Chapter 7 Ninety-Six Points in a Pub Quiz, Three Glasses of Dry White Wine, and One Unanswerable Question
The rest of that Saturday passes in something of a fever dream. I do the things I have to do—I run Margie to the shops to get her “bits,” and I sit out with her while we have a cuppa and laugh at the rogue corgi who likes to run up to people for a stroke and then pee on their feet. I do my laundry, obsessively folding and storing random fabric items with no idea what they are or why I have them.
I try to do some lesson planning but find that my concentration simply will not hold that far. I substitute some admin for actual work, organizing papers and Word documents and sourcing some useful online references. I usually find lining up my different-colored highlighter pens very calming, but even that doesn’t work.
I try to watch a TV show called The Bridge, which everyone at work tells me I will enjoy, but I struggle to keep up with the subtitles. I do, however, deduce that the female lead character is a clever but prickly woman who has issues with social interaction, and the paranoid corner of my brain wonders if that’s why my work colleagues suggested I’d enjoy it—because they thought I’d identify with her somehow.
Eventually, I go through my herb and spice shelf and make a list of which ones need refreshing. Once I reach the point where I am checking the use-by dates on small jars of cumin, I have to acknowledge that the displacement activities aren’t working. All my tried-and-tested methods are failing me.
In a wild and reckless moment, I simply decide to put all the jars and packets back without bothering to examine them for the tiny printed dates. Lord help me, I might one day die from using expired turmeric, and it will be all that I deserve.
By 8:00 p.m., I give up. I allow myself to collapse onto my big bed in my pajamas, freshly showered, my wet hair streaming across the pillow in a way I know I will regret later. I make an attempt at self-care, lighting a jasmine-scented candle that Margie gave me, putting a Florence and the Machine album on, closing all the curtains so the last of the sunlight is blocked.
I hate being alone and sad while the sun is still shining outside. I think it’s a childhood thing. In my younger years, I was often indoors and isolated—either because I was worried about my mum, or because she had “friends” over and I was scared of them, or because in foster care I often wanted to hide myself away from any potential threats, even when they didn’t actually exist.
Long summer nights could be torture as I lay there fretting, listening to the sounds of the parallel universe going on around me: the yells of other kids playing, traffic, people having parties, footballs thudding against curbs. The sound of other people existing in a world that I couldn’t quite reach, the strange mix of wanting to join in and not feeling able to.
So I have learned to manage that sensation, to close the curtains against their world, to create my own. My bed is soft and comfortable, my duvet cover smells fresh and clean, the room is dark and the music cocoons me. I try to give myself the very best chance to be okay—but tonight it is going to be hard. Tonight, I am powerless to stop myself from thinking about what has happened, and about what it has triggered in my mind. The facts are simple. Katie Bell is a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old girl who is adopted. She has a birth date potentially near that of my own child; she is from Middlesex, which is not a million miles away from London; and she shares certain physical characteristics with me in terms of hair and build.
There are other facts, too, and I feel them crowding in, waving their hands in my face and looking for attention. Like the fact that I don’t know her exact birthday, even though I can find it out easily enough once I’m back at school on Monday.
But even if it is the same date, almost one thousand nine hundred babies were born in the UK on that day anyway. Another fact is that thousands of children are adopted every year. And the science tells me that all gingers are not actually genetically related.
The second set of facts should override the first set; I see that very plainly. I see that this would be a huge and insane coincidence, statistically improbable, that the numbers do not back up the likelihood of that kind of occurrence.
But for once in my life, the numbers aren’t helping. I am casting them aside, discarding them, throwing them to the wind. It feels terrifying, and even though I am lying flat on my bed, I have a sense of instability that is so strong it is almost physical.
I try yet another of my techniques and go through a list of Other Things That Happened on October 3. Iraq gains independence from Great Britain in 1932. The space shuttle Atlantis is launched in 1985. East and West Germany are reunified in 1990. Saint Francis of Assisi dies in 1226.
