Chapter 48
When I phone my daughter the day before I have to let Barisian know my decision, she answers in hushed tones.
‘I’m going to have to call you back.’
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘I’m in . . . a waiting room. Give me a minute.’
She takes a lot longer than that. It strikes me that although she said she and Milly were heading to Amsterdam, I don’t actually know if that’s where they ended up. I bite my lip and pick up my phone to check her location for the first time in weeks.
When I zoom in, she’s at a building on the edge of the city marked ‘Clinic 24’ with the cheery tagline, ‘Better safe than sorry!’ I click on the link and gasp so hard it’s like a vacuum cleaner sucking air from my lungs.
‘STD test results after 1–3 business days.’
It lists a cornucopia of conditions that make my head spin.
Still, I can’t knock how comprehensive their services are and there’s currently an excellent two-for-one offer – if you buy tests for ‘chlamydia + gonorrhoea’, or ‘HIV + syphilis’, they’ll throw in ‘genital warts’ for no extra charge.
By the time Frankie finally phones back, I feel light-headed and imagine her lying on her back, feet in stirrups, while a stranger in a white coat has a good rummage around.
‘Sorry about that. Signal was terrible.’
‘Frankie. Where are you?’ I demand to know. I sound like Darth Maul.
I don’t know what lie I’m expecting her to try on me. I only know that, if I’d ever bumped into my mother outside the Brook Advisory Centre I’d have probably tried to convince her that I’d just had my chastity belt tightened while en route to a Bible reading.
But Frankie, it seems, isn’t like me.
‘I’m at an STD clinic,’ she says matter-of-factly.
‘I see,’ I say, steadying my voice to that of the understanding parent, rather than the secretly horrified one. ‘Well . . . you’d better tell me what happened.’
‘Urgh. Long story. But we’re getting poor Milly sorted now.’
‘Milly?’
‘Yes. You didn’t think . . . oh.’ She laughs lightly. ‘You did. No, Mum. It’s not me. But listen. You can’t slut-shame her, okay? She just got a bit carried away, that’s all.’
She tells me the story briefly, of a guy Milly met at a hostel and spent the night with, before he disappeared and left her with a farewell gift very different from those in the souvenir shops.
Milly spent a full day crying. She wanted to come home.
But Frankie got her on a train to Amsterdam, made her an appointment and now has brought her to the clinic to be assessed and hopefully get the help she needs.
‘And you can’t tell her mum,’ Frankie warns. ‘Promise me. I’ve told you in confidence.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m serious!’
‘So am I,’ I tell her. ‘Frankie. You have my word. And . . . well done for helping Milly.’
‘She’d do the same for me.’
There is an obvious answer to that statement, but I force myself not to say it.
‘So what were you phoning for?’ she continues. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Well, yes. But I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.’
I fill her in on what’s been going on at work as she listens in silence.
‘Wow,’ she says eventually. ‘So . . . you’re seriously thinking about going back to London?’
‘I’ve got no choice but to think about it. It would be a massive move though. I’ve built a whole life here. There’s Mum and Dad, plus Jeff and—’
‘It’s only London, Mum,’ she says, with a little laugh. ‘It’s not like you need inoculations.’
I smile. ‘That’s true. Wouldn’t you be concerned about leaving Roebury though?’
‘Why would I? I’ll be at uni,’ she points out.
‘Yes, but you’ll want to come home for Christmas and summer holidays. And this is where all your school friends are.’
‘I’m sure Grandma or Jeff or Milly’s parents for that matter wouldn’t mind giving me a room to sleep in every so often.’
I start to chew my lip. ‘Jeff will think it’s a terrible idea.
I know he will.’
‘One less babysitter for him?’ she says, archly.
‘I’d like to think it would be about more than that.’
‘I’m only teasing,’ she says. ‘I know how much he’d miss you. But what do you think about it? You always liked living there, didn’t you?’
‘I loved it. But it’s complicated.’
‘Because of me?’
‘Partly, yes.’
‘Listen, Mum,’ she says. ‘I really think you need to get your head around something: you cannot make a decision based on what’s best for me, Uncle Jeff, Grandma or anyone else for that matter.’
‘Oh, it’s not just them. Like I say—’
‘Do you know what I remember most about my childhood?’
I wonder, very briefly, what’s coming next. How much it sucked growing up without a dad? How difficult some aspects of her ADHD must have made life for her? How many times I must have seemed totally powerless to help?
‘It’s how much you did for me,’ she says, finally. ‘And other people for that matter. I don’t think I ever realised it at the time.’
A lump forms in my throat. ‘Well, you were little. You weren’t expected to realise. Plus, it was all part of my job. A job I loved, by the way. Still love.’
‘I know, Mum. But I can handle stuff on my own these days. So you’re allowed to put yourself first now. You’ve earned that right. Forget about what Uncle Jeff or Grandma or anyone else might think for that matter. There is only one person who counts in this decision and that’s you.’
I am suddenly struggling to form an answer.
‘You’re not getting weepy, are you?’
‘Me? Never,’ I croak, which makes her laugh.
When I finish the call, all I can do is gaze into space and take in what she’s said. She’s right, of course. Totally. But knowing the decision must come down to what I and I alone want is only part of the equation. Because I’m still not certain exactly what that is.
I open my laptop and I click on a file marked ‘2006’.
The first photo I open was taken back in our old kitchen in Balham, in the days before Frankie was even born.
Ed is cooking, standing at the stove with a huge smile on his face.
In the next one, he and I are together at a restaurant for my old friend Gemma’s thirtieth birthday.
Ed has his arm around me and is kissing me on the cheek.
For the rest of the night, I wrap myself up in a blanket of nostalgia, remembering what it was like when I last lived in London with Ed.
All those lovely cafés we’d while away hours in.
The Saturday mornings we spent browsing in the market and the lazy days strolling round Brockwell Park.
I play videos of us over and over again, until eventually my eyes are sore, from unspent tears or staring at a screen, I’m not entirely sure which.
Either way, eventually, just before it’s time to go to bed, I click on an email and start to write.
‘Dear Niles and Jacinta. Thank you for your time last week. I’m grateful for your job offer and I’ve put a lot of thought into it. I’ve now been able to come to a decision.’