The Secret Sister Read online

  I tried to locate some outrage – some horror even – but the truth was, I felt elated. Feelings that had been lying dormant since Mum’s funeral were flowing back to life. I could feel the blood fizzing through my veins, like champagne. I wanted to know … everything.

  Scrambling up, I rummaged past the detritus on the bed for my bag and yanked out my phone. After switching it on, I drummed my fingers while it connected to the inefficient Wi-Fi, then signed in to my Facebook account.

  I tapped in Colleen Brody Ireland knowing it was silly – pointless, in fact. It was an Irish name, there were bound to be hundreds and I remembered Greg’s comment about her maybe having a different name altogether.

  A whole list of Colleens sprang up and my breathing grew shallow as I scrolled through them, hands shaking. There was a learning consultant, a teacher, an artist and a lifeguard. One was even a man, and several of them were too old. A couple had no identity at all – no photos, no details, just a blank avatar.

  I mainly used social media for keeping up with old friends and for networking in my job as a food photographer, but I hadn’t posted anything for a while. My profile picture was a professional shot that deepened my eyes to a smoky grey and made the most of my cheekbones. My hair looked sleek and shiny and my smile mysterious; not like my usual sunny self – ‘sunny’ being the word most often used to describe me.

  I wondered what Colleen did for a living. The possibilities seemed endless.

  Reluctant to log off, I scrolled up and down the list again more slowly, examining each face. One in particular leapt out. I hadn’t looked properly the first time, but now I felt a flash of recognition.

  It’s her.

  She was gazing directly at the camera with a serious expression, and something about her reminded me of Mum – the same long straight nose and curve of her upper lip. Her hair was the same pale honey-blonde shade as mine, but wavy where mine was straight. She looked about the right age too and although it could have been an old photo, I felt a deep connection in the pit of my stomach that was almost chemical.

  This is my sister.

  My fingers felt fat and clumsy as I tried to access her page, but it was set to private.

  Downstairs, Maisie was calling. ‘Mummy, Mummy, I want you!’

  ‘Coming, darling!’ I was rigid with excitement and couldn’t stop looking at the picture, searching for clues to her personality. Who had taken the picture? A husband, a relative, or had she taken it herself?

  I clicked on the message box and quickly typed: You don’t know me, but I need to talk to you. I think we might be related. I hesitated. What if she didn’t know she was adopted? It might come as a massive shock for her and her family. I didn’t want to be responsible for dropping such a bombshell, but what else could I do?

  Go through the proper channels, I imagined Greg saying.

  ‘Mummeeee!’ Footsteps pattered up the stairs.

  ‘Won’t be a minute!’ I chewed my knuckle then typed Please, please reply to this. I have reason to believe you’re my sister. Oh God, what if it was the wrong Colleen?

  But somehow, I knew that it wasn’t.

  I pressed Send, and was almost sent flying as Maisie charged in and flung herself at me.

  ‘Mummy, I missed you,’ she said, winding her arms around my neck as I fell back and I held her close, breathing in her smell of sunshine and innocence, wondering for the first time how Mum could have given up a child, whatever the circumstances.

  ‘I missed you too,’ I said, nuzzling her neck until she giggled, quelling a surge of apprehension when Greg appeared with more coffee. He wouldn’t approve of what I’d done. The thought of keeping something from him was a new one and not entirely unpleasant.

  ‘Still not finished?’ he said, eyeing the clothes-strewn room.

  I settled for widening my eyes in a way that made him smile.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a hand,’ he said, ruffling Maisie’s hair. It was almost as if our previous conversation hadn’t happened. ‘We’ll be finished in an hour.’

  ‘Grandpa’s making a peanut butter sambich,’ Maisie said, leaping up and throwing herself at her grandfather as he appeared in the doorway.

  ‘It’s ready,’ he said, smiling thinly as she let go of his legs and ran along the landing. He looked tired, deep lines bracketing his mouth. ‘I don’t know where she gets her energy.’

  ‘From Greg,’ I said lightly, as he put the coffee on the bedside table.