On and on I go, trying to put that one day into perspective—except I can’t. For me, the only thing that mattered on that day was the birth of my daughter. The soft nuzzle of her face nestled into my skin. The downy red hair beneath my fingertips. The way I felt when she left the room—like all the air, all the joy, left with her. Now I am gripped with this creeping certainty that I have found her again. No matter how much I try to talk myself out of it, how much I try to logic my way through the maze, I simply can’t—I feel like it could be true. That it might be true. That it is true.
And if it is, it doesn’t just bring joy. It brings a whole world of other questions. If she is mine, do I even want her to know? Am I ready for that, and more importantly, is she? And how would it make Erin feel, after the tumultuous year of loss and upheaval she’s suffered? We have swapped phone numbers, made noises about meeting up again, could become friends. How would “Hey, just wondering, is your adopted daughter actually the biological fruit of my loins?” fold into that? Do I even deserve to be in my daughter’s life at all, as anything more than a teacher, a mentor, possibly a family friend?
These are big questions, and I know I am foolish to even be racing ahead and considering them when I don’t have the relevant facts in place. I like facts. I like numbers. There is safety in numbers, and I like to be safe. Now, for some reason, I seem to be deliberately unraveling myself.
Underlying this mishmash of conflicting emotions, there is one that is so much bigger than the others: relief.
Relief because, if Katie is mine, she has had an amazing life. Yes, there has been sadness recently, but she is clearly a loved and cherished young woman, the product of a caring and devoted family unit. She has wanted for nothing, and she is astonishing in every way. She is clever and confident and comfortable in her own skin.
There was always part of me that wondered, part of me that dreaded finding out that she hadn’t been happy. That being adopted had messed her up, left her with a feeling of rejection. That her new parents might not have been as wonderful as I’d been told. That she could have ended up, despite my best intentions, with a life of pain and struggle.
Maybe, I tell myself, that’s why my nonlogical side is so desperate for Katie to be the one—because if she is, I made the right decision. I never could have raised a girl as clued-up as Katie. I was only a child myself, and I just know I’d have messed it all up in a million different ways. If Katie is mine, then giving her up for adoption was the best thing I ever could have done for her.
Am I actually just looking for a way to let myself off a hook that I’ve been dangling from for so many years now?
I am exhausted from examining this thing from all angles. From going over and over it and still getting no further. From this frantic rollercoaster of thoughts. I wish I was the kind of person who had sleeping pills, so I could just knock myself out for a while. Or the kind of person who might drink herself into oblivion. I am not, sadly—because that always takes me too far into the territory that my mum lived in, and that is a far-off land I am happy never to visit.
I have shown no signs thus far of developing my mother’s condition, but I have my counting, and I have my strict protocols for maintaining order, and I am always a tiny bit scared of what might happen to me if those things stop working. If something big comes along and knocks me off course, like a rogue asteroid heading for earth. Something exactly like this. Could this be my extinction-level event?
I am soon wandering through the solar system, distracting myself with counting each planet’s moons, when my phone rings.
My hand slaps along the duvet until I find it, and I see Karim’s name bright on the screen. My first instinct is to ignore it; I am barely fit company for myself, let alone anyone else—but some lingering sense of politeness, or perhaps, more truthfully, a need to be taken out of my own mental whirlpool, leads me to answer.
“Gemma! Pub quiz, near yours—come, please, we need you!”
I can hear the noise of glasses clinking and background chatter as he speaks, and it is like a soundscape from a different reality.
“Sorry, I’m busy,” I lie.
“No you’re not. You’re always a month ahead of everything, and I came past earlier and saw your car in the drive.”
“That sounds a bit creepy, you know. Maybe not something you should admit to. Anyway, my car could be there because I got a taxi, or because I’m away for the weekend, or because I’m on a road trip with Hell’s Angels.”
