going to topple over.
“Spindly legs, aren’t they?” puffs Dad as he tries for the fifth time. Meanwhile Mum’s inching slowly onto the seat, gripping the granite breakfast bar for dear life.
At last, somehow, they’re both perched up safely on the steel seats, looking all self-conscious as though they’re on a TV talk show.
“Are you all right?” I say anxiously. “Because I could go and get some different chairs…”
“Nonsense!” says Dad at once. “This is very comfy!”
He’s lying. I can see him clenching his hands round the edges of the slippery seat and glancing down at the slate floor below as though he’s balanced on a forty-fourth-floor ledge.
“The seats are a little hard, aren’t they, love?” ventures Mum. “You should get some nice tie-on cushions from Peter Jones.”
“Er… maybe.”
I hand Mum and Dad their cups, pull out a bar stool for myself, and nonchalantly swing myself up onto it.
Ow. That hurt.
God, they are a bit tricky to get onto. Stupid shiny seats.
“So… are you both well?” I say, reaching for my coffee.
There’s a short silence.
“Becky, we came here for a reason,” says Dad. “I have something to tell you.”
He looks so grave, I feel worried. Maybe it’s not the house after all. Maybe it’s something worse.
“It’s to do with me,” he continues.
“You’re ill,” I say before I can stop myself. “Oh God. Oh God. I knew there was something wrong—”
“I’m not ill. It’s not that. It’s… something else.” He massages his temples, then looks up. “Becky, years ago —”
“Break it to her gently, Graham!” Mum interrupts.
“I am breaking it to her gently!” retorts Dad, swiveling round. “That’s exactly what I’m doing!”
“You’re not!” says Mum. “You’re rushing in!”
Now I’m totally bewildered.
“Break what to me gently?” I say, looking from face to face. “What’s going on?”
“Becky, before I met your mother…” Dad avoids my gaze. “There was another… lady in my life.”
“Right,” I say, my throat thick.
Mum and Dad are getting divorced and that’s why they’re selling the house. I’m going to be the product of a broken home.
“We lost touch,” Dad continues. “But recently… events have occurred.”
“You’re confusing her, Graham!” exclaims Mum.
“I’m not confusing her! Becky, are you confused?”
“Well… a bit,” I admit.
Mum leans over and takes my hand.
“Becky, love, the long and the short of it is… you have a sister.”
A sister?
I stare at her blankly. What’s she talking about?
“A half sister, we should say,” Dad adds, nodding earnestly. “Two years older than you.”
My brain is short-circuiting. This doesn’t make any sense. How could I have a sister and not know about it?
“Dad has a daughter, darling,” Mum says gently. “A daughter he knew nothing about until very recently. She got in touch with us while you were on honeymoon. We’ve seen each other a few times, haven’t we, Graham?” She glances at Dad, who nods. “She’s… very nice!”
The kitchen is completely silent. I swallow a few times. I can’t quite take this in. Dad had another child?
Dad had another—
“So…” I falter. “Who was this other lady in your life?”
I can’t believe I’m asking my own father about his love life. Even if it is his love life of thirty years ago.
Dad doesn’t flinch at the question.
“Her name was Marguerite,” he says with a steadfast gaze. “I was traveling a lot for business then and she was a stewardess on the 7:40 London to Carlisle train.”
A stewardess on a train. I have a sudden image of a young Dad sitting in a pale 1970s suit with flappy lapels, smiling up at a uniformed girl as she pours him coffee. She brushes against him as she moves the trolley on…
OK, I’m not sure I want to think about this.
“Daddy was very handsome then,” Mum puts in. “When he had his mustache.”
I gape at her. Dad had a mustache? God, how many secrets does our family have?
Then all of a sudden it hits me.
“That girl! The day we got back.” My heart is pounding. “The one you were with. Was that…?”
Mum glances at Dad, who nods.
“That was her. Your half sister. She was visiting us.”
“When we saw you, love… we didn’t know what to do!” says Mum, with an anxious laugh. “We didn’t want to give you the shock of your life!”
“We decided we’d tell you when you’d settled in a bit,” chimes in Dad. “When you’d got a bit sorted out.”
Now I feel totally dazed. That was her. I’ve seen my half sister.
“What’s… what’s her name?” I manage.
“Her name’s Jessica,” says Dad after a pause. “Jessica Bertram.”
Jessica. My sister, Jessica.
Hi. Have you met my sister, Jessica?
I look from Dad’s worried face to Mum’s bright, hopeful eyes, and suddenly I feel very weird. It’s like a bubble is rising up inside me. Like a load of really strong emotions are pushing their way out of my body.
I’m not an only child.
I have my own sister. I have a sister.
I have a SISTER!
Nine
FOR THE PAST week I haven’t been able to sleep. Or concentrate on anything. All I can think about is the fact that I have a real, blood sister.
At first I felt totally shaken up. It’s OK for Mum and Dad; they’ve had weeks to get used to the idea. But to find out Dad had an affair years ago… and got somebody pregnant… I never thought Dad was like that, to be honest.
But he’s been really sweet about it. The day he and Mum came round to tell me, he could see I was a bit shell-shocked. So he sat down on the sofa with me and told the whole story. He kept reiterating that this all happened before he even met Mum, and that he had no idea he’d fathered a child. Apparently Marguerite the stewardess broke off their relationship with no warning. Dad got on the train one Monday morning, and she just wasn’t there. Another stewardess told him she’d had a whirlwind romance and married another passenger, who owned a frozen food business. Dad was so crushed, he started taking another train. And then they moved his work to Birmingham… and that was the end of it. He had no idea there was a baby.
But there was. A little girl called Jessica. All my life, without knowing it, I’ve had a sister, growing up miles away, with no idea I existed either.
