Monday
It was a soft and balmy morning with a promise of summer. As I rubbed Maisie’s fingerprints from the patio doors, as quickly as she added more, I found myself thinking of Colleen again, picturing her reaction to my message and willing her to reply. I’d almost expected her to phone right away, but Greg pointed out she could be accessing her Facebook account from anywhere in the world.
‘She might be in Australia,’ he’d said, and I had to convince him I wouldn’t do anything rash and would put it out of my mind – as if I could.
Now, he paused in the doorway on his way to work, looking smooth in a navy linen jacket, cream shirt and dark trousers, his hair swept neatly back. ‘It’s amazing, really,’ he said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. ‘To think you’ve had a half-sister all this time.’
I couldn’t quite work out his tone. ‘Sister,’ I said automatically. ‘And yes, it is amazing.’
‘Can I have a sister?’ Maisie piped up.
I put down my cloth and swung her into my arms. ‘Maybe, one day.’ I didn’t look at Greg as I spoke. He’d wanted another baby straight away, but I’d been keen to pick up the threads of my career and return some order to my life, which had felt upended after Mum’s ovarian cancer diagnosis.
Once Greg had left for work – much later than usual – and I’d dropped Maisie at the nursery at the end of our road, I headed to Battersea, where my agent had booked me to photograph a new restaurant called Fresh, for an upmarket food magazine.
I arrived in record time and parked round the back. The two-storey building overlooked the dock, where sunlight sparkled off the water. The exterior looked industrial, but inside was charmingly rustic, and the owners were young and enthusiastic.
The food stylist was already there along with a young lighting assistant I hadn’t met before, called Ben. After introductions, and a chat with the clients over coffee, we ran through the shooting order.
While the chef prepped some dishes from the menu, I set up my camera and took a few shots of the interior, making the most of the natural light pouring through the metal-framed windows. The familiar routine was soothing and Ben, who had a hipster beard and highlighted quiff, was touchingly eager to learn, noting my every move.
‘How did you become a food photographer?’
‘I’ve always loved taking pictures,’ I said, and explained how I’d won a photography competition at school aged fourteen, and after getting a degree had headed to London to work as a photographer’s assistant.
‘One of the jobs was a recipe book by a television chef and I got to eat all the food afterwards.’ I smiled, remembering. ‘It kind of snowballed from there,’ I went on. ‘I signed with an agent soon after and here I am.’ I didn’t add that photographing food had never been my intention; that I’d planned to specialise in portraits, or even landscapes – the sort of pictures Mum had loved to paint – but I’d somehow got stuck and lost the drive to change things.
‘Cool.’ Ben’s brown eyes were wide and admiring. ‘You make it sound easy.’
‘The business was less competitive then,’ I warned him.
‘I want to work in films, eventually.’
They all wanted to work in films, eventually. I wished him luck, my mind drifting back to Colleen, trying to guess what she did for a living and whether we shared any traits. Perhaps she was creative, like Mum. I’d wanted to be an artist too, but that particular gene had passed me by. My attempts at school had been laughably bad, yet through a lens I could capture a scene the way Mum had done with a paintbrush.
Maybe Colleen was my polar opposite – practical, or sporty.
I grew impatient, longing for the shoot to be over so I could check for messages. As soon as there was a natural break, I grabbed my bag and headed outside. Ben looked as if he might follow, so I pulled out my phone and pressed it to my ear as I sat at one of the mosaic-topped tables by the water.
The sun had strengthened and I pulled up the sleeves of my fine-knit jumper, enjoying the warmth on my arms. With almost unbearable anticipation, I checked my phone for missed calls or messages. Nothing. No response on Facebook either.
I let out a breath. I’d probably frightened her off with my last message. Maybe the shock had been too great. Or, I needed something stronger to convince her we were related.
I rifled through my bag for the letter from Mum’s shoebox that I’d slipped inside, thinking I could scan or photograph it as proof. It wasn’t there. I emptied my bag on the table and sifted through the contents: my phone, a pink frilly sock of Maisie’s, a memory stick, one of Greg’s cufflinks and the usual mix of lip gloss, diary, tissues, hand cream.
