The university coffee shop was heaving, students with armfuls of books and hefty rucksacks jostling for space at overcrowded tables, a long queue snaking away from the counter where the growl of a coffee machine drowned out the conversation of the baristas. Isla was sitting at one of the packed tables with a group from her psychology class. She frowned over her coffee.
‘I wish I could say yes but my mum’s hassling me about something and wants me to go straight home.’
There was a collective sigh of disappointment. It was funny, because at school Isla had never been this popular. But something about her frankness seemed to engage her fellow psychology students. Perhaps they saw her as a potential subject? She was certainly screwed up enough, or so she thought. If only they knew the half of it.
‘Can’t you just put her off for one evening?’ Kayleigh, a petite blonde who looked a lot younger than her twenty years, asked. ‘It’s not often we get a visiting lecturer, especially one from America who’s a pioneer in cognitive behaviour. It’s exciting!’
‘Only you would find it exciting,’ George said. George was a year older than Kayleigh, and everyone knew he was so desperately in love with her that he’d never do anything but worship her from afar for fear of the ultimate, crippling rejection. Everyone except Kayleigh, that was. George and Kayleigh were both younger than Isla. In fact, everyone at the table was at least six years younger than Isla who, at twenty-nine, was the unofficial mummy of the group. Perhaps that was why they all liked her so much.
‘You’ve clearly never met my mum, Kayleigh,’ Isla said, laughing lightly. ‘If she asks you to come home for something important then you bloody well go home.’
‘But I can put you down for the end-of-term pub crawl, can’t I?’ James, George’s best friend, asked.
‘Well, you can put me down for it but I can’t make any promises,’ Isla said. ‘Besides, once you’ve done the first two pubs you’ll barely notice if I’m there or not. Bunch of lightweights you are.’
‘Oooh…’ Kayleigh looked up at the entrance. ‘Prof. Choudhry. I need to catch her about my dissertation.’ Without another word she grabbed her bag and flew in the direction of the coffee shop doorway. George threw a forlorn look in her direction and then got up too.
‘I should catch the prof actually. And I’m supposed to go to the library with Kayleigh later…’
And then he was gone. Leaving only Eve and James.
‘I’m going to get another coffee,’ Eve announced. ‘Anyone want one?’
Both James and Isla shook their heads and as Eve left their table, James lowered his voice and leaned across to Isla.
‘So, what are you planning to do over the Christmas break?’ he asked.
Isla shrugged. ‘No idea. Probably a lot of studying – get ahead for the new term, you know? And I always have my mum’s side of my family over at Christmas, so it’s often bedlam.’
‘A bit overwhelming?’ he asked.
Isla smiled. ‘Sometimes.’
‘I know what you mean. I have a load of family in Cardiff and they always land on our doorstep Christmas Eve. Bloody pain.’
‘So you don’t keep a welcome in the hillsides?’
‘No,’ James laughed. ‘But I was thinking…’ He swallowed hard. ‘Well, if you weren’t busy for the whole time… maybe you’d like to go for a drink. With me. Just me, I mean… not the others. You see?’
Isla gave him a sad smile. It wasn’t the fact that she was almost ten years older that bothered her, but she just didn’t do relationships – at least not right now. She was too busy, too focused on her studies, too much responsibility at home – too much of everything. A sporadic social life was one thing, but a boyfriend? James was sweet and he wasn’t bad-looking but she’d probably only hurt him in the end. She’d had boyfriends before and they never lasted. He was too nice, too young and too full of hope for that sort of life lesson.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said gently. ‘I mean, we have a laugh as we are, don’t we? And I think we should keep it that way, not complicate things.’
‘Right…’ James fiddled with his collar and looked hopelessly over to where Eve was returning with her drink. ‘Course… cool.’
As Eve got to the table he stood up. ‘Sorry guys, got to run… just remembered something.’
Eve raised her eyebrows in mild surprise as Isla cringed inwardly. She hated these situations. When it came to the opposite sex she did her very best to seem unavailable and uninterested and usually that did the trick. James’s request was a timely reminder that she couldn’t let her guard slip again. She looked at her watch.
