‘I’m not lying to you,’ he replies. ‘I swear on your mother’s grave that I’m telling you the truth.’
I feel dizzy as now my world completely breaks away from its axis and starts to roll downhill, gathering speed as it goes. I fall backwards and my back hits the wall. I slide down to the floor and stare up at him in shock, looking down at me from his armchair.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Holy shit.’
He closes his eyes briefly in resignation at my language, while I ready myself to hear the bedtime story to end all bedtime stories.
‘You know that Candy – your mum – was my first love? That we went out when we were sixteen but then broke up,’ he starts.
I nod impatiently, because I’ve heard this story before. They were in the same year at school, and Stu had a crush on her for ages. A few years ago he told me he thought she was the coolest girl he’d ever known – I imagine she was a wild child, while he was a bit of a geek. Anyway, she decided to give him a chance, but after a year they broke up. Mum got pregnant soon after that, and Stu was there for her through the whole thing. But they were just friends until I was about six, when they got back together, although he didn’t move in with us for another two years. Those details I know.
‘When Candy was seventeen, she went to London to see a new band. Fence. I wasn’t much into rock music – not like her – so she went with a friend.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘She was on such a high when she got back from that concert. She bought her tickets to their next one straight away. It became an obsession. She would travel around the country going to every gig she possibly could, spent all her money on them. She became more and more distant, and then one day she called it off with me.’
‘Just like that?’ I ask.
‘Yep. I was devastated,’ he admits. ‘I wanted to at least continue to be friends, but she was so into Fence, into Johnny, that she didn’t want anything to do with me. I was too much of a nerd for her to be associated with. I’d always known she was out of my league,’ he muses.
I feel a wave of pity for him. It sounds like Mum was pretty harsh.
‘Anyway, one day, a year or so later, she did come knocking. She was in such a state, really upset.’ He looks dazed as he remembers. ‘Only a couple of months before that she had seemed so full of confidence, even more than usual. She came to tell me that she was pregnant, that the baby was Johnny’s. I asked if she was sure, and she said without a doubt, there hadn’t been anyone else. She didn’t know what to do, whether to tell him, whether to keep the baby.’
She thought about having me terminated?
‘She didn’t think about it for long.’ Stuart continues hastily, flashing me a sympathetic smile. ‘Her parents went absolutely ballistic went they found out – that’s partly why she came to me.’
‘Did they know the baby was Johnny’s?’
‘No. Your mum never told them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Stories about Johnny’s women started hitting the headlines.’
‘Oh.’
‘She was devastated,’ he says sadly. ‘She hadn’t realised that she was one of many. She thought she was special. She was, but only to me.’
‘Oh my God.’ I try to let all of this sink in. ‘But why didn’t she ever tell me the truth?’
‘She didn’t want to lose you.’
‘What do you mean? She wouldn’t have lost me!’
‘She thought that you’d want to get in touch with Johnny. Maybe choose his life over hers.’
‘But that’s crazy. I wouldn’t have left her!’
‘Try to see it from her side. Look around you.’ He pauses, so I do. I take in the tiny living room with its threadbare carpet and the faded floral hand-me-down sofas – it hurts to acknowledge the left-hand corner which was always her favourite place to sit, with her knees up and her feet tucked underneath her. I stare at the scratched wooden coffee table that she picked up from a charity shop and occasionally bothered to polish, and the curtains that are hanging off-kilter from their hooks, ever since I accidentally grabbed hold of one to steady myself days before she died. We’ve never lived in a palace. We’ve never had a fortune. Not, it seems, like my biological father.
‘But he might have helped us,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘We might not have had to live like this.’
‘She didn’t want to ask for his help,’ he says in a tone that implies I should know this. And he’s right. Mum was stubborn. She never asked anyone for help, not even her parents, my grandparents, who have never played a big part in my life. Mum never forgave them for that, and now my granddad is dead and gran is in a home with senile dementia. ‘She did think about telling you, but when you were older,’ Stu reveals.
