts roasting on an open fire – as you and I perched opposite one another on velvet sofas, me on the green one, you on the maroon. They were built more for decoration than relaxation; the backs were hard and the seat pads unyielding. I struggled to get comfortable. The walls were painted grey and huge, abstract paintings in golds and greens, by an up-and-coming artist I’d never heard of (but should have been impressed by) stretched across them. A Christmas tree, seven or eight feet high, stood in the corner, its lights twinkling softly in the darkening room.
‘Be careful, don’t burn yourselves,’ you said to the children. You were afraid that Rupert was in imminent danger of immolation as he leaned forward to get the fattest chestnut.
‘They’re fine,’ said Lydia dismissively from the other end of the maroon sofa, as Rupert yelped and dropped the fat chestnut onto the grate.
Harriet retrieved it for him. ‘Let it cool down for a while,’ she said in a motherly voice. She had taken to her half-siblings, but they only viewed her with faint curiosity.
After the adoption had come through, you and I had promised to allow Harriet to see Lydia as often as possible. Our anger with Lydia still simmered, but we did our best not to show it; we didn’t want to complicate Harriet’s already complicated relationship with her birth mother anymore than necessary. Still, I wished we hadn’t agreed to this. Spending time with Lydia always unsettled Harriet for days after; she would be miserable and cross right through the Christmas period now.
She had been bitterly angry when we’d finally told her that Lydia was her birth mother, but more than that, she’d been so sad. I’d sat with her for hours in her bedroom, trying to explain how everything had come about.
‘Why didn’t my mummy want me?’ she said through tears.
I gave Harriet the usual explanation, about Lydia being made ill by grief and giving her up because she loved her so much.
Harriet looked cross, as if she knew I was deceiving her. ‘Why did she keep her other children and not me? Why could she make them happy when she couldn’t make me happy? She could have tried harder. She could have loved me like she loves Rupert and Amy. I wish I wasn’t me. I wish I was Amy instead.’
It was hard not to feel hurt that Harriet wanted Lydia’s love so much that she was prepared to obliterate ours.
‘Was your dad coloured?’ Amy had said to Harriet when they’d first been introduced.
Harriet, usually self-assured, had looked towards me for guidance on answering this question.
‘He was our brother,’ I’d replied, wanting to head off any views from Amy that might have been hurtful to Harriet.
Amy had nodded but she hadn’t said anything more. I wondered what Lydia had told her.
Michael was away for the week, Lydia said. He had returned to New York on a business trip, and to spend a few days with his American mother, who was bemoaning the fact that he and her grandchildren wouldn’t be with her for Christmas.
‘She’s a dreadful woman,’ Lydia told us, in the hearing of Amy and Rupert, who looked up with interest. ‘I’m so glad to be away from her. All she does is tell me how lucky I am to have a man like Michael as my husband. She never considers him lucky to have me as his wife.’ She picked up her cardigan from a tapestry footstool and put it over her shoulders. ‘You’ve had enough chestnuts now,’ she said to the children. ‘Do you want to go upstairs and play?’
‘We want to stay here,’ said Harriet quickly. She didn’t want to let Lydia out of her sight.
Amy and Rupert were told to fetch books and they sat looking at them quietly. Well-trained children, they had learnt to disrupt their mother’s day as little as possible. Harriet listened intently as Lydia spoke.
‘Adam’s married, of course. Did you know?’ she told us as we sipped mulled wine. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever taken to her. She’s the daughter of some viscount. I think he was hoping her connections would help his career. He intends to be PM one day. There are three children now, two girls and a boy.’
‘Who is Adam? And what’s a PM?’ asked Harriet.
Lydia ignored her. ‘Adam is always so determined, I’m sure he’ll achieve it. His wife’s dull, though. Vacuous.’
Lydia had used similar words to describe her stepmother. ‘Was Joyce at your father’s funeral?’ I asked.
