Tears rained down my cheeks and my legs shook as I slowly made my way back upstairs to the flat after Carly left. Telling someone for the first time ever about my ‘playmates’ had been mortifying but that embarrassing revelation wasn’t a patch on what happened next.
I sat down heavily on one of the stairs as a wave of nausea overcame me. I felt clammy and sweaty, my pulse racing, at the thought of putting into words what caused me to flee from London and sever all ties with my former life. Sitting on the cold step for several minutes, I took deep gulps of air until the nausea subsided and I was able to pull myself to my feet.
When I’d made the decision to tell Carly about Garth, I knew it would be difficult but I really thought I’d be able to tell her all of it. Actually saying it out loud for the first time was so much more emotionally and mentally draining than I’d anticipated but I’d made a start. Was saying it aloud enough to help me heal, though? Only time would tell.
As soon as I opened the door to the flat, Hercules bounded over to me and nudged at my legs. Scooping him up, I nuzzled his fur, feeling safe and loved. ‘I’ve missed you, Hercules. I’m sorry I’ve been out all evening.’
I must have stood there for about ten minutes, holding him close, drawing strength from his warmth.
‘It’s all out in the open,’ I told him, sitting down on the sofa and stroking his back. ‘Well, not quite all of it, but I’ve told Carly the start and she didn’t think I was weird and run away. That’s a relief, isn’t it?’
I lit the log burner and we sat together for half an hour or so as I watched the flames flickering and, with each passing minute, I felt more and more relaxed. I’d needed that. I’d needed to release it.
Carly wouldn’t tell anyone. She’d repeatedly assured me of that as she hugged me goodbye, but she hadn’t needed to. I knew I could trust her. She’d been such a good listener, letting me get through it in my own time instead of constantly firing questions at me.
‘Wait here,’ I said to Hercules. Retrieving the yellow photo album from the dresser, I sat back on the sofa and opened it. It was the only time I’d done that outside of Christmas Day since leaving London.
My fingers lightly brushed over the photos of Mum and Dad. When I’d moved into foster care, I only had three photos – one of me with Mum, one of me with Dad, and one of them together. A couple of weeks after Mum’s funeral, Kirsten and Tim presented me with some boxes and crates salvaged from my family home. They’d wanted to take me there so that I could collect anything important to me but social services had warned them it would be too upsetting and potentially dangerous for me. Somewhere along the way, Mum had slipped through the system. She’d turned to drink and had become a hoarder. It was so bad that the Sandersons had to employ a team of professionals to clear and deep-clean the house, watching out for anything that could be passed to me. Despite the filth and chaos elsewhere, it turned out that my bedroom had been kept pristine, like a shrine. There were books, games, dolls, teddies, clothes – everything you’d expect an eight-year-old to have. And, as though she’d known what lay ahead, Mum had placed a plastic crate in there containing all the family photos, her jewellery box, newspaper clippings about Dad’s death, her diaries and a few keepsakes including the snow globe bought on The Best Day Ever.
I asked about the lighthouse paintings. Kirsten had instructed the cleaners to look for them but they’d reported back that they’d all been daubed in black paint and slashed. It made sense. Her real lighthouse had left her floundering in the darkness so she’d blacked out the beams in her paintings for good.
Kirsten and Tim sat at the enormous dining table with me as we gradually went through each item. Some things were familiar, yet others held no memory for me and they were the ones that upset me the most – how could I have forgotten so much when I’d desperately tried to hold onto everything I could about my parents and my childhood?
The photos were wonderful. From the days before digital, they were all in development envelopes. The year had been written on the front of each envelope in marker pen, so we were able to look at them in chronological order. My absolute favourites were from The Best Day Ever.
Years later, I gathered the best of the photos and compiled them into the yellow album – Mum’s favourite colour, representing rare moments of sunshine and happiness before being engulfed back into darkness and hopelessness. When I looked through the album each Christmas, I normally closed it after the last photo from my childhood home but now I took a deep breath and turned the next page for the first time since fleeing from London.
