The Many Colours of Us Page 7

  ‘Marco, I don’t mean to be rude but why would she tell you? It’s not like you’re family or anything.’ Considering the number of people who seem to know or have probably guessed who my father was, I’m amazed this little secret wasn’t revealed long before now.

  ‘Delph and I were lovers,’ he says matter-of-factly, as though it should be obvious.

  Well this is a new and frankly mind-boggling turn of events. The idea of my mother and Johnny is still rather unpalatable and now this has been thrown into the mix. Who else of my mother’s ex-lovers knows my parentage? And why has nobody ever told me until now? I can’t believe my mother has such a hold over all these men that they all just did as she asked. Even Bruce himself never said anything to me. Pen would say it’s because all men are weak-willed and lily-livered. I’m starting to think she has a point.

  ‘When?’ I ask. ‘When were you lovers?’ I feel a bit sick saying it and I’m not even sure I want to know the answer.

  ‘After you left home. It was just one of those things.’ He shrugs. ‘We were both lonely and needed a friend. I always knew she was meant to be with Johnny though.’

  I am at a complete loss for words. I feel as though my brain cannot take in any more new information this week. Or perhaps ever.

  ‘You need to talk to her, Julia.’ Marco leans across the counter to look me in the eyes. ‘You need to ask her why she kept it a secret, why she asked all of us to keep it from you. She must have had a reason.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  He shakes his head and I suddenly notice the clock behind the bar. I’m running late for my meeting and get up to go.

  ‘Julia, stay. Have another coffee.’

  ‘I’m late, Marco; I have to go.’ I need to get out of here.

  ‘But we need to talk about Edwin.’

  Oh God, we really don’t. I leave the restaurant as fast as I can.

  *

  Edwin is waiting for me in the wood-panelled reception of Jones & Cartwright, looking at his watch.

  ‘You’re late,’ he says. He looks tired and drawn and I still wonder why he didn’t want to talk about his past last night, why he left so abruptly. ‘Follow me,’ he says, turning on his heel. I trail behind up a flight of stairs and into a part of the building I haven’t been to before. He opens the door of the conference room and signals for me to go in first. Two men in their late forties are sitting, suited and booted, around the table drinking coffee and eating Krispy Kreme donuts. Yum, I hope they’ve saved one for me. These I presume are my new tax and financial advisors.

  ‘This is Julia Simmonds,’ Edwin says and the two men stand up to shake my hand, introducing themselves as Sebastian Clement and Simon Taylor. I smile knowing full well I will spend the rest of my life not knowing which one is which. As he leaves Edwin says quietly that he’ll be waiting for me downstairs when I’m done.

  The meeting is tedious beyond belief. We spend an awful lot of time discussing tax and how it works. All the figures are rather mind-boggling but as I’m assured I have more than enough to pay the tax bill three times over I’m not quite sure why we don’t pay it and go home. But apparently, it’s more complicated than that. Inheritance tax is different to the income tax my father owed in the year up to the date of his death.

  I blink. The date of his death. Until that moment I hadn’t known the date of his death. The first of March. I try, and fail, to remember what I was doing that day.

  ‘What if I were to set up some sort of charitable foundation or scholarship in my father’s name?’ I ask. The question has popped out before I’ve given it a second thought. I don’t really know where it came from but once it’s out there I really like the sound of it. Unfortunately, it sets them off again with their interminable tax talk.

  The idea of a scholarship or foundation is still swirling around in my head as I come out of the meeting and walk back down to reception. I wonder if it’s something Mum might like to be involved in, if we can bear to be near each other again after all this.

  Edwin isn’t in reception but Muriel is behind the desk so I go over to say hello. As I’m about to ask where Edwin is, he comes running down the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I was held up on a call. Muriel, can you take messages for the rest of the afternoon? I need to talk to Julia.’

  Muriel nods and smiles in a strange sort of way.

  ‘Let’s go and sit in the park,’ he says. ‘You’re probably sick to death of being indoors.’

  I look at my watch and realise it’s the middle of the afternoon; tax lawyers really do know how to go on and on. It’s no wonder I’m starving.

  ‘It must be lovely having Hyde Park right across from work,’ I say. ‘My old office in Cambridge was next to the Botanical Gardens but you needed a special pass to get in and they never had enough and…’ I trail off as I realise I’m babbling and he’s not really listening anyway.

  We sit down side by side on a bench. He sits just far enough away from me to not touch, even by mistake. He doesn’t look at me.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have ended the evening like that. Contrary to how it appeared, I was having a really nice time.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘School was…’ he pauses ‘…hard for me. I don’t have very good memories. I don’t like talking about it. It’s been a long time since I thought about it.’

  ‘That’s really none of my business,’ I reply.

  ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry if I over-reacted.’

  ‘Edwin, clearly something I said last night upset you, and for that I’m sorry. But you can tell me what’s wrong. What happened?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything you said.’ He looks at me then and I notice the now familiar flutter in my stomach. He looks as though he’s about to say something more, but then he sighs and shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t matter, Julia; the past is the past.’

