The Year of Taking Chances (25 page)

‘She’s very smart.
Went to Cambridge, and is incredibly well read and opinionated.’
Saffron lowered her voice discreetly.
‘Bloody annoying half the time, yes, but
she’s not a dumb bimbo, despite how the press try to paint her.
I just wish she wouldn’t keep going for these awful men who screw her over for a handful of cash.
She makes it too easy
for them.’

They fell silent for a moment, as Bunty’s voice rose from the other room.
‘Well, pull as many strings as you can; make a few threats, take out an injunction if you have to, but
I’m not being held to ransom by that little cockhead and his hamster-penis.
That’s all there is to it, Callum.’

They smothered their giggles at this.
‘What’s really good,’ Saffron went on quietly, ‘is that she’s actually dealing with the situation herself for a change.
In the
past she’s been like a kid – always turned to her manager, or agent, or me, or any other sucker, and got them to sort out her problems.
But yesterday .
.
.
’ Her mouth twisted.
‘Well, basically, I had a go at her and told her to get a grip, and that I quit.
Spoke a few home truths that I probably shouldn’t have, to be honest.’

‘Yikes,’ said Caitlin.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.
Goodbye, job; hello, unemployment.
But it must actually have struck a chord with her, because for the first time ever she’s taken a bit of
control over her own life.
She’s instructed her legal team to handle cockhead-Troy, rather than have someone else organize that for her, and now she’s calling all the shots.
I’m
glad for her.’
She grinned.
‘And I’m glad for you, too, Gemma, because what you said to her – about creating dresses to make women feel beautiful – that’s
exactly what Bunty needs right now.
Play your cards right, and you might just have a customer for life.’

Gemma felt herself turning red.
‘Oh!
Well, great,’ she said.
‘I meant it, though, it wasn’t just flannel.’

‘I know, you were totally sincere.
But nobody else in her world is, you see.
She’s usually surrounded by flatterers and bullshitters.
You wait, you’ll be in her little black
book faster than you can say “hamster-penis”.’

‘I hadn’t even thought about future dresses,’ Gemma said dazedly.

‘Well, you should,’ Caitlin said.
‘Twenty or so women like Bunty, each buying a few new dresses every year .
.
.
You’ll be laughing all the way to your new Swiss bank
account, dude.’

‘Definitely,’ Saffron agreed.
‘And make sure you give me a few business cards to pass around my other clients.
I’ll even write you a press release!’

‘We can get your website up and running in no time,’ Caitlin said.
‘Design a logo for the brand .
.
.
’

Gemma held up her hands, feeling shell-shocked.
‘Whoa, whoa,’ she said.
‘Hang on.
I don’t really think .
.
.
I mean .
.
.
I’m not a
brand
!
This is just one
dress for one lady, remember.
The sort of lucky strike that only happens once in a blue moon.
I’m not sure I need press releases and websites and business cards, when it’s just little
me sewing a dress for another person.
Do I?’

‘Remember the fortune-cookies,’ Saffron said.
‘What was it again?
Something about following your bliss, and doors opening .
.
.
’

‘Purses opening, too,’ Caitlin said, elbowing her.
‘Go for it, Gem.
This is your chance.
It could change everything.’

Bunty clip-clopped back into the kitchen just then and they fell silent.
‘Sorry about that, girls,’ she said.
‘All sorted, Callum’s on the case.
Troy Blake will be
grovelling at my feet by the end of the week, you wait.’
Then she held up the purple and green swatches of fabric.
‘Do you know what, I simply can’t decide which colour I love the
most,’ she said, beaming.
‘So I’ll take one of each.
Will that be all right?’

Caitlin kicked her under the table and Gemma had to swallow hard to stop herself from letting out a very unprofessional screech of excitement.
‘Of .
.
.
of course it will,’ she
managed to stammer.
‘No problem at all.’

