The Secret Sister Read online

  ‘It’ll be lovely out there in summer,’ I’d said, visions of lazy, sunshiny days, the baby playing on a blanket on the lawn, floating through my mind.

  ‘And a nightmare to maintain,’ Greg had responded with a grin, but I could tell he loved the house too. It was huge compared to the cramped London flat we’d shared for the last two years. The previous owners had restored and extended the house before moving abroad. ‘It’ll be an easy commute to work,’ he’d added, a glint in his eyes.

  We moved in three months later.

  ‘Come and talk to me,’ Greg said now and I turned to see him patting the sofa. He often asked me to stop moving for five minutes, but sitting still was something that didn’t come easily. If I stayed still, things I didn’t want to think about seeped into my head.

  The TV screen was blank and I was tempted to switch it on to deflect his attention. ‘It’s been quite a day,’ he added, clearly in the mood for my company.

  A strange, panicky sensation rose in my ribcage. I moved to sit beside him and he drew me into a hug. He smelt warm and musky, and looked handsome in the khaki T-shirt that complemented his tan. He nuzzled my ear, and when I looked up there was no mistaking the desire in his long-lashed eyes.

  I immediately pulled away and sprang to my feet. ‘I think I’ll get Mum’s things in from the car, ready for the attic.’

  Greg’s smile slipped. ‘It’s a bit late,’ he said, not quite masking his disappointment.

  ‘It’s only nine o’clock.’ I glanced about for the car keys, even though I knew they were in the blue bowl on the table in the hallway. ‘I can’t bear to leave it all out there.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ A crease appeared between his eyebrows. ‘I do understand, Ella.’

  ‘I know you do.’ My eyes flew to my bag on the floor. Would she have replied yet?

  ‘What’s going on?’ Greg sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gave me the mock-stern look that used to make me smile.

  ‘I think I’ve found Colleen,’ I blurted out, knowing there was no point not telling him.

  I dived for my bag and retrieved my phone, the excitement from earlier pounding back as I fumbled to get the screen up.

  Greg rose. ‘How is that even possible?’

  ‘Facebook,’ I said. I pulled out a chair and sat at the dining table. Its polished surface was smudged with Maisie’s fingerprints, but for once I didn’t care enough to reach for a cloth to clean it. ‘Look.’ I showed him the page in a way that reminded me of Maisie, brandishing her paintings for approval. ‘It’s definitely her.’

  Greg leaned across me, examining her profile, his expression tight with concentration. ‘She does look a bit like your mum,’ he admitted. ‘The hair colour, and something about the shape of her mouth.’

  ‘Told you.’ My face split into a grin.

  ‘I think you might be right,’ he said, sounding dazed, and the fact that he agreed with me was a shock – as though I hadn’t quite believed it before. Turning back to the screen, he narrowed his eyes. ‘She looks a bit like you too, with the freckles. Very attractive.’ A feeling rose inside me and fizzled out before I could name it. ‘Though, the camera could be lying,’ he continued. ‘She might have a squint, or a moustache, or be unnaturally short.’

  ‘Greg,’ I scolded, nudging his arm with my shoulder. ‘Look, she still lives in Ireland.’ I jabbed the screen. ‘I could go there,’ I said. ‘We could all go, have a holiday. We haven’t been away for ages. Or, she could come here. On her own at first, so we can get to know each other, and then she could come with her family, if she has one, and—’

  ‘Ella, for God’s sake!’ Half laughing, Greg pulled up a chair and sat down, his eyes still fixed to the photo of Colleen. ‘You’re getting carried away,’ he said. ‘You haven’t even spoken to her yet.’

  ‘I sent her a message.’

  ‘What?’ His head whipped round.

  ‘Just asking her to contact me,’ I said, quickly. ‘That I had reason to believe she was my sister.’

  ‘Oh, Ella.’ He sat back, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘That’s a bit strong.’

  ‘I know, I know. I got carried away.’ I glanced at the screen again, hoping she’d replied, knowing it was too soon. She might not go online much, for all I knew. ‘I didn’t know how else to put it.’

  Greg puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘I suppose all you can do is wait,’ he said.

