Lewis: And why didn’t you ever tell Rose and Poppy about any of this – when they were older, at least?
Andrea: Oh Lewis! You know why! I was … I was embarrassed. And ashamed. And worried that they’d resent me, and I simply couldn’t stand that. I also … well, I’ve never been a great believer in nature over nurture, but I suppose part of me was worried that if I exposed them to the truth, to his lifestyle even, then it might damage them in some way.
Poppy, darling, forgive me for saying this, but over the years I have had my concerns about you … and Rose. Well, you had your own addictions, didn’t you? But now, I think, I have to say that I’m so proud of you both – and although you might have inherited some of his looks, and some of his traits, you’re nothing like him, really. Just like Joe is nothing like Gareth.
I’m sorry, though, you know … I’m sorry it all ended like it did. I’m sorry for you two, growing up without a father, and I’m sorry for myself, for being forced to do it all alone. And I’m sorry for him most of all – because he missed out on you two.
Lewis: I think that’s enough now, Andrea. You look exhausted.
Andrea: No, no, I’m fine … I could go on all day!
Lewis: No, you couldn’t – and I won’t let you. It’s time for a nap, and it’s no use arguing – don’t make me spank you again …
Andrea: Don’t say that, my daughters will think I’m into S&M … okay, okay … I give in … goodbye girls. I tried to love you enough for two – please forgive me if it didn’t quite work …
Chapter 55
Rose
Ihave no idea how I’d imagined my long-lost father would look, but it certainly wasn’t like a 50-year-old prostitute dressed as Rihanna.
Although, after listening to that heartbreaking question-and-answer session my mum did with Lewis, nothing would shock me. She’d tried to be kind about him, but you could still hear the pain in her voice as she talked about that time in her life.
I’d barely coped on my own with one baby – my mum had two children; her mother was dying and she was dealing with a drug-addict partner. I’ve always thought of her as a strong woman, but I’d had no idea quite how strong. Leaving him had taken its toll, but she’d done it anyway – and raised us beautifully.
None of her answers had made for easy listening on the train, though, and neither Poppy nor myself is exactly full ofjoie de vivreas we emerge into Paris.
We have a couple of photos, and one of them is especially poignant – an old Polaroid, taken of the two of them with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Our father had written on the back of it: ‘Andrea, je t’aime!’ – and it is so easy to imagine them here, young and in love.
We cross the city in silent awe, wandering through the broad boulevards and pretty side streets and walking along the bank of the Seine to our hotel in the Marais.
It’s just as hot here as in the UK, and the place is crammed with backpacked tourists. By the time we reach the third arrondissement, we are both hot and overwhelmed.
Poppy seems to know the city well, navigating our route with ease, but it’s the first time I’ve ever been, unless you count a weekend at Disneyland when Joe was eight.
After checking into the hotel and eating lunch in a streetside café, she leads me into the noise and crush of the underground Métro system. I follow her like a lost sheep, marvelling at how well she fits in here – she even looks French, with her long dark hair and stylish clothes and big brown eyes.
We emerge again into an area that is part tourist dream, part nightmare, walking from the Abbesses Métro stop to see places I’ve only ever seen in films – Sacré-Coeur, Montmartre, the Moulin Rouge. There are cobbled streets and quaint squares and artists with easels in front of them; glorious views of the city, tiny cafés selling even tinier cups of coffee; the sound of chatter and laughter and live music.
But there are also, as we wander into the Place Pigalle, sex shops and theatres advertising nude shows and women of all ages and types loitering on corners. It’s one of those fascinating areas where you can walk for two minutes and be in a different world, leaving behind arty Bohemian splendour and entering a seedy landscape of sex and commerce.
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, the address we have written down for our father is in the latter area, and we enter a tree-lined side street that could be described as ‘shady’ in all kinds of ways.
We have to ring the buzzer for the flat several times before we finally hear footsteps thundering down the stairs inside, along with a flow of words that are annoyed in any language. I am so nervous my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth, and I am gripping and ungripping my fists, leaving little nail prints on my own skin.
Poppy, though, looks super cool. I’m familiar enough now with Present-Day Poppy to understand that just because she looks it, she doesn’t necessarily feel it, and I’m sure she’s just as tense as I am. I mean, it’s a big deal, meeting your father again for the first time since you used to wee in your own pants. I feel a tiny bit like I might be about to do that right now.
When the door opens, it is clearly not our father. Not unless he has undergone some radical changes, like gaining a pair of double-D boobs, losing one of his front teeth, and gaining a fright wig.
The woman on the doorstep stares at us with hostility, all kinds of fleshy bumps and lumps pouring out of the hip-hop party outfit she’s squeezed into. She lets off a volley of rapid-fire French, and I’m relieved I don’t have to translate. Poppy, she explained earlier, spent six months working here for the European division of her pet supply company, and is more equipped than me to deal with this on every level.
The two of them engage in an unintelligible exchange of information, with the woman eventually softening to something less frightening, and to something more human, more sad, to be honest, presumably as she begins to understand why we are here and who we are looking for. Every now and then, amid the flurry, I hear words that sound English – papa, detox, photo.
There is a lot of hand waving, and nodding, and she eventually disappears back up the stairs. The smell of spices and cooking vegetables drifts out of the building towards us, making me immediately hungry despite the situation.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Poppy. ‘Is he dead?’
‘No,’ Poppy replies, shaking her head and glancing at her watch. ‘But he’s not here. He moved out about three years ago. He used to live here, with Anne-Marie and a couple of others, but left because he wanted to clean up his act.