‘Good news!’
Gemma exclaimed later that afternoon, as she burst into the house with Darcey in tow.
‘Spencer, where are you?
I have great news!’

Amazingly he was not in his usual spot on the sofa.
He was in the kitchen, hobbling to the table with a can of lager, looking thoroughly fed up.
‘I thought you said you’d be back at
lunchtime?’
he grumbled.
‘What have you been
doing
all day?’

Gemma tried to ignore the bubble of guilt that popped up inside her.
‘Sorry, it just took longer than I expected,’ she said.
‘But guess what?
Something really incredible
happened.
She’s commissioned me to make two dresses.
Two dresses, Spen!’

‘God,’ he said.
‘Sure you’ve got enough material to get round that arse of hers twice?’

Darcey giggled at the rude word and looked sideways at Gemma, who flushed.
Bunty wasn’t that much bigger than she was, at the end of the day.
‘She’s actually all right,’
she said, taking no notice.
‘I quite liked her.
Not least because she’s paying seven hundred quid for them.’

‘Seven hundred
pounds
?’
Darcey echoed.
‘WOW!
In real life?’

‘In real life,’ Gemma replied with a laugh, but then noticed how Spencer’s face tightened at the mention of money.
She’d been so proud of herself that she hadn’t
stopped to think about
his
pride and how badly it had been dented recently, with him being out of action so long.
‘Spence?’
she prompted, wishing he would say something.

‘Brilliant,’ he said, his tone expressionless.
‘Great.
Fan-dabby-dozy.
Gemma to the rescue!’

Was he joking, or just being snide?
Whichever, her mood had soured like milk on a hot day.
‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ she said, crestfallen.

‘Oh yeah, delighted,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Makes me feel a real man, when my wife is having to put food on the table because I still can’t bloody
work.’

‘What
is
for tea?’
Darcey asked, seemingly ignorant of the sudden change in atmosphere.

Coming home, Gemma had envisaged treating everyone to a celebratory takeaway – even she was starting to tire of her cheap and hearty stews – but she realized now that such a
suggestion would only rub her husband’s nose in it.
She sighed, feeling tired and unappreciated, wishing the buzz of her good mood could have lasted a bit longer.
‘I don’t
know,’ she replied heavily.
‘Pasta probably.
Whatever’s left in the fridge.’

Back to the real world, Cinderella
, she thought, as she washed her hands and started chopping an onion.
Back to cooking tea and wondering why Will was late home again – she must
talk to him about what was going on at school – and tiptoeing around Spencer’s volatile mood swings.
Already the afternoon felt like a daydream.

She let herself float back to the camaraderie and loveliness she’d experienced at Caitlin’s house – her studio.
She’d really enjoyed playing the part of sought-after
designer, having her own beautiful space in which to sew, discussing her client’s ideas, sketching out possible designs and finding one they both liked.
It had been a wrench to start packing
that lifestyle away, along with all the equipment at the end of the day: game over.

Her thoughts must have been obvious as she began taking down her Kilner jars from the mantelpiece, because Caitlin cleared her throat and said, ‘You can always carry on working here, if
you want.
For real, I mean.
I’ve got some new work to do for Saffron, too; we could be colleagues for a while longer.
What do you think?’

Gemma’s eyes lit up at once.
She had loved being there and pretending, just for a few hours, that this was her actual life.
It had felt like the good old office days that she missed; as if
she had a purpose again, other than as cook, nurse and taxi-driver.
‘Seriously?’
she asked.
‘I would really like that.
I could bring biscuits .
.
.
’

‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’
Caitlin gestured at the rail of clothes.
‘And leave those here, too: I can photograph them all later and start putting them up on the site.
Stick a few hefty price-tags on them, and then you can tell me about fabrics and sizes and whatnot.
Does that sound okay?’

