‘They’re beautiful, but it’s more than that,’ Guy says earnestly. ‘It feels a little like it’s come in a circle, in some way.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to sound mystical, I’m not real y into any of that caper. But – Cecily had that ring the day she died. I remember it, I remember when Frances started wearing it, after she’d gone. And your mother’s right, they al are. You do look like her.’ He smiles. ‘She was beautiful, but you are even more so.’
‘Oh, real y, come off it,’ I say, embarrassed. ‘And the way you’ve grown up, so creative, so wonderful – making things with your hands, those necklaces inspired by Cecily, and now your own half-sisters are wearing them. And they love them.’ He squeezes his hands, he looks so pleased and I can’t help smiling. ‘Your grandmother was very proud of you.’
‘I’m not sure I want her to be proud of me,’ I say. ‘I don’t real y know who she was, any more. I don’t know how she could have done al that.’
Guy says, ‘No. That’s not fair, Natasha. I can see why, you’re right. But she suffered every day for it. She gave up the one thing that made her happy, her painting. That was her penance, her punishment.’ He puts his hands in his pockets. ‘She was like Icarus, you know. She thought she could get away with what she was doing, and she flew too close to the sun. She didn’t kil Cecily, you know.’
‘No, but she was happy enough to let everyone think Mum did, in some way,’ I say coldly. ‘She didn’t care about her other daughter, about screwing her life up, about carrying on screwing it up. Not at al .’
‘You’re right,’ he says, bowing his head. ‘You’re right. But stil – I don’t think she was evil.’ He stops. ‘Just – she was a great artist. That’s what they’re like, I suppose. And she saw in you something special. I think, if it’s any consolation, you gave her real pleasure, something to live for. And I think she knew I was your father.’
‘Real y?’ I say.
He nods. ‘Oh, I think it now. Didn’t before. But the way she organised this whole foundation, the fact that you, your mother and I were on the committee – I’m sure she was trying to make amends, as soon as she died. So that when she’d gone we’d be thrown together, start afresh, as it were.’ Guy nods. ‘Start afresh, yes. Al three of us, in fact.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘She was proud of you. And I am too. And so is your mother.’
‘Hah,’ I say. ‘Wel .’
‘She is,’ Guy persists. ‘She’s just never been able to say it. Give her time.’
There’s another pause. ‘Look, Guy,’ I say. ‘I am going to go now – just want to be on my own for a bit. Think this al through.’ I squeeze his hand.
‘Are you around this weekend? Maybe we could have a coffee?’
‘Sure, either’s good for me,’ he says. He holds my hand. ‘I’d love to meet Oli too, if that’s OK?’ He reads my face and says, ‘Oh. Oh, no, Natasha. I’m sorry. Have I put my foot in it?’
‘No, not at al .’ I am impressed by his intuition, and then I think, Wel , he is my father, I’ve got half his genes, and my mind is blown again by how strange this is, and yet how total y, almost unremarkably right it feels. I swing his hand in mine. ‘It’s over with me and Oli, it real y is this time.’ His face fal s. ‘But honestly, it’s for the best. I think I was looking for something, a family of my own, and it was a mistake.’
‘You don’t need to look any more,’ Guy says. ‘You’ve got me.’ He puts his arm on my shoulder. ‘I’m your family, Natasha. And soon Roseanna and Cecily wil be too. We can take it slowly, you don’t have to see me at al if you want. But from this moment on, for the rest of your life, that’s a fact. I’m your family. OK?’
‘OK,’ I say. He nods firmly. ‘Shake on it? Wil you trust me?’
I give him my hand again and we shake hands, smiling at each other in the sunny kitchen.
Epilogue
‘Hey, someone’s looking for you,’ Sara, the girl at the next stal , says to me when I come back from a coffee run. ‘Said he’d come back.’
I am vaguely apprehensive today, and I don’t know why. Something at the back of my mind is worrying me, which normal y means I’ve been spending too much time on my own and I need to go down the corridor of the studio and find Lily or even Les, the leader of the writers’ col ective, if I’m feeling real y desperate. Ben has been away in Turkey for ages for work, doing an upscale holiday brochure, so I can’t even cal on him. I keep going to knock on his door, or thinking of something funny to tel him, and he’s never there. I text him, but he hardly ever replies. I miss him, I realise that now. He’s always been there, and I thought it was great to have someone, anyone, next door. Now I know it was the fact that it was
I sit back on my stool by the stal , stroking the dul pink velvet cushions I have put the new bracelets I’ve made on.
They are silver bangles each with a single charm, a fat enamel ed star with an initial, and the pre-orders are already fantastic. I’ve taken Maya on part-time, I’m paying her a wage, and I’m actual y going in to meet someone from Liberty next week. I can hardly believe it.
Down here on Brick Lane, my stal inside at the Sunday Upmarket is busier than ever these days, since I sorted myself out, since spring came, and since I got Cecily’s ring to inspire me. It turns out that Granny left me and Jay money in her wil , ?20,000 each, to be exact, and I need to spend it wisely. I can pay Oli everything back that I owed him, and clear my debts. I’ve bought some more stock, and I’ve spent some money tarting up the stal , having some business cards printed.
It’s over two months since I turned up on Guy’s doorstep. Three months since I kissed Ben. Nearly four months since Granny died and Oli moved out. It is starting to feel as if at some point these things might one day be part of the past, an archaeological layer of my life I can look back on. But of course the roots are deeper than that. I was with Oli for five years, and though he and Chloe aren’t top of my dinner party list at the moment, I can see a time when we wil meet, at Jason’s birthday drinks, for example, and it’l be fine. More than fine. I like him. I always did. We just shouldn’t have been married. It’s not an escape from the real problems in your life. It doesn’t wipe the slate clean.
I sip my coffee, looking round the sunny room, swinging my legs.
‘Hey,’ a voice says. ‘You’re here.’
I look up. ‘Ben,’ I say. I leap up and smile at him. ‘You’re back!’
