Page 34 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

‘Sister. Well, half-sister. Anneka. She’s fifteen years older than me.’

If Ethan was intrigued by this, he didn’t show it, let alone ask about it. Not that it would have been a simple thing to explain if he had. I’d only found out the story of my conception a few weeks after starting secondary school when a bunch of nasty girls had interrogated me about why my sister looked nothing liked me. When I’d returned home visibly upset that day, Mum had ignored my emotional state, as was her way. But I’d asked her the question anyway.

‘Who was my dad, Mum?’

She’d carried on what she’d been doing – bashing some chicken fillets with a rolling pin – without pausing as she replied.

‘We’re going do this now, are we? Gosh. Well, I promised myself I’d tell you if you ever asked, so even though you’re younger than I’d prefer, I’m going to tell you this once – but then I never want to talk about it again, okay?’

I’d nodded, fully understanding this would probably be the most significant interaction me and Mum would ever have.

‘When Joe – Anneka’s dad – died, I was very sad and very lonely.’

She’d bashed the chicken twice before continuing.

‘Anneka was just a teenager, and I didn’t have many friends to talk to about it. Joe had been my best friend, you see. So I used to go out on weekends to try and take my mind off it.’

Another couple of chicken bashes.

‘One Saturday night I was out in Bristol and I met someone, and we got chatting and we liked each other. And then two months later I found out I was pregnant. With you.’

I’d been just about old enough to fill in the gaps. ‘Okay. And who was he?’

A whole barrage of bashes before she’d finally answered.

‘All I know is that his name was Paul. He was in Bristol on a stag do with his friends. He was in his late twenties and he didn’t live locally. He seemed like a very nice and funny person.’

Paul. My dad.

‘So… you never told him you were pregnant?’

‘There was no way to track him down, love. I didn’t even know his surname.’ She’d put the rolling pin down and washed the raw meat juices off her hands, drying them on a tea towel.

‘So, he doesn’t even know about me?’ I’d asked, my voice getting smaller with every question.

She’d finally looked at me. ‘No. He doesn’t. I’m sorry, love.’

I’d stood there for a few moments, trying to make sense of everything I’d just learned, before asking the question that had been screaming inside my skull.

‘Do you wish I’d never been born?’

Mum had let the tea towel fall to the ground and bundled me into her arms. It was the nicest hug I’d ever had from her – it still was, to this day.

‘Absolutely not,’ she’d mumbled into the top of my head. ‘You’re the best thing that could have happened to this family after we lost Joe. You’re our little miracle, do you understand? Our little miracle.’

She’d held me for another few seconds, before releasing me abruptly and turning back to the sink, filling up the washing-up bowl with hot, soapy water. The conversation was over. Forever, according to her.

I’d tried to insert the mysterious Paul into conversations every now and then, but Mum had walked out of the room wordlessly whenever I did so. I’d asked Anneka about him once, but she’d just shrugged. ‘You know as much as me. Sorry.’

So that had been that. I’d had no choice but to accept that my dad was out there, somewhere, living his life completely unaware that he had a daughter. Tracking him down was nigh on impossible, and I wasn’t willing to put my DNA into an unknown system on the off-chance he’d been silly enough to do the same.

Will and I had bonded over our wonky parental situations the very first day we’d met. He’d told me matter-of-factly that his parents had been killed in a car accident when he was six, and I’d shared in return that I was half-parentless. Will had sketchy memories of his mum and dad at best, and of course I had no memories of Paul at all, so we had cathartic conversations about our complicated feelings of grief for people we’d never known – but without whom we wouldn’t exist. Being able to talk so openly about a subject that had, for the rest of my life up until that point, been out of bounds had felt like a release. And, over time, the intimacy of our chats evolved into something more. The foundations of our relationship had been built on intensity and instability, and we’d clung to each other in those early years like two saplings growing on a cliff face – it felt like we had a better chance of laying down sturdy roots if we teamed up.

‘You can write in shorthand?’ Ethan’s question brought me back to the here and now, tapping my notepad with his index finger and only just missing contact with my wrist.

‘Yeah, the plan was to be an investigative journalist – or a detective – before I realised both options would involve actual deception. Plus way too many phone calls for my liking.’

‘Ha, phone calls are the worst. Going undercover doesn’t appeal, then?’