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Her fingers spread the papers and there, peeping out from beneath them, was an envelope with her name on, again in her mother’s distinctive handwriting. Alice ripped and read.
Darling Alice,
This is probably the hardest thing I am ever going to write. A confession. An admission that I chose to lie to you all these years, my dear sweet girl, about who your father really is. As you read the information contained here, I hope you will understand the reasons why I hid it, not just from you, but also from Henry.
Of course, it is unforgivable to keep a child from her father, a father from his child. Maybe if you had been less accepting of my half-baked answers to your questions; if you had been a more demanding child, I would have been unable to guard the truth, but you were such a good little thing. You made it easy for me to lie.
As the years rolled past, your parentage has weighed heavy on me. This visit to England has been much more than a trip down memory lane. It has been a cathartic journey. Meeting Henry again, telling him the truth—that he has a daughter. (At which, I must stress, he is overwhelmed with joy.)
I have his full knowledge and permission to share all of this with you. His life speaks for itself. Hopefully it will help you to fill in some of the blanks.
Henry, through no fault of his own, broke my heart. It is not fair of me to break yours by not telling you the truth.
Forgive me.
Your Mother.
P.S. I will be home soon and we can have a chat about all this.
Alice stared at the letter, the hand holding it completely numb, like it didn’t belong to her. She had a father. Rowena had lied all these years. He wasn’t Andrew from Basingstoke. Nor, for that matter, was he a Scottish laird film director with a chronic pain problem. He was Henry with a double-barrelled name. English professor at Cambridge University. He was gay. He was married.
After a moment she spread out the article fromThe Timesweekend magazine. Gazed at the photo of the man seated, legs crossed, in a big leather armchair, until her eyeballs felt like they would fall out.
Henry wore glasses. He had a slight build—dapper,no doubt the English would describe him. His mouth was small, with a well-shaped upper lip, his smile a little uncertain. Straight chestnut-brown hair fell heavy across his forehead. So much was achingly familiar in his face, and yet she didn’t know him at all. Twenty-six years of a father missing in action.
Alice read and re-read Rowena’s letter. After a while she folded it into four neat squares. Sentences stood out in her mind, as if written in bright red ink: “Maybe if you’d been amore demandingchild… you weresuch a good little thing…”
A strangled sound escaped her lips. Clearly, it was her fault she’d never found her father. Because she didn’t ask enough questions, didn’t make enough fuss… was tooundemanding… too…
Scared.Always, always scared.
Her hands curled until she registered her nails digging into her palms. By default, did that mean it was her fault she’d spent years pining for someone who would never love her back? Someone whose beauty only skimmed the surface, whose way of making her laugh and feel somehow special hid the fact that there was no heart to give?
And why? Because she was simply too terrified… to… what? To ask, todemand, to settle for nothing less than what she was worthy of—like knowing who her father was. And being loved… truly loved.
Carefully, Alice organised all the articles and photos of Henry into a pile with neat edges. Tomorrow she would read every word again, find his profile on LinkedIn, search the internet for every possible detail about her father; a man who was clearly not afraid to be truly himself.
But now, there was something else she needed to do. With a purposeful stride she went over to the pine dresser. Took out one of Rowena’s shot glasses and searched until she found the stash of alcohol. No tequila, which was a shame, but there was half a bottle of vodka. That would have to do.
Alice filled the glass, screwed the lid tightly back on the vodka and then popped the bottle back where it belonged. Delicately, she took the shot glass between fingers and thumb, tipped her head and knocked it back. Refused to shudder as the alcohol burned her throat. Then she held the glass up to the light in a silent salute, lifted her arm, and hurled it at the wall with all her might.
The sound of breaking glass echoed through the room.
Tomorrow, she would do something about the mess.
* * *
“Your loyalty… discretion…” Only parts of Fink’s words were sinking through the dense fog in Aaron’s brain. He shook himself and tried to concentrate. “… will be rewarded.”
“Sorry, could you repeat that?”
“Your loyalty to the company, Aaron.” Trojan gave him a tight smile. “What Charles is saying is this is the kind of attitude we like to see in future partners.”
Aaron willed his features to comply. His lips weren’t playing. Since yesterday it had felt like he’d completely lost control of his faculties. The worst of which was clearly his ability to flash his usual charming smile.
But at least, he decided, looking jadedly across at Archie Bendt, the smile seemed to have been wiped off his face too. Not that he could smile easily with that fat lip.
He guessed he should count himself lucky Alice hadn’t swiped him one.