Gemma could feel herself getting emotional.
Did it sound
okay
?
It sounded better than okay; it was wonderful, she loved it – and she loved her friend too, for taking this whole
venture so seriously.
A website, a cool brand name, an initial order for two dresses in her book .
.
.
This is your chance
, Caitlin had said to her.
It was a chance Gemma wanted to take.
If
you listened to Caitlin – and Saffron, come to that – anyone would think that she was in danger of becoming a proper businesswoman.

Apart from her husband, that was, she thought now, nearly chopping into her thumb as she reached the end of the onion.
Was it too much to ask for him to feel as proud of her as she did of
herself?
Too much for him to say ‘Well done’ or ‘How exciting’ or ask for more details of her triumph today?
Obviously it was.

She tipped the onion slices into the frying pan, relieved as she heard the front door open and the thud of Will’s sports bag as he chucked it down in the hall.
That was one less thing to
worry about at least.
And if Spencer wanted to sulk, then let him.
She could do this with or without him.
Just watch her.

‘So,’ Gemma blew on her coffee and raised her eyebrows.
‘You didn’t tell me about this handsome stranger yesterday.
What’s all that about
then?’

It was the following morning, and Caitlin and Gemma were both at their new workstations.
The radio was playing, Gemma was drawing out a paper pattern for Bunty’s first dress on the trestle
tables, and Caitlin had started work on the Hourglass Designs website, playing with a home-page design that featured a twisting tape-measure running around the screen as a frame.

Deep in thought, trying to choose the perfect font for the tape-measure numerals, Caitlin only caught the end of Gemma’s question.
‘Sorry, what?’
she asked, raising her
head.

‘Saffron said something about you and a handsome stranger.
Why do I not know about this?
What have you been getting up to behind my back?’

Oh.
That.
She was regretting being so forthcoming in her emails now.
‘Nothing,’ she said, feeling a total plum.
‘Really.
Nothing,’ she repeated, as Gemma gave her what
could only be described as a hard Paddington Bear stare.
‘Oh, all right – it was Harry, okay?
I was getting vibes from him, but nothing happened, because he’s got some woman
pregnant and is sticking by her.
So that’s the end of that.’

‘Harry Sykes?
Wait, I didn’t know about this.
Who’s the woman: is it Jade?
And she’s up the duff?’

‘Yeah, I think so.
They had split up before she realized, apparently, but he wants to do the decent thing, he said.
Didn’t look wildly joyful about it, though.
More a man resigned to
his fate.’
Harry’s glum face appeared in her mind along with a screaming infant and a pile of smelly nappies.

‘Bummer.’
Gemma bent over her paper as she drew out another shape.
‘That’s a shame.
I reckon you two would be pretty good together.’

Caitlin affected nonchalance.
‘It’s cool.
Sounds like he’s a bit of a Romeo, anyway.
Probably best to steer clear of someone like that.’

‘Ye-e-e-es.
I don’t know.
Harry’s a really great guy, I just think he’s a bit crap with relationships.
He falls head over heels in love at the drop of a hat – this
is it, this is the one – but it’s always with the most tragically unsuitable women, ones he’s got absolutely nothing in common with.
Jade Perry, for instance, she’s a total
airhead.
Zero to say for herself, beneath the big hair and perky tits.’

Caitlin twiddled a lock of her own fine, wispy, definitely not-big hair and tried not to think about her own fried-egg, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them, in-no-way-perky chest area.
Flynn had
actually asked her if she’d ever thought about implants, the tosser.
Was Harry really as shallow as that?
No wonder his own sister had resorted to giving him a ‘Ten-Date Rule’.
‘How depressing,’ she said.

‘It is.
Mind you, when I said to Spencer that I didn’t know what Harry saw in Jade, do you know what he said?
“I can think of two reasons.”
They’re all as
bad.’

Caitlin laughed.
‘How is he?
I bet he’s dead proud of you doing all this, isn’t he?’

‘Who, Spencer?’
Gemma stood back and looked critically at the shapes she’d drawn on the pattern paper.
‘I hope so.
I’m not sure, to be honest.
He’s still kind
of resentful.
Of everything.
Of the whole world.’
She pulled a face.
‘Let’s not talk about him, though.
Quick, change the subject.’

