Now Luke
Now
Luke
Opposite-sex reunions may become fraught. Quite often the birth parent will still be young and attractive and the child may mistake its craving for connection as a kind of infatuation.
Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Trauma by Joel Harris
I’m on a date with my mother, or at least that’s how it feels when I arrive home and find Alice applying lipstick in front of the mirror. She’s coming to the Reborn gig with me, a pressurising prospect to be sure.
I’m in a state of high anxiety; my default setting, Hannah would say. Partly I’m nervous about all the other A she stands out, I think that’s it. She looks pretty incredible for her age, tall and slim, her shoulder-length dark hair without one strand of grey. She dresses well, too, tonight in dark jeans and a checked blue and white shirt, a pair of navy Converse on her feet. She won’t look out of place at the gig – not that at forty-seven there’s any reason why she should. Meeting Alice has recalibrated my views. I used to think late forties seemed far off and incalculable; now it feels scarcely any different to my own age.
A moment of awkwardness when Hannah arrives home from work to babysit and Samuel refuses to go into her arms. He clings to Alice and starts to cry, and Hannah’s face – embarrassed, devastated – destroys me.
‘Don’t be so silly.’ Alice uncurls his hands from around her neck and passes him over, walking quickly from the room. But the moment sears, it really does.
‘Just ’cos he’s tired,’ I say, kissing Hannah goodbye, then a quick kiss to my baby’s head. ‘You’ve got him all to yourself now.’
But I see the slight shame in her downcast smile, that her baby, whom she carried on her hip for the first six months of his life, should prefer anyone other than her.
On the tube to Camden, Alice and I discuss Samuel’s minor betrayal, a meaningless moment of tiredness that will have preyed on Hannah’s insecurities, I know.
Alice says, ‘It’s only because he’s teething and I’ve been carrying him around all day. But still. I know exactly how Hannah feels.’
‘She’s struggling so much with the whole working-mother thing anyway. Loving her job but feeling she’s missing out on him. She was in tears about it the other night. She feels like she’s letting him down.’
‘There’s never an ideal solution, it’s always some kind of sacrifice.’
Walking along Camden High Street, minutes away from the gig, I broach the subject of how Alice and I should refer to each other. I can’t ask her to lie about our relationship. But full disclosure will trigger unbearable interest, which neither of us wants.
‘So, I was thinking of introducing you tonight as a friend, if that’s OK?’
‘Friends is what we are, Luke,’ Alice says, smiling at me.
I feel the release in my body, a slight loosening of my limbs, and it’s only then that I realise how much tension I have been carrying. It’s not a straightforward thing, the introduction of my secret birth mother to a gathering of colleagues I see day in, day out.
The pub is packed and already I spy a hefty sprinkling of A that’s everyone from the packers in the warehouse to the designers in the art department. Everyone treats you like a god. Waste money on a flop and you’ve the prowess of a donkey.
It’s a relief to catch sight of Ben at the bar.
‘Thank fuck,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
‘Problems?’
‘Just my own weirdness.’
With me and Ben there’s never any need to explain. We take three beers over to the corner, where Alice, I see to my horror, is talking to Gareth the accountant. Gareth is in his fifties and he has an unchanging gig uniform: plain round-neck white T-shirt, jeans that are not definitely made of denim and may well be elasticated. Not that it matters. The problem with Gareth is twofold: he’s intensely boring – a job prerequisite, you might say – and woefully lecherous. And Alice is clearly in his sights. Christ, this I really didn’t need tonight.
‘Hello, Luke,’ says Gareth, though he doesn’t take his eyes off Alice. ‘Just been chatting to your lovely friend.’
Alice hugs Ben and asks after Elizabeth.
‘Working late, catching up on her notes. She wanted to come but she’s snowed under.’
‘There’ll be plenty more times, I’m sure. Luke says the band are amazing.’
When Alice’s phone rings moments later, I can tell from her tone of intimacy that the caller is Rick.
‘That’s a shame,’ she says to me. ‘I was hoping Rick would come, but he’s in the middle of something, working late.’
As she goes to put her phone away, it slips out of her hand and lands face down on the floor.
