The Many Colours of Us Read online

  Alec is a lecturer in economics and in the middle of writing a very important book. It’s thought he’ll get professorship next academic year and be the youngest professor the Faculty of Economics has ever had. He’s something of a genius in European macroeconomics, lectures all over the world and is constantly busy.

  While Alec is away at college dinners, giving lectures, flying off to other universities all over the world and Pen and Graeme are busy at the café, I am often left to my own devices. I go to yoga twice a week, even though I’ve still got to convince myself I love it, I joined a book group, even though no-one was ever interested in reading the books I suggested.

  It’s unusual, then, for Alec and me to see each other during the week. If I’m honest, we’ve been seeing less and less of each other over the last few years. While other people my age are getting married, buying houses and having babies, my life seems to have come to a bit of a standstill and my relationship seems to be going backwards.

  I know that’s my fault. I know that Alec wanted to get a house together years ago, but I always had an excuse. He said we didn’t have to get married, but I was scared. Just like I was too scared to go to law school. I’ve been feeling for a while I need to make changes and now I’ve turned thirty it’s time I implemented them.

  And then like a punch in the gut I remember. The change has happened. It happened yesterday morning in a wood-panelled office in Mayfair. I found out who my father was. I found out that I am, to all intents and purposes, a millionaire.

  I take a few breaths, trying to ward off the impending panic. This is what I’ve been waiting for all these years and I have no idea what to do with it.

  Although that hideous office job can go for a start.

  Alec has this habit of appearing suddenly from nowhere and after ten years he still surprises me. Tonight, as I wait for him outside Trinity College, he’s there suddenly, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘Let’s go to the Pickerel,’ he says, nodding towards the pub we’ve been going to since we were students. I’m surprised, as he usually wants to eat somewhere fancier than the pub. He holds my hand as we walk down Bridge Street but doesn’t really say anything. I know this mood. Something’s happened but he doesn’t know how to tell me what it is.

  He buys me a glass of Malbec and himself a pint and we find a table. It’s busy in here and hot. It’s been another scorching day.

  ‘I’ve been offered a new position,’ he says, without preamble, without looking at me.

  I knew it.

  ‘I’m really pleased for you,’ I say, reaching out for his hand and realising that I really am. He’s waited years for this.

  He looks away from me, ever so slightly.

  ‘It’s in America. Harvard. I can’t not take this, Julia. It’s the chance of a lifetime.’

  ‘Of course you can’t not take it. Harvard! That’s amazing.’ I wasn’t expecting this. I’m trying very hard to be excited and not to sulk because he never told me he was even thinking about Harvard.

  He takes another swig of his pint and finally meets my eye.

  I suddenly realise what this means.

  He puts his pint down and sighs. He takes both my hands in his.

  ‘Julia.’ He says my name quietly, tenderly. ‘There’s no easy way to say this but I think it’s time we went our separate ways.’

  I stare at him. I can feel tears burning the backs of my eyes and I don’t know why. I can’t pretend I wasn’t expecting this eventually.

  ‘Julia, we’ve been dancing around each other for a decade now. We don’t even live together. I have no idea where you want this to go but we can’t stand still for ever. You can’t stand still for ever.’

  ‘You know why though,’ I say quietly, blinking to stop the tears coming. ‘You know why I don’t want to get married.’

  ‘And I always said we didn’t have to,’ he says. ‘But you will never talk about the future. You won’t move in with me and you won’t even consider the idea of a family.’ I can hear resentment in his voice as he forces himself to stop.

  I shake my head. Look away from him. I want to tell him that things aren’t standing still any more. I want to tell him who my father is but the words won’t come.

  ‘Julia, you are one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met. And although you might not believe this, I do love you. Part of me probably always will, but I’m setting you free. Go, find out what it is you do want, because I don’t for a moment believe it’s me.’

  I still don’t say anything.

  ‘What happened to us?’ he asks quietly.

  I stand up suddenly, pulling my hands away from his.

  ‘Julia, what are you doing?’ he asks, staring at me.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I say. ‘Why make this harder than it already is?’

  ‘Julia, please sit down. Let’s have a meal together, for old time’s sake at least.’

  I can’t. I can’t sit here opposite him pretending to have a nice evening and knowing that everything has changed. I open my mouth to say something. I should tell Alec about Edwin, about Bruce Baldwin, but I still seem incapable of forming a sentence.

  ‘I can’t…’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘Julia?’

  In my hurry to get out of the pub I knock the table. Alec’s pint glass and my red wine tip over, spilling into his lap. For a moment I think I should stay and help.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say quietly to myself again. I turn around and walk out of the pub. Leave him covered in beer and wine. Alec is fairly well known in Cambridge; plenty of people will help him.

  Chapter 4

  I’m up early the next morning, long before Pen stirs. I pull on my running gear and creep out without waking her. I lock the door behind me and start a few half-hearted stretches.

  It’s another uncharacteristically warm June morning; I love mornings like this, before anyone else is about, when the sky is still hazy from the night before. I watch the cows munching the grass on Midsummer Common and pretend to myself that this is the reason that I stay here, in the smallest room in Pen’s tiny run-down house, because the Common is so beautiful, and because I can see the River Cam from my bedroom window.