‘Sorry, Eve, but it looks like you’re on your own.’
‘You’re kidding me! I wouldn’t have got another coffee if I’d known I was going to end up sitting here like Billy No Mates.’
‘You’ll find someone to talk to,’ Isla laughed. ‘Everyone loves you. And if I don’t get going soon I’m going to be late for my mum.’
‘Is she really that scary?’
Isla gulped the last of her coffee and set the cup down with a grin. ‘I’ll take you home one of these days and let you decide for yourself.’
‘I’m not sure I’d be brave enough from what you’ve told me.’
‘That’s true. It takes a special sort of constitution to withstand a death stare from Glory McCoy.’
Glory had always been beautiful. As a child she’d enchanted everyone she met, with skin the colour of bitter chocolate and huge dark eyes to match. As a teen she’d found grace in her blooming womanhood where others her age found awkwardness. As a young woman she could walk down a street and turn every head, and as an older woman she wore elegance and dignity like a perfectly tailored suit. Isla, on the other hand, had taken time to grow into her looks, a gangly and uncertain girl until her early twenties. It was only now, as she headed towards thirty, that anyone could look and call her beautiful. Her skin was lighter than her mother’s – the product of a Scottish father who had branded her with his name before abandoning them both – and she was taller, less curvy than the women on her mother’s side of the family, though the angles of her body suited her.
But right now, as both women stood sizing each other up, nostrils flared, an impasse on the horizon, nobody could call either of them beautiful. Unless, of course, your idea of beauty was the great white shark just before it strikes.
‘I suppose you thought I wouldn’t find out.’ Isla glared at her mother. ‘I suppose you thought it would go away if you ignored it.’
Glory tilted her chin into the air, trying to reinforce her superior position, though these days, as Isla grew in maturity and confidence, this was harder to do. ‘I was going to tell you.’
‘When?’
‘When the time was right.’
‘The time was right as soon as the letter arrived! And why do you get to decide when it’s right?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about because you don’t know him like I do; that’s why I made the decision not to tell you.’
‘So you were never going to tell me? What else have you kept to yourself all these years? If you weren’t going to tell me this then what else haven’t you told me because you didn’t think the time was right? For God’s sake, Mother, I’m twenty-nine years old! I can make my own decisions about what I do and do not need to know!’ She shook the letter clutched in her hand at Glory. ‘Have you always known where Dad was? Did you pretend not to?’
‘Of course I didn’t know where he was! Do you think I did two jobs all those years for fun? I had to pawn our furniture. We had to go without holidays, miss out on trips and days out. I had to shop in bargain bins just to keep us afloat!’
‘I know it was tough, Mum – I was there with you through it all. I was the one who got bullied at school for my cheap shoes and free dinners but—’
‘So don’t you think if I’d known where he was I would have made him pay his way – the selfish bastard! And if you’re stupid enough to accept this invitation and go and see him after all that, you can tell him he owes me twenty-four years’ worth of child maintenance!’
Isla opened her mouth to retaliate but then let out a long sigh, something in her mother’s eyes suddenly draining the fight from her. ‘I’m not going to see him, Mum.’
‘But you said—’
‘I know what I said. But I can see how much this is bothering you and I don’t want to go to war with you over someone who couldn’t even be bothered to make himself a part of my life. We’re a team, right?’ She offered a tight smile. ‘Always have been, always will be. Just you and me against the world.’
For the first time since the subject of the solicitor’s letter had been raised, Glory’s mask of proud defiance slipped and she looked as if she was about to cry. The wounds ran deeper than anyone could ever know. Isla knew better than anyone the devastation her father leaving had wreaked. Desperate as she was to find out more about him and his new family, about the reasons a Scottish solicitor had gone to such great pains to track her down, about her own past and the DNA that made her the person she was today, would going be worth the pain it would cause her mother? Isla had been angry about being kept in the dark but she could understand Glory’s reasons for hiding the letters that had kept turning up.
