‘Why wouldn’t your mum have just told you the truth?’ she asks with narrowed eyes, holding back from showing any emotion. ‘I mean, if your dad is Johnny Jefferson,’ she says in a comedy voice, ‘surely that’s big news.’
‘She didn’t want to lose me, Stu said. She thought I’d want to go and live with him, choose him over her. I mean, he’s a mega famous rock star.’ I shrug.
She smirks and noisily slurps at the dregs of her drink. ‘You should be an actress,’ she says when she’s finished.
‘I am not joking!’ I say in a loud whisper. ‘Johnny Jefferson is my biological father. I’ve had to do a paternity test. I went to see his solicitor yesterday in London and he told me to keep quiet about it, so it’s actually pretty handy if you don’t believe me because I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.’
Something changes in her expression and I think she’s starting to come around. Then she cracks up laughing. She literally hoots with laughter, bordering on hysterical. ‘Are you serious?’ she asks again. She’s wearing false eyelashes today. They make her blue eyes look even bigger.
‘Yes!’ I sit back in my chair and grin at her. She lurches forwards and grabs my hand.
‘Johnny Jefferson is your dad? Your dad?’
‘Yes! Shh!’
‘Holy shit!’ she cries. I lean over and bat her across the head.
‘Keep it down, you nutcase. I don’t want anyone to hear us.’ But the coffee shop is bustling with people and they’re all nattering away, so I don’t think anyone is paying attention to two hysterical teenagers. I look back at Natalie. She’s still staring at me. I’m not sure if it’s in disbelief or if she’s just reeling from the truth. I hope it’s the latter because I’m sick of trying to convince her.
‘What a load of bollocks,’ she says suddenly with a wry grin, throwing the remnants of her lunch down and pushing her chair back. ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’ She stands up. ‘Glad you’re feeling better, though.’ She pats my arm and walks out of the coffee shop, shaking her head with bemusement.
I stare after her with surprise. She still thinks I’m making it up. It makes me think about Libby again, and how things might have been different if she and I were still friends.
The rain has cleared by the evening, so I walk the long way home, my feet taking me on a detour past Libby’s house. I slow on the pavement on the opposite side of the street, and cast a look at her house. Her dad’s car is on the driveway, but there’s no sign of life inside. I feel downhearted, but then, just like the last time I walked past, her mum appears in the kitchen window and she spots me instantly. But unlike last time, I don’t put my head down and turn away, so I see her wave enthusiastically. I timidly smile back and she holds up her palm, indicating for me to wait. She hurries out of sight and then the front door opens.
‘Jessie!’ she cries, beaming, her curly red hair framing her round face. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m OK, thanks, Marilyn,’ I reply uncertainly. My life has changed so much since Mum’s death, it’s like I don’t know her any more. She used to be like a second mum to me.
‘Come over and see me.’ She beckons to me and I feel obliged to go. ‘I haven’t seen you for such a long time!’ she exclaims as I reach her, putting her arm around me and pulling me in for a squeeze. I awkwardly squeeze her back. She’s familiar, yet unfamiliar. ‘Have you got time for a cuppa with me?’ she implores, and I hesitate before nodding. She leads me through to the kitchen. The house looks the same as it always did, but it feels like an age has passed since I was last here, not just a few months.
‘Where’s Libby?’ I ask.
‘She’s out at a friend’s,’ Marilyn replies.
I’d put money on that friend being Amanda Blackthorn.
‘She should be back soon. I know she’d love to see you.’
Why do I feel so small and out of place? So much has happened since I last felt comfortable within these walls. Marilyn sets about filling the kettle and putting it on. I pull up a chair at the kitchen table and tentatively sit down. She returns after a while with two mugs full of steaming, milky tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘I hope these don’t spoil your appetite this close to dinner. I don’t want Stuart to be cross with me,’ she says, taking a seat next to me. ‘But it just feels like so long since I’ve seen you! How are you?’ Her hazel-coloured eyes penetrate mine, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t come. Sympathy sets me off every time, and I’m so tired of crying.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply, blowing on my drink.
‘Are you looking forward to the summer?’ she asks.