  This morning the sun glints off the roofs of the houseboats. It was on one of those houseboats, the one with the blue roof, on an equally balmy and unseasonably warm June day, that I first met Alec. I’d just moved into Pen’s house for the summer and I dragged her along to a party that I’d heard was happening down by the river.

  It was typical of Pen, being Cambridge born and bred, that despite it being a university party she knew nearly everyone there and it was she who first introduced me to Alec. He was sitting on that blue roof, rolling a spliff, his glasses sliding down his nose, his hair in his eyes. After very informal introductions, Pen drifted off into the twilight. Alec Chisholm was in the final year of his PhD at Trinity and I fell in love with him pretty much at first sight.

  He’d swept me off my feet that night. I thought I was one of the lucky ones, someone who’d met the love of their lives at university and would never have to worry about all that dating nonsense. That didn’t work out quite as planned.

  Alec had been my biggest cheerleader in the beginning. I hadn’t fitted in at Cambridge at all. Everyone loved the fact I was Philadelphia Simmonds’s illegitimate daughter but I didn’t really bond with anyone until I met Alec. But being with him meant that I was accepted into circles I hadn’t been before, making my final year at Cambridge a lot easier than the first two.

  Over the years though, the bond that held us together has ebbed away. We went from being inseparable to a vague weekend companionship and it happened so slowly that neither of us had really acknowledged it until last night. Alec asked what happened to us. I hadn’t answered because last night I didn’t know. But this morning I do. I hadn’t been able to be the person Alec needed me to be. I tried, but there’s only so long we can pretend to be somebody we’re not
.

  Different people own that houseboat these days but that blue roof will always remind me of Alec. Maybe seeing it every day once he’s gone away will give me the impetus to leave Cambridge once and for all. Right now I don’t feel much impetus to do anything at all.

  Except run.

  *

  Six sweaty miles later and I’m back at the house. Pen is up, sitting in the living room, lost in a world of her own.

  ‘Penny for them,’ I say.

  ‘Hmmm?’ She hadn’t realised I was there.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask, realising she had been unusually quiet yesterday as well.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’ She shakes herself, jumping up from the window seat. ‘Tea?’

  I nod, slumping down onto the sofa.

  She looks at me and I burst into tears.

  Pen makes tea as I try to tell her about last night while sniffing and wiping my eyes.

  ‘Did you tell him about Monday?’ she asks.

  ‘What happened on Monday?’

  ‘The lawyer. Bruce Baldwin. The inflated bank balance.’ Pen spells it out, rather incredulous that I seem to have forgotten.

  ‘Oh. No, I didn’t really get a chance.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ she says sensibly. ‘And he’s right, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, Julia, I don’t mean to be a bitch or anything…’ (this means she is about to be a bitch) ‘…but Blind Freddie could have seen this one coming.’

  Blind Freddie often makes an appearance when Pen is in a certain frame of mind. Once he steps on to the stage there is no point arguing. He is almost always inevitably right.

  ‘How long have you and Alec been together?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘And have either of you ever talked about the future, living together, getting married, having babies? The things normal couples do?’

  ‘Pen, you know why…’

  ‘I know why you think you can’t do any of those things and you know that I think that’s rubbish.’

  ‘Please, Pen, not this again. Not now.’

  ‘He’s not the guy for you, Julia, and you’ve wasted more than enough time on him already. The universe has given you two clear signs that it’s time to start again: Edwin Jones and Harvard University.’ She counts the supposed signs off on her fingers. ‘It’s time to move on.’

  ‘Move on where though?’

  ‘Well you can start by quitting that job you hate so much,’ she says mirroring my thoughts from the previous evening. ‘And you could maybe consider moving back to London, into one of these houses you’ve inherited perhaps!’ She grins at me. ‘There’s a whole world out there, outside of Cambridge,’ she says.

  ‘And what about you?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she says. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘But…’

  She looks at me and pulls me into a hug.

  ‘It’ll be OK. You’re young, pretty and phenomenally rich. What can possibly go wrong?’

  Chapter 5

  Friday morning finds me back in London. I stand in front of my mother’s full-length mirror and take a good look at myself. There’s no denying it, I’m looking more and more like her every single day. I tie my hair back in a loose chignon and smooth down my dress, a beautiful one-off, even if I do say so myself, seeing as it came from the sewing machine of me.

  I may not have followed my mother into the world of fashion, but she did instil in me an understanding of good grooming, of being well dressed for every occasion, of wearing what suits you and always looking your best. I learned early on that to really find clothes that suited me and that made me happy I had to create them myself.

  At first it would be charity shop finds or cheap clothes from Hyper Hyper that I would take in or take up or adjust or customise in some way to make them more unique, and then slowly I branched out into following sewing patterns and making my clothes that way.

  Finally, a few years ago, I got the confidence to start creating my own patterns as well and I’d say that running gear aside, most of my wardrobe is handmade. In a strange way my mother approves even though she pretends not to.