Em’s comment from a couple of days ago flashes in my mind.
‘He lived nearby for a while, didn’t he?’ My real dad, a twenty-minute drive away and I never knew.
Stu nods and stares sadly at his hands. ‘She was a mess when he moved back.’
‘Was she?’
He nods, and I can see his eyes shining.
‘I think she still had feelings for him.’
He coughs suddenly, almost with embarrassment. I’m not sure he meant to reveal that. ‘Anyway, I always thought you deserved to know the truth.’
‘Did you?’ I ask in a small voice.
He looks up at me and slowly nods.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
He swallows. ‘So what do you want to do now?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Do you . . . do you want me to contact him for you?’
I feel faint. Ten minutes ago I didn’t think I’d ever know who my real dad was. Now Stu’s offering to help me get in touch with him. ‘You would do that?’
‘Yes.’
A tiny little voice inside asks, does he want to get rid of me? But I don’t want to know the answer to that question. Not right now. Right now I want to meet my real dad. Whatever the consequences.
Chapter 6
‘We have the same hands.’
I look down at our fingers splayed out, our palms pressed together as we lie side-by-side on my single bed. She’s right: we do have the same hands. She links her fingers through mine and squeezes, then turns and presses a kiss to my temple.
‘I like this song,’ she says, as ‘Jump Into The Fog’ by the Wombats comes on.
‘It’s cool,’ I agree, gently extricating my hand and letting it lie across my stomach. I love her to bits, but I’m not really comfortable lying here holding my mum’s hand at my age.
‘You have good taste,’ she tells me and I smirk. Fancy my mum telling me I have good taste. Of course I bloody do. But I’m content so I don’t make a sarky comment. I lean my head against hers and can see her dark hair out of the corner of my right eye, up close and out of focus. Her hair is long and wavy, and looks even more so next to my straight blonde locks. She has caramel-coloured eyes; mine are green. We’re different in some ways, but similar in so many others. I’ve got her slight build and she’d like to think that we have the same taste in clothes as well as in music. But while I can just about handle her downloading my songs, I draw the line when it comes to her raiding my wardrobe. She kicks one slim leg up in the air and I stare at her toenails, painted cherry red.
‘Is that my nail polish?’ I ask accusatorily. She giggles and puts her foot down. I smack her knee and lift my own leg up and she mirrors me. It’s exactly the same shade.
‘Mum!’ I squawk as she puts her leg down but continues to laugh. Suddenly she freezes and falls silent.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’ She brushes me off. ‘Not so keen on this song.’
‘What? Why not?’ I ask with surprise. It’s ‘Locked’ by Johnny Jefferson. It should be right up her street. I sing along: ‘I’m locked inside us and I can’t find the key, it was under the plant pot that you nicked from me . . .’
Abruptly she gets up a
nd presses skip on my iPod.
‘What did you do that for?’ I glare at her.
‘Sorry.’ She flashes me a small smile.
‘That’s really annoying!’ I berate her, getting down from the bed and stubbornly pressing the back button.
‘Fine,’ she says curtly. ‘I’d better crack on with dinner anyway.’ She walks out of the room and I stand there, listening to the strains of Johnny Jefferson’s deep, soulful voice as I wonder what the hell that was all about . . .
Now I understand why she reacted that way. My heart aches because I can’t ask her about him, and I have so many questions. So many questions that will never be answered. I miss her so much. I roll on to my side, knowing that I could wish on every dandelion in the world, but she’ll never lie next to me again.
Stuart asks me to keep the news to myself for the time being, until he’s managed to contact Johnny’s people. I don’t mind, actually. You would have thought that, having found out that my long lost dad is a global megastar, I’d be wanting to shout about it from the rooftops. But I feel strangely private about Stu’s revelation, like I want to protect this secret, nurture it, hold on to it while I can. Besides, who would I really tell? Libby would understand, but we’re no longer close. I feel sudden regret at the loss of my best friend, but I try to harden up – what’s done is done. As for Natalie, she’d be excited, sure, but I doubt that she would take it very seriously.
