Juliette abandoned her essay and scrabbled in the bin for the leaflet Renée had left in her room, feeling like she was cheating on her parents, even unscrunching it. She found she couldn’t help herself though – Renée had seemed to unleash in her the desire for knowledge at least, if not reconciliation. Who was she? Where had she been born? What name had she been given? Who was her real mother? What did she look like? Who was her father? Had her parents loved each other once? WHY had her mother given her up? It was very strange, almost like now the questions had been asked, they wouldn’t go away, couldn’t be un-asked, although she didn’t dare tell Renée that of course – before she knew it Renée would be rushing her off to find out, given half a chance.
Juliette looked again at the leaflet. She needed her place of birth, her adoptive parents’ names, some proof of ID and five pounds in cash. That was it, to make a start at least. That was all it took. There was only one problem: Juliette didn’t actually know where she’d been born, had never even asked her parents, which was odd now she came to think of it. Why hadn’t she asked? Had the subject just been completely off-limits, or had she simply not been interested? Or maybe she’d asked when she was younger and been brushed off, so had given up. It was weird. It seemed even odder now, to ring up her mother and ask about the weather and her jam-making and the Women’s Institute, and, ‘Oh, and by the way, Mum, where did you get me from?’ Argh, why had Renée ever stirred this up? Usually Juliette tried not to think about any of this much, and frankly she didn’t have the head space for it at the moment – they had their end-of-term assignments due in soon, plus Stephen was taking up so much of her time these days, monopolising her in truth.
Juliette got up from her desk and walked over to the window and gazed out across the roof-tops. She couldn’t believe that she lived here in the best part of this wonderful city, with such brilliant new friends, a doting boyfriend, doing a course that she loved; she really should be fantastically happy. But instead she felt a growing sense of detachment, depression even, and she was vaguely aware that the space she had here, away from her family, had given her the freedom to question who she really was. She moved across to the mirror next to the bed. Where had she got these extraordinary curls from? What if it turned out her birth mother really was a film star? She looked at her nose sideways in the mirror. It did have a conk to it, exactly like Ms Dauphin’s. Don’t be so ridiculous, she told herself, it’s just Renée putting ideas into your head. She thought again of Somerset House, of how London was only an hour and a half away by train, of how she and Renée were planning a trip there anyway to stay with Renée’s aunt for the weekend. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask Mum, she thought. It’s such a simple little question, surely she wouldn’t mind. She could pretend it was to do with her course, having to research her birthplace or something, she didn’t want to upset her mother unnecessarily. Yes, that’s what she’d do, next time she rang.
‘Hello, darling, how lovely to hear from you! I thought you weren’t going to call until Saturday.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Juliette. ‘But I was walking past the phones on campus and they were empty for a change, so I thought I’d just give you a quick ring to see how you and Dad got on on your gardening trip.’ (This was a rare lie, she’d been queuing for over forty minutes at exactly the same spot where a couple of months earlier she’d been befriended by a solid-looking rugby type, Stephen he’d said his name was, who she now seemed to be going out with, although she wasn’t quite sure how that had happened.)
‘Oh, you’re such a sweetheart,’ continued her mother. ‘Yes, Wisley was super, thanks. It was terribly cold, but I’d made a Thermos of homemade soup, leek and potato, the cafes are so expensive in those places, and that kept the chill out.’
‘Great,’ said Juliette. ‘And how’s McGee?’
‘Oh, he’s fine, darling. He’s eating at last, thank goodness, and he’s taken to chewing your father’s slippers again, so he must be on the mend. Anyway, how are you? How’s your course going?’
‘Oh, it’s good, Mum,’ said Juliette. She paused, she couldn’t think what to say.
‘Juliette, are you all right?’ said her mother. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘No, nothing, Mum, honestly.’ The phone started beeping: her phone card was about to run out. She had to be quick. ‘Mum, we’re doing a project as part of Psychology.’ She stopped again.
‘Ye – es,’ replied her mother, aware now that something was definitely up. Surely Juliette wasn’t homesick, she’d seemed so happy when they’d spoken the other day.
‘Well, we’re meant to research the town where we’re from, where we were born, I mean, and … and, well, I … Mummy, I don’t know where I’m from.’
‘Oh,’ said her mother, and her voice changed, still warm but wary now. ‘What are you asking, Juliette, dear?’
The phone beeped again. Juliette spoke urgently.
‘Mum, where was I born? Can you tell me?’
Her mother replied and then the phone cut out and between the beeps Juliette wasn’t sure whether her mother had said Acton or Clacton.