Angie looked again. She thought the pictures of people looking solemnly at the camera in fake crinolines and top hats were funny, but maybe not. Then she realised all the images had a man in them, domineering and commanding in a soldier’s costume or dressed as the stern father figure. It seemed to round the shot off somehow, even though that did not align with her own views of what a family should be. It was only social conditioning that made her think that, she knew, or perhaps it was because the photographs reflected a distant past that she recognised from Sunday night period TV in which every family had a husband.

  Romany was probably right, as usual. Having their photo taken in those costumes was a terrible idea, like buying a sombrero or a sarong on holiday – perfect in its home environment but less well suited to yours. And anyway, the three of them would make for a very sorry little family grouping. Maggie wasn’t even family.

  Angie left the shop behind and followed the others, moving slightly more quickly to catch them up.

  Around the next bend they found the foot of crooked stone steps that led up to the Abbey. There was a stream of people climbing up one side and descending the other. Angie wasn’t sure which group looked more exhausted.

  Maggie and Romany were standing at the bottom and staring upwards, as if it were a mountaineering challenge.

  ‘Are we going up?’ Angie asked them.

  ‘Oh, I think we must,’ said Maggie. ‘Can’t come to Whitby and not see the graveyard.’

  ‘Race you to the top!’ said Romany and then she set off at speed, weaving in and out of other people as if she had a train to catch. A look passed between Angie and Maggie that suggested that a more sedate pace of ascent would be in order.

  They began steadily, side by side, Angie congratulating herself as they climbed on what a nice day she had chosen for their trip, and considering where they might get some lunch, but by the time they were halfway up, her conversation fell away as she focused on just putting one foot in front of another. She had thought she was quite fit but clearly, she had been deluded. This was seriously hard work and as she puffed her way up, she resolved to do something about her general cardiovascular health.

  Eventually, the top of the steps appeared and with it St Mary’s church, and beyond that the remains of the Abbey, looming darkly across the skyline despite the sunshine. Romany was waiting for them, reclining on a wall like a fashion model, her long legs spread out in front of her.

  ‘You took your time,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here for ages. Did you count the steps?’

  ‘I had all on just getting up them,’ replied Angie wheezily. ‘I really must go back to that Zumba class.’

  ‘I did. There are one hundred and ninety-nine,’ Romany said with an air of triumph.

  ‘That’s what I got too,’ said Maggie.

  Angie looked at the pair of them and shook her head. ‘I sometimes wonder if you’re actually Maggie’s kid, not mine,’ she said to her daughter. ‘I mean, who counts steps?’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ replied Maggie, and she and Romany exchanged a look.

  ‘Well, I think you’re both mad,’ replied Angie, but secretly a warm rush of pride ran through her. ‘Right, let’s go and see what this is all about.’

  They wandered along the path, past the church and the graveyard towards the visitor centre, only to discover that there was an entrance fee to get in. Angie eyed Maggie.

  ‘How much do we want to go inside?’ Angie asked.

  Maggie shrugged. ‘I’m happy to go in if you want to,’ she said. ‘Or not . . . Whatever you think.’

  An indecisive Maggie was a new and unfamiliar beast, and Angie couldn’t tell whether it was being fed by a lack of confidence or a lack of funds. She was prepared to pay the entrance fee, for all three of them if necessary, but she was also happy enough not to.

  ‘Let’s not bother,’ she said and watched Maggie nod quickly, apparently relieved that the decision had been made for her.

  So, they wandered back the way they’d come. At the steps, rather than heading back down to the town, they turned left towards the grassy bank and admired the view out across Whitby and to the open sea. The sun was climbing high and the air felt warm for May, the breeze playful rather than spiteful. The turquoise water in the harbour lay as flat as a millpond with barely a ripple.

  Romany flopped down on to the grass, stripped her jacket off and rolled it up to make a pillow for her head. Then she lay back and stared up at the heavens, blue in the main but with slabs of heavy sooty cloud here and there, just to remind you that you were still in Yorkshire. Angie, seeing the benefit of staying put, at least for a while, sat down too. She pulled the towels out of her bag and offered one to Maggie, but Maggie had what must have been the neatest towel known to man in a little pouch in her handbag. She flicked it out and sat down.

  ‘This was a lovely idea, Ange,’ she said. ‘Thank you for asking me. It’s just what I needed, a trip out of York and some sea air.’

  Angie took a deep breath, filling her lungs to the very bottom, held it for a count of five and then let it out slowly. She repeated the exercise several more times, feeling her heartbeat slow and her body release some of its stress. Her mind, though, felt strangely unsettled. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was, but something was making her feel out of kilter. It felt as if there was something that needed to be spoken, to be released so that it could stop troubling her. She just wasn’t sure what it was. Something to do with Maggie’s future, probably. There were so many unanswered questions there and she hadn’t delved, waiting instead for Maggie to want to talk to her. Something was definitely nagging at Angie, though, blocking her chakras and leading to this disconcerting feeling of imbalance.

  And then she realised what was wrong. The unsettled feeling wasn’t anything to do with Maggie, although that issue would need to be resolved in due course. No, the cause of her disquietude was the photographer’s shop window: all those pictures of family groups.