Glory stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Isla’s neck, resting her head on her shoulder. She said nothing, and Isla didn’t expect her to. Isla knew her mother would no more offer an apology for her actions than she would offer her soul to the devil himself. As far as she was concerned, she’d done the right thing and no excuse was necessary. Isla wouldn’t push for one, either, because there was enough turmoil in her thoughts right now without adding Glory’s fury.
‘I don’t want to fight, Mum. Not over him.’
‘I’ve always done my best.’
‘I know.’
‘I only wanted you to be happy – to be safe from the pain I suffered.’
‘I know that too. Mum, it’s OK. You’re right – best to stay out of it.’
‘Will you phone the number on the letter?’
‘I suppose I ought to. They’ll only keep chasing if I don’t. But I’ll let them know I’m not interested in seeing him, or in whatever it is my grandmother has chosen to leave in her will. I doubt it will be anything special anyway.’
Isla stepped away with a tight smile. The last part wasn’t true and they both knew it. No solicitor would spend so much time tracking down someone over a worthless inheritance. But what else could she say? She’d reassured her mum that she wasn’t going to the French Alps to meet her estranged father and, no matter how curiosity pricked at her, Glory was going to keep her daughter to her word over that. Easier to back down, because no amount of money was worth losing her mum over.
Isla lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of her room, the letter that had caused so much trouble lying on the duvet beside her. She’d reassured Glory that she wasn’t interested in what it might mean, and she had almost convinced herself of the same. But still, the offer wouldn’t leave her alone. It wasn’t just about money, though. It was about answers.
For what was perhaps the fifth time that hour, she put it to her face and reread it.
Dear Miss McCoy,
I hope this letter finds you well. I have been instructed by your father, Mr Ian McCoy, to trace you and advise you of the sad loss of your grandmother, Sarah McCoy. He has also instructed me to advise you that your grandmother made provision in her last will and testament for you and he would like to see that her final wishes are respected. A copy of the document is with your father in St Martin-de-Belleville in France, and he respectfully wishes you to travel there and meet him to discuss it. You would be fully reimbursed for any expenses incurred. I would urge you to contact me at your earliest convenience regarding this so that I may give you further information.
Yours sincerely,
Grover Rousseau
Solicitor
It didn’t give a lot away. But it did remind her, forcefully, that she had a father somewhere out in the world. Ian McCoy. The name tasted strange as she spoke it out loud. It was a name she’d barely even heard uttered as she’d grown up, let alone had cause to speak. What sort of man was he? All she had here were the barest of details, formalities sent through a third party. Did he prefer savoury or sweet, pasta or rice, bright colours or muted tones, town or city, summer or winter, wine or beer? What scared him, angered him, made him happy? Her recollections were empty, apart from the vaguest sense of him – the sound of his voice; a profile backlit by the sun through a window; the scent as she nestled in his arms. He’d been gone since she was five years old, but she should have been able to remember him, shouldn’t she? But it was like he’d been expunged from her life entirely, as if someone had taken an eraser to her memory and rubbed him out. Perhaps she’d been so careful for so many years trying not to mention him around her mother that she’d almost forgotten him herself. She tried to remember now what he looked like, but she couldn’t. And what about the family she’d never met? Would her life be poorer for not knowing them? Would she always feel the sharp edges of the missing jigsaw pieces in her life?
Crossing to her wardrobe, she felt around in the base for a box, tucked beneath stacks of spare blankets and unworn clothes, and lifted it out. Back on her bed she opened it and removed eight small gifts wrapped in thin, faded Christmas paper. Wrapped messily by tiny fingers when the hope of her father’s return was still bright and alive. They were gifts she’d saved her meagre allowance for months to buy, still convinced that one Christmas he’d return and she’d be able to give them to him. The first year after he left, her aunt had taken her to the shops without telling Glory, swearing little Isla to secrecy if only she would stop her tearful pleas. The next year, her older cousin took her, and again the year after that until Isla was old enough to go shopping herself. Then, aged thirteen, she’d decided to stop and packed every gift she’d ever bought him into the box, along with any hopes that he might come home.