‘What summer?’ I reply drily, indicating the weather outdoors.
She laughs and rolls her eyes. ‘Too true. We’re off to Portugal when school breaks up so hopefully the weather will be better there.’ She freezes. Does she remember that mum wanted to go to Spain? No subject is safe with me. Perhaps she also wishes I hadn’t come in. ‘Have you seen any good films recently?’ she asks weakly, obviously struggling to think of something to say.
‘I haven’t been to the cinema for ages,’ I reply with a smile, feeling sorry for her. This is why it’s easier hanging out with people like Natalie – no awkward questions, no link to the past.
We hear a key in the front lock and she instantly brightens up, leaping to her feet and popping her head around the corner into the hall.
‘Libby!’ she exclaims. ‘You’re back! Jessie’s here.’
‘Jessie?’ I hear Libby ask with wary disbelief. A moment later she appears. ‘Hi!’ she says with surprise. She’s wearing blue jeans and a light-blue top I recognise from TopShop. She looks like she’s lost a little weight. Her mum would call it puppy fat, much to her mortification.
‘Hi,’ I reply edgily. ‘I walked the long way home from town. Your mum spotted me through the window.’ I feel like I need to explain my presence.
‘I was over at Amanda’s,’ she says, tucking her hair behind her ears in that familiar gesture.
‘Your mum said you were at a friend’s. I thought it might’ve been Amanda,’ I reply, trying not to look like it bothers me.
‘Do you want to have a cuppa with us, Libs?’ Marilyn asks, the hope in her voice obvious.
‘Er, alright then,’ she says, pulling up a chair.
I have no idea what we’re going to talk about.
‘Are you going out tonight?’ she asks me.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I might catch up with Natalie.’ Libby’s face falls a little at the mention of Natalie. ‘What about you?’ I ask quickly.
‘Amanda and I are going to see a film.’
‘Are you?’ Marilyn chips in. ‘Jessie was just saying she hasn’t been to the cinema for ages. What are you going to see?’
‘Two Things,’ Libby replies, and I feel a bit gutted as I remember that Tom talked about going to see that with me. I hope I haven’t missed my chance with him. ‘Come, if you like,’ she says casually to me, and out of the blue I really, really want to. I just wish Amanda wasn’t going, too.
‘Thanks. Maybe.’ I follow Marilyn with my eyes as she wanders out of the room. I look back at Libby to see her studying her fingernails and I remember the last time I gave her a manicure. We were having a girls’ night in, the week before my fated birthday party. ‘Want me to paint them for you?’ I’m taken aback to hear the question come out of my mouth. Libby looks startled, too.
‘Um, OK,’ she says.
My face breaks into a grin, and she instantly mirrors me.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ she suggests.
I kick off my shoes at the bottom of the stairs, and you’d think they were made out of lead, because I feel significantly lighter with every step up the stairs I take. We reach Libby’s tiny bedroom at the top of the landing, overlooking the road. Her brothers share the larger room at the back of the house. Libby’s room looks and smells the same: I’m pleased to see that in her world, at least, nothing much seems to have changed.
‘You still love Joseph Strik
e,’ I note, shutting the door and coming face to face with a poster of the actor in all his toned and tanned, bare-chested glory.
‘Always,’ she replies, bouncing on the bed as she sits down. Her room is tiny, just enough room for a bed under the window, small wardrobe to my left, plastered with pictures of One Direction and McFly, and overcrowded desk to my right. She reaches over and pulls a make-up bag off the desk. I sit down on the bed next to her and cross my legs. She digs around and brings out nail varnish remover and some cotton wool and we set about removing our polish.
‘You’ve been biting your nails again,’ she notices with a frown.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, and then I know that I’m going to tell her why.
‘What?’ she asks with widened eyes, seeing the look on my face.
‘I’ve found out who my real dad is.’
‘What?’ She grabs both of my hands in hers, her reaction the opposite to Natalie’s, the blood draining from her face because she knows what a big deal this is. ‘How? Who?’
‘Stu told me,’ I breathe.
‘But I thought . . . I didn’t . . .’ she stutters.