  Things like that didn’t generally bother her. She had been without a family since she’d first been taken into care and so didn’t think in terms of neat little nuclei. There was her and there was Romany, and that was that.

  But what if that wasn’t really that? Could it be that what worked well for her was failing to work for her daughter? It wasn’t a discussion that they had had, not recently anyway, and suddenly, it felt vitally important to discuss it. Right there, right now.

  ‘Romany?’ she began.

  Romany was chewing on a stalk of grass, pulling it between her teeth to extract the sweet innards.

  ‘Mmm,’ she replied lazily.

  ‘Do you mind that you don’t know who your father is? I mean, does it bother you?’

  There. It was out. She had said it. She saw Maggie’s expression change, grey eyes roaming across Angie’s face curiously, trying to establish where this question had come from and whether she should be there to hear the reply, but Romany didn’t move. She continued to stare up at the clouds as they scudded across the blue.

  Nobody spoke. The birds sang, children shouted to each other as they ran up the 199 steps, in the distance you could just make out the chimes of an ice cream van, but not one of them said a word. Angie began to wonder whether she had failed to say the words out loud. Maybe the sentence, so clearly spoken, had only been in her head. She looked over at Romany to check for some outward indication that she had heard her. Romany was still lying on her back and staring at the sky, her legs crossed, the upper one swinging idly back and forth.

  Angie turned to look at Maggie and raised an eyebrow. Maggie looked mystified too, so Angie supposed that her question had been audible.

  ‘No,’ said Romany eventually, and Angie switched her attention back to her daughter. ‘I don’t mind, it doesn’t bother me, and I’m not interested,’ she added.

  Angie felt her heart soar, vindicated by those few words, not that she had ever thought, until that moment, that Romany had reason to blame her for anything. She and Jax had never made any particular decision about it. There had been no deeply held conviction that he should, or indeed, should not, be involved in his daughter’s life.

  It just hadn’t happened.

  Angie knew that Romany would have been well within her rights to be angry with her, to hold her mother responsible for her father’s lack of contact. It had been Angie, after all, who had let the connection drop by not sending a forwarding address when they moved to the current flat.

  However, Romany was unconcerned; or so it appeared, at least. Angie had been confident that Romany was not angry, but it was nice to have it confirmed.

  ‘In fact,’ Romany continued, speaking slowly with large gaps forming between her words, as if she were thinking through what she was saying just moments before the words came out, ‘I would go as far as to say that if I were given a choice – to meet him or not to meet him – then I’d choose not.’

  Angie’s relief was palpable, but she tried not to let it show.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘That’s good.’

  Then Romany sat up, a sudden movement that made Angie jump, and started looking around her at the people buzzing backwards and forwards. ‘Why? He’s not here, is he? That’s not why we’ve come here, to meet him?’ Her head spun one way and then another, her face such a picture of anxiety that Angie reached out and hugged her.

  ‘No, no,’ she said soothingly. ‘He’s not here.’

  Romany disengaged herself and continued to survey the surroundings, albeit in a less frenzied manner.

  ‘No. I don’t have any contact details for him,’ Angie said. ‘I mean, I’m sure I could track him down if you wanted me to . . .’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Romany firmly. ‘I’m fine. We’re fine as we are. We don’t need anyone, do we?’ Her voice wavered a little towards the end and she looked at Angie as though seeking some confirmation.

  ‘No. You’re completely right. But I just thought I’d check.’

  Romany settled herself back down on the grass, drama seemingly all passed.

  ‘Romey,’ said Maggie. ‘Would you be an angel and go and buy me an ice cream from that kiosk over there? Get one for yourself and your mum, too, of course. I’d like a cone, please, just plain. Ange? Do you want one?’

  Angie shook her head. ‘No thanks,’ she said.

  Maggie got a ten-pound note out of her purse and handed it to Romany.

  ‘Thanks, Auntie Maggie,’ she said, and then strolled off in the direction of the kiosk.

  Maggie looked straight at Angie. ‘What on earth was that all about?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Angie. ‘I saw those photos, all with dads in them, and suddenly it felt like I had to ask. I’m sorry. I probably should have waited until we got home.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Maggie said. ‘Romey seems pretty clear on what she wants.’

  Angie laughed. ‘She does, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She’s definitely your daughter! But he’s not here, is he?’ Maggie’s eyes narrowed as she searched Angie’s face for any sign of a lie.

  ‘No. No, he isn’t. I haven’t heard from him for years.’

  ‘Good. Because that would be really bad, if you suddenly brought him back into her life when she’s just said that she doesn’t want him.’

  Angie nodded. Maggie was right. And yet . . .

  ‘I hope she changes her mind, though,’ Angie said. ‘When she’s older, I mean. He wouldn’t win any prizes for Partner of the Year, but he’s not a bad bloke. Not deep down. It would be good for them to get to know each other eventually.’

  ‘Possibly. But she’s only fifteen. There will be plenty of time for all that when she’s worked out who she is. And, as we know,’ Maggie added, ‘that can take quite a long time.’

  Romany was coming back across the grass with a cone in one hand and a long bright orange lollipop in the other.