She turned the first one she’d bought over in her hands and closed her eyes. She didn’t need to unwrap it to remember exactly what was in there, and she could recall vividly how she felt buying it – hopeful, certain that he wouldn’t let her down at Christmas, believing that the promise of a gift for him was enough to bring him home. She still knew what she’d chosen for him every year she’d waited, even after all this time.
There were unopened cards too, labelled in an uncertain hand with pictures of flowers and houses scrawled over the envelopes. She’d written one to go with every present, but only for Christmas, because she didn’t even know when his birthday was. And there, lining the bottom of the box, was a scrapbook filled with good-behaviour certificates she’d won at school, letters of commendation from teachers and local newspaper cuttings from the time she’d performed in the choir for Princess Anne. As if by proving she could be a good girl she could somehow will him back. And then it stopped. While other children stopped believing in Santa, she’d stopped believing in her dad. Just like Santa, she’d decided that Ian McCoy was nothing but make-believe.
Isla sniffed hard. She hadn’t shed a tear for that man in a long time now, and she was damned if she was going to start today. She’d become hard and self-reliant but, really, she’d had no choice; Glory worked ten, sometimes twelve-hour days, at her two different care homes, forcing Isla to become independent at a very early age. While girls in her class had horse-riding lessons or days out to theme parks with their parents, she had dishes to wash, rooms to hoover and meals to cook. She went to the post office to pay bills for the mum who was too exhausted to venture further than the end of the garden by the time she got home from work. She pretended she didn’t care that the girls in her class had doting fathers and more money than they knew what to do with, and she pretended she didn’t care when she was bullied for her scruffy shoes or the blazer she’d long outgrown. She pretended so hard that eventually the pretences became reality and she really didn’t care. Friends were few and far between, boyfriends even rarer. Glory had made choices, but there was no such luxury for Isla – her childhood was entirely dictated by the decisions made by everyone but her.
Gathering up the scrapbook and the gifts, she shoved them back into the box and slammed on the lid. She’d half thought about taking them with her when – if – she travelled to see her dad in France, but what was the point? What would he do with them? It was a stupid, childish whim, and she hadn’t been that child for a long time now.
With the box stowed safely back in her wardrobe, she grabbed her phone from her bedside cabinet and dialled her best friend’s number. Dodie always seemed to know the right thing to do and say, and Isla needed some reassurance right now. But the number rang out. It wasn’t unusual, Dodie’s shop – Forget-Me-Not Vintage – was probably busy as it was getting closer to Christmas and Dodie ran it alone so she often couldn’t get to the phone, even after closing time when she had accounts and admin to take care of. Putting her mobile back, Isla glanced across at a teetering pile of books on her desk. There were lecture notes that still needed typing up, but no matter how many times she’d tried to get to them that morning her brain simply wouldn’t stay on the task. She’d have to force herself sooner or later – she hadn’t given up a job and moved back in with her mum to do a university course that she was going to flunk.
Picking up the letter, she read it again. The more she read it, the more she wanted to go to meet her father after all. But she’d promised now, hadn’t she? Did her mum even have the right to ask her to promise such a thing, though? If she wanted to meet her dad again, did her mum have the power to say no? She was an adult now and didn’t need protecting. She hadn’t asked for it and she didn’t want it. What she wanted was the whole picture. Her dad was willing to meet her – did that mean he was sorry for what he’d done? Did it mean he wanted to be her dad again? And did Isla even want that? Did she have forgiveness in her? Glory had spent so many years telling her what a cad he was, she’d successfully transferred all her own mistrust of men onto Isla, who could count on one hand the number of healthy relationships she’d had in her life. Perhaps seeing her dad and finally getting some answers would do a lot more than fill in the gap where her father should have been.