  Dad avoided looking at the paraphernalia on the bed and floor and it hit me afresh how sad it was that he wanted to get rid of Mum’s things. He’d loved her so deeply, almost painfully. I’d sometimes felt left out when I was younger. Though he’d been affectionate enough with me, Mum had been his world in the same way I’d been hers.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, spotting the open shoebox.

  I caught Greg’s horrified stare and looked away.

  ‘Just some of Mum’s bits and bobs,’ I improvised, smiling. ‘Hair slides and … jewellery – costume stuff, not the nice bits.’ I snatched up the lid and placed it back on the box. My heart was banging my chest hard enough to leap out. ‘Nothing important.’

  His gaze landed on the letter, which I’d forgotten to put back.

  ‘That’s mine,’ I said, slipping it in my bag.

  He was clutching the doorframe, the tendons in his hands standing out, but he didn’t respond.

  ‘Let’s get that sandwich,’ Greg said, moving onto the landing and scooping Maisie up as she passed.

  ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’ I said, when they’d gone downstairs.

  ‘Why do you keep asking me that?’ The edge in his voice made me flinch. Mum’s death had roughened his boundaries. He never used to speak to me like that. He glanced at my phone, where my Facebook page was displayed, and I had to resist the urge to switch it off.

  ‘I was just checking my messages.’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m going out for a bit. Lock up when you leave, Ellie.’ He spoke more gently, reverting to my childhood name. ‘Thanks for doing this, I know it can’t be easy.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, but we both knew it wasn’t.

  I sat on the edge of the bed when he’d gone, sipping my lukewarm coffee, feeling adrift in the sea of my mother’s belongings.

  Slowly, the elation I’d felt ebbed away and I had the feeling my life was about to slide out of control.

  Chapter 4

  Colleen

  I woke, my nose pressed against the wall as though I was trapped in a box, the smell of damp invading my nostrils.

  ‘Christ,’ I groaned, yanking myself away, coughing as I dragged myself to a sitting position on the single bed.

  An empty vodka bottle lay on the floor, and my head felt as if it had been kicked several times.

  You’re useless, Colleen. Can you really not survive without Jake?

  It was raining again, and almost dark outside. I’d wasted a whole day when I should have been searching for my father.

  I climbed from the bed and lurched into the bathroom. The state of it told me I’d be cleaner if I didn’t wash, but still I turned on the tap, which shuddered and spluttered before a burst of clear water shot out. I splashed my face and cleaned my teeth with my finger, studying the strange person staring back at me from the grimy, rust-tinged mirror.

  It’s you, Colleen. Look at the state of you.

  I ripped my gaze away from my reflection, pulled up my T-shirt and squirted my armpits with deodorant. That was as fresh as I was going to get.

  Back in the bedroom, I pulled on my jeans and dropped onto the edge of the bed, my headache receding to a dull throb. After a few moments, I dug into my rucksack for Reagan’s – my father’s – email address and my phone. But it was no good. I felt trapped in this dive. I needed to get out, needed headspace. I grabbed my jacket and left the room.

  The narrow communal staircase smelt of sweat, pee and stale cigarettes, a long way from my perfect house in Waterford, wi
th its airy rooms and minimalist furnishings chosen by Jake to showcase his good taste, kept pristine by my constant cleaning.

  Am I doing the right thing? Was living with Jake so awful? At least there, I’d had everything I needed.

  The landlord – a man in his sixties – was sorting through some mail by the front door. When I’d booked in that morning, he barely met my eyes – had about as much charisma as a cockroach – but now he turned, ogling me as he rubbed his bristly chin, the smell of whisky oozing from his pores.

  ‘Evening, gorgeous,’ he said, and dried his wet lips on the back of his hand. ‘Where are you off to, all dressed up like a stick of liquorice?’

  I didn’t answer, just hurried out through the door, letting it slam behind me.

  The rain hit my face, sharp and stinging, as I headed down the road, huddled into my hoodie, glancing back every few moments. And despite feeling better for getting out of the dingy room, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that Jake was following me. That Celia had let it slip that I was heading for Sligo, and he was here hiding somewhere in the shadows.

