The Many Colours of Us Read online

  He paused for a moment picking at a thread on his cuff, before looking straight at me.

  ‘Because I was in love with her,’ he said.

  Johnny has been working for my mother since she first came to England and I have known him my entire life. At no point did I ever think there was anything between them other than employer and employee; maybe friends at a push. This latest revelation is more than I can believe. If I’m honest, I’d always thought Johnny was gay.

  ‘You have to be kidding me,’ I say, rather uncharitably. Forgive me if I don’t find my mother very loveable right now.

  ‘I’ve been in love with her as long as I’ve known her. There’s never been anyone else. Didn’t you wonder why I never had relationships?’

  ‘I just thought you were married to your job,’ I lie.

  ‘You thought I was gay, didn’t you? Yes, lots of people do.’

  ‘Does Mum know?’ I sound more incredulous than I should. I’m probably not handling this very well, but it’s a lot to take in to be fair.

  ‘She didn’t realise for a long time. She was always in love with Bruce or throwing herself into relationships with unsuitable men to prove to herself she was over Bruce. She knows now though. He pauses, smiles slightly. ‘I keep my flat but mostly I’m here.’

  ‘Do you…? Are you…?

  ‘Quite frankly, Julia, that’s none of your business.’

  I suppose it isn’t.

  He starts to clear up the tea things.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. And I am. I would hate to upset Johnny. Him being in love with my mother for all these years puts a whole new perspective on his relationship with me. He did it for love, not money. By the sound of things, there hasn’t been much money to pay him with over the years.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You’ve had quite a week and it’s all a lot to take in. I’ll give you some peace and quiet.’

  I pick up the box of photos and hand it to him.

  ‘No you keep them; look through them if you like. I’ll only be downstairs if you have any questions. I’m not going to desert you; at least not until I’ve got your mother back from New York.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  As he gets to the door he looks back over his shoulder. ‘How’s Alec?’ he asks.

  Despite my best efforts I can feel myself starting to cry again.

  Johnny puts the tea tray back down on the table and comes to sit next to me. He doesn’t ask any questions, he just offers me the pristine pressed white handkerchief from his pocket and waits until I’ve pulled myself together.

  ‘We broke up,’ I say. ‘He’s moving to America to take up a post at Harvard. I’m not invited.’

  ‘Oh, Julia.’

  Slowly, in between sobs, I tell him about seeing Alec earlier in the week. About how I’ve come to realise that it hadn’t been working for years. About a more recent realisation that I’d only been with Alec for stability rather than love.

  ‘The tears aren’t for him exactly,’ I say. ‘They’re for the ten years of my life I wasted on him.’

  ‘The first week of your thirties has certainly been eventful so far,’ Johnny says, stroking my hair. ‘But think of it this way, with this inheritance you get a chance to start all over again, to live the life you’ve always wanted.’

  ‘That’s what Pen said,’ I say. ‘The problem is I’ve no idea what I want.’

  *

  Johnny is in the kitchen making tea when I get up the next morning. He puts a mug in front of me as I sit down on one of the stools and sits opposite me with his own mug.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh fine,’ I say, my autopilot response to anyone who asks at the moment. I’m turning into my mother.

  ‘This is me you’re talking to,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

  I pause. How am I? I haven’t really thought about it. I haven’t let myself, in much the same way as I haven’t let myself read the letters sitting in my handbag, or even think about what I’m going to do with this house.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. Because I really don’t.

  ‘I spoke to your mother last night after you’d gone to bed,’ he says as he breaks eye contact. He seems embarrassed although I don’t know if it is for himself or on her behalf.

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s inconsolable.’

  ‘She’s inconsolable,’ I say. ‘What about me? What about the fact she lied to me for thirty years, about everything? Not only did she know damn well who my father was but she spoke to him, regularly. He owned the goddam house for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Julia, I know you’re upset…’ Johnny tries to interrupt.

  ‘And then there’s the letters.’

  ‘Letters?’

  He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Well, well mother dearest didn’t tell him everything after all.

  ‘The letters my father wrote to me every year on my birthday for eighteen years. The letters that my mother sent back to him unopened every year.’

  Johnny stares at me.

  ‘I had no idea,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Welcome to the club.’

  ‘Do you have these letters? How do you know about them?’

  ‘Edwin Jones gave them to me yesterday. It was off the record and not really part of the estate. Apparently Bruce called Edwin to the hospital a few days before he died to make sure I got them. I haven’t read them,’ I add predicting his next question. ‘I honestly don’t know if I want to.’

  ‘But you must,’ Johnny says with sudden force. ‘These will fill in all the holes I’m sure, like missing jigsaw pieces.’

  I look at him rather astonished. He shakes his head, apologising under his breath.

  Of course, my father is Johnny’s greatest rival in love. It’s natural he would want to know all the gory details about the man and I suspect he thinks those details are in these letters. Well even if they are he won’t be hearing them from me.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Mum.’

  He sighs. ‘Yes. She thinks you’re going to evict her and sell the house.’

  ‘Of course I’m not going to evict her. I bloody should though, just to teach her a lesson. I’m so angry with her, Johnny.’