She was going round in circles. She needed to talk and it had to be someone impartial, someone who would give her good, solid advice. She dialled Dodie’s number again. If there was one person who could make the world seem brighter when it was dark, that was Dodie. By her own admission Isla could be difficult and temperamental and those traits had lost her plenty of friends over the years – the people who couldn’t or wouldn’t try to understand her. But not Dodie, never Dodie. Dodie was patient and kind and optimistic enough for them both. She had the biggest heart in Dorset – sometimes Isla would tell her it was a little too big – but as best friends went she was pretty perfect. People mattered to Dodie, and that’s why Isla knew that, even if they had the odd spat, when the chips were down, Dodie would be there for anyone who needed her. Right now, she had no idea just how much Isla needed her.
It wasn’t like those films you saw where family assembled in the dusty solicitor’s office and gathered around a vast desk to hear the last will and testament of the fabulously wealthy deceased. All it took these days was a simple phone call to the solicitor.
Isla’s heart hammered as she waited for the secretary to put her through. It felt like a tipping point – the point of no return. As soon as this conversation began she would live in a world where her dad existed again, somewhere out there, and she’d have to acknowledge that fact even if she did no more about it.
‘Miss McCoy?’ Grover Rousseau’s voice was rich and full, edged with an Edinburgh accent. For a moment, she was transported back to her father’s voice and a time long ago, the memories as sudden and cold as falling into an icy lake. ‘Thank you for calling me.’
‘I thought I should, though I have to admit that I don’t know what I’m letting myself into,’ Isla said, fighting the quiver in her voice. ‘I understand that my dad wants to meet up with me?’
‘He does. It’s concerning the matter of your grandmother’s death, which I was sorry to hear about.’
‘You knew her?’
‘She’d been a client for many years.’
‘And my dad?’
‘Him too.’
‘Oh.’ What did she say next? She wanted desperately to hear more about her father, but his solicitor was hardly likely to give her any detail that meant anything to her in a personal sense. She didn’t even remember her grandmother and certainly didn’t give a toss about her final wishes, but it was easier to steer clear of that conversation.
She couldn’t deny that she was curious about what she stood to inherit, though she didn’t want to sound like a gold-digger. She didn’t deserve to inherit anything, really, because it wasn’t as if they’d had any kind of relationship at all. Perhaps it was all going to be one enormous practical joke on the part of her grandmother, a last insult from the woman who’d been absent from her life even more than her father had. The joke was on her if it transpired that all she’d left Isla in her will was a flea-bitten old rug or a pile of electricity bills.
‘Your father has a copy of the will and he asked specifically that he impart the contents to you himself. As he is executor that’s entirely reasonable and he wants to do that face to face.’
‘He wants me to go to the Alps?’
‘He’s prepared to pay your expenses from the estate.’
‘He couldn’t come to see me here in England?’
‘It’s not possible without causing significant delay to the administration of the estate.’
‘Right.’
‘I take it you’re amenable to that?’
‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.’
‘Which of those responses should I pass on to your father?’ he asked, though there was no impatience or scorn in his voice, only a mild sort of humour. Perhaps he’d made these phone calls many times before and nothing surprised him any longer.
‘Yes,’ Isla replied, though she felt far from happy with her decision. ‘What would happen if I changed my mind?’
‘Then you would be pressed no further on the matter. It really is entirely up to you, Miss McCoy.’
‘So why bother contacting me at all? If he doesn’t desperately need me to go and hear this thing?’
‘That’s not quite the case. I’m not at liberty to discuss the contents of the will as your father would like to do that with you himself, but there are conditions which may not be met should you decide not to travel to France to meet him.’
‘And what does that mean? I don’t get my inheritance? Whatever that is?’
‘Miss McCoy…’ He paused as though about to say something against his better judgement. ‘The fact of the matter is every party who stands to gain from your grandmother’s estate would be affected by your decision not to attend this meeting.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That’s all I’m willing to say on the matter. I hope you understand that I don’t do this to be obstructive but merely to. . .
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