  I wait to hear if he’s going to expand on that, but he doesn’t.

  ‘We need to talk about your father’s flat,’ he goes on, changing the subject.

  ‘Talk away.’

  ‘Well I need to take you there, show you around and sign the keys over to you. There’s his Whitechapel studio to talk about as well, but we can look at that next week if you prefer.’

  ‘Isn’t this an estate agent’s job?’ I ask.

  ‘Your father asked me to look after you, to make sure everything was done properly and when you were ready. So, let’s just take it one step at a time OK? Are you ready to see his flat?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Right, well shall I meet you there tomorrow? About eleven?’

  I nod.

  ‘I’ll write the address down for you.’ He scribbles on the back of one of his business cards.

  He gives me the card and tells me he’ll see me the next day. Then he gets up and walks away in the opposite direction from his office and I wonder where he’s going that will take the rest of the afternoon.

  6th June 1997

  My dearest daughter,

  Another year, another party. Your mother only throws her parties once a year these days, on your birthday, but for the first time you didn’t really want to be the centre of attention. I guess you’re just growing up and finding your own way in the world.

  You came out into the garden dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, your hair down over your eyes, so tall already. Don’t be shy of your height, dear girl. I know it feels awkward now but it’s a beautiful thing. Don’t hide it.

  You were gone in the blink of an eye, pizza and the cinema with a friend is bound to be more attractive than hanging out with us old fogies. I know I caught your eye. I wonder if you remember me at all? This is the first time your mother has let me come back for over a decade. I think she thought I was going to spirit you away that night eleven years ago. She is terrified I’ll come between you. She sends my letters back every ye
ar.

  And yet still I write them, still I hope that one will get through. I want you to know that Frank tells me everything. I know that you hate maths and love reading. That you are reading Bleak House for the first time (a good choice), struggling but determined. I know that you hate your history teacher but have a flair for textiles and design. I know the netball team love you because you’re so tall.

  See, I told you to be proud of your height.

  One day I will get to tell you who I am, tell you my story.

  One day.

  Happy Birthday, Princess.

  I love you.

  Your Father

  Chapter 9

  I’m standing outside a four-storey white stucco-fronted Georgian building about half a mile from Notting Hill Gate tube station. I know it’s Georgian and stucco-fronted, not because I know anything about property but because Edwin emailed me the property particulars last night. Bruce Baldwin’s flat is on the top floor.

  This wasn’t what I was expecting at all. I mean I know what the houses in Notting Hill look like – I had a friend at school who lived around here – but in my head I’d imagined some tumbledown artist’s garret under a railway bridge. I keep forgetting that my father was a millionaire.

  Edwin is running late again so I find a shady spot nearby to wait for him. My mind keeps slipping back to yesterday afternoon. Why was Edwin so evasive with me? Why is his phone always ringing? And where does he go when he’s not in the office?

  You’d think, considering he knows so much about me and knows how much secrets hurt, he might let me in a little bit. I realise I’m disappointed he wouldn’t talk to me because that means he doesn’t see this as any more than looking after a client’s daughter. Whereas I think it’s safe to say I might be developing a little crush on Mr Jones.

  He finally appears from the direction of the tube station, ten minutes late.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says as he jogs up the street. He looks hot and stressed and devastatingly good-looking. I find myself wondering if he has a girlfriend, or three.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Ridiculously nervous,’ I reply with a smile.

  ‘Well shall we get it over and done with then?’ he says gently, as we walk towards the door.

  As we climb the stairs to the top-floor flat I feel that when Edwin opens that door he’s opening a Pandora’s box of my past and we’ll never be able to shut it again. This is it. This is where I really get to know my father. I slip my hand into my bag to touch the still unread letters. I’ve decided I want to speak to Mum before I read them.

  ‘This is it,’ Edwin says to me as we stand outside a white door with a brass number six on it. I place the flat of one hand on the number.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Edwin asks. I nod and he hands me the key but my hands are shaking too much to fit it in the keyhole. Edwin places one of his hands over mine to help and I feel that flicker of electricity again. I look up and catch his eye and he looks at me as if to ask if I’m OK. I nod and the next thing I know the door is open.

  ‘Christ,’ Edwin says under his breath. ‘It’s worse than I remember. I’m so sorry, Julia. I should have done something about this before bringing you here.’

  It’s an absolute tip. There are half-painted canvases, easels and paints everywhere and the windows need cleaning. The whole place smells of turps – and underneath there’s another, more subtle smell of stale air and sickness.

  I turn to look at Edwin. I don’t really know what to say.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeats quietly, noticing the look of shock on my face. ‘It’s going to need quite a bit of work and I suggest you keep all the canvases even if they don’t look like much. Some of the galleries will pay good money even for unfinished Baldwin originals.’

  ‘God, Edwin, it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.’

  He sighs and walks over to the window, which looks out over Holland Park. ‘Sometimes I feel as though it is my fault,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I spent a lot of time with your father in the last few years of his life.’