  ‘What if she doesn’t reply?’ It was both unthinkable that she wouldn’t, and a distinct possibility that made me feel a little nauseous.

  ‘To be honest, it might be for the best,’ he said. ‘It was a bit reckless, rushing in like that, without thinking it through.’ He spoke in the tone I’d heard him use on the phone to clients, and I felt a pang that he wasn’t being more supportive. ‘Now, what about some dinner?’

  Greg ordered in a Chinese, and afterwards I brought in some bags from the car and dumped them in the hall. Every five minutes, I checked Facebook, but still there was no response.

  It wasn’t until the following day, after breakfast, while Greg was transferring Mum’s things to the attic and Maisie was trying to coax in the cat from next door, that I logged on and noticed a message in a folder I didn’t usually check.

  My stomach tipped. ‘She’s replied!’ I shouted, running into the hall and back again. I stared at the screen, chewing my thumbnail.

  Greg appeared, in ancient tracksuit bottoms, pushing his hair off his forehead. ‘You’d better read it then,’ he said.

  The realisation that reading the message would change everything punched a shot of adrenalin into my system. Leaning forward, I tapped the screen. There were only two sentences.

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

  Ignoring Greg’s plea to think before I replied, and Maisie’s demand for milk for the cat, my fingers danced over the keys, almost of their own volition.

  I was going through my mother’s things and found a photo of her holding a baby, and a wristband with your name and a date of birth. There was a letter too, with an Irish address for someone called Celia, from a man called Reagan. I think he must be your father. My mother – our mother – was called Anna Davis. Her maiden name was Harrison. I added several phone numbers she could reach me on. I’d love to talk to you.

  I sent it before I could change my mind, feeling breathless, as though I’d been running. I turned to look at Greg. He was holding Maisie, staring at me as if a stranger had wandered in, and I snatched up my jacket and said, ‘Who wants to go to the park?’

  Chapter 6

  Colleen

  Sunday

  The August sky had cleared of dark clouds, and the sun was out, making me feel woozy as I trawled the Sligo streets, searching for a job to replenish my dwindling funds.

  I was tired, and bored of seeing happy tourists breathing in the sights of the town as though they owned them. Seeing couples waltz into posh hotels, wearing big smiles and carrying expensive cases, reminded me of my old life, and I wondered what was going on behind those smiles. Were those women as desperate as I had been?

  I’d given myself another massive hangover by drinking myself stupid the night before. It was for the last time, I told myself. Alcohol didn’t solve anything. It never had and never would.

  As I rounded a corner, Ella Matthews’ message leapt into my head.

  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.

  The word sister brought Bryony into my head. I pushed her out; forced myself not to think about her.

  If this Ella really was another sister, how the hell would she fit into my life? Had Anna and Reagan had another daughter and kept her? I clenched my fist and punched a brick wall, scraping my knuckles. How could they?

  As I examined the damage to my hand, the green door of the pub I’d found myself next to opened and a bloke stumbled onto the pavement, stinking of beer.

  ‘Cheer up, it may never happen,’ he said, giving me a toothless grin.

  ‘It already has,’ I said. ‘Not that it’s any of your bloody business.’

  He stopped and stared. His eyes were kind, and with a hint of sadness in his voice he said, ‘Life can get better, love.’

  I raked around for an abusive retort but no words came, and as he went on his way, tears burned my eyelids.

  I took a deep breath, my mind back on Ella Matthews. My sister? I bit the inside of my mouth and tasted blood. I had no reason to think her message was anything more than mistaken identity, and part of me regretted my stupid reply.

  I looked about me. A rainbow stretched over the river in the distance, which reflected the pale blue sky. It was beautiful here.

  I turned back to the pub, and was about to walk on when my eyes fell on a notice on the window: Bar Staff Wanted. I stepped towards the door, Celia’s soft voice nagging in my head. ‘Keep away from sin, Colleen.’ She should have practised what she preached.