“You’re in bed already, aren’t you? I can hear Florence and the Machine. That’s going-to-bed music. Come on—it’s Saturday night. Live a little.”
“You only want me for my superior knowledge base,” I reply, smiling against all odds. It is another huge relief—to be talking to someone other than myself. To be talking to someone who affects body parts other than my poor swollen brain.
“Well, that and your superior everything else—but please do come. One of my sisters is up for the weekend and I have to prove to her that I have a life.”
I glance at the screen and see that it is, in fact, only 8:22 p.m. I can still hear kids playing on the beach and the sound of dogs barking. It is still early, and I am still sad, and there is way too much evening left to fill. I might actually explode if I stay in all night, trying to figure this stuff out.
I ask Karim where he is and get off the phone. This isn’t a date, but it is Saturday night, and I can’t go out looking like a bag lady. I find some skinny jeans and a pair of heels, and a soft cashmere sweater in pale green. My hair is irredeemable, half wet and huge, so I just give it a quick pass with the dryer and pile it up into a messy bun. A dab of mascara, and I’m pretty much as good as I can get.
I knock at Margie’s before I leave, just to let her know I’ll be out. When she opens the door, Bill ambles out to lean against my legs, which is one of the many ways he shows his canine love. Margie makes a “give us a twirl” motion and says, “Ooh la la!”
“I’m just out to a quiz night,” I say simply. “At the pub.”
“I can see that,” she replies, her eyes crinkling in amusement, “and I’m glad. Here was me, assuming you might already be in your pj’s and tucked up in bed!”
“As if!” I reply, laughing, because we both know that’s exactly what I was doing. She gives me a big hug, which I tolerate better than usual, and I make my way to the busy street that forms the heart of our small town.
Moving my feet helps me to move my mindset, and it’s easier to distract myself once I’m active. Even if I don’t make it all the way to the pub quiz, it is good to be outside. Good to see things, hear things, smell things. Good to remind myself that life is going on all around me.
The road is lined with bars and restaurants, some with tables and chairs outside, with takeaway places, an ice-cream parlor, and coffee shops. It’s always buzzing, and tonight is no exception. The pub is called the Hornet, and it is painted in black and yellow. A small crowd of smokers stand outside, and I recognize a few local faces as I make my way inside.
The place is packed, and I have a moment of almost panic, where I consider simply turning tail and going home again. Then I remind myself that the only thing waiting for me at the flat is an endless night of fevered speculation, of tossing and turning and trying to sleep when my brain is trying to solve unsolvable problems. I don’t have answers to a lot of the questions about my life—but here, at a pub quiz, I will be positively awash with answers.
I spot Karim sitting at a corner table with an older woman, who I presume is his sister. Her dark hair is cut into a thick bob, and she is a round human—even when she is sitting I can tell that she is short, that there is plenty of her, and that her face is a perfect circle. She smiles as I walk over, and the smile tells me she has no issues with her weight at all—she is one of those women who owns everything that she is, and has the confidence to carry it all.
Karim stands up in a weirdly chivalrous move while I sit down, and says: “Gemma, this is my sister Asha. She’s my oldest sibling, which makes her about seventy-four.”
Asha reaches out and swats his arm in a move that has the familiarity of one she’s made many times before. “I only feel that old when I’m around you, baby brother,” she replies. “You are responsible for every wrinkle on my face.”
He grins at her, and I feel their warmth. Their bond. That sense of family that is taken for granted by so many, and which I have never really experienced. It is good to be around such positive energy, and I am glad that I forced myself out of my pit of solitude to take a mini-break into someone else’s life.
“Nice to meet you, Asha,” I say, as Karim goes off to get us drinks. “Are you in town for long?”
“No, I’m going back to Birmingham tomorrow. I was up here to give a talk at a conference at the university, and I booked a hotel near Karim so I could nag him for a day or so.”
“Oh, a conference—that sounds interesting!”
