I wonder if she’s trying to convince me or herself. ‘So what have you been doing all these years?’
She sighs. ‘After Dad walked out I decided to leave Wales. I travelled for a bit and ended up in Manchester. Chasing some man. Isn’t there always a man?’
For you, I want to say but don’t. Instead I smile, encouraging her to continue.
‘I ended up blagging my way into advertising. Did quite well. Then my mum became ill. Liver damage.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘It didn’t kill her, or make her give up the drink. She still lives in the house I grew up in. Anyway, I know it’s not very daughterly of me, but I couldn’t stay with her.’ She gives a derisive laugh. ‘But she was never much of a mother, was she?’
I say nothing, although it’s true.
‘When I returned to Manchester I was looking for something. Someone. And then I met Nigel. He’s quite a bit older than me and he made me feel safe, I suppose, after everything.’
And there it is. The lie. It hovers between us, a spectre from our past. Does she still maintain it actually took place? I thought – hoped – that it was just another of her inventions. She was famous for them back then. She always enjoyed telling a story. Embellishing things so that the truth was buried, like a hazelnut in chocolate. What had been a little quirk in her personality – Nathan and I rolled our eyes in mock frustration when she wasn’t looking – suddenly became a lot more damaging. Defamatory. Dangerous, even. Maybe she doesn’t remember exactly what she said that night. Maybe she was just too drunk, too immature, to grasp the impact her latest ‘story’ would have. Maybe she was angry with me and wanted to shock. To frighten.
Or maybe – and this is the part I’ve struggled with over the years – I didn’twantto believe her. And if that’s the truth, what does it say about me?
7
August 1991
The first time I realized that Selena liked to tell ‘stories’ we were eight.
It was the summer holidays and we were bored, waiting on a bench outside Woolworths in Cardiff town centre while Mum was inside, hunting for a bargain. We often went shopping with her in the hope that she might be in a good mood and buy us sweets. Today was a good day. She’d let us have bubble gum. Pink and smelling of strawberries. Mum was also shopping for Aunty Bess, who often seemed to forget that her family had to eat. Uncle Owen was the same. He was a maths teacher, softly spoken and academic – so different in personality, if not in looks, from my larger-than-life, fun-loving dad – drifting around the house in his beige cardigan with the oversized chestnut-brown buttons that reminded me of conkers, head in the clouds, thinking of sums. But he was kind, and he adored Selena and me. Mum didn’t approve of Aunty Bess. She never said so, but every time her name was mentioned Mum’s lips would go thin in a way I knew meant she was annoyed. When we went over to their house – which was nearly every day – Mum’s gaze would sweep around their small, square kitchen, taking in the empty vodka bottles on the sideboard and the newspapers stacked in the corner. Even at eight I could see that our house was nicer, more cared for. Homely.
‘You’ll never guess what I found out?’ Selena said, out of the blue. We’d been talking about how we wanted a pet, even though she kept stopping to blow bubbles. She did it now, and I waited, holding my breath. The gum popped against her face and she peeled it off, rolling it back into a ball and slipping it into her mouth again. ‘I’m adopted.’ Her face was serious as she picked at a scab on her knee. I stared at her legs, bruised at the shins – she was always falling over, spraining her wrists and ankles – then glanced at mine, which were much chubbier.
I fidgeted, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. ‘What do you mean? That your mum and dad aren’t your real parents?’
She nodded. ‘Yep. I was helping Dad clear out the loft and I found it.’
‘Found what?’
‘This box. It was beautiful – pink and shiny. I looked inside and there was a birth certificate. Other names instead of my parents’. Lovely-sounding, they were. Greta …’ She rolled the name around her mouth with the gum. ‘Dad told me that he and Mum couldn’t have kids of their own. That’s why there’s just me. And somewhere,’ she threw her arms open, ‘in this country, I have lots of brothers and sisters. More than you. More than just a brother.’
I thought of Nathan. Two years younger, always getting into trouble at school and taking up all of Mum’s attention. Being an only child definitely had its advantages, I thought. Nathan had been this frightened two-year-old when he came to us. His real mother had been very young. She’d tried to look after him but couldn’t cope. Mum said he hadn’t been hurt, just neglected.
Mum couldn’t have loved him more.
I frowned. ‘But if you’re adopted that means we’re not related. We’re not cousins after all.’
She tilted her chin defensively. ‘Oh, we are. Of course we are. Maybe you’re my sister. You could be adopted too and we were sent to different mums and dads when we were babies.’
I liked the thought of this. ‘But if I was adopted they’d tell me. They told Nathan.’
She didn’t have an answer to this. She just sat there, staring into space, chewing her gum.
But as we walked back, each carrying a shopping bag for Mum, I felt more and more despondent. Selena stayed for tea – she often did. I heard Dad say once we had to keep an eye on her, make sure she was being fed properly. But when she had gone home and Dad was sitting in front of the TV with Nathan, watchingThe Wonder Years,I asked Mum about it.
‘Selena says she’s adopted,’ I burst out, while Mum bustled around our newly fitted kitchen, wiping down the glossy laminate worktops even though there wasn’t a speck on them.
She turned to me and laughed, cloth in hand. ‘Adopted? She’s saying that because of Nathan. You only have to look at her and Owen to see they’re father and daughter. You can’t mistake that Hughes nose. You’ve both got it.’ I touched my nose self-consciously. Mum hadn’t made it sound like a good thing.
Selena never mentioned again that she was adopted. When I asked her about it – the next time I saw her – she pulled a face and said we must never talk of it because it was a secret.
That was the first of many.
8
I wake up with a start, my heart knocking against my chest, my throat dry. I lie here for a few seconds, wondering what woke me, then sit up, reaching blindly for the glass on my bedside table and taking quick gulps of water. I fumble for my phone, pressing the button and creating a white flash of light in the otherwise dark room. It’s two a.m. I pick up my inhaler and have a few puffs, then fall back against the pillow, my breathing regulating.
