In my fury to get away I knock over the table, scattering the headstone brochures, the dark rum running wild on the floor. I hate that this has happened here, in the conservatory, where Mummy Cherry would take a break from everyone, disappearing into the world of her historical romance novels. Tears flow again, rolling hot tracks into my skin; I can’t quite believe what I’ve just said and done.
Maybe I should believe him . . . No! I know what I’m seeing. There’s no way I’m telling Sugar about searching for my birth mother now.
But there’s worse to come.
While I walk through the hall on my way out, the door to Sugar’s room swings open and Ronnie emerges. She quickly pulls the door to, takes out a bunch of keys and carefully and very deliberately locks it while I stand and stare, transfixed.
That very same room that Mummy Cherry and I have never been allowed to enter.
I’m absolutely outraged. Why is this woman, this Ronnie, allowed in Sugar’s private room and not me?
CHAPTER 3
The serpent coiled on top of the box shocks me. It has a solitary eye, blood-red and beady. And it’s staring right through me. An involuntary shiver seeps heavy and cold through my blood. A warning voice in my head frantically screams, ‘Don’t open it! Don’t open it! If you do your life will never be the same again.’ Then again, that’s the whole point. To propel me on to a path that will turn my life around for good. But I can’t help thinking, what if it tears my life apart instead?
Thirty minutes earlier, still wiping the sleep from my eyes, I came downstairs to find Joe all go-go-go in the kitchen. We live in the North London suburbs, in a spacious house that’s perfect for a professional couple. Joe was cooking scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, wearing an apron over his work suit, whistling, ‘Love and Marriage’。 Totally off-key, of course. Joe can’t hold a tune to save his life even when whistling. But that didn’t matter. It felt good to hear music in our house again. Since we laid Mummy Cherry to rest two weeks ago our home has been frozen in grief, as we creep about the house, talking in hushed tones, staring at the TV screen but seeing nothing. Mummy Cherry would have hated that. She believed a home should be bursting with love and life. Not speaking to the man I’ve looked up to all my life, Sugar, hasn’t helped matters.
Joe sips coffee from his ‘accountants r super sexy’ mug. ‘Sleeping beauty has finally arisen, has she?’ His hands cup my face and he kisses me. I sink into his long, leisurely touch, the honest, sincere taste of his lips reminding me what a lucky lady I am to have snagged a guy like him. I love him in a way I never thought possible. I adore his lived-in face, the way the thick, black frame of his Michael Caine-style glasses sets the scene for his expressive eyes.
And that’s when I noticed it. A rectangular box wrapped in silky, purple paper on the breakfast bar.
‘What’s that?’ Gently, I move out of his arms.
‘A gift from me to you.’
If it’s a present shouldn’t he sound happier? His voice is heavy and hollow. Some of the colour has slipped from his skin, pinched lines bracketing his lips.
‘What’s wrong?’ I run a reassuring palm down his arm. His skin is pebbled with cold goosebumps.
A laboured sigh escapes him. ‘I live to make you happy. Always remember that.’ A sudden smile chases the worry from his face. ‘Now, get a move on and open your prezzie.’
I scoot on to a stool at the breakfast bar and pounce on the purple box like a thief. My fingertips savour its smooth texture. It feels kind of light but has got some weight about it too. With the same care I use when tending to my patients I unfold the ends of the silky paper to reveal a white box. That’s when I see the snake and nearly drop it in revulsion.
I’m still staring at it. The serpent’s not real of course but painted on to the box. Still, it leaves me stunned and unsettled. Whoever heard of a serpent on a gift box? What does it mean? Serpents don’t equal joy in my book. Some of my happy drains out of me. Then I figure out that the snake must be part of the logo of the company who have provided this mystery gift.
Above the snake is written ‘FoundFamily DNA’。
It’s a DNA home-testing kit. My gut tightens. I tense up. The blood rises hot and scalding in my cheeks. Instinctively, my hands touch my hair, anxiety gripping me. I find the name of one of my strong women to help me de-stress. Say her name.
Toni Morrison.
Toni Morrison.
Toni Morrison.
I say it over and over until I feel soothed. I gulp back the panic that’s lived inside me since I was a child.