“Believe me, it’s not—unless you’re fascinated by pediatric dentistry, and not many people are.”
I nod and accede the point. It’s a tough one to disagree with.
“So, Karim tells me you’re the cleverest girl in the entire world,” she says, smiling. Her eyes are deep brown and focused intently on me. I can almost feel her examining me, maybe trying to estimate my age, wondering if I’m a suitable match for the only unmarried member of her tribe. I’m not, I want to say, to save her the trouble.
“I’m not sure about the entire world,” I reply, looking around, “but it is possible that I will know more random crap than most of the people in here.”
“Even that team that’s brought their own clipboard and a magnifying glass?”
I follow her gaze and see a professional-looking setup a few tables away.
“I reckon I can take them,” I say, feeling a stray tendril of competitiveness coming out to play.
“That’s the spirit!” she answers, leaning back and laughing.
Karim returns with the drinks, and the quiz master comes over to take our pound a person entrance and hand over sheets with little pictures around the edge. The next few minutes are taken up with us debating the shape of Victoria Beckham’s nose, me spotting anyone related to films or politics, Karim taking over on the footballers, and Asha displaying a surprisingly in-depth knowledge of reality TV stars.
We chat about nothing at all, and by the time the general knowledge round begins, I am feeling more relaxed than I have all day. Yoga for the mind, I suspect. Being in pleasant company, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of others, my brain distracted just enough by the questions to give the poor thing a break.
Over the next hour, we drink, we talk, and we have one heated discussion about which country has the longest coastline in the world. I discover that Karim knows a lot about cricket and next to nothing about geography, that Asha is a wiz on cuisine, and that I fill in the gaps with pretty much anything else.
The night ends with a music round that leans heavily toward disco, and we hand our sheets in to be marked.
“I reckon we’ve won,” announces Karim, grinning confidently. He is looking especially good tonight, in a crisp white shirt and black jeans, and my gaze does linger on him in a way that I can only describe as speculative.
He catches it and winks at me. I am usually immune to embarrassment but feel a slight blush creep across my cheeks.
The quizmaster is reading out the scores in reverse order, and I realize I have no idea what our team is called. That is resolved when he announces that tonight’s winners are Gemma’s Lovely Jumper. I roll my eyes at Karim, and he raises his eyebrows, feigning innocence as he says: “What? It is a lovely jumper!”
I can feel Asha soaking all of this in, and notice that she seems pleased. The quizmaster comes over to congratulate us amid a round of applause and presents us with our prize—handmade beer tokens to be used at the bar.
“Right,” declares Asha, standing up to her full five foot nothing, “I’m done for the night! I’m pretty tired, Karim; I think I’ll head back to the hotel. Can I leave you to walk Gemma home safely?”
It is such a blatant setup that I actually laugh out loud. They both stare at me as though I’ve breached some essential point of etiquette, and I say: “Oh, come on! I only live around the corner! Karim lives farther away than I do, and who’s getting you home safely, Asha?”
She tries to remain stern, but in the end her face cracks into a smile, and she confesses: “I’m just an old lady with a head full of dreams—indulge me, please! I’ve been talking about baby teeth all day! And my hotel is also around a very nearby corner, and my bed genuinely is calling me. I’m quite exhausted by all that chair dancing to Hot Chocolate.”
I shake my head in amusement and stand up to say goodbye. Her head only comes up to my chin, but she still manages to give me a hug that completely envelops me.
Karim walks her to the door, giving her instructions to text him when she lands at the hotel. I know the place where she is staying, and it is indeed only about a two-minute walk away. By the time he gets back, I’ve gathered up my bits and bobs and I’m ready to leave—alone.
“I don’t need walking home,” I say firmly. “I’m not fifteen, and I can look after myself.”
“I have no doubt about that,” he replies, joining me as we leave the pub. “You’re a very competent woman.”