  ‘Will you talk to her?’ he asks.

  ‘I can’t promise I won’t get angry.’

  ‘I think she’s expecting that. Just reassure her you aren’t about to evict her. She might come home then.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, can she not just come home and we’ll sort it out when she’s here?’ I am so sick of my mother acting like a spoilt child all the time, and everyone pandering to her as though her behaviour is perfectly acceptable. I’m sick of so many things and I feel as though I’m on my very last nerve with all of it. I’m scared that if I speak to her, thirty years of resentment will come flying out and I won’t have any control over it.

  ‘Julia, she’s hurting too. I know she did wrong, that she should have been honest with you years ago, but the love of her life has died and, try as I might, I’m no replacement.’ He smiles sadly and I suddenly feel immensely sorry for him and the huge secrets he has had to bear all for the love of a woman who will always hold him as second best. What a mess it all is.

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ I agree. ‘But only because you asked me to.’

  ‘Thank you, Julia.’

  ‘Do you have a number?’

  ‘She’s on Skype these days.’

  ‘Skype!’ My mother has an inherent fear of all things technological. Her excuse for not cooking is the oven is too convoluted for her to understand. She has an old Nokia mobile phone that’s at least a decade old and dictates all her emails to Johnny.

  ‘So we can keep in touch when one of us is away,’ Johnny says. I don’t want any further details about that, thank you very much.

  At the appointed hour I log on to my Skype account and my mother’s face looms in
to view on the computer screen.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she bellows. Her accent has become a lot more New York since we last spoke.

  ‘Mother, you don’t have to press your face against the screen or yell at me. Just sit back and talk normally.’

  She does as she’s told for the first time in living memory. I can’t really tell from the rather fuzzy image but could it be possible that she’s looking contrite?

  ‘So now you know all my dirty secrets,’ she says resignedly.

  ‘Yes. Why did you never tell me?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have understood.’

  ‘Mum, listen, it’s not about whether I would have understood or not. Bruce was my father and you knew who he was and where he was. I had a right to know my father.’

  She sighs and blinks. Is she crying?

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She sniffs. She’s crying. I hate myself for thinking in the back of my mind that they are crocodile tears, simply for effect.

  I take a deep breath. I am not going to get into a Skype argument with my mother.

  ‘Look, Mum,’ I say, deciding to keep this short and sweet, ‘why don’t you just come home. We can talk about all of this properly then.’

  ‘What are you going to do about the house?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m not going to evict you. Johnny told me you were inconsolable about it.’

  ‘Johnny exaggerates.’

  ‘Yes, well I know all about you two as well,’ I say. ‘But that’s something for another time.’ I notice she has the decency to blush.

  ‘Just come home,’ I repeat. ‘We’ll sort everything out, I promise.’

  ‘Will you get Johnny to book me a flight?’

  ‘If you’re lucky, I might even book it myself.’

  6th June 1987

  My dearest daughter,

  Happy fourth birthday, my darling. It’s been a year since I saw you and what a year it has been.

  Seeing you this time last year has kick-started me into working harder, into ‘living up to my potential’ as my tutors at St Martin’s used to put it. I’ve been sober for one year and sixty days. I’ve been to meetings every day for the last 425 days.

  And with my sobriety has come a new-found love of my work. I’ve known for years that the drink has been destroying my love of art, but I hadn’t realised how much it had destroyed my productivity. The last year has been spent in a fever of activity at my studio in Whitechapel. One day I hope to show you the studio, the place where I painted the work for my first major exhibition.

  Yes, that’s right! Tonight, on your fourth birthday in lieu of the Campden Hill Road party, I will be exhibiting my work for the first time. The paintings are already at the gallery and I’m sitting here in an almost empty studio feeling rather nervous I must admit. I expect this is the artist’s equivalent of stage fright. I hope your mother isn’t too angry that some of her guests will be late to the party, as I know they are coming to the exhibition!

  Dad is coming down from Yorkshire to see the exhibition as well. This is a man who, to my knowledge, hasn’t left Yorkshire since Mum died! Frank and I are astonished, delighted and nervous in equal measures. In an hour or so Frank will pick me up and then we’ll be off to Kings Cross to meet Dad.

  I wonder if you’ll ever meet your grandfather? I do hope so. He’s quite a character under that gruff exterior, although it’s taken me a long time to figure that out. Frank and I will be sure to tell him all about you.

  Happy Birthday, Princess. Wish me luck!

  Your Father

  Chapter 7

  ‘Bella!’ Marco di Palma yells at me from halfway down the street. Luckily, I’m heading his way, but if I wasn’t I’d feel obliged to stop in for a coffee at least. Marco has an incredible ability of getting passers-by into his restaurant no matter what. I guess that’s why it’s always so busy.

  Marco owns the Italian place at the bottom of our road. This restaurant has been here for as long as I can remember. Johnny used to bring me here when I was a child. Mum never came with us; Italian food is bad for the figure apparently. She tried to drum this into me for years but I’ve always ignored it without detrimental effect.