Lydia shook her head. ‘Why would she have been? They weren’t married anymore. Pa was forced to give her a ridiculous amount of money in the divorce settlement. She’ll have spent it on face lifts and a breast enhancement. I never did see anyone more flat-chested. I always meant to ask Pa why on earth he took up with her. I mean, he could have had anyone, but he picked a woman who was both stupid and unattractive.’ Lydia turned to you and said, ‘Adam’s writing books as well, did you know? He won a major prize last year for his most recent novel. He’s delighted with himself, of course. Between that and his parliamentary career, there really is no stopping him.’
I got the impression that Lydia was delighted with herself too, basking in the reflected glory of being related to Adam Russell. I had known about his seat in Parliament. He was at the deep blue end of the political spectrum, a vociferous member of the Monday Club. I wondered what he thought of Harriet. No doubt he would see her as being of dubious heritage. Were they second cousins, or first cousins once removed? I’d never really understood how distant family relationships were calculated.
Lydia went to the kitchen. Harriet got up silently and followed her. They returned a few minutes later with a plate of mince pies, baked by Ines, the pale-faced, Swiss, hired help, who remained largely invisible. I remembered encountering Mrs Billington – ‘Billy’ – in the Russells’ kitchen when we were children. The truncating of her name had been indicative of her status – or lack of it. As I recalled her nasty views on savages, and the bad influence we were on Adam and Lydia, I realised she must have resented her menial position in the Russell household and had consoled herself with the idea that we were of even less significance.
‘Michael bought me the most gorgeous dress to wear for a big New Year’s party we’ve been invited to,’ said Lydia. ‘Come up and see it, Zora.’
I had no interest in Lydia’s frocks and I would have preferred to have remained in the sitting room, but I wanted the opportunity to speak to Lydia privately about Harriet, so I stood up, noting that, as usual, she was playing favourites – I was specifically invited upstairs to see the dress while you were ignored.
‘Can I see it too?’ asked Harriet.
‘No, you stay here, sweetheart,’ I said to her. You picked up your cue and distracted Harriet with chocolates from the box on the coffee table long enough for Lydia and me to disappear upstairs.
‘Mike knows so many interesting people,’ said Lydia as we climbed to the third floor of the house. ‘The party invite was from the actor, Zack Weldon. They’ve been friends for years and he’s in London at the moment. I expect there’ll be a lot of showbiz people there. You have to look the part, don’t you? I’m hoping the dress will do the trick. Did you see Zack’s latest film? It’s tipped to win big at the Oscars.’
‘No, I haven’t seen it yet, but I’ve been meaning to. I’ll try to catch it. Do you remember that time we sneaked in to see Bonnie and Clyde at the local cinema? We must have been about fourteen.’
Lydia shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen Bonnie and Clyde. You must mean Blow-Up, we saw that together. David Hemmings was in it. I used to fancy him like mad.’
‘I’m sure it was—’
But Lydia was already in the master bedroom and she wasn’t listening anymore. ‘Come and see the view from the window. It’s why we bought this house. It’s listed, you know.’
I looked out and saw the muddy waters of the Thames. A gently bobbing rowing boat was tied to a post just beyond the garden. There were signs of renovation work; the garden was being landscaped – concrete slabs were stacked against a half-finished wall. Lydia told me that the attic was also being stripped; the floors were riddled with woodworm and were being replaced, making the top part of the house unusable. ‘It’s been months since they started the work,’ said Lydia. ‘I hate living in a mess. But Mike said he wanted a place with character and this one fitted the bill.’
I needed to talk about Harriet. I moved away from the window and sat on the end of the king-size bed. ‘Why did you want the adoption?’
‘Harriet had been with you for so long, it seemed like the right thing to do,’ Lydia replied as she opened the door to a walk-in wardrobe.
‘Come on, Lydia,’ I said, needing to convey my scepticism.
Lydia laid out the dress beside me on the bed. It was purple and sleeveless, cut on the bias. Even I could see how well designed it was, and I had little interest in fashion.
