Page 90 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘It’s only Shepherd’s Bush.’

‘Nice. Anyway, I just thought I’d ask. Drop us a text if you change your mind.’

‘I will.’

We’d reached my bus stop by now so I stopped walking, hoping in spite of myself that Samantha wouldn’t be getting the same bus.

But she said, ‘Is this you? Going into town as usual? I’d best be on my way too or I’ll get a bollocking from my manager. Let me know about that drink, all right?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas.’

We leaned in and hugged each other briefly, then she waved a mittened hand and turned away, walking as quickly as she could in her high heels on the frosty pavement.

I remembered how much power she’d had over me – how I’d almost feared her. All that was gone now – she was just another young woman, making her way in the world as best she could. Ultimately, I supposed I had Beatrice to thank for that.

I wondered if Beatrice even remembered that night, kissing a random man to prove a point. I wondered if I’d ever tell her about seeing Samantha that morning, and the epiphany she’d unwittingly caused.

But I doubted I ever would.

FIFTY-FIVE

Beatrice stood in the front room of the house on Damask Square, looking out at the street. Someone had wound fairy lights around the iron railings, and they twinkled merrily in the gloom of the winter morning. Between the bare branches of the trees, she could see one of the tower blocks on the estate, most of its windows lit up and – she counted – Christmas trees glittering in twelve of them. Behind her, she could hear the gentle crackle of a log fire; Orla had hired a chimney sweep and, after years of rubble and abandoned sparrows’ nests had been removed, the house was cosier than she had ever known it.

She turned around, feeling her long skirt swish against her tights. The skirt was wool, finely woven and beautifully tailored; it had belonged to Orla’s grandmother in the 1950s, Orla had told her, and now that the seams had been let out it fitted her perfectly. From the kitchen, she could hear the clatter of pans and smell the mouth-watering savouriness of roasting turkey. Orla had insisted on buying a turkey crown for Beatrice, and Beatrice in turn had consulted Delia Smith online and found a recipe for a nut roast with cranberries and made it for Orla.

The room was still only part-furnished: apart from a worn brocade chaise-longue Orla had bought in the market and a teak coffee table Beatrice had found on eBay, it would have been empty but for the huge Christmas tree that stood in the corner. It was a Norwegian spruce, almost seven feet tall, and they’d had to pay extra to have it delivered to the house. On its branches hung an assortment of cheap baubles Beatrice had picked up in Woolworths, alongside delicate blown-glass spheres that were family heirlooms of Orla’s. Maud had already smashed one of them, but Orla had only laughed, carefully sweeping up the fragments lest they hurt the cat’s paws.

On the mantelpiece stood a meagre selection of cards: one from Imran at the newsagent’s, one from the historic buildings Preservation Trust, one for Beatrice from her mom and dad, one from Luke and one from Livvie. They flanked the largest one, at the centre of the display, which had been sent from America. In it was a note from Frances wishing Beatrice well and saying they all missed her, along with Peter’s scrawled signature and notes from the children. Slate had written ‘Merry Christmas Bibi’ in wobbly crayon and Parker had drawn a wonky, bright red heart, her colouring-in scribbling beyond its outlines.

She and Orla had exchanged gifts that morning. Beatrice had bought Orla a cashmere jumper from Selfridges, which had cost a good chunk of the cheque her parents had enclosed with their Christmas card and was the same tawny gold as Orla’s eyes.

Orla’s gift to her had cost nothing but been worth far more. Beatrice had cried when she’d opened it, looking down at the paint-stained ellipse of birch wood in her hands and knowing straight away what it was.

‘My palette from when I was at art school,’ Orla had explained. ‘In case you want to try your hand at oils sometime.’

Beatrice heard the crash of the door knocker and hurried out of the room. She’d never answered the door here before, she realised – she’d always left it for someone else to do, assuming whoever it was was nothing to do with her.

But today was different.

She pulled open the door. Neil stood on the threshold, smiling, a bunch of red roses and a bottle of champagne in his hands.

‘Hello,’ Beatrice said. ‘Merry Christmas. Come in before you freeze.’

‘Merry Christmas.’ He followed her along the hallway, glancing in at the Christmas tree as he passed. ‘That’s how it’s done! Impressive.’

‘Let’s go and find Orla.’ She led the way through to the kitchen, feeling suddenly shy. She’d never introduced Neil to anyone before, nor introduced Orla as her birth mother to anyone.

But Neil seemed entirely comfortable with the situation. He handed over the bottle and the flowers, returned the kisses Orla planted on his cheeks and wished her merry Christmas, saying how excited he was to meet her.

‘We’re so pleased you could come,’ Orla said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Beatrice. I’m glad your family could spare you for the day.’

‘We were lucky with the dates.’ Neil smiled. ‘Hanukkah starts tomorrow and then I’ll be knee-deep in family – that, and ninety per cent potato latkes before New Year.’

‘You’re our first official guest,’ Beatrice said. ‘We thought we’d be spending the day just the two of us, then Orla said I should invite you.’

Because she was eager to meet my kind-of boyfriend? Or because she didn’t want to spend the day alone with me? But Orla’s face when she’d made the suggestion had given nothing away.