daughters cal ed?’ I ask, trying to catch his eye.
‘My daughters.’ His voice is warm. ‘My other daughters, you mean? Hah. Roseanna and Cecily.’
‘Cecily?’
He smiles. ‘You just met her.’
I think of the lovely young woman at the door. ‘That’s my half-sister.’
Guy leans forward. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘She looks like Hannah.’ I have very vague memories of Hannah, who had beautiful long red hair before she lost it al , and who was American and funny and very kind. Guy nods.
‘She does.’ He looks pleased. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen them before but you’l have to meet them, properly. They know about you. Cecily might not have known that was you at the door but she probably did. They know you exist. I told them last week. They’re very excited.’
‘Real y?’ I can’t imagine it, having been an only child my whole life. Siblings are a completely strange entity to me, I have no idea what it’s like, having sisters. Being part of a family. ‘They’re excited? Do they want to meet me?’
‘Al in good time,’ Guy says, non-committal y, and I know he’s being diplomatic.
He stands up again. I look at my watch. It’s ten o’clock. The house is very stil , there’s no noise from the street either.
‘Do you want some toast or something?’ Guy says from the sink. ‘I’ve been a shockingly neglectful host.’
I shake my head, overwhelmed al of a sudden. I don’t know what to say and I am very tired. ‘I’m fine.’
Guy turns and looks at me. He walks over again, and crouches down, slowly – he’s not a young man. He puts his finger under my chin.
‘Did you know, I held you when you were about a year old?’ he says. ‘I rocked you to sleep.’
‘No, real y?’ I look down at him, on the floor. ‘Yes,’ he says. He pats my cheek. ‘It was Arvind’s sixtieth birthday. A lunch, in a big old Italian restaurant near Redcliffe Square, where they stil had their flat, do you remember the flat?’
‘Very vaguely.’
‘Wel , they invited me. Very kind. I admire your grand-father’s work, I always have. So I went, I think I thought it was time to put al of the past with the Kapoors behind me. I was newly married, I was very happy. I went with Frank and Louisa, and yes – there was Miranda, with this little girl. It was the summer of ’79, I think. You were very smal – I wasn’t sure how old you were.’
‘I’d have been about fifteen months,’ I say. ‘What did you do?’
‘Wel , your mother gave you to me to hold,’ he says. ‘You were fal ing asleep, so she chucked you onto my lap and said, “There, sit with Uncle Guy for a while.” And you gave me this big gummy smile and then you closed your eyes and fel asleep.’ There are tears in his eyes. ‘You had very fine black hair, sticking up everywhere. You were quite enchanting.’
And he bows his head, and his shoulders heave, and he says very quietly, ‘I am so sorry, Natasha. So very sorry.’
‘What are you sorry for?’ I ask quietly. ‘For not realising . . . for being so blind. And for everything else . . . for Cecily, you know . . . There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t miss her, wish we could have had one more day together. You know, reading that diary – remembering it al again, these things I’d forgotten, how wonderful she was. And now you – you’re here, standing here—’ His voice breaks.
I pul him up so we are both standing, and he puts his arms round me and hugs me, and I hug him back, as tightly as I can. Not because now I’ve found my father, and everything’s al right. More because I don’t know if we can have a close relationship, if there’s too much history already, and that is so sad, but also because he is a sweet, kind man, and I wish he were happier. He is not, and I wish there was something I could do about it.
‘And what about you?’ he says, releasing me from his embrace and stepping back. He takes a huge white handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose.
‘What about me?’ I say. ‘Your friends – your life, your jewel ery. I don’t real y know anything about it, though I’ve found out as much as I can.
And,’ he says, drawing himself up with some pride, ‘I dropped by your studio the other day, I remembered you saying it was just at the bottom of Brick Lane. They told me where I could buy some of your pieces, they were ever so helpful.’
‘Real y?’ I say, intrigued. ‘Who was it?’
‘A very sweet girl,’ Guy says. ‘Terribly pretty, blonde hair.’
‘Oh,’ I say grimly. ‘Jamie.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘She was with a chap, hanging round at the desk. A photographer. He said he knew you too. They al seemed very nice.’
‘That’s Ben,’ I say. ‘He’s a . . . yeah, he’s a friend of mine.’ I am real y touched at Guy’s making the effort. Then I think, How I wish I could talk to Ben about it al , and then I realise that’s my fault. I need to stop being stupid about him, and knock this strange coolness between us on the head.
We were friends long before we kissed, and we can be friends again. It was weeks ago. Three weeks ago exactly, in fact. He’s been away a lot, with two big projects on, but I can’t help feeling he’s avoiding me too. I wil cal him tonight, see if he wants to come for a drink with me and Jay.
‘Anyway, they directed me to a shop on Columbia Road,’ says Guy. ‘I bought two necklaces there for the girls.’ He points at Cecily’s ring, as ever on its chain round my neck. ‘They reminded me of this.’ He smiles. ‘Lovely.’
‘I’m glad you like them,’ I say, a glow of pleasure washing over me.
