‘Sure you’re OK?’ asked Greg, when we’d finished loading the boot of the car and wrestled a tired and tearful Maisie into her car seat. She wanted to play with Charlie, but he’d grown tired of her constantly grabbing his tail and ears.
‘I’m fine,’ I said. For a moment my chest tightened and my breathing speeded up, but I fought the feeling back.
‘What did your dad say, earlier?’
‘Not much.’ I handed Maisie the old, blue teddy Mum had bought for her first birthday, its once soft fur matted and faded to grey. ‘He seemed weary and cross,’ I said with a pang, recalling his expression in the bedroom doorway.
‘No change there then.’ Greg started the car engine and pulled carefully out of the drive. ‘Where did he go, anyway?’
I shrugged, not wanting to dwell on Dad’s mood. I’d done little else for months, and he’d made it clear I couldn’t help him. Seeing Maisie clearly offered some light relief, but he seemed to struggle around me. After Mum’s funeral I’d asked him if he’d like to come and stay with us, and he’d stared at me, seeming baffled.
‘Why would I want to do that?’ It was as though I’d suggested he start dating again right away. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
I hadn’t argued, but made a point of driving to Buckinghamshire most weekends, to keep an eye on him.
We fell silent on the drive back to Surrey and Maisie slept, her face bathed intermittently in yellow light from passing cars as darkness fell. I watched her, parcelling up my thoughts and questions about Mum and pushing them to be back of my mind.
Back at our converted schoolhouse, I carried her indoors and up the stairs, and spent some time tucking her teddy-patterned duvet around her and clearing away her toys, before changing into a pair of fleecy pyjama bottoms and a vest top.
I was delaying the moment I would have to talk to Greg. Did I need to tell him about the message I’d sent Colleen, and spoil the mood? Despite the strangeness of the day, I’d felt closer to him than I had in ages. It had reminded me of the early days of our relationship, when we couldn’t stand being apart and spent every spare moment together.
We’d met at a mutual client’s in Shoreditch, where Greg was sorting out a contractual glitch, and I was photographing wedding cakes for a food magazine. After almost colliding in the corridor we kept sidestepping in the same direction in an effort to dodge each other, and in the end Greg had said with a smile that made my heart leap, ‘Shall we dance?’
He’d made a decent stab at moonwalking across the shiny floor and I laughed as I hurried away. I’d just ended a relationship that was going nowhere and wasn’t looking for another, but found myself recalling his smile for the rest of the day.
He invited me to dinner the following evening, having prised my details from the client, and we talked and laughed until the restaurant closed, both aware of a simmering chemistry between us. He didn’t play games. He called when he said he would, making it clear that I mattered. Two years later, we married in my local church and had been happy to spend as much time as possible in each other’s company – until lately.
I’d put the growing distance between us down to work and becoming parents, but there were other reasons too, which I didn’t want to examine too closely.
‘She’s worn out,’ Greg said through a yawn as I came downstairs. He was on the sofa, hands laced behind his head, feet up on the coffee table. I thought he’d be worrying about work, busily checking his emails, but he seemed content to be home. ‘I bet she sleeps through the night.’
‘You know I don’t mind her getting into our bed.’
Maisie had dislodged the armchair cushions during a bouncing session that morning, and I fidgeted them back into place before crossing to the window. I twitched aside the curtain, but it was too dark to see the garden I’d fallen in love with the first time we viewed the house.
‘It’ll be lovely out there in summer,’ I’d said, visions of lazy, sunshiny days, the baby playing on a blanket on the lawn, floating through my mind.
‘And a nightmare to maintain,’ Greg had responded with a grin, but I could tell he loved the house too. It was huge compared to the cramped London flat we’d shared for the last two years. The previous owners had restored and extended the house before moving abroad. ‘It’ll be an easy commute to work,’ he’d added, a glint in his eyes.
We moved in three months later.
‘Come and talk to me,’ Greg said now and I turned to see him patting the sofa. He often asked me to stop moving for five minutes, but sitting still was something that didn’t come easily. If I stayed still, things I didn’t want to think about seeped into my head.
The TV screen was blank and I was tempted to switch it on to deflect his attention. ‘It’s been quite a day,’ he added, clearly in the mood for my company.
A strange, panicky sensation rose in my ribcage. I moved to sit beside him and he drew me into a hug. He smelt warm and musky, and looked handsome in the khaki T-shirt that complemented his tan. He nuzzled my ear, and when I looked up there was no mistaking the desire in his long-lashed eyes.
I immediately pulled away and sprang to my feet. ‘I think I’ll get Mum’s things in from the car, ready for the attic.’