  Marco’s is such a big part of my life that I can’t smell garlic cooking or freshly ground coffee without being transported to this little place on the corner of our road, with its gingham tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. All the money in the world wouldn’t make me choose a fancy restaurant over this.

  Marco di Palma greets me with the same white-toothed grin he has greeted me with since I was a child. In over twenty years he has hardly changed at all, except for a little grey hair at his temples. He runs his restaurant with the same passion and enthusiasm.

  ‘Bella Julia!’ he exclaims again as I approach, grabbing my face and planting three over the top kisses on my cheeks. ‘And where is your beautiful mama tonight? And Signor Johnny? Will they be joining you?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ I reply, marvelling at Marco’s endless optimism that one day the Philadelphia Simmonds will eat in his restaurant. ‘Mum’s in New York.’

  ‘Your favourite table then?’ he asks pointing me in the direction of the table I always sit at in the summer on the patio.

  ‘Could I have somewhere a little more private tonight, Marco? I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Is Dr Alec visiting us tonight?’ he exclaims to the entire restaurant. ‘We always love to see Dr Alec!’

  Marco makes this pronouncement as though he and Alec are the greatest of friends when in fact, on the few occasions I’d brought Alec here, he had been nothing but disparaging of the whole experience. Alec will always put fancy restaurants above little Italian places with gingham tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. To herald Alec’s potential arrival with such reverence is almost as optimistic as thinking my mother will ever eat here.

  I break the news quickly, like tearing off a Band-Aid. ‘Alec and I have split up I’m afraid.’ I pause for the dramatic effect I know Marco loves. ‘Alec is moving to America without me.’

  ‘Ah the bastard!’ Marco screeches, making all the tables in the restaurant jump a little. ‘If I ever see him…’ He shakes his fist at me rather alarmingly. Then suddenly his face changes as though he is trying to work something out. ‘So, who are you dining with tonight, Bella?’ he asks with a wink. ‘A new man?’

  ‘My mother’s lawyer,’ I say firmly. I don’t want Marco getting any ideas or bringing roses and champagne over for no reason. He is known for getting carried away. Another reason why his restaurant is always full.

  Marco winks at me again and tells me he understands, when clearly he doesn’t understand at all. But then neither do I so I just tell him that Edwin and I do have some legal stuff to go through and need some peace and quiet.

  Marco finds me a corner table with benches on either side, flourishing his tea towel. ‘Is everything all right, Bella?’ he asks in a serious tone I have never heard him adopt before.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie brightly, astounded at how easily I lie about how fine I am these days. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, meeting lawyers, no man, your mama in New York?’ He throws his hands up into the air.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘We’re just going through some financial stuff that Mum has handed over to me.’ Not quite a lie I suppose.

  He seems satisfied by this and taps his nose at me before wandering back out into the street, flicking a tea towel in his wake.

  Edwin texted me over the weekend. He wanted to know if I was OK, worried about how upset I’d been when he gave me the letters. I assured him it was just a shock and he asked me if he could take me for dinner. It seemed a little out of character, but if someone as handsome as Edwin Jones wants to take me out for dinner, who am I to argue?

  Pen and I analysed this in detail on the phone.

  ‘You’re a fast mover,’ she said, when I told her about the dinner invitation. ‘Is it allowed?’

&n
bsp; ‘Is what allowed?’

  ‘Dating your lawyer?’ she asked, clearly delighted at the prospect.

  ‘He’s not my lawyer, he’s my mother’s lawyer. And we’re not dating.’

  ‘Like hell you’re not. Sounds like a date to me.’

  I heard her tapping something into her iPad.

  ‘Oh, very nice,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Edwin Jones, of course. I’ve just googled him.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘How tall is he?’ she asked. She’s only 5’1”. Graeme calls us Little and Large, but she knows I have a bit of a complex about dating men who are shorter than me.

  ‘About six four,’ I replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the butterflies in my stomach.

  ‘Then he’s clearly perfect for you. You know what they say, the best way of getting over someone is getting…’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Pen,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s not a date.’ I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to convince Pen or the butterflies.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just…’ She trailed off with a sigh.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing really. I’m just bored I think. You’ve left, Alec’s leaving and now Graeme’s going to be leaving too.’

  ‘What? Graeme’s leaving?’

  ‘He’s finally found the café of his dreams,’ Pen replied. For as long as either of us has known him Graeme has wanted to run a coffee shop. It was an idea he came up with when he was travelling in Australia. He wanted to run a place that roasted and ground its own coffee beans, a place that sold organic cake and homemade sourdough bread. It sounded delicious but in all these years he’s never found a premises that he could afford the rent on. Not in Cambridge anyway.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, trying to take it in. ‘Where?’ We’d always imagined this café would be in Cambridge, despite the astronomic rents. The thought of it, and Graeme, not being there is almost as alien as the thought of Alec not being at Trinity College any more.

  ‘York,’ she replied. ‘A friend of his told him about this old greasy spoon that was up for sale. It needs refurbishing, but it’s going for a song and he just about managed to borrow enough money to buy it. And now he’s moving away.’