‘Erm, well, it’s just that no-one’s ever accused me of being shy. I’m not generally known for being a blushing, retiring violet.’
‘A chip off the old block, then.’ He smiles, his eyes dancing with humour.
A warm feeling rushes through me and I nod happily.
I peer round the door and he introduces me to his three colleagues – two men and a woman – sitting around drinking coffee, a packet of biscuits on the table.
‘Good to meet you, Maddy,’ says the woman, Maureen, with a welcoming smile. ‘Where are you going for lunch? Get him to take you somewhere posh!’
‘We’re going to The Buttery. Where else?’ says Marcus, to a murmur of approval. ‘No place is too good for my daughter!’
Hearing him say my daughter feels weird but nice. It gives me goose-bumps.
He ushers me out to his car, along with Mike from the office, who’s leaving on a job.
‘Watch this,’ murmurs Marcus suddenly, taking my arm. We watch as Mike climbs into his car, and as he pulls away, a loud whistling sound, like an old-fashioned kettle on the boil, emerges from the back of it.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, giggling because Marcus is quite clearly having a hard job containing his laughter.
‘A turbo whistle. You stick it in the exhaust and the driver thinks he’s got major engine failure.’ He grins at me. ‘I swore I’d get Mike back for hooking up a horn to my brake-lights last week.’
‘Oh, my God. Were you on a taxi run?’
‘No, just heading home, thankfully. But I couldn’t understand why every time I braked, my car hooted like a demented bull.’ He looks into the distance and grins. ‘He’s stopped. Wait there. I’ll be back in a sec.’
I watch him sprinting over and bending to Mike through the driver’s window. After some loud, jokey banter, Mike gets out and watches, hands on hips, as Marcus retrieves the whistle. They playfully punch each other, and a minute later, he’s back at my side.
Laughing, we get in the car and Marcus drives us along to The Buttery. We chat all the way, and he tells me all about his time at drama school and how he got his first part in a local panto only a few months after he finished there. I smile, content to just sit and listen to his stories, observing his mannerisms, the shape of his face, and recalling Mum saying she’d first seen him when he played Buttons in that very panto.
I’ve never been to The Buttery before. It’s really elegant, all polished wood and expensive décor, with waiters in long starched white aprons. Marcus suggests we share a paella, which is a house speciality, and it’s delicious. Although to be honest, a burger and chips at the local takeaway would have done just as well; I’m so fascinated by the tales he’s telling me about his performing life, I barely notice what I’m eating.
Back at the taxi firm, he lets me out but says he has to dash.
‘Somewhere exciting?’ I ask, bending to the open car window.
He grins. ‘I’d like to say I have to fly up to London for an audition, but sadly not. I’ve got a plumber coming. Blocked toilet. But I’ll pick you up on Thursday and whisk you off to the studio for the recording, okay?’
‘Is it really all right for me to be there, watching?’ I ask, a little anxious that I might be in the way. ‘Is that what you were organising on the phone earlier?’
He looks at me blankly. Then the penny seems to drop. ‘Oh, yes. On the phone. Yes, it’s absolutely fine. No problem. So I’ll see you on Thursday?’
I nod and he starts the car, revving the engine so loudly, a cat on a wall nearby nearly has heart failure. Leaning over, he grimaces at me and then waves an apology at a woman walking by. Her frowns turns into a grudging smile, and I giggle to myself. What a character he is. Laid-back and so much fun.
And he’s my real dad!
I still can’t quite believe it. But it certainly makes sense of so much that’s puzzled me in the past.
I could always see similarities between Mum and me – we looked so much alike, apart from anything else - but I seemed to have inherited absolutely none of Dad’s traits or looks. Mum always jokes affectionately that Dad’s ‘a bit of a stuffed shirt’, and it’s true that his quiet, reserved manner is the complete opposite of mine.
But Marcus Kingston is confident and gregarious; the life and soul of any party, I’d imagine. He’s probably a bit like marmite, too, to be fair. You’d either love his humour and fizzing energy, or it would be too over-powering for you. Already, I’m seeing how much we have in common…
Much later, when I turn out the light, I snuggle down, thinking happily of Thursday afternoon, when I’ll get to watch my dad – my real dad - record his music in the studio. He was so good, strumming his guitar and singing on that grass verge. I can’t wait to hear him performing some of his own stuff.
My mobile rings and when ‘Mum’ flashes up, my heart sinks.
I haven’t been over there since the showdown with her and Dad, but she’s clearly anxious for a follow-up chat. She’s left three messages for me to call her, and Dad even called me once, which he never usually does.
I suppose I’m uneasy with them knowing I’m keen to have Marcus in my life. But I’ll have to face them at some point.
Tomorrow, I decide, as I let the phone go to message once more…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I arrive back at the café, Carrie pounces on me, eager to know how it went.
‘I found him! My real dad! And he’s amazing. We hit it off pretty much straight away.’
‘Wow, that’s incredible. I’m so happy for you, Maddy.’
‘I know. It’s like there was a piece of the jigsaw missing, and now it’s slotted into place just perfectly. He’s an actor and musician, and I’m watching him do a recording of his own music in a studio on Thursday.’
‘Gosh.’
‘He’s been in a couple of soaps. Just bit parts, though.’
She shrugs. ‘Even so. That’s still a far more exciting achievement than most people manage in their lifetime.’
I nod, smiling happily.
‘What do your parents think of you meeting up with him? Are they okay about it?’
I swallow, and some of the air leaks out of my happiness bubble. ‘Er…actually, they don’t know yet. I haven’t told them.’
‘Oh.’ Carrie’s smile slips a little.
‘But obviously I will tell them. I just haven’t had a chance. They’ll be fine about it.’
She nods. ‘I’m sure they will be. As long as you keep them in the loop.’
‘Of course. I’ll…phone them later.’
‘Do it now, if you like. We’re not exactly run off our feet.’
I nod, grab my coat and go outside, where the signal is better. It’s markedly colder outside, after the heatwave of last week. The weather has done a complete turn-about, and there’s a definite autumnal nip in the air. The trees are starting to turn red and gold, and I even had to bring out my warmer duvet last night.
Wandering over to the little row of workshops nearby, I linger outside Adam’s unit, looking at his beautiful wood carvings of birds and squirrels in the window and reflecting on how complicated life can be. This should be a really happy time for me, getting to know my biological father at last. But there’s this guilty feeling over Mum and Dad gnawing away at me.