The Many Colours of Us Read online

  ‘When?’

  ‘End of the summer I think.’

  ‘Oh, Pen, I’m so sorry. I know how close the two of you are.’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘But you know, I’m not leaving.’

  ‘Yes you are,’ she replied firmly. ‘The universe is giving you an opportunity to turn your life around, and you know nothing can change the universe’s mind.’

  I sighed audibly.

  ‘Now,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What are you going to wear for your date with Edwin Jones?’

  *

  So here I am in Marco’s waiting for Edwin. I’m not sure what prompted his invitation for dinner. I think he felt responsible for the latest curveball life had thrown at me in the form of the letters. Anyway, I wanted the low-down about what was going to happen in another meeting with tax lawyers tomorrow. I managed to convince him to come to Marco’s even though he sounded almost as snobbish about it as Alec.

  He arrives not long after me, still wearing his suit trousers, white shirtsleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. He looks hot and slightly dishevelled, smelling a little too strongly of expensive aftershave, and has clearly come straight from work. He smiles as he bends down to kiss my cheek.

  He really is very good-looking.

  ‘Another glorious Simmonds creation?’ he asks, looking at the dress I’m wearing as he sits down opposite me.

  I smile, delighted at the fact that he remembers. This dress is a particular favourite. It’s a sleeveless wraparound style with a calf-length A-line skirt and is made from another dress that I found in a charity shop in Cambridge. The original dress was way too big for me but the material was beautiful, dark navy with yellow and red birds of paradise all over. So, I upcycled the whole thing, made a new dress, added some yellow binding and voila!

  Pen has always said that this style accentuates my cleavage. Quite why it matters what my boobs look like for a meeting with my mother’s lawyer I don’t know, but Pen insisted this was the dress for the ‘date’. Edwin’s eyes do keep flicking south towards my cleavage as we order wine.

  I try to take his mind off that by guiding the subject towards tomorrow’s meetings. It’s all about the money tomorrow: inheritance tax, investments and all the things I can and can’t do with the three (three!) properties I’ve inherited. Edwin explains all this to me in very simple language.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘strictly speaking I’m not actually your lawyer, I’m your parents’ lawyer so all of this advice is off the record.’

  ‘Would you be my lawyer?’ I ask.

  ‘Well you’d need to set up a will and other trust documents in your own name once probate is complete, but I’d rather pass you over to one of my colleagues if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, feeling suddenly very disappointed.

  ‘Only because,’ he goes on, ‘if I was your lawyer, it wouldn’t be quite right for me to take you out for dinner.’

  Well that perks me up more than it should.

  He looks as though he’s about to say something when his phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and looks at it.

  ‘I have to get this,’ he says apologetically. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  Marco catches my eye as Edwin walks out of the restaurant and stands outside talking into his phone. He winks and I ignore him.

  As Edwin sits down again his leg brushes against mine and, for a moment, I feel a flicker of electricity. He doesn’t react so I pretend not to notice.

  ‘Listen, Julia,’ he says. ‘There are a couple of other things that I would like to help you with.’

  I’m still thinking about his leg brushing against mine and I don’t register at first that he’s speaking to me. I make an encouraging noise, hoping he’ll carry on and I’ll pick up the gist of it.

  ‘Well firstly there’s Bruce’s flat. The last time I was there, just before he went into hospital, it was a complete mess. It’s really going to need sorting out before you can do anything about it and I would imagine some of the galleries and museums might be interested in any letters or paintings you find.’

  The mention of the word letters makes me check the chair next to me for my handbag where the letters still sit, unopened. I wonder if Edwin thinks I’ve read them. I wonder if he has any idea what they say.

  ‘And then,’ he goes on, ‘there’s Francis.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your father’s brother.’

  ‘Oh Uncle Frank!’

  ‘Yes, he’ll want to meet with you and I suspect help you go through Bruce’s things.’

  ‘Does my uncle mind that I’ve inherited everything?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course not! Bruce made sure Frank had everything he needed years ago; you have nothing to worry about, Julia.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like that. It feels as though there is so much to do, so many things to think about, and I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘You don’t have to do it on your own though,’ he replies leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m here to help. Look let’s talk about all this tomorrow after your meetings. We’ll work out a plan then. Let’s just enjoy our meal tonight.’

  ‘Are you this kind to all your clients?’

  ‘Well most of them are about 300 years old and smell of cat wee.’ He smiles. He really should smile more often. ‘Besides, you’re not my client, your mother is.’

  I’m suddenly aware of a presence at the table and look up to see Marco looming above. I feel as though I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

  ‘Good evening,’ he says in a tight-lipped manner. ‘Are you ready to order?’

  ‘Marco, this is Edwin Jones, Mum’s lawyer,’ I say to break the atmosphere Marco has brought over with him. Marco just stands there with his order pad.

