‘Drink this,’ Joe sombrely instructs.
I do, throat protesting, eyes watering as the liquor burns a path towards my belly. He adds, ‘What do you want to do?’
I shake my head. ‘I was so focused on finding my mother, the possibility of other blood relatives turning up never occurred to me. Surely they need your permission before they can do that?’
Joe slumps back. ‘I think once your DNA is in their system these companies can do more or less what they want with it.’
‘But what are the chances of my birth father having his DNA on the same database as mine?’
‘If this was your mother would you be asking that question?’ Joe says pointedly.
He’s right. I’d be too busy tearing the FoundFamily website apart hunting down her details.
I pull my knees up to my chin and sigh. ‘Sometimes, at night, I feel her presence. She’s waiting in the shadows, willing me to find her.’ I turn to Joe mournfully. ‘I don’t feel that for this man, this father, who’s out there.’ I send an airy wave towards the window. ‘I don’t yearn to know what he looks like, what his story is. Where he’s been all this time.’
It’s Joe’s turn to let out a weary sigh as he picks up my laptop. ‘I think you’re going to need to make a decision.’
I take the laptop from him. On the same page as DNA MATCH is a note inside a message box.
‘Hello. You don’t know me. My name is Danny. I’m pretty sure I’m your biological father. I know this will come as a shock to you. I would love to meet you. I have wanted to meet you for a long time. To be able to see your face would mean the world to me. We have so much to talk about. So much. Please say that you’ll meet me. Please.
Living in hope.
Danny.
CHAPTER 6
Name: Danny Greene
Age: 61
From: London
These are the details I hold in my head as I walk with increasing unease towards the café near Victoria Station. A toxic cocktail of confusion, excitement and fear roar through my veins as I make my way to meet Danny for the first time. Reaching the decision to see him hasn’t been an easy one. I’d wrestled and agonised over what to do for days. Maybe he can tell me about my birth mother. I’m under no fairy-tale delusions that they are still together. Even to know her name would be so very special.
I took the plunge, replying to Danny’s message before I could change my mind. There! Done! Except inside my head. The doubts and the questions remained, some digging their claws deeper than before. What if he turns out to be an awful person? What if we have nothing in common?
At least I kept a level of control by choosing the meeting place. It’s an old-style café, narrow and long with gleaming white tiles on the walls, its plump red booths a throwback to rockabilly London. If our meeting starts going downhill the proximity of the train station will give me the excuse of saying I have a train to catch. Though I’m sincerely hoping that’s not the way this will pan out.
What exactly is the protocol in these situations? Am I allowed to touch him? Embrace him? Stretch out my hands in an imploring fashion until I feel his palms locked in mine? Or just a formal nod before I take a seat?
Deep breath in, smaller one out, I leave the lukewarm sunshine and step inside the diner, refusing to acknowledge that subconsciously I dressed up for my birth father. That I deliberately put on my best summer dress, the mint-coloured one with a red cherry print.
Only as I step inside does it hit that I have no idea what he looks like. What an idiot! I should’ve asked him to email me a photo. There was no photo of Danny on his FoundFamily profile, just a blank silhouette of a man’s head and shoulders against a white background. My flickering gaze lands for an instant on the older white guy reading a newspaper, then skips on quickly as I try to identify a man of sixty-one who is black. Will he appear as magnificent as Sugar? As ageless as him too? My brow creases; there’s no sign of an older black in here. Holy hell, did I get the right day?
That’s when I feel it. Someone watching me. Staring. It’s a woman in a booth seated beneath a large framed black-and-white photo of Dame Cleo Laine in her heyday looking a total knockout. Our eyes meet, mine narrowed, hers searching. The side of her mouth kicks up into an uncertain half-smile, half-wordless greeting. Whoever this is, she’s in her late thirties, a lover of rocker chic who worships at the altar of the colour black. Feathered, liquorice hair with electric-blue tips that match the colour of the stone in her nose stud, waist-fitted leather jacket, studded belt that showcases her skinny stonewash jeans, heeled biker boots and mascara that’s lush and thick.