Chapter 32 Four Glasses of Bubbly, One Kool Gang, and My Own Three Witches
They are all there by the time I arrive. I messaged Erin and Katie earlier in the day, asked them to meet me at Margie’s at 6:00 p.m., and said that I was bringing champagne.
I am slightly late getting there, because I made the time to call my mother once I finished work. I called her to invite her here, her and Sam, to see my home and my friends and my life. It is a small step, but one I could tell she grabbed at gratefully.
Reading that letter from Beth, seeing that she didn’t blame me right there in black and white, made me realize exactly how powerful forgiveness is, and if it is within my power to offer that to my own mum, then I will at least try.
It is a mild evening but full dark by the time I walk through Margie’s gate. The chiminea is on, the fairy lights are sparkling, and they are waiting for me, all wrapped up in blankets. I see glasses on the table, and a cake that I can tell Margie has baked herself due to the fact that it is wonky in all the right places. She is many things, my friend, but a world-class baker is not one of them.
Bill wanders over, sniffs my hand, giving me a thorough once-over for any signs of food. He slinks, disappointed, back under the table, where perhaps he is planning a daring collapsed cake raid.
“Here she is!” announces Margie, struggling to her feet.
All three women crowd around me, and Erin grabs my left hand. She holds it up to the light and they all stare at it intently. I have no idea what is going on.
“Where’s the ring?” she says, sounding forlorn.
“What?” I ask, frowning. “What ring?”
“Well, you called an emergency meeting. Told us there would be champagne. We thought Karim had popped the question!”
All I can do is laugh—their expressions are an absolute picture. The more confused and deflated they look, the more I laugh. It is cruel, but I cannot help it.
“Oh God, no,” I finally manage to say, feeling a pleasant ache in my sides, “not that! We’re not at that stage yet!”
“Yet?” says Margie, leaping upon a morsel of consolation. “Does that mean you’ve talked about it at least? Do I need to buy a new hat?”
“No! We haven’t talked about it. At all. What’s the matter with you? Can’t a woman celebrate without needing a ring on her finger?”
“Right on, sister!” says Katie, offering me a fist to bump. I oblige, and get the chilled bottle of fizz out of my bag.
I pop the cork as quietly as I can out of respect for the dog lying beneath the table, and pour us all a glass. I don’t make a very good job of it, but eventually the deed is done. I grab one of the fleece blankets and wrap it around my shoulders.
“So,” says Erin once I’m done, “what’s the deal, then? Why are we celebrating? Did you win the lottery?”
“Kind of,” I reply, grinning. “In fact, it’s better than that. My daughter got in touch.”
Margie clasps her hands to her heart and immediately starts to cry. Erin gives me a hug, and Katie says: “Cool. So what’s she like? What did she say? Tell me I’m still your honorary long-lost daughter!”
I grin, happy for so many reasons—not least of which is that we have come through that particular hurdle, that we can now joke about what was once a very difficult subject. It is easier to cope with now. Everything feels easier, in fact.
Margie goes off into the flat and puts on some music. I hear the funky riffs and familiar woo-hoos of “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang, and it does indeed make this feel like a party. She probably had it lined up and ready to go for when I showed off my nonexistent diamond, but has decided that this is just as good an occasion.
We settle down around the table, and I pull the precious manila file from my bag.
“Now, I’m going to pass this around so you can all look at it,” I announce, “but I am going to insist that there is no cake first!”
“Should we all be wearing white gloves before we touch it?” asks Katie.
Margie and Erin look confused, and she adds: “History joke. You wouldn’t get it.”
“No white gloves needed, but—well, it is a significant historic document, in its own way. She wrote me a letter!”
“An actual letter?” Katie says, looking impressed. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve done one of those since I was writing to Father Christmas.”
“You still write to Father Christmas,” says Erin, poking her in the ribs.
“I know, but that’s just so you know what to buy me.”
They chat among themselves, and first I show them the photo. They consider it very seriously, studying this girl, this mythical creature, this unicorn of my line.
“She’s beautiful, Gemma,” says Erin, looking a bit teary-eyed herself now.
“Absolute stunner, like her mum,” adds Margie, nodding.
“I like her eyeliner,” comments Katie. “Makes her look like Cleopatra. It’s really weird, seeing her, isn’t it? She’s the same age as me. And she kind of looks a tiny bit like me. I wonder if she likes K-pop . . .”
The picture is passed back to me with much reverence, and I hand over the letter. Erin takes it, as she is sitting in the middle of the three women, and the other two lean in to read it. It takes them much longer than I want it to take them, as I am desperate to talk about it—to hear what they think, to share their thoughts.
Each of them, I know, will see it from a different perspective, and each will have something to offer.
When they finish and the letter is safely back in its protective cocoon, I look at them eagerly.
“So?” I say. “What do you think? Doesn’t she sound amazing? Doesn’t she sound happy?”
“She does, love,” replies Margie, reaching out across the tabletop to pat my hand. “And I know that’s the main thing for you. I know you’ve always secretly been worried that you gave her up to have a better life, but you’ve never been convinced that that was what she got. Now you know—she one hundred percent did. She sounds like a bright young woman with the world at her feet, and she’s someone you can be very proud of.”
