One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [170]
‘Oh, no thanks. I’ve got to get on.’
He put the glasses down. ‘Hattie, this is my sister, Ingrid,’ he said carefully. A woman with a vacant expression turned her head. Smiled, but looked far away. She was middle-aged.
‘Hi!’ In my surprise I stuck out my hand. He didn’t have a sister. I knew that. And there was something not quite right about this girl. I was aware of my features not knowing what to do with themselves. My hand was still unshaken: she stared blankly at it, her face flat. Eventually, I pocketed it. At that moment she proffered hers, hesitantly. I quickly took it.
‘Here, sit a moment.’ Ivan held out a chair. His eyes were asking me to sit.
‘Oh. Well, yes, OK. Just for a moment.’ I sat. How could I not?
‘What will you have?’ he asked quickly.
I looked at Ingrid’s glass.
‘A spritzer, thank you.’
He went back in. I chatted to Ingrid. Well, I chatted, she listened. Ivan returned with a glass, and the three of us exchanged pleasantries in the electric glow of outdoor heaters, about how the street had changed, new shops springing up: helping Ingrid along a bit occasionally. Mostly she sat open-mouthed, listening, but at one point she laughed until I thought she’d never stop. Ivan smiled and waited for her. At another moment, she reached out and took his hand. He held on tight. I drank my wine quite fast, but not overly so. Then I thanked him, said goodbye to Ingrid and went home.
I paced around my sitting room for a bit, arms tightly folded across my chest. Then I got my mobile out. To remind myself of my new life, my new, much healthier, slim-line protected self, I scrolled back through my texts. Way back, to the one Ivan had sent me when I was beetling frantically home to Seffy from the hotel in France, when he’d suggested something in the back of the lorry would be nice. Leaning laconically over the balcony rail with a towel around his waist. Some of it was missing I knew, but I’d get the gist. It would help.
In the way texts have of sometimes recovering themselves, none of it was missing now, and it was there in its entirety. I went hot. On an impulse I punched out his number. He answered, but simultaneously, my doorbell rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh.’ I was flustered. Too many bells in my head. ‘Hang on, Ivan, there’s someone at the door.’
I flung it open, annoyed, to behold him on the doorstep. We gazed at one another, phones clamped to respective ears. Then we laughed foolishly and put them away. I stood back to let him in. He looked awkward, but I was hardly at ease either.
‘Where’s Ingrid?’ I asked: casual but curious.
‘She’s gone home.’
‘Oh.’
‘She lives with her family in Dawes Road.’
‘Her family?’
‘She was adopted before I was born.’
‘Right.’ I was astonished.
He looked defensive. ‘You’re not the only one with secrets, Hattie.’
‘No. No, quite right.’ Once again I had a sense of my own importance. Small. Quite small in the scheme of things.
His face softened. ‘She’s ten years older than me and things were very different then. Mum was very young. She couldn’t cope. They both worked long hours in the café. It was a different world. I don’t blame my parents.’
‘No.’
‘But I’m not terribly proud of it.’
‘But… you see her?’
‘Just once a month. Probably not enough.’
‘It’s something, though.’
There was a silence.
‘Do your parents know?’
‘That I see her? Dad does. Mum doesn’t. He says she’d be too hurt. Too ashamed.’
I nodded. How extraordinary. She’d disowned a daughter. Ivan didn’t know about Seffy. But the parallels didn’t escape me. I stared at him. Then turned away quickly and went to the window, fingers twisting about together.
‘Ivan, at the risk of sounding like a private detective, those pictures in your wallet, the blonde girl. Are they Ingrid?’
‘No, they’re Claudia.’
‘Claudia?’ I turned back.
‘Yes.’ He pulled the wallet out of his jeans pocket