  Up to the age of five, I’d lived with Celia in a big house in a pleasant tree-lined suburb in Cork. We’d never gone short of anything. My father, or the man I thought was my father, was a kind, well-spoken Englishman, who left early every morning in his grey pinstriped suit, for work in the city. As an adult, I’d never been able to visualise his face, only his dark, neatly cut hair and that pinstriped suit. Celia was attractive back then, small and slim, with hair the colour of chestnuts.

  ‘Bye, little one,’ the man I called Da would say to me as he left each day, kissing my forehead.

  ‘Bye, Da,’ I’d say, wrapping my arms around his legs.

  When I was five, Terry came to our house to do some odd jobs. He’d arrive when the man I called Da wasn’
t there, and ruffle my hair with his big, rough hand. With a wink he’d say, ‘How are you, cutie-pie?’

  I would laugh and reply, ‘I’m OK, muscle man.’ I’d heard Celia call him that.

  He would always leave before the man I called Da returned.

  When I was six, Celia and I moved to Waterford with Terry, and I never saw the man I’d called Da again.

  Terry stopped calling me cutie-pie, no longer ruffling my hair and winking, and I stopped calling him muscle man. I resented how much Celia seemed to love him, but at least he’d made her happy – for a while.

  I opened the pub door, sucked in a breath and entered. The smell of ale and remnants of a Sunday roast hit me in a wave. Several punters sat at the bar on stools and others around wooden tables. Nobody looked up. A blackboard on the rough brick wall advertised food: sausage and mash, steak and ale pie, fish and chips. Nothing classy. A folk band called The Fox Trotters played there every Friday.

  A woman in her fifties with a mass of red hair and a garishly made-up face, smiled from behind the counter as I approached. ‘What can I get you?’

  I pointed to the window. ‘You’ve advertised for staff.’

  She nodded and smiled again. She had lipstick on her teeth. ‘Have you worked in a pub before?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. It wasn’t a lie. I’d worked behind a bar when I was seventeen. I’d lied about my age back then. They never questioned me and paid cash in hand.

  ‘It’s every evening from seven until eleven,’ the woman said, her hand on her hip as she looked me up and down. ‘We’re pretty desperate. When can you start?’

  I shrugged. ‘Whenever you need me.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  I nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll just need your details and a couple of references.’

  My insides froze, but I managed a casual shrug. ‘I can give you my details. But it’s been a while since I worked.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head so her hair bounced. ‘We really do need references. I took the last one on trust, and had to sack him for having his hand in the till.’

  Tears of frustration flooded my eyes. ‘But I need this job.’

  Looking concerned, the woman came out from behind the bar. ‘Are you OK?’ She put her solid arm around my shoulders. I wanted to shake it off, but knew she was just being kind. ‘Alfie,’ she called to a man at the other end of the bar.

  He turned and smiled. ‘Yes, Sandra, my darling?’ He looked to be in his thirties, with sandy hair curling over the collar of his polo shirt.

  ‘Can you take charge for a bit, love?’

  He came over. ‘Anything for you, Sandra.’ He had an open face; direct blue eyes behind geeky, dark-rimmed glasses, and a relaxed, confident expression. ‘You’re the boss.’

  Sandra ushered me to a tiny office at the back of the pub and gestured for me to sit down on a black swivel chair.

  ‘So, what’s your name, love?’ she said.

  ‘Colleen. But I’m fine, honestly,’ I said, drying my eyes with my hand. ‘I really need a job.’

  ‘Well, Colleen,’ she said, handing me a tissue from a box on the cluttered table. ‘I’m Sandra, as you’ve probably gathered.’ She took my hand, running her fingers over my knuckles, which were grazed and bloody from where I’d hit the wall. ‘Why not tell your Auntie Sandra who you’re running from?’

  I wrestled with whether or not to tell her the truth. ‘My husband, Jake,’ I said, making myself look into her pale grey eyes, with their lavishly shadowed lids. ‘He abuses me, uses me as a punchbag.’ I looked down at my hands. ‘I just want to make a fresh start, that’s all.’

  I looked up to see Alfie in the doorway, holding a checked tea towel. ‘The pump needs changing,’ he said, and smiled at me with friendly interest.

  ‘It’ll have to wait.’ Sandra shooed him away with a flick of her hand, and once he’d gone, pinned me down with a direct gaze. ‘I’ll give you a new start,’ she said at last. ‘But first, I’ll get you a nice cup of tea.’