Competent. Huh. I suppose I am, but it’s not exactly the kind of description that sets a heart on fire, is it?
“Competent, and wearing a lovely jumper,” he adds. We are standing together on the street, which is still busy with people looking for a late-night drink or a take-home snack. It is noisy with shrieks of laughter and the sound of a karaoke singer torturing “Sweet Caroline” booming from inside a bar. It’s a gorgeous evening, surprisingly warm, in that way it can be in September when Mother Nature seems to want a last hurrah.
“Come on,” he says, heading down the road in the direction of the beach. “I’m going to walk to your place anyway. You can join me or walk ten steps behind, whatever works best for you.”
I give some serious thought to heading in the opposite direction just to spite him, but realize that I am being stupid. I have enjoyed my night out in a way that would not have seemed possible a few short hours ago, but I know with certainty that as soon as I am home and alone, I will dive headlong back into the emotional quagmire of me, Katie, and our possible relationship. It is inevitable, but I don’t have to rush into it—not when I have a perfectly good alternative.
We stroll down through the little side streets with their candy-colored houses and toward the beach. It’s not the quickest way, but the night seems to demand some meandering.
A path leads us over the sand dunes and onto the bay. The moon is casting silver glamour on the waves, and I slip off my heels so I can walk barefoot in the sand.
“Asha is lovely,” I say when we stop to admire the way the world seems to slide off into an indigo eternity. The iron men face out to the water, arms at their sides, standing witness. I wonder if they get bored, seeing this every night, or if it still amazes them.
“She is,” he replies. “She’s kind of my mum, really. Our actual mum died when I was three and she was sixteen. Dad was pretty hopeless after that, and Asha—well, she was magnificent. I don’t ever remember a time she lost her temper, or seemed fed up with us all, or when I didn’t have a clean school uniform or get nagged to brush my teeth. Even when she was training to be a dentist, she always had time for us. I love her to bits.”
I am silent as I digest this new and sad information. I have my own backstory, my own teenage trauma, and sometimes I suppose I forget that other people have them too. The surface happiness of the big family I envy can hide so much.
“You never told me that,” I reply quietly.
“Well, it’s a bit of a mood killer, isn’t it? It was breast cancer, and she left it too late to get help because she thought it was because of all the babies she’d fed. I don’t really even remember her, to be honest—just flickers here and there, certain hazy images, as though the memories are just in the corner of my eye and if I look too hard they disappear. I never felt her loss in the same way Asha and my sisters did, and sometimes I feel guilty about that.”
I pause before I reply, then say: “I was about to tell you that’s crazy, but emotions don’t work in a logical way, do they? Real life isn’t as easy as a pub quiz.”
“No, it’s not. But what about you?” he asks, turning to look at me. “What about your family?”
I blink a few times and am momentarily at a loss for words. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to pour out the whole sad saga either.
“It’s complicated,” I settle for. “Complicated and a bit messed up—and also a bit of a mood killer. Basically, I don’t really have any family.”
Even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. I have never attempted to find my father—it seems pointless, given the scattered half-truths I know about him. I have never really attempted to heal the fractured thing that is my relationship with my mother, and that knowledge is like a thorn embedded in the sole of my foot—always there, always nagging, never quite painful enough for me to confront.
Mainly, though, I wonder about Katie. I wonder about the baby I held in my arms all those years ago, that genetic thread of red hair and anger, that wild and wonderful creature I brought into the world. I wonder if she is back in it again in the form of Katie, and if so, how that will feel. Wonderful, but disruptive, perhaps—because being alone is addictive.
“A story for another night, then?” he says gently. I like this side of Karim. The quiet and thoughtful version of a man who plays a part like we all do. He is usually so cocky, so sure of himself. Tonight, right now, he is kind and vulnerable.
I lean forward, kiss him on the cheek. Enjoy the look of surprise and pleasure that it provokes.
“Another night,” I promise as I turn to leave.