My mummy taught me better than to curse but I want to let out every ripe nasty word I know. But, hey, what would be the point of that? That’s not going to solve anything. I’m still going to be in the same mashed-up mess I’m in now. Still going to have to do what I need to do today.
One of the girls at uni gave me a card with the details of somewhere that could sort me out. One visit, that’s all it would take. I was that desperate I did go. But when I got there I couldn’t do it. I’ve never run from somewhere so fast in my life.
Life. All the amazing things I had planned. My five-year plan. My ten-year plan. How I was gonna carve my name into the streets of London. All the amazing things I set out to do. Be somebody. And now . . . ? Now those dreams are sawdust beneath my feet.
All those fool-people who pointed the finger, saying girls like me couldn’t be successful; I’ve proved them all right.
Well, who’s the fool-girl now? I’m an epic fail!
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
On the train coming down from university, I mentally practised and practised how I was going to say the words. Now I’m at Suzi the words have dried up in my mouth.
I’m crying again. I’m so tired of bawling.
The door opens. They’re here.
I sob, ‘Help me! Please help me!’
They sit down, take my hand and listen, as always.
I spit it out. ‘I’m going to have a baby.’
CHAPTER 21
My tummy turns in on itself when I see the letter waiting for me. It lies alone on the low, round table in the hallway. It captures my attention immediately because my name and address are handwritten on the front. A stark-white envelope with black block letters. I know what’s inside. I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever for this to arrive. For the last few days I’ve been in a numbing bubble of exhaustion. And a limbo of frustration not knowing how to move forward to find out more information about the Suzi Lake Centre. The person who could tell me more, Ronnie, isn’t talking. Just like Sugar isn’t talking. And that knife of hers still leaves me jumpy thinking why she’s felt the need to keep it after all these years. No matter how much Ronnie denies it I know she’s Veronica.
But I may not need Ronnie-Veronica any more because the envelope contains my original birth certificate. It may help me solve the mystery of the missing women and how I fit into their tragic story. I’m excited but scared too. Frightened of what it will finally reveal to me. The fact that the name of my blood mother will be there takes my breath away. Will it be Hope, Amina or Sheryl’s name? Or have I got that wrong?
What if my name isn’t Eva? Maybe my mother called me something else. Jane? Trudy? Destiny? I’m bursting with questions, desperate for answers.
‘Joe!’ I call out because I know he’d want to be here for this moment.
No answer. That’s odd. I know he’s here. Well, I think he is. Usually there’s a tingly warmth in the house when he’s here. But now that I think of it, it’s cold in here.
I find him in his office, a room that backs on to the garden. The French doors are wide open, scenting his office with the perfume of flowers and fresh air. Joe is on his feet at his standing workstation; he swears it’s better for his back and helps to keep up his energy levels throughout the day.
He peers at me over his shoulder, his eyes squinting behind the lenses of his glasses. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
But you heard me calling you, I almost throw back. Joe would usually drop everything to come over to greet me, to take me in his arms, his soothing lips and hands doing all sorts of sexy-delicious things across my skin. Puzzled, I assess him. Is he keeping his distance from me? There’s an aloofness to the way he holds his body as he looks at me. Or is it my imagination and he’s in the middle of something important?
Uncertain, I remain just inside the doorway. ‘My original birth certificate has arrived.’
‘That’s nice for you,’ is the clipped, distant answer.
He dismisses me, turning his attention back to his work. Joe’s behaviour paralyses me.
‘Have I done something wrong?’ I ask.
He answers, not bothering to face me. ‘I’m in the middle of some heavy-duty accounts. I haven’t managed to rustle up any dinner I’m afraid, so let’s order in.’ Then he’s tapping away at his keyboard. Joe loves to cook, and I love to eat, the perfect marriage.
My lips move, but nothing comes out. Joe doesn’t often get into what I call one of his ‘funky-funks’ but when he does it’s best to leave him to stew. He’ll spring back into his usual loving self when he’s ready. So, I retreat back into the hallway, pick up the letter and climb the stairs to our bedroom.