I’d been at my first foster home for such a short time that I didn’t have any photos from then, but there were pictures from being with the Ashwells and the Fosters. I hadn’t stayed in touch with either family. In the great scheme of things, I’d spent such a small part of my life with them that staying in contact didn’t feel necessary. It was nice to have a few family photos, though, reminding me of the kindness they’d shown me, even if they hadn’t been able to provide me with a permanent home.
I took another deep breath then turned to the page to where my life began with the Sandersons. Because I’d been with them for longer than I’d been with my own parents and because we’d been on so many family trips and holidays, I had loads of photos. When I was sixteen, I sat in the dining room one rainy day in the Easter holidays, a mass of images spread across the table. I’d decided to fill the rest of the yellow album with photos of my second family but there were so many that I didn’t know where to start. Kirsten joined me and suggested choosing photos that represented my very happiest times. We sat there for hours, laughing as we reminisced. Leanne turned up while we were giggling.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
‘We were just remembering that time in Crete when you got an olive stuck up your nose,’ Kirsten said.
‘I could have died that day,’ Leanne snapped. ‘I couldn’t breathe.’
Kirsten rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. It was funny.’
‘Hilarious.’ Leanne stropped off to her bedroom then left the house shortly afterwards without a word to either of us.
I hadn’t thought about that day in years, yet now the memory was so vivid. A few months later, Isaac appeared. Had seeing me giggling with her mum sparked some sort of jealous rage and been the trigger for Leanne to humiliate me with the introduction of my ‘playmates’? I knew I’d already been earmarked for Garth by then but was it possible she’d further developed her plan?
I closed the album and leaned on the table with my head in my hands. That little strop about us laughing together hadn’t been the only incident. There’d been little signs, little digs, little quips all along and I hadn’t noticed any of them at the time. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to. Maybe I’d placed Leanne that high on her pedestal that I couldn’t acknowledge her flaws.
Kirsten and Tim bought me a stunning watch for my twenty-first birthday and presented it to me over a family meal that evening. The inscription made me cry: To our beautiful daughter who makes us proud every day xxx. Kirsten cried too as she hugged me. Next moment, Leanne snatched the watch out of my hand, demanding to know what the fuss was all about and why everyone was blubbing.
‘Didn’t they have enough space for the word “foster”?’ she asked flatly, handing it back to me.
Tim immediately pulled her up on it but Leanne made out that she was joking and of course I was just as much a part of the family as she was. She must have said that through gritted teeth and with her fingers crossed. And she must have hated me so very much to pretend to be my friend yet do what she did.
Stomping round the flat, Hercules bounding along beside me, I recalled more and more occasions when Leanne had let her guard down momentarily and said something snide then back-tracked and made out it was a joke or that I’d misheard. What about the time when I’d badly burned my back on holiday in the Dominican Republic and had to stay indoors for two days? Had Leanne applied her low-factor lotion instead of the high-protection sunscreen I needed for my pale skin? And what about the time I had to miss the family theatre trip because my art project mysteriously got damaged? Had she done that?
As I curled up under my duvet, I stopped thinking about Leanne and started thinking about Kirsten and Tim instead. When I burned my back, Tim missed out on swimming with dolphins to stay in the apartment and keep me company. And Kirsten refused to go to the show, even though she was the one who wanted to see it the most, so that she could help me repair my artwork. They’d always been there for me with a smile, a hug and kind, encouraging words.
A tear slipped down my cheek and I curled up into a ball, clutching onto my duvet. I missed them. I missed them both so much, my heart hurt, but I’d been left with no choice.
The day I found out the truth about Garth and Leanne, Pollyanna died. Two of the people I loved and trusted had lied and deceived me and I needed to get away from them. Far away. But that meant cutting myself off from another two people I loved and trusted who hadn’t let me down. There’d never been the slightest doubt in my mind that they knew anything about it and Garth had even confirmed that.
As I made my way down the stairs at The Larches for the last time ever, a hastily packed suitcase in each hand, I tried and failed to ignore the family photos adorning the wall. There were as many photos of me as there were of Leanne. As far as Kirsten and Tim were concerned, I’d been their daughter. They’d meant those words engraved on the watch. And Leanne had known it.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk out with no explanation, but I couldn’t stay and wait for them to return from their trip to Hong Kong either.
Dumping my cases on the ground floor, I made my way to their home office, sat at Kirsten’s desk and took out a pad of paper and a pen.