‘No, I didn’t know he knew either. I never thought to ask him. But he does, and you won’t believe it . . .’
‘Why? What? Who is it?’ She’s dying to know. I’ve never heard so many who, what, whens, hows and whys before in my life.
‘You won’t believe me,’ I say again.
‘Yes, I will. You know I will.’ She grips my hands a little tighter.
‘You can’t tell anyone,’ I warn.
‘I won’t!’ she exclaims.
My face falls, because she’s probably going to think that I’m taking the mick once I tell her, and I really don’t want that. Not with Libby.
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s Johnny Jefferson.’
She doesn’t seem to know what to say. I think she’s still trying to put two and two together. Then she looks away from me, hurt registering across her face. She does think I’m taking the mick and she’s not finding it funny. I can understand why – me making a joke of this would be the biggest insult considering the hours we’ve spent wondering about my real dad. She probably thinks Natalie put me up to it and we’re all laughing behind her back.
‘I know you don’t believe me,’ I say quietly, studying her face. ‘But I swear to you, I’m telling the truth.’
I wait a long moment for her to look up, but she doesn’t. I sigh. Maybe I should have kept this whole thing to myself for a while longer, at least until it’s officially announced. Is that what they’ll do? Announce to the world that I’m Johnny Jefferson’s daughter? My life will change dramatically. Excitement pulses through me at the thought. I won’t leave my friends behind though, I vow silently to myself. I’ve treated Libby terribly, but I’ll win her back from Amanda. And Natalie has really been there for me, so I’ll make sure she’s well looked after . . .
‘Can you go, please.’
Libby’s words cut through my thoughts and wound me like a knife.
I stare at her, but she still won’t return my gaze. I’ve never seen an expression like this on her face. She looks . . . almost . . . angry.
‘Libby, I’m not winding you up.’
‘Just piss off, would you? I don’t know what’s happened to you, Jessie, but I don’t need you coming here and making fun of me,’ she snaps. She snatches up the nail varnish remover from the bed and stuffs it back into her make-up bag, slamming the bag on to her desk.
I feel sick as I watch her. ‘Libby . . .’
Violently she reaches across and shoves me off the bed. ‘Go!’ She raises her voice as I stumble to my feet. I hate the idea of her mum overhearing her shouting.
‘Libby, wait!’ I beg, shocked. ‘You know me. You know I wouldn’t lie to you about my dad.’ Tears fill my eyes and I frantically brush them away as I try to convince her. ‘It’s too important. You might think I’ve changed – I have changed – but I haven’t changed that much.’ I stare at her in desperation and panic, until eventually her eyes lift to meet mine. She still looks angry – furious, even – and the Jessie that Natalie knows would just walk out of the room and tell her to bugger off, but suddenly that doesn’t feel like me any more.
‘I know I’ve been pushing you away. I know I’ve been mean to you. But what happened to Mum . . . God, Libby.’ I hastily wipe my eyes, but still my tears keep coming. ‘I would not lie to you about this,’ I say fervently. ‘You know in your heart that I wouldn’t.’
Her eyes narrow as she regards me, but I see that her anger is waning, and a small spark of hope ignites within me. ‘You’re trying to tell me that your dad is Johnny Jefferson?’ Her voice remains sceptical.
I gingerly sit back down on the bed. ‘I’ve had a paternity test. There’s no doubt about it.’
‘How?’ she asks with disbelief, bordering on astonishment.
‘My mum was one of his first groupies.’ My face heats up. I haven’t dwelt much on how I was conceived, but now, in front of Libby, I feel embarrassed about this revelation. ‘I think they had a thing, going,’ I add lamely. ‘But I don’t know many of the details. Stu has tried to fill me in.’
‘Stu told you?’ Her brow furrows.
‘He’s known all along.’
And then I see it: the belief dawning on her face, followed by an eyes–wide-open look of absolute incredulity.
‘Johnny Jefferson is your dad?’
I can’t help it – I start to giggle. ‘Yes.’
‘Holy . . . Oh my God!’ she squeals.
‘Please don’t tell Amanda.’ I expect her to scoff and say, ‘of course not.’ But to my dismay, she doesn’t.