  ‘Thanks, Maggie,’ said Angie.

  ‘What for? I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘You’ve done plenty,’ replied Angie. ‘You’ll never know how much.’

  35

  Maggie let herself out of Leon’s flat and set off in the direction of the train station. The first few times she had made the trip across to Leeds she had driven, but actually, she found the half-hour’s train journey quite restorative, and now that she had time on her hands, she didn’t mind the forty-five-minute walk from York station to her house. Also, she had started leaving a few bits and pieces at Leon’s, toiletries mainly, so she didn’t have to take a bag each time she went, and it was working well.

  It had taken them both by surprise, this . . . she wasn’t sure what to call it. Relationship sounded so grown up, but she supposed that that was what it was.

  The first time they had had sex had been the night of the thirty years’ reunion. It hadn’t been on the cards, or definitely not Maggie’s cards, when she had suggested that he stay the night with her. But somehow, when they got home, their bodies had had other ideas.

  It had begun with one of those corny moments that you see in a film. Maggie stumbled a little as she stepped into the house, and Leon put out a hand to steady her, their faces close, closer than Maggie had ever been to him before. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek and watched the look in his eyes change from surprise at their proximity to desire. Then they had kissed, tentatively at first, each not sure what the other wanted, and then with a passion that Maggie had rarely experienced.

  The resulting sex had been frenzied and urgent. They were in her kitchen, her back against the cupboards. They didn’t bother to get undressed, simply removing the articles of clothing that impeded them. This too might have been shot in a studio, except that they were both so drunk that they found everything funny rather than smouldering.

  Afterwards, sitting rather awkwardly opposite each other at her kitchen table and drinking hastily brewed coffee, they had been more shell-shocked than anything. Maggie had never thought of Leon in those terms before. He was just Leon, her friend. Now, though, she wondered if there had been the odd signal over the years to suggest that the idea had crossed his mind before, signals that she had chosen to ignore. She was probably wrong, though. Reading men wasn’t something that Maggie had had much practice with.

  ‘Well,’ said Leon, his eyes not meeting hers. ‘That was fun and not quite what I was expecting. Are you okay? I mean, is this okay?’ He looked at her then, a gentle questioning look that told her that the Leon she knew was with her.

  Maggie, despite her age and the fact that she had just shared an extremely intimate moment with a man that she had known for more than half her lifetime, was suddenly as shy as a teenager. She could feel her cheeks burning and she lifted her coffee cup up in front of her face to hide them. She wasn’t sure what to say, although she did feel suddenly sober, which was a blessing at least.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she managed. And then, ‘I’m not sure what happened.’

  Leon’s grin was downright lascivious and threw her even further off-kilter.

  ‘I know exactly what happened,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to do it again in a bit. If that’s all right with you.’

  That had been three months ago, or at least it would be on Saturday. That made her feel like a teenager, counting anniversaries month by month, but was there anything so very wrong with that? There hadn’t been time to behave like a teenager when she had been one. She had been too intent on where she was going and how quickly she could get there to be bothered with such trivialities. Now, though, with the surge of hormones flooding her brain, she wondered whether her younger self might not have got her priorities a little bit out of whack. This being in lust thing was so much fun.

  Still, better late than never. Maggie was positively delighting in the buzz that she got each time her phone screen lit up. Even the surge of disappointment when it was someone other than Leon was kind of appealing. It made her feel more alive than she had in years. Leon was the first thing that she thought about when she woke up and, on the nights when she wasn’t actually with him, the last, delicious thought to scamper across her mind before she drifted off to sleep. And she was enjoying every moment.

  Leon, it seemed, was as bad as she was and he could be quite romantic when he put his mind to it, his text messages all sprinkled with little hearts and kisses. Maggie had thought that he was teasing her to start with, but no, this appeared to be a whole new side to him that had previously been hidden under his down-to-earth manner. When they had been together a month, she had found a little note in her purse, handwritten on a tiny scrap of parchment paper. It was a simple heart with an arrow scored through its centre and their initials carefully added, just like you might see in any schoolgirl’s exercise books, but on the back he had written ‘One perfect month’. It was so corny, and at almost fifty years old she felt that she ought to be impervious to its charms, but actually she had been unfeasibly touched by it and had placed it carefully between two store cards so that it didn’t get bent or damaged. If she could have framed it and not looked like a love-sick fool, then she would have done.

  There had been other little things since then. She had mentioned in passing that she was partial to Lady Grey tea, and the next time she went to his flat she had found a packet next to his habitual builder’s variety. He also had cleared a drawer for her in his bedroom, and then been so apologetic about his level of presumption that she had had to kiss him to stop him worrying that he had done the wrong thing.

  They had spoken about it one night, in bed after sex.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Maggie asked, her head resting on his chest as his hand caressed her back. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ she added.

  ‘Oh God,’ replied Leon. ‘Do I need to brace myself?’

  ‘No.’ Maggie laughed. ‘It’s just, I’d never really thought about us like this’ – she gestured at their naked bodies with an open hand – ‘until that first night. Had you?’

  ‘Have I always fancied you, you mean?’ he asked bluntly.