  I order the calamari and a margherita pizza. I always order this; I’m surprised Marco even bothers to ask. After a lot of questions Edwin orders the bruschetta and the carbonara. I get the impression he’s not impressed by the choice but decide not to say anything. Marco stalks off flicking his tea towel irritably.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ Edwin asks.

  ‘Marco’s known me since I was a kid. I think that was his overly protective fatherly routine. God help you if he thought you were anything other than Mum’s lawyer!’

  ‘Should I expect to wake up with a horse’s head in my bed?’

  A basket of bread is dumped unceremoniously on our table.

  We spend the evening talking and it feels as though we’ve known each other for years, which of course we have even if I don’t remember it. We talk about books, music, films, the differences between Oxford and Cambridge. We try each other’s food and talk a little about my mother and his father. It feels very much like a date and I keep trying to remind myself about the fact that he is my parents’ lawyer and that he is here because my father’s estate pays him very handsomely for it. But every time his leg brushes against mine I can’t help wondering if he feels that gentle frisson of electricity too.

  ‘I haven’t met anyone who loves the same books as me before,’ I say, remembering Alec’s utter disregard for fiction and Pen’s love of self-help books. I fill him in on Pen and our Odd Couple living arrangements.

  ‘Do you think you’ll stay in Cambridge now?’ Edwin asks.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Pen thinks I should move back to London, try to find myself. She’s very into finding oneself. And signs from the universe. She’s read a lot of books on the subject. You’re a sign from the universe apparently, and signs from the universe shouldn’t be ignored.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘New Age claptrap aside, she’s got a point,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well you’ve just found out who your father is after thirty years of not knowing. That’s got to change you somehow.’

  ‘Well I quit my job yesterday, so I guess that’s step one!’ I tell him
about phoning work to tell them I wasn’t coming back. I don’t tell him that when I put the phone down I suddenly realised that I was completely free. And I had no idea what to do with that freedom. Is quitting my job the right thing to do? Is considering leaving Cambridge? Sometimes, even when life is boring and dull, change is the scariest thing in the world.

  He pauses for a moment, turning his head to look at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For having to be the one to tell you everything, for giving you the letters that clearly upset you. I just wanted to take you out for dinner to apologise, to check you were OK. I promised your father I’d look after you.’

  I feel suddenly very deflated that he’s here because he feels he should be and not because he wants to get to know me. I think about the flicker of electricity from earlier. I must have imagined it.

  ‘Did you ever think you’d find out who your father was?’ he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘Honestly, no. I’d spent most of my teens and twenties trying to work it out, but I never even got close. I think I’d given up.’

  ‘How old were you when you first started to get curious?’

  ‘About twelve or thirteen. I used to ask Mum all the time who he was. We had a monumental row on my fourteenth birthday about it. I refused to go to the stupid party even though everyone was already there, and went out for pizza with my friends. I think that was the last party she ever threw.’

  ‘It was,’ he says.

  ‘Were you there?’

  He nods.

  ‘Oh God,’ I grumble, slightly embarrassed. ‘You saw my teenage strop?’ I really hate the fact that I can’t remember him. I find myself wondering if he was as tall and handsome at nineteen as he is at thirty-five.

  ‘Yup, it was the last time I saw you,’ he says, holding my gaze for a little too long.

  ‘When did you find out that Bruce Baldwin was my father?’ I ask.

  ‘Not until I joined the firm. It was one of the first things Dad explained to me, but it wasn’t until Bruce knew he was dying and wanted to revisit his will that I understood the full implications of the whole thing.’

  I still don’t know how I feel about all this, about Edwin knowing so much more about me than I did myself until a few days ago, how he remembers me as a child when I don’t have any recollection of him at all. It feels a bit strange, a bit creepy even, but at the same time I feel so comfortable with Edwin, as though I’ve known him for ever.

  Marco arrives to clear our plates. He makes far more noise about it than is strictly necessary. We ask for desserts and he grudgingly takes our order.

  Over tiramisu and espresso, I try to get Edwin to talk to me about his childhood; after all, he knows pretty much everything about me. But it’s like getting blood from stone. Other than finding out his brother is two years younger than him and called Robert, I can’t get anything from him.

  ‘You mentioned boarding school,’ I say, changing tack a little. ‘Which one did you go to?’

  ‘Harrow,’ he says. He suddenly looks pale and tired. He looks at his watch and smiles at me. But it’s a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, nothing like the smile that lights up his whole face.

  He stands up. ‘It’s getting late and we’ve both got early starts tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll settle the bill.’ And with that he’s up and over at the cash register before I can say a word. I can see Marco looking at me over Edwin’s shoulder as he puts his PIN into the machine. I avoid eye contact and we leave soon after, before Marco has a chance to rush over and make any comment.

  Outside the restaurant it’s still ridiculously warm. Edwin offers to walk me home.

  ‘Oh, it’s only five minutes up here,’ I say pointing up the street. He stands looking at me with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ I reply with a lightness I don’t really feel any more. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  6th June 1994

  My dearest daughter,

  This was the year I had hoped, after buying the house for you and your mother, that we would finally meet. The year I would be able to tell you my story, show you where you came from.

