Chapter 5
FAYE
For as long as I could remember, I’d been disappointed that the face I saw in the mirror didn’t resemble my mother. She was beautiful with her raven hair and deep brown eyes but I didn’t see any of those qualities in my reflection. When I found out I was adopted, it all made sense.
I loved my parents. They were good people who were extraordinary in their ordinariness, with Mum teaching primary school and Dad working at the local bank.
When I found out they weren’t my biological parents, I was devastated.
But even more upsetting was wondering why my birth mother gave me up.
Not knowing makes you question yourself.
Why me? Why didn’t she – or they, if my father was in the picture – love me enough to raise me?
Deep down, I know it was most likely due to circumstances, that my birth mother felt she was doing the right thing giving me up.
But without knowing the truth, the reality is like constantly walking across a trampoline, the ground beneath my feet quivering and unstable.
I’ve always wondered how it is possible to miss something you never had. I never knew my birth mother and yet I always felt the pang of not knowing her.
The years went by and every now and then I considered trying to find her, and answering the many questions I had about who I was and where I came from. But I never did. Perhaps the fear of rejection stopped me going through with it.
Over the years I have thought about whether I have brothers and sisters. It’s one of the most compelling arguments for me to investigate my roots. My birth mother may have given me away, but with potential siblings it would be a clean slate, free from emotional baggage.
But a twin? Surely not. And anyway, don’t adoption agencies try to keep twins together?
I’ve been a writer long enough to recognise when my imagination is running away with itself.
I’m writing the backstory to my own life, dreaming up a twin when there’s absolutely no evidence of one.
I created the Palmer Twins because of the commercial power of two identical crime-fighting sisters.
But now I wonder if I’ve had some sort of fixation on this for the last twenty years.
This is getting me nowhere.
I push all thoughts of twins out of my mind and start getting ready for my date.
Alistair hasn’t sent me a text to cancel, which suggests he hasn’t seen the photo.
I consider cancelling myself. I’m not feeling remotely sexy and my tolerance for small talk is minimal.
But I shake off my negativity. What do I have to lose?
The worst that can happen is he stands me up.
Actually, no, the worst that could happen is that he’s a serial killer, but that’s highly unlikely.
I’m in the taxi when my phone pings. I lift the screen, my heart pounding, convinced that it’s the disappointing text I’ve been expecting all day.
Alistair: Can’t wait to finally meet you. Just got to the bar. I’m in a blue polo shirt.
I send a quick message back. En route. I’ll be there in five minutes.
Alistair: Great!
The taxi pulls up outside the bar and I step out, a little unsteady on the four-inch heels I decided to wear.
It’s been a while since I had an occasion to wear them.
That’s one thing I miss about my life with Scott.
Sometimes it’s good to dress up to the nines and turn a few heads.
I smooth down the skirt of my dress, the blue shift dress that matches my eyes.
Now I’m wondering if I could have gone even more glam.
It’s a Saturday so pretty busy, and the three women standing outside the bar smoking are all in low-cut, skimpy dresses with perfect curls cascading down their shoulders, caressing their young skin.
I check myself before the usual comparisons float into my mind.
Fifty is not ancient. I still have a yoga-toned body.
I still have a curve to my thighs, my hips, my breasts.
I’m a bestselling author for goodness’ sake.
I have gifts to give this man. I am worthy of him and I have a place here.
I take a deep breath and push through into the low-lit bar. Here we go.
I see him right away, sitting by the bar in his blue polo shirt.
I realise our blue outfits match. A smile lights up his handsome face, and I’m relieved he looks like his photos and seems genuinely pleased to see me.
I like that he’s clean shaven and that his hair is neatly slicked back.
I like that his hands rest comfortably on his knees and that his posture is relaxed.
Most of all, I like the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles at me.
“Wow,” he says, as I approach. “Wow. You’re stunning.”
I can’t help the rush of blood to my cheeks, girlish and giddy.
We kiss on the cheek, and I take a seat.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks. His eyes are like magnets, locked onto mine.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” I say.
“Great choice.”
It probably isn’t the most sensible idea.
At the back of my mind, I hear Penny telling me that I shouldn’t drink with my medication.
She tried to convince me to meet Alistair in a coffee shop in the middle of the day, but I can’t imagine a date without at least a small drop of alcohol to calm the nerves.
Alistair orders a whisky sour, and we decide to take our drinks over to a booth at the back of the bar where it’s quieter.
“I have a confession to make,” he says, leaning close.
