“Hmm,” I say.
“Shit, I have to go it’s?—”
“Her?” I snap. “Or is it the baby?”
“Let it go, Faye,” he warns. After a pause he adds, “We’ve been through this. Let’s not leave things on bad terms. I’m glad you called today.”
But I’m lost in the past now. The pain stabbing me again as if it was yesterday. Finding out about the affair was one thing, but the baby…
“Bye, Scott,” I say, trying to soften the edge to my voice and failing. Then I hang up before he can say anything else. “Smarmy git,” I say to myself, reminding myself never to call him again.
I fish out the envelope from my handbag and stare at my maiden name. I stand, and I try to find the strength I know I possess.
It’s now or never.
CHAPTER12
FAYE
The journey goes by in a blur, despite introspection plaguing every moment. I’m still questioning whether I’m doing the right thing as I pull up to a terraced house on a narrow street. This is Rachel Lacey’s address. Or at least it was fifty years ago.
The street is lined with red-brick houses that I imagine haven’t changed since the seventies, with doors that open directly onto the street, and windows smudged with children’s handprints. The sun beats down overhead as a woman pushing a pram goes by in a spaghetti-strap dress.
I draw a deep breath. On the way here, I pictured myself saying the immortal words of every saccharine straight-to-video movie.I am your long-lost daughter. But the chances of Rachel still living here are slim. This is simply my first stop.
Never one to prolong the moment, I exit the car, hurry up to the door and knock, my heart pattering away beneath my ribs. When the door opens, my heart stops, and then restarts.
A man stands expectantly, waiting for me to speak.
“Hi,” I say.
His hand hovers by the door, as though he’s considering shutting it in my face. He’s young, less than thirty, wearing jeans, no socks and a t-shirt with a stain on it. He hasn’t shaved and his hair is greasy.
“I’m so sorry to bother you. This is a long shot. I… I knew someone who lived here a long time ago and I’m trying to track her down. Her name is Rachel Lacey. I don’t suppose you know her?”
He shakes his head.
“Have you lived here long?”
“Nah,” he says. “About a year. I don’t own the house, I rent it.”
“Ah, okay.” I can tell he’s about to close the door. I know I have to say something quickly to keep his attention. “The thing is, I’m Rachel Lacey’s biological daughter. She gave me up in the seventies. I just found her name and former address. I know it’s a long shot, but if you know anything.”
He contemplates my words for a moment. “Well, I do recognise the name. Wait there a sec.” He disappears into the house.
I do as he asks, leaning with my foot on the front doorstep. With the door swung open, I see a trail of half-filled boxes leading into the living room. He’s either about to move out or really hates unpacking.
There’s an alleyway between this house and its neighbour. When I was small my parents lived in a terrace just like this. All the gardens joined up at the back and everyone knew everyone’s business. It was claustrophobic.
He returns. “I thought the name Lacey sounded familiar so I checked the details on my rental agreement. The person who owns this house is called Dina Lacey. I reckon they could be a relation.”
“I think you’re right,” I say. “Do you have a phone number for her by any chance?”
He shakes his head. “All of my dealings go through the estate agent. It’s Hardy and Co if you want to get in touch with them. Maybe they can help you.”
I can tell he wants me to go. He’s been helpful and polite enough, but he doesn’t want to be dragged into my drama.
Back at the car I gaze up at the building. This could be the house Rachel Lacey grew up in. Then my stomach flips over. Maybe Dina inherited the house from Rachel, and my birth mother is dead.