My head is still spinning. I don’t know how this is going to turn out. Maybe Johnny will want nothing to do with me. I know I’m going to be a big chink in the armour of his happy little family. He’s married with two kids now, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out that I’m probably not going to be very welcome.
Well, tough. I didn’t ask him to shag my mum and get her pregnant. His actions have consequences and he’s going to have to face up to them.
I feel a flurry of nerves. That’s bravado talking. Deep down I feel like a scared little girl.
I’m in a daze the next day at school. I decide to spend lunchtime in the library, so I don’t have to talk to anyone. I walk in and am surprised to find Libby quietly reading a book in the corner. I almost turn and walk out again, but she looks up and sees me.
‘Hi!’ She sounds surprised.
‘Hi,’ I reply, reluctantly dumping my bag on a nearby table.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks with a frown.
I nod brusquely. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t usually see you in here,’ she replies, awkwardly tucking her hair behind her ears. It always looks neat and tidy, unlike mine. I couldn’t even be bothered to brush it this morning.
I shrug. ‘I just needed a bit of peace and quiet.’
Sympathy crosses her face, but she looks down almost before it can register. I haven’t rewarded her recent empathy with anything but meanness, so I can hardly blame her. Out of the blue, I miss her, really miss her, and I desperately want to confide in her. Libby understands how much it’s killed me not knowing who my real dad is. I can trust her.
I pull up a chair and sit down, confused by my feelings.
The door whooshes open and Amanda walks in. ‘There you are!’ she exclaims.
I glance at Libby and see her face light up. ‘I thought you were ill today,’ she says with a smile.
‘I had a doctor’s appointment,’ Amanda reveals with a roll of her eyes. ‘Sorry, I tried to text you but idiot Kevin unplugged my charger so my battery was dead.’
I don’t know who Kevin is – her brother, her boyfriend – but I don’t ask. Now I’m the outsider and I don’t want to be here.
‘Come on, shall we go and sit on the grass?’ Amanda urges.
‘Shall we go and sit outside on the grass?’ I ask.
‘I forgot to put sunscreen on this morning,’ Libby replies with downturned lips.
‘We can sit in the shade,’ I say. ‘Well, you can. I’ll sit next to you in the sun. I really want to get a tan this summer.’
‘I wish I could tan like you,’ Libby grumbles. ‘I’ll just end up with even more stupid freckles.’
‘Your freckles aren’t stupid,’ I say with a grin. ‘They’re highly intelligent. Doesn’t that one speak French?’ I prod her arm.
She giggles. ‘No, you’re thinking of this one.’ She prods a freckle on her other arm, then indicates the one I pointed at. ‘This one knows how to do algebra.’
We crack up laughing and I drag her outside.
I blink back tears at the memory, feeling an unexpected pang of loss.
‘Come on, Libs, it’s gorgeous outside,’ Amanda says.
‘Sure,’ Libby replies. She stuffs her book into her bag. Amanda’s eyes flit towards me, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. We barely know each other, and if Libby has told her anything about me, I doubt it was favourable, considering my recent behaviour.
Libby stands up and hesitantly looks down at me. ‘Do you . . . Do you want to come with us?’ she asks uncomfortably.
‘No, no, it’s OK,’ I brush her off. ‘I’m not feeling that well. Like I said, I wanted some quiet.’ I feel like I need to give her some excuse. Any desire to reveal the truth has flown right out of the window.
‘OK,’ she says, stepping away from me and meeting Amanda’s eyes. I’m sure they’ll be bitching about me the moment they go out the door. No. Libby is not a bitch. She was a good friend. A best friend. And now she’s Amanda’s.