  Today I’ve teamed my chosen dress with a favourite pair of heels that I rarely get a chance to wear. Now I know Edwin Jones is at least 6’4” I know I can get away with the shoes. Alec hates the fact they make me taller than him. Alec hated the fact, I should say. He doesn’t have to worry about that any more. The dress is one I made a couple of years ago from some turquoise and yellow shot silk I found at Cambridge market. Five minutes after I leave the house I realise the heels may have been a mistake. It’s even hotter than it was on Monday and it’s not even 9 a.m.

  When I arrive at Jones & Cartwright, I’m told Edwin is running late. I flick through a rather dull legal magazine for over half an hour before two familiar shoes step into my line of vision. I realise I am sitting in the same seat as Monday.

  He smiles at me and that vague feeling of butterflies in my stomach starts up. He has one of those smiles that lights up his whole face. He leads the way up to his office, where it is still as hot as the centre of the sun, and he begins to go through my inheritance: the house, the flat, the studio, the paintings.

  He tells me I need to think about what I want to do with the house. Do I want my mother to keep living there or would I prefer to sell it? I need to think about what sort of arrangements I need to make about the paintings, how I would need to clear and sort out my father’s flat, how much inheritance tax I will need to pay (an eye-popping amount), how much money I can draw down out of the estate before the probate goes through (an even more eye-popping amount).

  After a while his voice begins to turn into white noise, like the voices of the adults in those Peanuts cartoons. I start to look around the room. The wood panelling is impressive when you take the time to look at it, and the view of Hyde Park from the window is lovely. The inhabitant of the office isn’t bad either.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asks suddenly, pushing all the papers he’s been going through to one side. I realise I’m staring at him.

  ‘Starving,’ I reply with a little too much enthusiasm. Edwin seems more relaxed than he did on Monday and I’m hoping he is about to suggest getting out of this awful hot room and finding somewhere to eat.

  ‘Let me take you to lunch,’ he says.

  ‘Are you sure? I…’

  ‘Of course I’m sure! I just need to make a call. Can you wait for me in reception?’

  He appears five minutes later with his jacket over his shoulder and his briefcase under his arm.

  ‘Do you like Thai?’ he asks, as we walk out into the sunshine.

  I nod and we walk down Park Lane and turn right onto South Street, passing Harrods Estates.

  ‘I love this place,’ I say pointing at the display window. ‘I often stand here and marvel at the sort of people who can afford places like that.’

  ‘And now you’re one of them,’ he interrupts as though reading my mind.

  I bite my lip, still unable to believe it.

  We walk on in comfortable silence towards a small Thai restaurant. All the staff know him in the restaurant and fawn over him as he comes in, taking his jacket and finding him the best table they can. I stand there and wait to be seated, thinking about how much my shoes hurt. I slip them off as soon as I sit down.

  He orders himself a beer and looks at me. I desperately want a double vodka but need to keep my wits about me.

  ‘Orangina?’ I ask, feeling about five years old.

  ‘That’s a beautiful dress,’ Edwin says. I think it’s the first time anyone’s commented on my clothes without an addendum about inheriting my mother’s sense of style.

  ‘Thank you, I made it myself.’

  I don’t know why I said that. I hardly ever tell anyone about my clothes – I feel embarrassed talking about it. I’ve always tried to be inconspicuous because of Mum. Goodne
ss knows why I’ve suddenly decided to blurt it out in front of her lawyer.

  ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Impressive. Do you make clothes for a living?’

  ‘No. I’m a paralegal.’

  He pulls a face.

  ‘How do you know I don’t love my job?’

  ‘Because somebody like you isn’t destined to sit behind a desk for the rest of her life. Not when you can make clothes as gorgeous as that.’

  ‘What do you mean, someone like me?’ I ask, smiling to show I’m joking.

  ‘Someone with skill and artistic flair.’ He pauses. ‘Like father like daughter.’

  I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. I’m not ready to talk about that.

  ‘And what about you? What made you become a solicitor?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘Parental pressure. Dad wanted another Jones to run the firm after he retired. Curse of being the eldest.’

  ‘What would you rather be doing?’

  Before he has a chance to answer the drinks arrive. He refuses a glass and raises his bottle in my direction.

  I order a very boring vegetarian Pad Thai while he orders something far more exotic and unpronounceable. We make small talk; he seems to already know I went to Cambridge and it turns out he read English too, at Oxford.

  ‘Not reading law was probably the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done,’ he says. ‘When I first got to Oxford I had no intention of becoming a lawyer…’

  He pauses.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh things change, don’t they?’

  ‘I was happy waiting tables,’ I say. ‘I never had any grand ambitions but my boyfriend encouraged me to aim higher. Not that paralegal is aiming much higher, unless you count the fact I don’t have to work weekends any more!’

  ‘And what does this boyfriend do?’

  ‘Oh he broke up with me on Tuesday. He’s taking a job in America.’ It slips out before I’ve realised what I’ve said. Edwin is staring at me and I want the ground to swallow me up. Well done, Julia; way to make yourself look like even more of a loser. I’d get up and walk out now but I can’t seem to locate one of my shoes.