I checked all the pockets, but they were empty, apart from some old cinema tickets.
My heart stalled.
Perhaps the letter had slipped out and Dad had found it.
I picked up my phone and called his number. It rang for a long time and I wondered what he was doing. After years as a lecturer, shrouded in academia, how on earth did he fill his time?
I was about to ring off when he answered.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Ella.’ He sounded irritated. ‘What is it?’
He’d never been great on the phone. Whenever I called home, after moving to London, he would quickly pass the handset to Mum, once he’d established I was fine.
‘I just wondered how you were.’
Was that a sigh?
‘I’m the same as I was on Saturday, Ella, and I expect I’ll be the same tomorrow.’
What did that mean? I nibbled my thumbnail. Was he clinically depressed? He’d been given a leaflet about bereavement after Mum died and was offered counselling, but it hadn’t gone down well.
‘As if talking endlessly about my feelings is going to bring her back,’ he’d stormed, tearing up the leaflet and throwing it in the fire.
‘I was wondering if you found my letter,’ I said, deciding to plunge right in and get it over with. ‘I can’t find it in my bag.’
‘Letter?’ His voice had a suspicious edge and I wished I hadn’t mentioned it. He might decide to look for it now. ‘What letter?’
‘It’s OK, I just found it,’ I lied, forcing a laugh. ‘It was in my camera bag.’
‘What’s so important about it?’
‘It was an appointment, that’s all.’ I felt my face burn. ‘Dentist. I might need a filling.’
When he didn’t reply, I pictured him in his armchair, where he used to take up residence after work in the evenings. But instead of a small glass of brandy, and his and Mum’s favourite opera playing softly, he’d have a cup of black coffee and a newspaper on his lap, folded open at the crossword, which he would start but never complete. I had no idea how to reach him. ‘Dad,’ I began. ‘Did Mum …?’
‘Did she what?’
I knew I couldn’t ask him about the shoebox. ‘Did she ever express a wish about what to do with her stuff?’
‘Why are you asking me?’ He sounded disappointed, as if he’d hoped I was done with it. ‘Her sister will want some – you know what she’s like.’
I suddenly wondered if Aunt Tess had known about Colleen, but dismissed the thought straight away. Tess was great fun, but loved to gossip. She would never have kept such a big secret. ‘I’ve put most of it in the attic.’
‘I don’t care what you do with it,’ Dad said. ‘I found some of her old paintings in the shed, ones she never showed. You can take those too, if you like.’
I suppressed a surge of annoyance, reminding myself he couldn’t help his attitude and that grief took many forms. ‘Fine.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’d better go, Dad, I’m working.’
‘Bye,’ he said and hung up.
I stared at my phone, my insides churning. I suddenly, desperately, wanted my old life back. The one with Mum in it, her soft eyes smiling, and a husband who supported me, no matter what. The one where I didn’t know I had a sister.
A barge glided by, laughter trailing in its wake, and I recalled a boating holiday with Mum and Dad when I was ten. Would it have been more fun if I’d had a sister? My childhood would have been so different with a playmate and confidante.
‘Tess and I used to fight like cat and dog,’ I remembered Mum telling me once, when I demanded a sibling. ‘There’s no guarantee you’d get on.’ Had she been reassuring me, or herself? I knew it was pointless speculating, but now I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop.
‘The food’s ready,’ said a voice behind me. It was the client, her face pink and shiny, eyes bright with purpose. Gathering my things, I pasted on a smile and followed her in.
I’d just finished photographing a plate of rose-pink lamb with polenta and spinach, and a dainty bowl of seafood, when a beep from my bag alerted me to a text.
‘I’d better get that,’ I said, to no one in particular. ‘It might be the nursery.’
Stepping over to the window, my pulse gave a little leap when I saw the message was from Greg. I know you’re working but wanted to let you know, I’ve found out where Colleen lives.