I clear my throat and try to gee myself up. Then I see the three computers up against the far wall and an idea comes to me. I relocate myself in front of one of them.
Google: Johnny Jefferson.
Over a hundred and forty million hits come up. The first is his official website, the second his official fan club, but I click on the third link: Wikipedia.
I could write a five-thousand-word essay using all of the information I find, but the things that stick out the most include the following:
His birth certificate says his name is Jonathan Michael Sneeden.
Sneeden, not Jefferson.
His father, Brian Jefferson, left his mother, Ursula Sneeden, before Johnny was born.
Something we have in common.
He was raised in Newcastle by his mother.
So his mother gave him her name? Mine did, too: Pickerill.
His mother died of cancer when he was thirteen.
And mine died at the age of fifteen . . .
After her death, he went to live with his father in London, an aged musician, serial womaniser and recovering alcoholic.
Sounds familiar. Johnny has been described like this, too.
He dropped out of school to concentrate on his music, took on his father’s surname and formed Fence in his late teens. They signed a record deal and were global superstars by the time Johnny was twenty.
I would have been born around this time.
At the age of twenty-three, the band split.
How old would I have been then? Three?
Johnny had a well-publicised breakdown, spiralling out of control with drink and drugs.
Like father like daughter?
Two years later, he came back as a solo artist and was more successful than ever. He met his wife-to-be, Meg Stiles, when she went to work for him as his personal assistant.
He was 30 when they met, which means I was about ten. I was consumed with the identity of my real dad around this time. Libby would remember.
They now have two children together: Barney, three, and a baby boy called Phoenix.
I have half brothers. I’ve never had any siblings. Stuart couldn’t. Am I the only one like me out there? Or are there others that I don’t know about, that the world doesn’t know about?
My head is still prickling with this thought a while later, when I open up YouTube and watch some music videos. It freaks me out to see that I actually look like Johnny: the same piercing green eyes, the same colour hair. A shiver goes up and down my spine. What will everyone say when they find out the truth?
> I manage to avoid talking to people pretty much all day, but later when I’m walking to the staff car park, I spy Natalie with a group of Year Elevens.
‘Hey!’ she says.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
‘Just finished my final exam.’
‘Bollocks!’ I exclaim. ‘Of course you did! Sorry, I meant to text you and wish you good luck.’ I’ve been so preoccupied. She was going home after Winter Hill yesterday to revise. Not that she thought you could do much revision for Maths. ‘By now, you either know it or you don’t,’ were her words.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tom and Chris coming out of the hall. I try to focus on my friend.
‘How did it go?’ I ask her.
‘It was alright, actually,’ she says casually. ‘I’m relieved I’ve finally finished. You coming to Dougie’s tonight? His end of exams party is going to be great.’
‘Um, I don’t think so . . .’ Tom and Chris reach our group and start joking around with their mates. They’re all on a high after finishing their exams.
‘Seriously?’ Natalie asks. I look back at her to see her face has dropped.
‘I can’t,’ I reply regretfully.
She smiles kindly. ‘Next year will fly by, Jess,’ she says, mistaking my mood. She thinks I’m upset because they’re all leaving and I’m staying. And a couple of days ago, that would have been my biggest problem – I’ve been dreading it for weeks – but not now. Now I have bigger things on my mind.
‘Come on, come with us. Help me celebrate.’
‘No, really, I’ve got to get home.’
Tom looks over at me. ‘You going to Dougie’s tonight, Jessie?’
My butterflies lift their dozy heads as he looks at me hopefully, but even they are too consumed with other things to bother taking flight in my stomach.
‘No, I can’t,’ I tell him, noticing Stuart come out of the door near the staff room. I lift my hand up to wave at him and he nods his acknowledgement.
‘Are you grounded?’ Tom asks.
‘Nope, just gotta go,’ I tell him, backing away. ‘See you later,’ I say to Natalie. She looks put out, but hopefully she’ll understand soon enough. Tom looks disappointed, too.