‘Oh shit,’ she says, as I crouch down to pick it up. ‘Is it cracked?’
I turn the phone over in my hand and examine it, and I feel the cold creep of dismay. For her screen saver is a picture of Samuel I’ve never seen before. Why is there a picture of my baby on her phone? And if she’s going down that route, shouldn’t it actually be one of me? For a moment I’m too shocked to speak and I don’t even know why.
‘Isn’t that your baby, Luke?’ Gareth asks, and Alice and I speak at the same moment.
‘Yes, I look after him while Luke and Hannah are at work.’
‘Alice is my birth mother.’ The surprising admission slips out. ‘She’s Samuel’s grandmother.’
There’s a tense little moment of silence while Alice and I stare at each other, heat rising in her cheeks.
‘Uh-oh, cat’s out of the bag,’ Ben says.
‘It is rather,’ Alice says, but she’s smiling. ‘We’re still getting used to it. And actually, Gareth’ – he looks thrilled that she’s remembered his name – ‘it’s meant to be a secret. Luke’s mother doesn’t know yet. So we’re keeping it quiet.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ Gareth says. ‘And let me tell you, you look nothing like a grandmother.’
It’s the moment of levity we need.
‘I’ll catch you all a bit later on,’ Alice says, grabbing the opportunity to move away. ‘I’m not good in crowds. I’ll probably stand at the back.’
Reborn aren’t due on for another ten minutes, but it’s already impossible to get anywhere near the stage. Time Out ran a feature last Friday; I guess that’s how the punters have got hold of it. I think, momentarily, about the band in the dressing room. Wonder if they’re nervous or revelling in their moment in the sun. While I wait, I exchange nods with the other A there’s a surge, a momentum, both the pushing as the crowd tries to pull closer and the palpable energy of expectation. How many people in this tiny room? A hundred and fifty at most. Yet as the band walk out – Daniel, the lead singer, first, then Arlo the drummer, Ingrid the guitarist and finally Bex on bass – it’s the cheer of a stadium. Straight into their first song, ‘Special’, a punky electro number that is a guaranteed hit, I’d say.
The first three songs are classic Reborn, emotional turbulence and political rant hidden in a skilful wrap of classic songwriting. Then they surprise the crowd with new material – a song I’ve never heard before and one that has veered into unapologetic disco – and an extraordinary thing happens. Halfway through, I realise the audience is dancing. A their fame is here, their moment has come.
The bar is rammed, of course, and it takes Ben and me a good ten minutes to get served, all the time looking around for Alice. How can someone as conspicuous as her – tall, head-turningly good-looking – have evaporated like this? I wonder if she abandoned the gig halfway through.
‘How can Alice have just disappeared?’ I say more than once. ‘Do you think she bailed?’
‘Mate,’ Ben says, ‘you’re alarming me. Just relax about Alice, OK? She’s a grown-up. She does her own thing. And she probably doesn’t get off on pints of beer being chucked all over her.’
Alice appears from nowhere just as we’ve got our drinks, and Ben passes her his beer.
‘Have this,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and get another one.’
‘Oh, no need. I’m off now. Just wanted to say goodbye. And, Luke, the band are fantastic. You’re really on to something. I can see why you’re excited about them.’
‘Won’t you stay for a quick drink? I’ve hardly seen you. Where were you standing?’
Ben is staring at me intently, probably trying to communicate the integral message of ‘be cool’, as he has so many times before.
‘At the back. I get panicky if I can’t find my way out.’
‘Well at least let me walk out with you to say goodbye.’
‘Don’t worry about that. You’ll want to talk to the band, won’t you? Don’t miss your chance. We’ll catch up when I come next week.’
‘Do we need to have words?’ Ben says when Alice has gone, our catch-all phrase for when one or other of us (usually me) is losing our shit.
‘I can’t help being a bit needy. I’m an adoptee.’
‘With two brand-new flesh-and-blood parents and one extremely loving adoptive mother. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I know you’re right.’
‘You know what Elizabeth would say right now? Boundaries, my friend. Alice has them, but you don’t. We all need boundaries.’