“Well, I am proud of her,” I say, frowning as I think it through. “But I’m also aware that the pride belongs to her parents, really. To Sue and Richie. They’re the ones who raised her. I just grew her in my belly and donated some genetic material. What do you think, Erin? I’m going to write back to her tonight, and I’m already obsessing about what I should say. I don’t want to overwhelm her, or come across as desperate—even though I sort of am!”
Erin smiles gently, and I know that this might be a scenario she has imagined being on the other side of many times. That the whole issue of children, biological or not, might be a bittersweet one for her. Katie is not searching for her parents right now, is not looking to be reunited with them, but that might change. Erin, like Beth’s family, will be supportive—but she will also be nervous.
“I think she sounds amazing, Gemma. I think her parents sound amazing too, and I know how hard it must have been for her mum to help her write that letter. That took real courage and shows how much they love her. I think they got it just right, don’t you? It’s early days yet, but the door is open now—it’s a beginning. If I was her mum, I’d be proud of her too, and also a bit scared about what all of this means—not just for me but for her. I’d be concerned and have some reservations.”
“Like what?” I ask, leaning forward, elbows perched on the table, genuinely keen to know. If there are reservations, I want to address them.
“Well, we know you, Gemma. We know you’ve gone on to make something of your life. We know you are clever and kind and in your own weird way extremely sorted. But they don’t know that yet, do they? For all her mum and dad know, you could be a complete mess. Your life could be a disaster zone, and you could be a bad influence. At worst, you could be someone who might exploit their daughter in some way. Drag her down, emotionally or even financially.”
I sit back, horrified at the words, feeling their sting. I have never considered this, but of course she is right. They know nothing about me and must be anxious, waiting to see if I will be an asset to Beth’s life or a drain on her emotions.
Their first impressions of me, all that they actually know about me, stem from the fact that I was a sixteen-year-old in care who got pregnant. Not exactly the most inspiring beginning.
Erin looks upset when she sees my reaction and quickly adds: “I know you’re not any of those things—I’m not suggesting you are. I’m just telling you how they might feel. How I might feel. Their number one priority will be to protect her, and they don’t know yet whether you are someone she will need protecting from. Does that make sense? Please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean to burst your bubble!”
“No, it’s all right,” I reply, shaking my head. “It’s okay. I asked what you thought, and this is what I needed to hear. I’m sitting here popping champagne corks and they might be sitting at home wondering what kind of threat they might have invited into their daughter’s life. It’s useful to know, and it will help me write that letter—because I know she will show it to her parents. I’ll be writing it as much to her mum as to her. What do you think I should say? What will reassure them?”
Erin looks relieved and gulps down a few mouthfuls from her glass.
“Well, I think you need to write from the heart and not go overboard on the reassurance—it’s not like you need to send them a copy of your CV! Just tell them about yourself. Tell them that you’re a teacher. Tell them that you have friends. Tell them that you have a partner, and almost a dog—that seems to be a big winner with them. Just make sure they know that this is a good thing, not a scary one.”
Katie has been quiet throughout this exchange, and I know she must be soaking it up. It must be odd for her, hearing her mum’s views on the issue, and I know she will be storing some of this away in her giant brain.
I glance at her and raise my eyebrows.
“I think,” she announces, “that you just need to tell her you’ve always loved her. That you’ve never forgotten her or stopped thinking about her. That you know her real mum and dad will always be exactly that—her real mum and dad. That you’re not looking to replace them, because you couldn’t ever. But that if she wants to, you’d like to stay in touch, take it slowly, and get to know her better. That’s what I’d want to hear. You’re not that bad, you know, for a grown-up—hey, if you like, I’ll write you a reference!”
We all laugh, and the thought of it takes some of the tension away. I dread to think what would constitute a reference from an eighteen-year-old: gives me booze and does dance-offs?
I look around the table at the three of them. One who is old enough to be my mother. One who is young enough to be my daughter. One in the middle, who is my friend. Different ages, different backgrounds, different people—but every single one of them completely perfect in their own way. I feel suddenly weepy, overcome with the realization that for the first time in my life, I have this—I have my own tribe.
I have Karim. I have the Three Witches. I am in touch with my own mother, and with my child. I can feel Bill licking my ankles beneath the table. All is well in the world, and I offer up a silent prayer of gratitude to whoever might be listening.
“Thank you,” I say eventually. “All of you. You three, and that PE teacher guy, have changed my life. I couldn’t have done any of this without you, without your encouragement and support and without the dancing and the drinking and the laughing. I’ve gone from being scared of everything to feeling excited about the future. I don’t even count as much anymore! Everything has changed, everything—and you are all part of it.”
“Are you crying, miss?” asks Katie, calling me “miss” out of school because she knows it will amuse me. Possibly stop me from descending into full-on sobbing.
“I just might be,” I say, swiping at my face. “That or I’ve got something in my eye. Anyway, thank you—I mean it, I really do. And if Beth ever reaches the stage where she wants to meet me, I’ll be taking all of you with me. Me, you three, Karim, Bill. Road trip. It’s all or nothing.”
Margie cackles and replies, “What on earth would she think if she saw all of us trooping around with you like bodyguards? How would you explain that one?”
“It’s pretty simple,” I answer. “I’d tell her the truth. I’d tell her that you’re my family. The one I made for myself.”