  But your mother still refuses to let me see you. I can’t fight it. I daren’t fight it. My work and your mother’s reputation are so famous now that it would bring too much media attention to you and so I content myself with the stories from Frank, with seeing you occasionally from afar, with writing these letters that you never read.

  If I can’t tell you my story face to face, then I shall write it here. If the letter gets sent back, then I shall keep it with the others for you to read once you grow up and come to find me.

  I was born in 1951 in Maltby, a small mining village outside Rotherham in South Yorkshire. My father, grandfather and uncles were all coal miners. It was Frank and me that broke that mould (and considering what happened to the mines when we were living it up in London it was probably best broken).

  We both got into grammar school, the first in our family, and Mum was over the moon. Dad just complained about the cost of the uniforms but underneath I think he was secretly pleased. Both of my parents are dead now. Mum passed away from breast cancer just before you were born and Dad faded away of a broken heart. To be honest he never got over the mines closing. He had a heart attack in his sleep four years ago.

  I’m always sorry that Mum never got to see any of my exhibitions. I’m always sorry that when she died I was still in the grip of my addictions with very little to show for my prestigious education and degree from St Martin’s. I studied painting there in the early 70s and Frank was in the year below.

  I was still at school when I started drinking, got in a lot of trouble for it, and Frank spent a lot of time covering for me. But somehow, I passed my O and A Levels and, with the support of a very understanding art teacher, managed to not only get into St Martin’s but also to summon up the courage to go against my entire family’s opinion that nothing good came out of London and move there. Frank got away with it easier the next year I suppose as I was already there.

  In a way they were right about London because it wasn’t long before I started experimenting with drugs, and you only have to read any article written about me to work out how that ended up. It was your birth that finally kicked me into getting clean and I’ve been in recovery now since your third birthday. A day I hope you remember.

  I told you about Dad coming to see my first exhibition. It was his first and only trip to London. He got lost on the tube and didn’t stop swearing about how awful it was (both London and my exhibition!), but I did get a smile out of him as I put him back on the train north the next day so I’ve always hoped he enjoyed himself really.

  These days I paint, I teach painting workshops at St Martin’s, I do interviews sparingly and I keep to myself as much as possible, hoping that one day Philadelphia will let me see you again.

  Until that day I send you all my love.

  Happy Birthday, Princess.

  Your Father

  Chapter 8

  Marco is standing outside his restaurant at half past eight the following morning, angrily flicking his tea towel at a pigeon. I contemplate taking the long way around to the High Street so I can avoid him. I know he’ll have plenty to say about last night and I’m not in the mood to hear any of it.

  I slept badly, unable to stop myself wondering what had upset Edwin the previous evening, and I’ve got the beginnings of a headache right at the base of my skull. What with one thing and another I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for over a week and I haven’t managed to fit in a run for days either. I’m exhausted and have many tedious meetings ahead of me today.

  Before I can decide about which way to walk, Marco has spotted me. He waves his tea towel at me and summons me over for coffee. Marco’s coffees are some of the best this side of Naples so I grudgingly oblige. Maybe it wi
ll shift this headache.

  I sit down at the bar and he puts an espresso in front of me.

  ‘Where are you off to, Bella, looking so smart?’ He says it in a way that makes it sound as though on most days I slouch around in sweatpants. Today I’m wearing a mint green and white striped shirt and a lavender skirt, both of which I made myself, with ballet pumps and a scarf that I fashioned from a silk bag that had a hole in. It’s nicer than it sounds.

  ‘Mum’s solicitor again,’ I mumble into my coffee. I really don’t want him to ask questions but I know it’s a vain hope.

  He sits down next to me and takes my hand. ‘Bella, I’ve known you since you were a bambino,’ he says, his accent getting stronger. I don’t know where he gets it from seeing as he was born in Acton as far as I’m aware. ‘Tell me what is going on.’

  So I do. Everything. About finding out who my father is, about Edwin, about Mum’s disappearing act and her rather disconcerting relationship with Johnny and about the news Johnny gave me last night that Mum will be back tomorrow and she’s ready to talk.

  He stares at me in silence, as well he might. It’s a lot to take in. He reaches into the biscotti jar and pops two more on my saucer. He sighs and then says, very quietly, ‘I know.’

  I feel like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes pop out on stalks when they’ve heard or seen something alarming or unbelievable. How can he possibly know? I must have misheard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know,’ he repeats. ‘Well not about this Edwin but the rest I know. While we’re on the subject of Edwin…’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I say, louder than I mean to, banging my hand down on the counter making the biscotti jump. ‘You tell me how the hell you know.’

  ‘Your mama told me who your father was years ago. She made me promise never to tell you. I don’t know why. I thought that’s what you were talking about last night but I had to be sure you knew before I said anything, because I’d promised not to tell.’ He stops suddenly, as though he’s run out of breath.