I see the sparkle in his expression and wonder what he’s about to say.
“I know who you are. My niece reads your books.” He smiles broadly. “She adores the Palmer Twins. She wanted me to ask you what’s going to happen to Marigold now.”
I laugh. “Ah, no spoilers! Actually, I haven’t decided yet. I don’t always plan everything out. But you can tell her that I’m working on it and that she will never be able to guess it.”
As I sip my martini, a few nerves bubble up from my stomach for the first time. What if I have an episode here in the bar? I picture myself dribbling vodka down my chin, suddenly forgetting how to swallow, or at the bar with the money in my hand, confused about what I’m buying.
“You must have such an amazing mind to come up with all those twists,” he says. “I don’t know how you do it.”
I laugh. “It’s easier to write twists for children and teenagers. Crime writers. Anyone writing mysteries and thrillers for adults. Now they have real devious minds.” I place my martini down on the napkin. “Do you like to read?”
He lifts his hands as though in surrender. “I do but I don’t usually find the time. When I read, I prefer non-fiction.”
“Oh, history and geography, that kind of thing?”
“More science and philosophy,” he says, almost apologetically. “Which I know makes me sound a tad pretentious.”
I shake my head. “It’s only pretentious if you’re pretending to enjoy it. Who is your favourite philosopher?”
“It changes all the time,” he says. “I’m mostly interested in ethics and morality. Kant has written extensively on the subject. Right now, I’m exploring ethical egoism. It’s the idea that we all know our wants and needs better than others and should be responsible for our own wants and needs.”
“What about the needs of others?” I ask.
“That’s the tricky part. Egoism isn’t concerned with others.”
“Isn’t that a little selfish?”
He laughs. “It’s extremely selfish. I suppose the idea is that if everyone in the world is selfish, then we’re all looking after ourselves rather than relying on others to do it for us.”
“As a mother, I’m not sure I can get on board with that principle,” I say. “All parents need to put their children first.”
Alistair lifts a finger. “But there’s a reason we’re told to put our oxygen masks on first, isn’t there? If we always put others first, we die before we’re able to help them.”
I sip my martini, surprised by the sudden depth of the conversation. But I have to admit that I quite like this kind of adult, educated discussion.
“Sorry,” he says. “We ended up delving into philosophy before we talked about regular things like jobs and hobbies. I’m a designer at an agency in Scarborough. I like running and have completed a couple of marathons. Oh, and travelling. What about you?”
I start listing off the things I do in my spare time, like cooking and walking. We’re quite different. He has a logical, mathematical brain, whereas I am creative and more emotionally driven. Annoyingly, I like it.
We order our second drinks. This should definitely be my last but I need it to loosen up.
The conversation moves onto family. Alistair has never been married or had any children.
I suppose some women may see that as a red flag, but he does tell me about a long-term girlfriend he lived with for almost a decade.
“She told me she didn’t want kids but then changed her mind.” He shrugs.
“That can happen,” I say. “Some of my friends were adamant in their twenties but suddenly felt the urge after they turned thirty.” I think about one of Scott’s colleagues, an ambitious woman who later admitted regretting having her son, when she was drunk on Malbec.
“I didn’t resent her for it,” he says in a level voice. “But we couldn’t get past it and she chose to pursue having children over the relationship. I did love her though.”
And suddenly I realise his interest in older women.
I finger the stem of my glass as I try to broach a subject that could be awkward. “On your dating profile you said you don’t want a serious relationship.”
He smiles. “Is that a problem?”
I shake my head. “No, not at all. I feel the same way.”
He exhales shakily. “Oh, that’s good. It’s always a little…
tricky to navigate with someone new.” He takes a sip of his drink.
“I hope this doesn’t come across as wanky or whatever, but I like living in the moment.
I don’t like thinking about the future. I just want to keep hold of that initial attraction to someone and see where it takes me. You know?”
“It does sound a little wanky,” I say with a grin.
He laughs heartily and I’m hopelessly excited by him.
I move closer to him. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can dance?”
He grins. “Sounds great. I know a place in Whitby. Fancy it?”
I nod.
As he arranges an Uber, I catch my reflection in a mirror and I don’t recognise myself. For a moment there, I am twenty again. I see Alistair as Scott. My life is yawning out ahead of me, any possibility within my grasp. Then the moment passes.
Alistair kisses me lightly in the taxi. His fingers brush tendrils of hair away from my face. That fleeting impression of being young again returns, but this time I know myself, and I can indulge in its lightness.