Dear Kirsten and Tim
I discovered something terrible about Garth this weekend. He’s not the man I thought he was and it turns out that our marriage was one borne out of convenience rather than love, or at least on his part. Our marriage is over and can never be repaired.
Sadly, this also means that my life in London has to be over. Kirsten, I am so sorry to leave Vanilla Pod without serving notice. It’s been a privilege and an inspiration to learn from you and your talented team. Thank you so much for giving me such a valuable opportunity to pursue the career my dad was never able to.
I cannot thank you both enough for opening your hearts and your home to a scared, bereaved child, and for always making me feel like I belonged in your family. You have cared for, protected and taught me so much about the world and the type of person I want to be. Unfortunately, you could have done nothing to protect me from the path that others chose for me. I will forever regret my marriage and the events that led up to it, but I will never regret the day I met you both.
I don’t know where I’m going. Fate will decide that. I know you played no part in what happened but I beg you not to try to find me. I need to cut all ties. I need to lock the past away. If you do find out what happened this weekend, then I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t be part of your family anymore.
With warmth, love and my eternal gratitude to you both,
Tamara xx
I cried as I read the letter over and over, then placed it in an envelope from one of the drawers. If I left it somewhere visible, there was a strong possibility that Leanne would find it and destroy it. I could just imagine her, playing the innocent: I have no idea where Tamara is. She upped and left Garth with no explanation at all. Poor man’s devastated. Left us in the lurch at work too.
Walking over to the bookshelves on the opposite wall to the desk, I searched for a particular book, slipped the letter between the pages, and returned it to the shelf. I’d text Kirsten when they were back from their trip and tell her that Pollyanna had a letter for her. Then I’d switch off my phone for good. If Leanne did search The Larches for a letter, there was no way she would think to look there.
I couldn’t stay at The Larches any longer in case Garth or Leanne appeared. Finding a hotel for the night, I hid there, ignoring the barrage of calls and texts. I wasn’t interested in anything either of them had to say.
As I drove north the next morning, leaving London behind, one of the hundreds of thoughts whirring around my mind was: who am I? The orphaned child, Tamara Chadwick, had grown up and found a new family. Although I hadn’t accepted Kirsten and Tim’s kind offer to adopt me, I had shown I cared by changing my name to Tamara Chadwick-Sanderson. For four months, I’d been Tamara Tewkesbury. But the orphan, the foster child and the wife no longer existed and I had no idea who I was anymore. I was going to have to start over in so many ways, finding myself as well as a new home and business. The starting point had to be a new name. I certainly wasn’t going to keep Tewkesbury – every connection to that man had to be firmly stripped from my life – but fear of being found meant I couldn’t use Chadwick or Sanderson. I’d simplify my first name to Tara; close enough to Tamara to not seem weird but a change nonetheless. What about my surname? And then it struck me. My new surname would be Porter, after the author Eleanor H. Porter, creator of Pollyanna. Garth and Leanne might have destroyed my Pollyanna-style beliefs but they couldn’t erase her from my life entirely. Thanks to them, I couldn’t have my foster parents in my life anymore but I wouldn’t let them take my mum and dad away from me too.
With the connections they undoubtedly had, I suspected that Kirsten and Tim would be able to find me, even with the name change, but I knew they were decent people who’d respect my wishes. It didn’t surprise me when a card arrived at The Chocolate Pot that first Christmas, delivered via the Birmingham-based solicitor handling my annulment; a location chosen to throw any search for me off the scent. I immediately recognised Kirsten’s beautiful calligraphy. Another arrived on my birthday, and so the pattern continued. A stack of cards sat in a box in the corner of my office, filed in date order, all unopened. From the thickness of them, I could tell they all contained a letter too. Much as I missed my foster parents, that part of my life was over. I couldn’t let them in because, to do so, would be letting Leanne back in. Garth had hurt me. I’d loved him and trusted him and he’d betrayed me, but he’d only been part of my life for a few years. Leanne had been my sister, my role model, my mentor and my friend for well over a decade. She’d broken my heart and I could never have anything to do with her ever again.
I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. Enough. Stop thinking about them. That chapter of your life has closed and that’s the way it needs to stay.