‘She wouldn’t tell anyone,’ she says instead, a touch defensively.
‘Yes, but you still won’t tell her, will you?’ I ask hastily.
‘No.’ She looks put out. ‘She’s really nice, though, you know. I’m sure you could trust her.’
‘I trust you, Libby,’ I say, my eyes shining. ‘I know Amanda is your friend now, but if I ever meant anything to you, you won’t betray me.’
Now she scoffs. ‘Betray you? You should take a good look in a mirror before you accuse me of doing that.’
Her tone is bitter and my mouth abruptly shuts.
She sighs and looks deflated. ‘Look, I won’t tell Amanda.’ Then she checks her watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get ready before I eat dinner, otherwise I’m going to be late for the movie.’
‘Sure,’ I mumble, standing up.
‘You’re still welcome to join us . . .’ she says warily.
‘No. But thanks. I’d better get home to Stu.’
I leave as quietly as I can so her mum can’t ask me what’s wrong.
I can’t help feeling deflated. I’ve imagined the scene where I tell Libby I know who my real dad is so many times, and it was never supposed to go like this.
Chapter 8
Libby and Natalie’s reactions eat away at me that night and all of the next day. We can’t get hold of Wendel because it’s Sunday, but first thing Monday morning I’m on the phone to him while Stu stands nervously by.
‘Have you spoken to Johnny?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he replies. I struggle to keep my composure.
‘I need to know when this will all become official.’
‘What do you mean by official, exactly?’ he asks carefully.
‘Out in the open. It’s killing me not to be able to tell anyone,’ I say, biting my lip as I spin him a white lie. I’ve already told two people, with varying results.
He hesitates. ‘Oh. I see.’
I wait for him to continue.
‘This could be a problem.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask with annoyance.
‘My client is a very private person.’
‘What?’ I ask incredulously. That’s not how it comes across in the papers.
‘These days,’ Wendel adds. ‘Now that he has a family of his own. It’s my job to minimi
se the damage and I’ve been trying to work out how this can all be contained.’
He’s completely sucked the wind out of my sails. Damage. Contained. He’s making me sound like some kind of natural disaster.
‘You would like to meet him?’ Wendel asks.
‘Yes,’ I answer shakily.
‘How would you feel about going to Los Angeles?’
His question makes my heart beat just a little bit faster.
‘That would be good.’ I make a concerted effort to sound more in control. Stu shifts on his feet beside me. He can’t hear the other side of the conversation. ‘When were you thinking?’ I ask.
‘My client and his family are going away at the end of the month and would like you to come before then,’ Wendel replies. ‘How are you placed for next week?’
I swear I can hear my heart beating inside my head.
‘I don’t break up from school until next Wednesday,’ I tell him, aware of Stu’s inquisitive look. ‘But I might be able to take a couple of days off?’ I glance at Stu. He holds his hands out, palms upwards, in a ‘tell me what the hell is going on’ gesture. ‘Can you hold on a moment?’ I ask Wendel.
‘Fine,’ comes his curt reply.
I cover the receiver with my hand. ‘He’s asking if I can go to LA to meet Johnny and his family next week,’ I tell Stuart, unable to keep the plea from my tone of voice.
He looks surprised. ‘Oh. Wow.’ He pulls up a chair at the kitchen table and sits down, dragging his hand across his mouth. His eyes fall on the receiver. ‘Can I?’
Reluctantly I hand over the phone – and the control.
‘Wendel? This is Stuart.’
Now I’m the one listening to a one-way conversation, and it’s frustrating.
‘Mmmhmm . . . Yes. I quite agree . . . No, yes, the sooner the better . . . I imagine early next week, possibly even this coming weekend . . . I see . . . OK. Well, that would be excellent . . . Yes, I appreciate that – things are tight right now . . . No, thank you . . . Shall we look into some flights? . . . Oh, OK, yes, that’s great . . . We’ll wait to hear from you, then . . . Excellent, thanks very much . . . Sorry? . . . Oh, yes. No, I’ll reiterate that to her . . . OK, then. Bye bye.’