There had only been one topic on Caitlin’s mind for the last week and it surfaced in her consciousness for the thousandth time.
‘Um .
.
.
’ she began, altering the background
colour on the web page from a mint-green to a beautiful sky-blue.
‘Did your parents take lots of baby photos of you?’
she asked, before she could stop herself.

Gemma looked surprised at the question.
‘Not loads, no, but then I was the fourth baby in the family,’ she replied.
‘Plus my mum is like the most unmaternal woman in the whole
world.
There are a few pictures, though, mostly of me looking fat, cross and egg-headed.
Maybe that’s why they didn’t take many.’
She cocked her head.
‘Why?
Not thinking of
putting some on the website, are you?
From the cradle to the .
.
.
er .
.
.
treadle?’

‘No, just .
.
.
’ Caitlin changed the sky-blue to rose-pink and then back to the original mint-green.
Then she took her hands off the keyboard and gave the question her full
attention.
‘There aren’t any of me, that’s all.
Not one.’

‘Maybe your parents didn’t have a camera,’ Gemma said.
She heaved a roll of calico onto the table and started spreading it out.
‘They were much more expensive back then,
weren’t they?
Not like us now, snapping away at everything with our phones.’

Caitlin thought of the faded holiday pictures of Jane and Steve, their dated bathing costumes and bug-eye sunglasses, posing in front of crumbling Welsh castles and on the beach at Cardigan Bay.
‘They definitely had a camera,’ she said.
Her voice wobbled.
‘Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but .
.
.
’

‘What?’

‘Well, I found this picture, and .
.
.
’ She went on to explain about the apparent awkwardness between her and Jane in the photo, and how the writing on the back had led her to new
suspicions about the relevance of June 1st.
‘There are other things, too.
Like .
.
.
Well, I don’t look anything like either of them.
I was just thinking a minute ago about how wispy my
hair is, and Mum had really thick, lovely hair.
I’m so much taller than she was.
I’ve got this big old beak of a nose – God knows where that came from, and .
.
.
’ She
spread her hands out.
‘It all adds up.’

‘What are you saying; that you think you were
adopted
or something?’
Gemma gaped.
‘Whoa.
It’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it, from one photo to all of
this?’

‘But it makes sense.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, but I can’t help formulating a theory.
Otherwise, why didn’t they have loads of kids?
Everyone keeps telling
me how much Mum loved babies.
Why didn’t she have loads of them herself?’

A childhood memory flashed into her head, of her asking why she couldn’t have a brother or a sister like all her friends.
‘We think our family is perfect just the way it is,’
Jane had said, ruffling her hair.

Was that the only reason?
she wondered now.

‘Is there anyone you could ask?
An aunty or grandparent?’
Gemma suggested.

‘No.
Nobody.
I had an Aunty Nancy, my dad’s big sister, but she’s in South Africa somewhere; we lost touch with her after he died.’

‘Well, what about your birth certificate then?
That has the names of your parents on it.
What does yours say?’

Caitlin had already thought about that.
‘I’ve only ever seen the short version of mine.
Mum said she’d lost the other one.’

They looked at each other, pattern-drawing and websites forgotten.
‘Shit, Cait.
This is sounding a bit weird.
Have you looked through her paperwork?
I mean, this could all be a complete
misunderstanding, right?
You might come across a massive stack of baby photos and your lost birth certificate and .
.
.
I don’t know, magic hair-thickener that your mum always used in secret,
and a follow-up appointment from the nose-job clinic .
.
.
’

Caitlin gave a weak smile.
‘Yeah.
I guess.
I need to bite the bullet and start looking, but I can’t help feeling scared.
I mean, if I really
was
adopted, it would change
everything.
My whole life would be a complete lie.’