  I found a quiet café on a quiet back street lined with terraced houses, and once inside, ordered a black coffee, sat in the corner, and opened up my phone.

  It took a while to set up an email address. I’d never had one of my own, had shared an account with Jake. My words were his words, he told me once. I knew he read my emails anyway, so I rarely sent any.

  I hadn’t planned what I would say to Reagan. Should I call him Da? Father? Dad? Reagan? Should I begin with, ‘I’m the daughter you abandoned’?

  I imagined over and over his reaction when he realised who the email was from. I dreamed he would lean back in his chair and say, ‘Thank God she’s found me. Thank God I’ve found my Colleen. Now I can be a proper father to her.’ But deep down, I knew he could have found me any time, if he’d wanted to.

  ‘Awful day, isn’t it?’ An Eastern European voice interrupted my thoughts, making me jump. I turned to see a man in his late twenties, dark hair pushed back from a pale, serious face, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. He sat down at the table next to me, despite the café being almost empty, and I wanted to tell him to piss off. The words were so close I could taste them.

  I turned and caught his gaze, and Jake’s ice-blue eyes and disapproving stare seemed to superimpose over his face. I looked away quickly, a clammy, suffocating feeling making me shudder. It was too hot in the café. I should leave – get out of here.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I told myself, and inhaled deeply. Fingers trembling on the screen, I created an email account. I pulled out Reagan’s email address and keyed it in, and then leaving the subject box empty, began typing.

  I’m not even sure where to begin. My name is Colleen, and your sister Celia told me I’m your daughter. I was hoping we might meet. I have so much I want to tell you – so much I need to ask you. I’m in Sligo now.

  I pressed Send before I could change my mind, imagining him sitting at a huge wooden desk, a golden retriever at his feet, opening my message immediately and drafting a reply.

  I waited and waited, killing time on YouTube – something I’d often done on my phone if I couldn’t sleep, my earphones pressed in so Jake couldn’t hear.

  Bored of waiting for a reply, I clicked on Facebook and signed in to the lonely profile I set up the night after Celia’s confession, thinking if I used Reagan’s surname, he might find me. But he hadn’t. Not that it mattered now.

  ‘You’ve got message,’ the Eastern European said, leaning over my shoulder and pointing at my phone screen, his cheap aftershave too strong.

  I turned and glared. ‘Please leave me alone.’

  He lifted his palms and looked away. ‘I was trying to help. You people, you do not check other folder, that is all.’

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ I said. I don’t need anybody but Reagan.

  I turned back to the screen and clicked on the message he’d pointed out. It was from someone called Ella Matthews. I didn’t recognise the name, but clicked on her profile. She was about my age, maybe younger, and the photo looked like something from a magazine. She was pretty and her pale face held a broad smile, but she seemed slightly closed off. There was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, a bit like mine, and her hair draped round her shoulders, fair, straight and shiny. Mine had a natural kink, though Jake had always liked me to straighten it. I’d barely got enough to straighten now. He wouldn’t like that.

  Ella Matthews’ cover photo was a cluster of raspberries on a white oblong plate, alongside a slab of blue cheese, and some nuts. Bizarre. I opened her message and read:

  You don’t know me, but I need to talk to you. I think we might be related. Please, please reply to this. I have reason to believe you’re my sister.

  I read it again. She had to be kidding me. Christ, I didn’t need this kind of spam. Yet something about her words – about her – stirred my curiosity, and I was aware my pulse was racing. I was being foolish. She’d probably mistaken me for someone else. And whatever the reason, I was in Sligo to find my father, and couldn’t afford to get distracted. I had to stay focused.

  With agitated fingers, I flicked back to my email account, and felt my stomach roll over. Reagan had replied.

  ‘Thank all the saints,’ I said, too loudly, my eyes scanning the large font.

  Colleen, I’m in New York at the moment, but I would very much like to meet you. I’ll be back in Ireland soon and will be in touch.

