Page 86 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘That would be so cool! You can meet Orla and Neil, and see the house.’

‘Did you say Orla went to art college in Dublin?’ her father asked. ‘Was it the IADT?’

‘No, I don’t think so. She hasn’t been back to Ireland since – you know. She doesn’t talk about that time much.’

Beatrice felt her mind turning over the conversations she’d had with Orla, all the details she’d gleaned about her past. She’d spoken at length about her childhood – the huge grey house where she’d spent holidays with her grandmother, surrounded by fields where horses grazed; the terms at boarding school, where teenage Orla had rebelled and been expelled; the turbulent relationship between her glamorous mother and hard-drinking, feckless father.

But Orla was vague about the time surrounding Beatrice’s conception and birth. It was understandable, she thought – eventually, Orla would open up more about what must have been a deeply traumatic period in her life.

‘And you told us she never got to see you after you were born,’ her mom was saying. ‘Poor woman.’

‘It was a Caesarean section,’ Beatrice said. ‘And they took me away from her right after. It sounds brutal. But then I got to go home with you, didn’t I?’

‘You sure did.’ Beatrice’s dad smiled.

‘Well, mind you come home again,’ her mom said. ‘I feel for Orla, losing you. Really, I do. But that doesn’t mean we want to lose you too.’

‘You won’t,’ Beatrice reassured her. ‘I’m only a flight away and there’s plenty of me to go around. More than enough for you and Orla.’

And Neil, she thought.

Then the internet connection began to drop as it often did and Beatrice said goodbye, promising to Skype again on Christmas Day, after her parents had got back from church.

‘Love you, Mom. Love you, Dad. Tell Sligo I love him too.’

Her parents’ answer broke up into crackling and the screen went blank. But that was okay – Beatrice knew what they’d been saying.

She put her computer back in her room and went downstairs.

Orla was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with the cat on her lap. She was writing in a notebook – not one of the special ones she used for her Morning Pages but an ordinary spiral-bound one from the newsagent. Beatrice could smell soup – carrot and coriander, maybe. She didn’t mind eating Orla’s vegetarian food so much now – she no longer felt she had any point to prove.

‘Hello.’ Orla smiled. ‘Everything all right with your parents?’

One day, Beatrice thought, maybe one day she’ll say, Hello, darling. Just not yet.

‘All good.’ She sat down across from Orla. ‘They’re not thrilled about me staying here over the holidays, but they understand.’

‘They’ve had you all your life, and now it’s my turn?’ Orla smiled.

‘Something like that.’

They both laughed, even though neither had said anything particularly funny. Beatrice relished the moment of connection – one of many moments there had been over the past couple of weeks as they’d grown to understand each other – tentative at first, but growing more confident with familiarity.

Then Orla said, ‘Beatrice. There’s something I want to speak to you about.’

Beatrice felt her stomach turn over anxiously. Had she done something wrong? Had something happened to disturb the fragile accord she was building with Orla?

‘It’s nothing bad. It could end up being a good thing.’

But the churning didn’t subside. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s about this house,’ Orla said, looking down at her notebook. Beatrice could see columns of figures on its lined pages – that and a doodle of a robin on a sprig of holly. Orla always drew when she was thinking, Beatrice had learned.

‘What about it?’

‘Yesterday I had an estate agent come round and value it. The renovation’s almost done, you know, apart from extending out down here and putting in a proper kitchen to replace this mess. And I can’t afford to do that now, because all the money from that grant’s been spent.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Beatrice said. ‘I like this kitchen.’