‘It’s very nice,’ I said without conviction.
She named some designer or other, expecting me to have heard of him.
‘Tell me why you really wanted the adoption,’ I repeated.
Lydia sat beside me on the bed and I was reminded of that strange night so many years ago. I edged away from her, thinking of Georgia, even though it had been over between her and me for longer than I cared to remember.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t have any designs on you,’ said Lydia, amused by my discomfort.
Did I wish, just for a moment, that she had said something different? Was I affronted that the very idea of attraction seemed faintly absurd to Lydia now? I put these questions aside and asked again about the adoption of Harriet.
‘She called you both Mummy,’ said Lydia. ‘Mummy S and Mummy Z.’
‘She stopped calling us that after we told her who you were.’ My anger showed; I was disappointed that, since Lydia’s return, we no longer merited the title.
‘She called you both Mummy and I saw how attached she was.’
‘And?’ I asked, knowing there must be more to it than this.
Lydia fingered the seam of the purple dress and said, ‘Michael is a conventional man despite his showbiz friends. We slept together before we were married, of course, but he assumed he was my first sexual partner.’ Lydia smiled at me ruefully. ‘Even a few years ago, despite the pill and all the feminists, it was what men expected. Still is, to a greater or lesser extent. It’s why they refused me painkillers when I was giving birth to Harriet. It’s why I was called a slut by the doctors and nurses at the hospital when I had her. What I mean to say is, I didn’t tell Michael about Harriet until after the wedding. He’s never really forgiven me. He still minds about her. I think he was afraid that when we returned to Britain, I’d want Harriet to be part of our family. I wouldn’t say he was bigoted, not really, but his mother, Barbara, was brought up in Atlanta, during segregation, and Michael has inherited one or two of her views. She knows nothing about Harriet, of course, and Michael wants it to stay that way. So I thought the best way of dispelling any anxieties he might have on that score was to make you and Selina her official, permanent parents.’ Lydia got up and returned the dress to the wardrobe.
‘And you’re okay with that?’
Lydia heard the accusatory note in my voice and looked uncomfortable. ‘No, not exactly, but that’s the situation, and I’m stuck with it.’
‘You don’t have to be stuck with it,’ I said, fury bubbling up on Harriet’s behalf – and Cal’s.
‘Well, I do now, of course, the decision has been made. Harriet is yours and Selina’s, legally speaking, so I am stuck with it. Besides, as I said, she called you both Mummy. It would have been wrong to drag her away from you, even if I’d wanted to.’
We could hear raised voices downstairs. There was some kind of argument going on between Rupert and Amy and you were trying, unsuccessfully, to calm the situation.
‘I’d better go down and sort them out,’ said Lydia, clearly wanting to end our discussion.
Harriet gazed wistfully at Lydia as she comforted Rupert and told Amy not to hit her brother and I knew that she was imagining being comforted by her birth mother too.
The weather was turning. The skies that had been bright blue that morning were now dark grey and the air was bitterly cold. ‘Looks like snow,’ Lydia said.
‘Will it be a white Christmas?’ Amy asked.
‘Could be,’ you replied.
‘We’d better be on our way,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to get caught in a snowstorm.’
You and I stood up to go, but Harriet was reluctant to leave. ‘Can’t we stay a bit longer?’ she asked wistfully.
‘I’m quite happy for Harriet to stop over with us,’ said Lydia, not checking beforehand if we were okay with this and making it hard for us to say no; Harriet would be full of resentment if we took her away from her birth mother so close to Christmas when she’d been invited to stay. So we left her with Lydia, getting to know Amy and Rupert better, and feeling… what? Alien in that household? Like a welcome guest? Either was possible but neither position suggested belonging. Harriet had been shy with Lydia at the start of the visit, but that had slowly dissipated, and throughout the day, she had gone wherever Lydia went, following her about the house with a look of quiet desperation, as if she knew that however much time she spent with her birth mother, it would never be enough.