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There are none from anyone claiming to be my dad, though.
Not even a Facebook friends request — and yes, I did check that annoying hidden folder they put messages from people you don’t follow into.
“Maybe he isnae on Facebook?” suggests McTavish, when he asks what’s bothering me, and I reluctantly tell him. “Not everybody is. My da’ isnae. He says the government would use it to get access to his personal data. That’s why he willnae have an Alexa at the farm, either. He reckons she spies on him.”
The idea that my potential new dad could be a conspiracy theorist isn’t particularly reassuring either, but I guess it could be the case that the guy just isn’t particularly tech-literate. There’s only one way to find out for sure, though, so I lock up the house, then climb back into McTavish’s car for the short drive to Mum’s work.
My dad/not-dad might not have tried to get in contact with me: but surely he’ll at least have tried to make contact with her?
Ten
Mum works at the new soft play that sprung up in the garden center on the edge of town when Jack Buchanan’s money started bringing more tourists to the area, and I break my own rule by Googling my name on the way there, scrolling quickly past all the articles that mention Violet King and The Wildcat, and opening one with the headline “Jett Carter’s Ex Finds Long Lost Dad on TikTok”.
I don’t even get a name now, apparently. I’m just “Jett Carter’s ex”. So that’s a nice boost to the ego.
According to the article, my prospective father is called Lochlan Bell, he’s an architect, and he lives in Edinburgh with his wife Ellie, daughters Kayla and Paige, and a pet spaniel called Cheeto. My mind reels at this information overload. In the space of a few hours, I’ve gained not just a potential dad, but also a stepmother and two sisters I didn’t know I had — and am not particularly sure I even want.
Sisters. I could have sisters.
“And a spaniel,” puts in McTavish, helpfully. “They’re braw dogs, spaniels.”
Spaniels aside, I have no idea what to do with any of this information. I’ve never imagined having a family before. It’s always just been me and Mum, and I guess I assumed it always would be. On the rare occasion I thought about my dad, I always pictured him as somehow frozen in time, as he would have been when he left; young, kind of hip — the kind of man who drove a bright orange convertible, when everyone else in town had a sensible “dad” car, big enough to do the school run, and navigate snow-covered hills in the winter.
I didn’t picture him with kids: ones hedidn’tabandon. (Because why would he? Why me, and not them?) Or a wife. Or even a spaniel, really; although, honestly, that’s the very least of my worries.
I peer at the photo accompanying the article, pinching it with my fingers to make it bigger.
Lochlan looks nice, I guess. Graying brown hair, smiley eyes, sensible jumper. He looks a bit like a geography teacher. Hedoesn’tlook a bit like me; or not from this single, badly lit photo, which I suspect has been taken from his Facebook page, anyway.
I hold the phone closer to my face, trying to see if there’s any trace of my upturned nose, or the widow’s peak I’ve always assumed must come from my father’s side of the family, because no one on Mum’s has anything like it. But he’s just some guy. Some guy I don’t recognize, who’s nevertheless trying to claim he’s the reason I’m alive.
It’s a bit of a mind-fuck, really.
I wish Jett was here. Jett would make all of this seem… notnormal, exactly, but at least like something I might be able to handle. Instead, though, the only person I have to turn to is Mum; who shouldtechnicallybe the best-placed to help me navigate this unexpected journey into my unknown past, but who turns out to be much more focused on presiding over thesoft play area of the garden center than she is on supporting her beloved only child.
I say “soft play”: it’s basically like the 10th circle of hell, with what seems like hundreds of sticky-fingered kids all shrieking at once, and losing socks in the ball pool, while hyped up on sugary snacks.
I don’t expect it’s doing much for Mum’s maternal instinct, really. It definitely isn’t doing much for her memory, that’s for sure; because when it comes to the equally sticky subject of my parentage, Mum’s still claiming to know roughly as much as I do.
“I’ve told you, Lexie,” she says, pushing a lock of dyed blonde hair off her forehead as she finishes wiping down a table just in time for a small girl with ketchup smeared around her mouth to empty a Fruit Shoot all over it. “It was a very difficult time of my life. I don’t like to talk about it. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest.”
“I get that, Mum,” I say, following her through to the staff’s break room, where the noise from the soft play recedes just enough for the ringing in my ears to stop. “I really, really get that. That’s why I’ve never asked you much about it. And I wouldn’t be askingnoweither, it’s just… surely you can seewhyI need to ask now? Surely you get whereI’mcoming from, too?”
“Of course I do, Lexie,” she snaps, taking a seat at a dirty-looking table in the corner of the little room. “I’m not some kind of monster, you know. I haven’t been deliberately keeping this information from you all this time.”
I nod in agreement, even though that’s exactly what it feels like she’s been doing. Evading questions. Avoiding difficult conversations. Not that I’ve ever really pushed her for answers, so maybe that’s on me. I just never really felt the need to know much about the man who walked out on me before I was even born, though. Without even giving me a chance. I suppose I always figured I didn’t need someone like that in my life; and Istill do. The difference now, though, is that this Lochlan Bell hasappearedin my life, whether I want him in it or not. All of a sudden, this seems incredibly presumptuous to me. To walk out before he had a chance to get to know me, then swan back in without even asking if Iwantto see him?
How verydarehe?
“So, come on then,” I say, wishing we were having this conversation somewhere other than behind the scenes at a soft play. “Tell me. Is this him? Is this my dad?”
I pull my new phone out and show her the photo, even though I know she must have already seen it.
Mum picks up a pair of glasses and perches them on the end of her nose to take a closer look. I blink at her in surprise.
“You wear glasses now?” I blurt. “But you always said only old ladies wear glasses.”
Mum looks up from the phone and frowns.
