Girls like me shouldn’t reach for their dreams.
Girls like me don’t speak well enough to go to university.
Girls like me should know their place.
As if! Don’t ever let anyone put you down. Always remain loud ’n’ proud. Collect your dreams. Stash them away. Treasure them. There’s always been something inside me – dunno what you call it, it’s probably got some fancy-pants name – whatever it is, it gave me the courage to try out new stuff even when I ended up looking like a right dumbo.
Nerves going boom-bang inside me I pick up the letter and scurry back to my room. Clutching it to my chest I shut my eyes for a time and pray. Then I open it up, fear squeezing the living daylights out of me so I can barely breathe. I start reading, gobbling up every last word.
Hallelujah! Squealing, I leap into the air like a mad lady who’s lost her marbles. I got in! I got in! Tears of happiness and joy stream down my face. I have worked two back-breaking jobs since I left school to save up a proper nest egg to make sure I had enough to top up my grant. Now all that hard work has paid off. I start getting jiggy around the room.
I cried for a time too. Cried for all the other girls like me who are told they are worthless. Check the word out: Worth. Less. Never let anyone reduce you to that.
On an all-time high I pop on my puffer jacket and my red fedora. I don’t go anywhere without one of my fedoras. I’m meeting my friend and we’re going to check out this new place we’ve heard about. It’s hip and happening apparently. One hundred and ten per cent chilled out.
When I get there, a weird feeling runs right across my face like a spider. I should’ve heeded that feeling. But us young people never take a blind bit of notice of warnings. I walk across the road and cross the line.
The day my new life began was the same day it was headed towards its end.
CHAPTER 9
I’m jittery, anxiety crawling a slimy path across my skin by the time I reach my birth father’s house in Weybridge. I look up at his home, my hand shading my eyes against the brimming sun. I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t this. Millionaires Row doesn’t do it justice. It’s one of those houses that’s probably known as The Grange or The Hill. Iron gates automatically swing open. My birth father knows I’m here.
For the barest second I hesitate, feeling the sizzle of a ragged breath between my teeth. I sense that if I go forward there may be no going back. Before doubt turns me around, I quickly walk into my birth father’s world.
The house is a vision of white, brimming with pride, an expansive stucco villa set in large, mature grounds of exotic plants that back on to the river. Even the ducks flying overhead to land on the Thames nearby appear sleeker and more upmarket than the average. They have an upper-class quack. This place oozes style and unpretentious wealth. It takes my breath away.
I walk up the steps. The door begins to open. My nerves do silly tumbling tricks in my tummy. And there he is. My blood father. He’s a very impressive man. His face isn’t timeless like Sugar’s, but there’s that certain something about it that holds the eye. The sunshine is loving his swept-back blond-grey hair. He’s tall like Miriam, with large, saucer-like blue eyes, made all the bluer by his turquoise T-shirt. Middle-age isn’t getting in the way of him being fit and tanned. In another life he’d have been one of those hippies with a beaded headband taming his blond hair and flowing kaftan, spreading love and preaching about peace.
‘Eva!’ I like the tone of his voice: crisp and clear. A smile suffuses his face with warmth. His arms open wide for me to walk into them. I don’t. In fact, my body has stiffened. I recognised him immediately.
I offer him my hand instead. ‘So, we meet again.’
He’s puzzled and drops his arm. ‘Do we?’
His surprise that borders on denial leaves me feeling let down. Crushing disappointment hits me. I’m not wasting my time getting to know a liar.
‘This is a mistake . . .’ I stammer and turn on my heel.
The touch of his fingertips on my bare arm stops me. I suck in air at the touch of his flesh on my skin. It’s a sensation I feel I’ve known my whole life. That of a parent. The touch of my blood mother’s fingertips touching mine in the darkness.
I face him. His expression is filled with regret as he tells me, ‘You’re very observant to have figured out that I was the guy sitting at the neighbouring table when you met Miriam in the diner. My plan was to see how you got on with her and if it went well to get Miriam to invite you to dinner.’ He stuffs his hand into his linen trouser pocket like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Looking back, I could kick myself. But I suppose there are no rules for situations like ours and we’ll have to feel our way along.’