‘I’m not sure. I took you up to bed and by the time I came back down Bruce was on his way out. I think he’d asked if he could see you, if he could take you out or something. But your mother said no. There was an argument, which everybody pretended not to hear.’
‘Did everyone know?’ I ask. ‘Did all of your friends know he was my father?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not at all. Your parents kept it very close. Those who did know, or who’d guessed, knew better than to say anything.’
‘Why was it always such a big secret? Why did she always say she couldn’t remember who I danced with? Why did she always say she couldn’t remember who my father even was?’
‘She couldn’t bear for you to see him if she couldn’t. She was so in love with him. She always was. But he was an addict. For years and years his love of booze always came first and after he got sober, which was around the time of your third birthday, he didn’t want your mother any more; he just wanted you. I think keeping him away from you was her way of punishing him for not loving her like she loved him.’
My head is reeling. I can’t take it all in. I know my mother is self-absorbed but this is ridiculous.
‘So how did he end up buying this house?’ I ask.
‘Ah yes, well. Do you remember Frank?’
‘Uncle Frank?’
Johnny nods. Uncle Frank was another guy who was always hanging around Mum. I think he lived here for a little while. I remember him coming and going and always giving me a pound coin or two when I was little. He was a painter I think.
‘Frank was Bruce’s younger brother. He lived constantly in Bruce’s shadow. They both went to St Martin’s but Frank was never going to be as good as Bruce. He ended up earning a living as a portrait painter. But for some reason your mother always kept him close and I suppose news of you got back to Bruce that way. That’s how Bruce ended up finding out about your mother’s money problems.’
‘Did Mum know it was Bruce who bailed her out?’ I ask. I feel as though I’m asking questions about a soap opera that I’ve lost track of.
‘She knew; she just preferred to pretend it wasn’t happening.’
I look at the box of photos in my lap. I don’t even know where to begin with them. I put the lid back on them and put them on the table. I keep hold of the one of Bruce. The one of my dad. I drain my teacup and watch as Johnny refills it. I pop a tiny sandwich in my mouth and chew slowly as I think about my next question.
‘If you knew all of this why did you never say anything? Why did you always keep my mother’s secrets and always do exactly as she said?’
He paused for a moment picking at a thread on his cuff, before looking straight at me.
‘Because I was in love with her,’ he said.
Johnny has been working for my mother since she first came to England and I have known him my entire life. At no point did I ever think there was anything between them other than employer and employee; maybe friends at a push. This latest revelation is more than I can believe. If I’m honest, I’d always thought Johnny was gay.
‘You have to be kidding me,’ I say, rather uncharitably. Forgive me if I don’t find my mother very loveable right now.
‘I’ve been in love with her as long as I’ve known her. There’s never been anyone else. Didn’t you wonder why I never had relationships?’
‘I just thought you were married to your job,’ I lie.
‘You thought I was gay, didn’t you? Yes, lots of people do.’
‘Does Mum know?’ I sound more incredulous than I should. I’m probably not handling this very well, but it’s a lot to take in to be fair.
‘She didn’t realise for a long time. She was always in love with Bruce or throwing herself into relationships with unsuitable men to prove to herself she was over Bruce. She knows now though. He pauses, smiles slightly. ‘I keep my flat but mostly I’m here.’
‘Do you…? Are you…?
‘Quite frankly, Julia, that’s none of your business.’
I suppose it isn’t.
He starts to clear up the tea things.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. And I am. I would hate to upset Johnny. Him being in love with my mother for all these years puts a whole new perspective on his relationship with me. He did it for love, not money. By the sound of things, there hasn’t been much money to pay him with over the years.
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You’ve had quite a week and it’s all a lot to take in. I’ll give you some peace and quiet.’
I pick up the box of photos and hand it to him.
‘No you keep them; look through them if you like. I’ll only be downstairs if you have any questions. I’m not going to desert you; at least not until I’ve got your mother back from New York.’
‘Good luck with that.’
As he gets to the door he looks back over his shoulder. ‘How’s Alec?’ he asks.
Despite my best efforts I can feel myself starting to cry again.
Johnny puts the tea tray back down on the table and comes to sit next to me. He doesn’t ask any questions, he just offers me the pristine pressed white handkerchief from his pocket and waits until I’ve pulled myself together.
‘We broke up,’ I say. ‘He’s moving to America to take up a post at Harvard. I’m not invited.’
‘Oh, Julia.’
Slowly, in between sobs, I tell him about seeing Alec earlier in the week. About how I’ve come to realise that it hadn’t been working for years. About a more recent realisation that I’d only been with Alec for stability rather than love.
‘The tears aren’t for him exactly,’ I say. ‘They’re for the ten years of my life I wasted on him.’
‘The first week of your thirties has certainly been eventful so far,’ Johnny says, stroking my hair. ‘But think of it this way, with this inheritance you get a chance to start all over again, to live the life you’ve always wanted.’
‘That’s what Pen said,’ I say. ‘The problem is I’ve no idea what I want.’
*
Johnny is in the kitchen making tea when I get up the next morning. He puts a mug in front of me as I sit down on one of the stools and sits opposite me with his own mug.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Oh fine,’ I say, my autopilot response to anyone who asks at the moment. I’m turning into my mother.
‘This is me you’re talking to,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
I pause. How am I? I haven’t really thought about it. I haven’t let myself, in much the same way as I haven’t let myself read the letters sitting in my handbag, or even think about what I’m going to do with this house.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. Because I really don’t.
‘I spoke to your mother last night after you’d gone to bed,’ he says as he breaks eye contact. He seems embarrassed although I don’t know if it is for himself or on her behalf.
‘And?’
‘She’s inconsolable.’
‘She’s inconsolable,’ I say. ‘What about me? What about the fact she lied to me for thirty years, about everything? Not only did she know damn well who my father was but she spoke to him, regularly. He owned the goddam house for Christ’s sake.’
‘Julia,