  The warming tea, and Sandra’s kindness, made me feel a bit better and I was glad she didn’t press for more information, content to give me a rundown of what my job would entail.

  As we headed back into the bar, which thronged with evening drinkers jostling for attention, I allowed myself to believe for a moment that everything would be OK.

  ‘Be here at ten to seven tomorrow.’ Sandra resumed her place behind the bar, and I nodded and made to leave. ‘Wait, love,’ she added, producing a notebook and a pen. ‘Jot down where you’re staying, and your mobile number, in case we need to get hold of you.’

  She thrust the pad towards me, and I felt suddenly uneasy about giving out my contact details. Sandra’s gaze sharpened as I hesitated, so I picked up the pen and wrote my address and mobile number, and handed her the notepad, which she placed by the till. ‘Thanks, love.’

  On my way back to the bedsit, I detoured into the internet café, hoping my father had sent another email. He hadn’t. But there was another Facebook message from Ella Matthews:

  I was going through my mother’s things and found a photo of her holding a baby, and a wristband with your name and a date of birth. There was a letter too, with an Irish address for someone called Celia, from a man called Reagan. I think he must be your father. My mother – our mother – was called Anna Davis. Her maiden name was Harrison.

  My pulse began to throb as I read it again, then a third time. Suddenly there was no doubt in my mind.

  I had a sister, and she wanted to find me.

  Chapter 7

  Ella

  Monday

  It was a soft and balmy morning with a promise of summer. As I rubbed Maisie’s fingerprints from the patio doors, as quickly as she added more, I found myself thinking of Colleen again, picturing her reaction to my message and willing her to reply. I’d almost expected her to phone right away, but Greg pointed out she could be accessing her Facebook account from anywhere in the world.

  ‘She might be in Australia,’ he’d said, and I had to convince him I wouldn’t do anything rash and would put it out of my mind – as if I could.

  Now, he paused in the doorway on his way to work, looking smooth in a navy linen jacket, cream shirt and dark trousers, his hair swept neatly back. ‘It’s amazing, really,’ he said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. ‘To think you’ve had a half-sister all this time.’

  I couldn’t quite work out his tone. ‘Sister,’ I said automatically. ‘And yes, it is amazing.’

  ‘Can I have a sister?’ Maisie piped up.

  I put down my cloth and swung her into my arms. ‘Maybe, one day.’ I didn’t look at Greg as I spoke. He’d wanted another baby straight away, but I’d been keen to pick up the threads of my career and return some order to my life, which had felt upended after Mum’s ovarian cancer diagnosis.

  Once Greg had left for work – much later than usual – and I’d dropped Maisie at the nursery at the end of our road, I headed to Battersea, where my agent had booked me to photograph a new restaurant called Fresh, for an upmarket food magazine.

  I arrived in record time and parked round the back. The two-storey building overlooked the dock, where sunlight sparkled off the water. The exterior looked industrial, but inside was charmingly rustic, and the owners were young and enthusiastic.

  The food stylist was already there along with a young lighting assistant I hadn’t met before, called Ben. After introductions, and a chat with the clients over coffee, we ran through the shooting order.

  While the chef prepped some dishes from the menu, I set up my camera and took a few shots of the interior, making the most of the natural light pouring through the metal-framed windows. The familiar routine was soothing and Ben, who had a hipster beard and highlighted quiff, was touchingly eager to learn, noting my every move.

  ‘How did you become a food photographer?’

  ‘I’ve always loved taking pictures,’ I said, and explained how I’d won a photography competition at school aged fourteen, and after getting a degree had headed to London to work as a photographer’s assistant.

  ‘One of the jobs was a recipe book by a television chef and I got to eat all the food afterwards.’ I smiled, remembering. ‘It kind of snowballed from there,’ I went on. ‘I signed with an agent soon after and here I am.’ I didn’t add that photographing food had never been my intention; that I’d planned to specialise in portraits, or even landscapes – the sort of pictures Mum had loved to paint – but I’d somehow got stuck and lost the drive to change things.