So I smile brightly and say, ‘Hey, don’t do yourself down. I thought it was brilliant. In fact…’ An idea is occurring to me. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before now. ‘Would you sing at our fund-raising evening? We’re raising money for a really good cause – the local mobile food bank - and we’re looking for some great entertainment.’
He seems instantly intrigued, so I carry on.
‘Your Frank Sinatra tribute act would be perfect. I’m sure everyone would love it. And it would be fantastic publicity for you.’
‘Great. I’d love to.’ He nods enthusiastically. I have a feeling the words ‘fantastic publicity’ made up his mind! But it’s true. He’d be fabulous. I can’t wait to tell the girls. ‘I’ll send you a recording of one of my sets,’ he adds.
‘Great!’
He goes out whistling, and a warm glow expands inside me. Katja would be proud of me for biting back the sarcastic comment I almost blurted out! It goes against my nature not to be honest with people in situations like that, but I guess sometimes a little white lie is best. It feels nice to be…well, nice.
Maybe I’ll try doing it more often…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The following morning, I’m back working at the Little Duck Pond Café. Just for the day.
Fen’s now jetted off on holiday and her temporary replacement from the agency (she still bakes for Ellie each morning) failed to turn up, so I’m filling in here instead.
I’ve just been telling Ellie, Katja and Jaz – during a lull in customers – all about meeting my biological dad, and they’re all agog, asking loads of questions.
‘I can’t believe you’ve only just found out about this,’ says Jaz, who’s popped in for a peppermint tea (coffee is on her list of ‘bad things’). Sprawled exhausted at a table by the counter, she groans and hoists her legs up onto a nearby chair. ‘Look. My ankles are so swollen, they’re fatter than my knees.’
‘My parents should have told me about Marcus long ago,’ I say, then I point at her ankles. ‘Maybe you need some bigger shoes.’
She laughs. ‘At this late stage? My due date is tomorrow, remember?’
Ellie rubs her hands together. ‘Tomorrow! It’s soooo exciting. I can’t wait to be an auntie.’
Katja grins at Jaz and says in a stage whisper, ‘Ellie needs the practice. For when there’s a little Zak running around the place.’
Ellie laughs, her cheeks reddening a little. ‘Er, excuse me, but I don’t think so! Not yet, anyway. I’ve got to get the baking school up and running, and that could take months…years…at this rate.’
Katja shakes her head. ‘It’ll happen, Ellie.’
Ellie shrugs gloomily. Then she smiles brightly. ‘Anyway, so your dad actually writes and performs radio jingles? That’s amazing.’
I smile at her, feeling my heart swell with pride. ‘He’s brilliant. So talented. Look, I’ve got some footage of him performing his Frank Sinatra tribute act. It’s just a shame he has to sing about toilet blaster occasionally to make a living! But I guess he’s the sort who’s never going to give up on his dream.’
‘They’re the people who eventually make it. The ones who never give up,’ she murmurs, as we all crowd round my phone, watching Marcus belting out ‘New York, New York’ on stage.
I smile at their positive reaction. ‘He’s thinking of moving to London soon so he can be on the spot for any auditions and opportunities that come up.’
‘He sounds amazing,’ says Katja. ‘Unconventional, but in a good way.’
Ellie grins. ‘A bit like Maddy, really.’
‘Exactly like Maddy,’ agrees Katja.
‘Is that good or bad?’ I grimace.
Katja laughs. ‘Mostly good. Although there’s no getting away from the fact that you were an absolute horror when you first arrived in Sunnybrook. I thought you were a spoilt brat. And a sly, devious one at that.’
‘Say it as it is, why don’t you?’ I protest.
She shakes her head. ‘No, but I gradually realised it mostly masked your fear of failing. You wanted to prove yourself to your dad by landing the job, and you were terrified Ellie would choose me instead of you. And then he’d be disappointed in you all over again.’
I make a face. ‘I feel terrible about the way I behaved towards you when I first arrived.’
Katja shrugs. ‘Water under the bridge. We know the real you now.’
I smile. ‘I like that you think I resemble my real dad.’
‘You mean your biological dad,’ interrupts Jaz. ‘God, I’m so hot.’ She picks up a menu and fans her face grumpily.
‘Well, yes.’ I shrug.
‘I mean, Barry’s your real dad, isn’t he?’ says Jaz. ‘He was the one who brought you up all those years.’
‘Yes, of course. But he still should have told me the truth about Marcus a long time ago. They both should have.’
‘Maybe. But you should still consider their feelings in all of this.’ Jaz shrugs grumpily. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Did they think about my feelings when they kept my real…I mean, my biological dad a secret from me all those years? I don’t think so.’ I feel suddenly on the verge of tears.
Ellie, ever the peacemaker, says, ‘Well, the past isn’t so important. It’s what happens going forward that matters, isn’t it?’
Katja nods. ‘Having two dads in your life could be brilliant.’
I nod, trying to brush off Jaz’s cutting remarks. ‘Well, anyway…I’ve actually got more news that I think you’re going to like.’
They stare at me.
‘You’ve discovered Gary Barlow is your uncle?’ quips Katja.
‘Er, no. Not that good. No, so you know how Marcus does a Frank Sinatra tribute act? Well…he’s only agreed to perform for free at our bistro night!’
‘Really?’ shrieks Ellie.
‘Oh my God, that’s amazing!’ says Katja.
Jaz just yawns.
Then the door opens and Primrose comes in.
‘I’ve popped Maisie-Moo back in the flat with Zak,’ she says, her cheeks flushed after her dog walk. ‘Have you seen this, Maddy?’ She brandishes a copy of the local newspaper. ‘You and your biological dad are famous!’
I stare at her, not understanding. She opens the paper at a particular page and we all gather round to look. My heart lurches with shock as I read the headline.
Traffic Jam Reunites Dad and Long-Lost Daughter.
I start reading the story, my head whirling. It’s all about how Marcus drove me in his hired limo and sang to the motorists in the traffic jam, without realising his long-lost daughter was on board. ‘This is unreal,’ I murmur. ‘But how on earth…?’
Whoever’s written it makes our story seem like nothing short of a fairy tale, which I suppose it is, really.
In a flash, I recall the journalist, Sheila, from the day before. She had her notebook out on the table. It must have been she who wrote the story, although I don’t remember telling her all the details she’s included about that day. And yet she clearly knows all about it…