Page 63 of Deep Blue Lies

SIXTY-TWO

When Sophia says she’ll cook, it turns out to mean that Maria will cook.

But I’m certainly not complaining. Before I even got in the door I could smell it: herby, garlicky, rich.

Sophia pours me some wine, and I sit at their table, and Maria brings an oven tray filled with tomatoes and peppers, stuffed with minced lamb, rice and herbs.

There’s a simple salad too, with fresh oregano and cubes of Greek cheese.

We eat while Sophia tells us about her day, taking the tattoo guy out, who is finding diving harder than he anticipated.

When we’re done I help clear the plates, and then Maria tells us she’s feeling tired and disappears upstairs, I guess to give us space.

Sophia tops up our wine glasses and leads me around a corner, to a part of the house I haven’t seen before.

Here there’s a large swinging chair, a double seater, hanging from the balcony above.

“Sit,” Sophia tells me. “Let’s talk.”

So, we do. I tell her how I spent my day, and how confused and frustrated I am, that nothing makes any sense.

The one thing I don’t tell her though is my slight suspicion that – even if I’m not Mandy Paul’s baby – then perhaps she is.

I think I feel it sitting between us though, this unsaid thing.

I wonder if she wonders too. I wonder if she knows that I’m thinking it .

We’re both drinking steadily, not fast, but at one point Sophia upends the bottle over my glass, giving me the last few drops of wine.

“Do you want any more? We’ve got more bottles.”

I shake my head. The wine’s delicious, but I don’t like the way it’s dulling my senses.

I feel this problem is hard enough. Sophia looks a little disappointed though, with the tiny amount in her glass, and I think of saying I don’t mind if she carries on.

But I don’t say anything. She can work that out for herself.

“So, what are you going to do now?” she says instead.

I pull in a deep breath of the warm, scented air.

I close my eyes, trying to feel whether the idea I have is a good one.

It seems as though all my ideas have got me precisely nowhere.

I’m more confused now about my identity than when I arrived here.

But maybe that’s the reason that I need to turn my thoughts back to England.

“There is something I’m thinking about,” I say.

Sophia turns to me, a little surprised.

“OK, what?”

But I don’t answer at once. I look instead at the roses growing up the wall. I wonder how much they’ve contributed to this thought. I sense Sophia’s impatience, and turn to face her, trying to find the right way to explain this. It’s not easy.

“There’s one person I haven’t talked to.” I pause, considering. “One person apart from my mother, I mean – and I can’t speak to her, not until I know something for sure.” I lift a hand in acknowledgement that I’m not explaining this well. “There’s one other person who might be able to help.”

Sophia waits, then when I don’t go on, she prompts.

“Alright, who?”

“Imogen Grant.”

I glance across and see her frowning, so I go on. “She was there at the time, and she was close to my mum, and they’re still in touch now. So if anyone’s going to know something, it’s probably her.”

Sophia nods now. “OK. That’s a good idea. ”

But I bite my lip. “Yeah. Except, it’s difficult.”

“Why?”

I take my time answering. “Imogen’s been in my life for years, but she’s still a stranger. She’s one of those adults who’s always been ‘around’, but never quite in it. Do you know what I mean?”

Sophia thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “No.”

“OK, what I mean is, they’re friends, but not really friends.

It’s like Imogen relies on Mum for support, and she knows she’s going to get it, because they’ve been friends so long.

But instead of a real friendship now, it’s like Imogen only comes to see Mum when she’s really struggling, and needs help. ”

“Struggling with what?”

“I don’t know, her health – her mental health?”

Sophia draws in a breath, like this is troubling her but she’s not sure why. She shrugs. “OK. How does your mum support her?”

“I don’t know really. Imogen would come around to our house, but Mum would try and keep me away from her.

It was like Imogen being there was a sort of crisis somehow.

Like she was close to a breakdown and that’s why Mum wanted to keep me away.

But at the same time, Imogen herself would always try and be friendly to me, like everything was normal.

She’d try too hard – like she was rehearsing some idea of what being an aunt should look like? ”

“Alright.”

“And then,” I carry on, quicker now, “when she left, Mum would always warn me about her, saying I had to make sure I didn’t mess my life up like Imogen did, that I had to be strong, not weak.” I pause now, but Sophia’s face is screwed up.

“I don’t understand.”

I puff out my cheeks. “OK, so I think basically Imogen’s on a lot of drugs, and has been for a long time.

Like, depression drugs – Prozac, Valium?

That sort of thing. I think that’s what Mum meant.

There’s this state they taught us about in medical school, it’s called benzo-haze – people who are properly addicted to these types of drugs, and they’re slow, they’re kind of out of it the whole time.

That’s what Imogen’s like. She’s not quite there, because of all the medications she’d been on for so long. ”

“OK. Why’s she so depressed?”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that. Depression doesn’t need a reason. Some people just are depressed.”

Sophia cocks her head on one side, thinking this over. “And Imogen’s one of those people?”

“I guess so. I am only guessing,” I clarify. Then add, “I’ve maybe seen her a dozen times in my whole life, and talked to her maybe half of that. But those times, they’re hard to forget, and Mum talks about her a lot, warning me not to end up like her.”

Sophia studies me, and I don’t know what she’s thinking.

“So can you talk to her now? Or is she too far gone?”

I consider this before answering.

“I think so. She’s… functioning , in that sense . It’s more that it’s awkward, since she’s Mum’s friend, and I don’t really know her at all.”

This time Sophia considers for a moment. But she doesn’t seem to consider “awkward” much of a problem.

“So what will you ask her?”

I draw in a deep breath now. In a way it’s the hardest question of all.

“I guess I could ask if she remembers Karen being pregnant. Like at any time after they left the ADR. And if not, if she knows anything about how I turned up, and when. I just need to know something?” I make it a question, and Sophia thinks for a while then nods.

“Yeah. It has to be worth a shot. Do you have a number for her?”

“No.” I look at the roses again. “But I know she works in a florist. In London – Clapham High Street.”