Gemma said nothing for a moment.
‘It would be a shock, yes, but she did love you,’ she replied eventually.
‘And your dad did too, going by what you’ve said.
You were
loved and cherished; your childhood sounds as if it was a really happy one.
Don’t underestimate that, okay?’

Caitlin thought about the way Gemma had described her own mum with no small degree of contempt.
The most unmaternal woman in the world, she’d called her.
Jane had been the opposite.
Jane
had been so maternal she’d devoted her whole life to bringing babies safely into the world.
She was a heroine among mothers, a life-saver.
The most wonderful midwife ever
,
Harry’s sister had called her, she remembered.
An angel
, Gemma had said.

An angel wouldn’t lie to her own daughter, though.
Would she?

‘Sure,’ she mumbled, returning to her keyboard.
Mint-green looked crap, she decided, changing the background colour to a soft grey.
A picture formed in her head of a wispy-haired
woman with a conk of a nose who’d taken one look at mewling baby Caitlin and thought,
Nah.
Don’t want her.
‘Probably jumping to conclusions anyway,’ she said, wincing
as she remembered TV footage of babies abandoned in Romanian orphanages, left alone to cry all day.
Had her first weeks been similarly desolate?
It might explain why she was such a fuck-up when it
came to relationships.

‘Yeah, I reckon,’ Gemma said, in a voice that was more hearty reassurance than actual sincerity.
‘Now, stop worrying and let me make you a coffee, okay?
I think we’ve
both earned a few biscuits as well.’

Gemma headed off around three to pick up Darcey from school, having cut and stitched the toile, a copy of the dress in calico, so that she could check all the measurements
fitted Bunty properly.

Unfortunately Caitlin hadn’t been quite so productive.
Her conversation with Gemma had buzzed around her head all afternoon, despite the bakery lunch, the five cups of coffee and half a
packet of Jaffa Cakes.
Images of possible birth mothers grew and coloured in her mind, like photographs in developing liquid.
A cruel-eyed witch from a scary fairy-tale, Miss Hannigan from
Annie
, Cruella de Vil .
.
.

As soon as Gemma left, Caitlin switched off the laptop and abandoned their bright, hopeful workspace.
She couldn’t wait any longer.
She wanted to know.

She marched into the dining room and went straight to the small grey filing cabinet.
Right, then.
Let’s see what was stashed away in here.

I’m sorry, hen
, Jane said again, weak and tremulous, and Caitlin felt her heart harden.

Yeah, well, she thought, pulling open the top drawer and dumping everything onto the carpet.
Too late to start saying sorry now, Mum.
I need answers, not apologies.
The truth.

‘So did you find anything out about your mum?
Have you taken the plunge and had a hunt through?’

It was the third day that Gemma and Caitlin had been working together in the gleaming white space of Caitlin’s living room and they’d quickly settled into an enjoyable routine of
chat, sugar-dusted almond croissants and background music.
Oh, and work too, obviously.
Bunty had been back for her first fitting in the toile, and now Gemma was carefully cutting the glossy
emerald-green crêpe de Chine in order to begin the finished dress.

Caitlin meanwhile had finished setting up the basics on Gemma’s Hourglass Designs website, and was now storyboarding an animation for the Yummy Mummy baby-food campaign.
From high fashion
to singing and dancing vegetables, this week had definitely been one of extremes.

She felt her chest tighten at Gemma’s question.
‘My mum?
No, nothing.
I searched through a whole bunch of papers in her filing cabinet, but I haven’t found my full birth
certificate yet, or anything to say that .
.
.
you know, Mum and Dad weren’t legit.’
Instead there were bank statements from the 1990s, guarantees for ancient white goods that had long
been and gone, the 100-metre swimming certificate she’d got aged eight and even some hilarious school reports.
Jane had kept
everything,
by the look of it, all jumbled in one messy
collection – the detritus of life.
No adoption papers, though.
Nothing that had shocked or surprised Caitlin.