Greg’s smile slipped. ‘It’s a bit late,’ he said, not quite masking his disappointment.
‘It’s only nine o’clock.’ I glanced about for the car keys, even though I knew they were in the blue bowl on the table in the hallway. ‘I can’t bear to leave it all out there.’
‘You don’t have to.’ A crease appeared between his eyebrows. ‘I do understand, Ella.’
‘I know you do.’ My eyes flew to my bag on the floor. Would she have replied yet?
‘What’s going on?’ Greg sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gave me the mock-stern look that used to make me smile.
‘I think I’ve found Colleen,’ I blurted out, knowing there was no point not telling him.
I dived for my bag and retrieved my phone, the excitement from earlier pounding back as I fumbled to get the screen up.
Greg rose. ‘How is that even possible?’
‘Facebook,’ I said. I pulled out a chair and sat at the dining table. Its polished surface was smudged with Maisie’s fingerprints, but for once I didn’t care enough to reach for a cloth to clean it. ‘Look.’ I showed him the page in a way that reminded me of Maisie, brandishing her paintings for approval. ‘It’s definitely her.’
Greg leaned across me, examining her profile, his expression tight with concentration. ‘She does look a bit like your mum,’ he admitted. ‘The hair colour, and something about the shape of her mouth.’
‘Told you.’ My face split into a grin.
‘I think you might be right,’ he said, sounding dazed, and the fact that he agreed with me was a shock – as though I hadn’t quite believed it before. Turning back to the screen, he narrowed his eyes. ‘She looks a bit like you too, with the freckles. Very attractive.’ A feeling rose inside me and fizzled out before I could name it. ‘Though, the camera could be lying,’ he continued. ‘She might have a squint, or a moustache, or be unnaturally short.’
‘Greg,’ I scolded, nudging his arm with my shoulder. ‘Look, she still lives in Ireland.’ I jabbed the screen. ‘I could go there,’ I said. ‘We could all go, have a holiday. We haven’t been away for ages. Or, she could come here. On her own at first, so we can get to know each other, and then she could come with her family, if she has one, and—’
‘Ella, for God’s sake!’ Half laughing, Greg pulled up a chair and sat down, his eyes still fixed to the photo of Colleen. ‘You’re getting carried away,’ he said. ‘You haven’t even spoken to her yet.’
‘I sent her a message.’
‘What?’ His head whipped round.
‘Just asking her to contact me,’ I said, quickly. ‘That I had reason to believe she was my sister.’
‘Oh, Ella.’ He sat back, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘That’s a bit strong.’
‘I know, I know. I got carried away.’ I glanced at the screen again, hoping she’d replied, knowing it was too soon. She might not go online much, for all I knew. ‘I didn’t know how else to put it.’
Greg puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘I suppose all you can do is wait,’ he said.
‘What if she doesn’t reply?’ It was both unthinkable that she wouldn’t, and a distinct possibility that made me feel a little nauseous.
‘To be honest, it might be for the best,’ he said. ‘It was a bit reckless, rushing in like that, without thinking it through.’ He spoke in the tone I’d heard him use on the phone to clients, and I felt a pang that he wasn’t being more supportive. ‘Now, what about some dinner?’
Greg ordered in a Chinese, and afterwards I brought in some bags from the car and dumped them in the hall. Every five minutes, I checked Facebook, but still there was no response.
It wasn’t until the following day, after breakfast, while Greg was transferring Mum’s things to the attic and Maisie was trying to coax in the cat from next door, that I logged on and noticed a message in a folder I didn’t usually check.
My stomach tipped. ‘She’s replied!’ I shouted, running into the hall and back again. I stared at the screen, chewing my thumbnail.
Greg appeared, in ancient tracksuit bottoms, pushing his hair off his forehead. ‘You’d better read it then,’ he said.
The realisation that reading the message would change everything punched a shot of adrenalin into my system. Leaning forward, I tapped the screen. There were only two sentences.
I’m intrigued. Why would you think I’m your sister?
Ignoring Greg’s plea to think before I replied, and Maisie’s demand for milk for the cat, my fingers danced over the keys, almost of their own volition.
I was going through my mother’s things and found a photo of her holding a baby, and a wristband with your name and a date of birth. There was a letter too, with an Irish address for someone called Celia, from a man called Reagan. I think he must be your father. My mother – our mother – was called Anna Davis. Her maiden name was Harrison. I added several phone numbers she could reach me on. I’d love to talk to you.
I sent it before I could change my mind, feeling breathless, as though I’d been running. I turned to look at Greg. He was holding Maisie, staring at me as if a stranger had wandered in, and I snatched up my jacket and said, ‘Who wants to go to the park?’