Page 5 of The Stipulation
“Jo?” Jenny asks, instantly concerned. “What’s happened? Who was that?”
I look up slowly. “Apparently, my father is dying, and he wants to see me.”
For a moment, there is silence and three confused faces.
Then Serena reaches for my hand and breaks the silence. “Ok. Start from the beginning.”
So, I do. I tell them about Gavin Hampstead’s assertion that I googled him and he really is a solicitor at a New York firm, and about my mum’s reaction to my call. When I finish, Jenny looks like she might cry, Olivia looks like she might punch someone, and Serena looks like she’s already planning the logistics of my trip.
“Wow, this is huge,” Jenny gasps.
“It’s insane,” Olivia declares. “You didn’t know your father existed until tonight, and now he wants you to fly halfway around the world to meet him?”
“I’ve wanted a father my whole life,” I say softly. “The lawyer said he’s kept tabs on me my whole life. Something is not right. What if he didn’t walk away by choice?”
Serena squeezes my hand. “Then you go and talk to him and find out. Go with an open mind and the knowledge that you owe this man nothing, and that you can leave at any moment if things get ugly.”
Jenny nods. “I think you’ll regret it if you don’t go.”
My chest tightens. “I said I’d go, but I have to be honest. I’m a little scared.”
“Of course, you are,” Jenny says. “But you won’t be alone. We’ll all be just a call away if you need us. I could do with a holiday in New York.”
Olivia nods in agreement, and Serena changes her accent to a broad Brooklyn accent. “Yup, we could all do with a vacay in the Big Apple.”
I take a deep breath and offer them all a shaky smile.
“Holy shit, guys. Looks like I’m going to New York.”
Chapter
Three
JO
Istep into my flat and click the door shut behind me. The action seals me into the safe space I’ve claimed as my own. I don’t switch on the light; instead. I lean back against the door and let my eyes rove around. My flat is tiny, but it has character, and I love it. It’s the kind of place where everything has a story or a function.
The walls are pale yellow and filled with my paintings and sketches, each one a tiny rebellion against a world that is always trying to tell me to be ordinary. The faint scent of orange and spice from the little sachets tucked into the covers of my cushions hangs in the air. My cream sofa is a refurbished, re-upholstered Victorian daybed that someone had thoughtlessly abandoned by the roadside. It is wonderfully soft and inviting. I can see the outline of my favorite mug on the side table, still half-filled with the tea I never finished this morning.
It seems unbelievable that I’m about to leave this familiar and secure place behind and head across the Atlantic to meet adying man who claims to be my father. My stomach flips at the thought, and my feet twitch with the impulse to do something that will make sense of the impossible.
The enormity of what I am about to do suddenly hits me. A tiny voice in my head whispers it’s too fantastical to be true. Can this really be happening to me? As a child it was my greatest dream. To have a father. To have what all the other girls in class had. I never had anyone to cheer me on from the sidelines. And I wanted it so bad, I was even prepared to pretend he was away on a long business trip.
Even the idea is surreal.
I switch on the light, and everything becomes clear in my mind. There is no time to waste. I set my purse down, kick my heels off, and head through to my bedroom, where I dig out my suitcase from the bottom of my wardrobe. My brain is on autopilot as I start packing a few essentials for the trip. Jeans, a couple of sweaters, underwear, socks, a few dresses, some nice shoes, toiletries, a notebook, my sketchpad, chargers for my cell phone and laptop.
As I fold things up and slot them into my suitcase, I pause mid-fold, suddenly filled with a strange and nervous excitement, and yet I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find. Love? Closure? Revenge for abandoning me? Maybe just a clue to who I am.
My suitcase is nearly full, and I’m pretty sure I have everything I need. If it turns out I’ve forgotten something, well, I’m going to New York, not the middle of nowhere. I can always pick up anything I’ve missed when I’m there. Zipping up my suitcase, I drag it off my bed and onto the ground.
I return to my wardrobe, pull out a pair of soft jeans and a comfortable pink jumper, and change into them. Then I quickly slip on a pair of ankle socks and a pair of trainers, and run a comb through my hair, having already packed my brush.
Then, I do a quick mental inventory of everything I need. My passport, check. Cell phone, check. My wallet with a bit of cash and my cards, check. My laptop is bagged and ready to go, check. My ability to breathe, good enough.
I decide to make myself a cup of tea and relax for five minutes, but on checking my watch I see I don’t have time for that. It’s already five minutes after the two-hour mark. I glance out of the lounge window, and there it is. It’s all real. A long, completely pristine black car is waiting, the engine idling, and a man in a perfectly pressed uniform is standing beside it, his posture rigid enough to make me nervous and intimidated.
I pull my jacket on, grab my handbag, laptop bag, and suitcase, and head downstairs.