  I clasped my chest, tears filling my eyes as I began typing again, my fingers stumbling over the keyboard.

  That would be grand. I can’t wait to see you. x

  Adrenalin rushed through my body as I waited for his reply, but when it didn’t come my euphoria dimmed to confused impatience. Maybe I was expecting too much, too soon.

  I returned to Facebook to close it down, but something made me read the message from Ella Matthews again, and I felt an urge to respond – to find out what game this woman was playing. Maybe, while I waited to reunite with my father, I’d play a few of my own.

  I’m intrigued. Why would you think I’m your sister?

  Chapter 5

  Ella

  ‘Sure you’re OK?’ asked Greg, when we’d finished loading the boot of the car and wrestled a tired and tearful Maisie into her car seat. She wanted to play with Charlie, but he’d grown tired of her constantly grabbing his tail and ears.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. For a moment my chest tightened and my breathing speeded up, but I fought the feeling back.

  ‘What did your dad say, earlier?’

  ‘Not much.’ I handed Maisie the old, blue teddy Mum had bought for her first birthday, its once soft fur matted and faded to grey. ‘He seemed weary and cross,’ I said with a pang, recalling his expression in the bedroom doorway.

  ‘No change there then.’ Greg started the car engine and pulled carefully out of the drive. ‘Where did he go, anyway?’

  I shrugged, not wanting to dwell on Dad’s mood. I’d done little else for months, and he’d made it clear I couldn’t help him. Seeing Maisie clearly offered some light relief, but he seemed to struggle around me. After Mum’s funeral I’d asked him if he’d like to come and stay with us, and he’d stared at me, seeming baffled.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ It was as though I’d suggested he start dating again right away. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

  I hadn’t argued, but made a point of driving to Buckinghamshire most weekends, to keep an eye on him.

  We fell silent on the drive back to Surrey and Maisie slept, her face bathed intermittently in yellow light from passing cars as darkness fell. I watched her, parcelling up my thoughts and questions about Mum and pushing them to be back of my mind.

  Back at our converted schoolhouse, I carried her indoors and up the stairs, and spent some time tucking her teddy-patterned duvet around her and clearing away her toys, before changing into a pair of fleecy pyjama
bottoms and a vest top.

  I was delaying the moment I would have to talk to Greg. Did I need to tell him about the message I’d sent Colleen, and spoil the mood? Despite the strangeness of the day, I’d felt closer to him than I had in ages. It had reminded me of the early days of our relationship, when we couldn’t stand being apart and spent every spare moment together.

  We’d met at a mutual client’s in Shoreditch, where Greg was sorting out a contractual glitch, and I was photographing wedding cakes for a food magazine. After almost colliding in the corridor we kept sidestepping in the same direction in an effort to dodge each other, and in the end Greg had said with a smile that made my heart leap, ‘Shall we dance?’

  He’d made a decent stab at moonwalking across the shiny floor and I laughed as I hurried away. I’d just ended a relationship that was going nowhere and wasn’t looking for another, but found myself recalling his smile for the rest of the day.

  He invited me to dinner the following evening, having prised my details from the client, and we talked and laughed until the restaurant closed, both aware of a simmering chemistry between us. He didn’t play games. He called when he said he would, making it clear that I mattered. Two years later, we married in my local church and had been happy to spend as much time as possible in each other’s company – until lately.

  I’d put the growing distance between us down to work and becoming parents, but there were other reasons too, which I didn’t want to examine too closely.

  ‘She’s worn out,’ Greg said through a yawn as I came downstairs. He was on the sofa, hands laced behind his head, feet up on the coffee table. I thought he’d be worrying about work, busily checking his emails, but he seemed content to be home. ‘I bet she sleeps through the night.’

  ‘You know I don’t mind her getting into our bed.’

  Maisie had dislodged the armchair cushions during a bouncing session that morning, and I fidgeted them back into place before crossing to the window. I twitched aside the curtain, but it was too dark to see the garden I’d fallen in love with the first time we viewed the house.