  ‘Here?’ I ask. I hope I don’t sound as though I’m accusing him of anything. Right now, I’m trying very hard not to be angry with everyone who knew Bruce Baldwin was my father and didn’t tell me.

  ‘Sometimes here,’ he goes on, still looking out of the window. ‘Sometimes at the office. Sometimes we’d go out to lunch. But mostly at the hospital. I used to go to his appointments with him and then later, when he was dying, I’d visit him whenever I could.’

  I try to swallow down the feeling of jealousy that’s rising in my throat like bile.

  ‘I always wanted to persuade him to meet you, just once,’ he says. ‘But I never could.’

  I don’t really know what to say, but I do realise that he is not the person I need to be angry with or jealous of. I’m overwhelmed with a horrible sense of loss for a man I never met. The whole situation is starting to become a bit too much and for the first time in a very long time I wish my mother were here.

  Edwin must sense my anxiety. ‘Would you like a bit of time alone?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘If that’s OK.’

  ‘I’ll be just outside,’ Edwin says as he shuts the door.

  I can totally see why my father bought this flat. The main living area, which he seems to have turned into an art studio as there is barely any furniture here at all, has floor to ceiling windows and the light is incredible. The wooden floorboards look like the original ones and I see that Edwin’s right, with a bit of cleaning and polishing this room could be amazing.

  I decide to leave the canvases underneath their covers for now; I’m not here to start the clean-up operation today. I wander through into a kitchen that looks, aside from the microwave, as though it has never been used. I’m starting to form a picture of the reclusive artist that was my father and it’s starting to make me feel very sad. If I’d have known him I could have cooked for him, cleaned up a bit, looked after him as he created his masterpieces.

  But maybe that was the point. People keep telling me about how all his work centred around the theme of lost children or lonely children and I wonder, had I been around, would he have had the inspiration to paint? Was I his muse in absentia?

  The rest of the flat isn’t quite as chaotic as the living area, although it’s all going to need a lot of work before it’s fit to put on the market, if I decide to put it on the market. I can’t do anything right now though as I have a growing and overwhelming need to talk to my mother. I have too many questions swimming about in my head that need answers. I hope she’s ready to answer them.

  I want to go home. I pick my bag up off the living room floor and head out into the hallway. Edwin is leaning against the banister texting somebody. He looks up when I come out and puts his phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Not really, but Mum’s finally coming home from New York tonight so I’m hoping I’ll feel better after I’ve talked to her.’

  ‘Give her my best won’t you,’ Edwin says as we walk back down the stairs again. As we head out of the building Edwin hands me a bunch of keys. ‘I need to head off now,’ he says glancing at his watch, ‘but these are the keys for the main door and flat door. The little key is for the rubbish store in the basement. Your bins have a six painted on them.’ He draws the number in the air with his index finger.

  ‘I’ll be needing them.’ I smile, remembering the mess my father has left behind.

  ‘I know this is a lot to take in, but on the plus side you could sell this flat for about two and a half million, or rent it out for two to three thousand a month.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m astonished.

  ‘Yes really.’ He smiles. ‘I told you that you were rich now. And remember, don’t throw any canvases away.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I’ll phone you soon, Julia.’

&n
bsp; Chapter 10

  My mother’s flight has landed and Johnny and I are on tenterhooks waiting for the taxi to bring her home. To this day my mother still knows how to craft an entrance, even when the only audience is her daughter and elderly lover.

  The weather has finally broken and I find myself staring out of the window waiting for her, just like I did when I was a child, onto a grey and wet street. Every car that passes makes a swooshing noise in the puddles and I get butterflies in my stomach thinking it’s Mum. I’m spending a lot of time with butterflies in my stomach at the moment.

  My head is spinning. Seeing my father’s flat has made all of this very real and very scary. Suddenly I am a grown-up with adult responsibilities: money, tax bills, multiple properties and a real uncle I never knew I had. Not to mention the handsome Edwin Jones.

  I think about his hand on mine as I tried to open the door to the flat earlier today. The spark of electricity I felt when he touched me, coupled with that feeling of having known each other for ever. Which of course we have, if only I could remember it. I wish I knew if he felt it too, or if I’m imagining it.

  I shake my head as though to realign all my thoughts. There are much more important things to think about, and this idea of an arts foundation in my father’s name keeps coming back to me. I’m pondering this when a black cab pulls up outside and my mother gracefully steps out, dressed in killer stilettos and a cream mac. She doesn’t look a day over forty-five and certainly doesn’t look like she’s just stepped off a transatlantic flight. I have no idea how she stays so well-groomed all the time.

  On my seventh birthday my mother took me on a shopping trip to Selfridges. I was beside myself with excitement. I felt so grown-up and glamorous in the cab on the way there. She’d promised to buy me a new coat and shiny patent shoes.

  But I was a child who spent a lot of time alone; I wasn’t used to crowds or shops or having to do what other people wanted. Not then. I kept getting distracted by all the beautiful things and I wandered off and lost my mother completely. I found myself in the women’s clothing department with no idea how to get out or who to ask for help.