The stepsister, p.23
The Stepsister, page 23
I wave his words away with a flap of my hand. ‘Whatever. How the hell did you think you could get away with it? We look nothing alike.’
‘But you couldn’t remember what you looked like. I, on the other hand had no difficulty in distinguishing between you both. Why do you think I never called you Vanessa? You were Victoria from that very first day. You’ll always be Victoria.’
I squash down his words. They don’t make any sense. ‘You still haven’t replied to my question? I’ve watched quite a few crappy made-for-TV movies in my time. There are other ways; witness protection, round-the-clock police surveillance. You lied – You did more than lie and I can’t ever forgive you for that. Tell me why you pretended to be my husband or I’m leaving,’ and I punctuate my words by gathering up my bag.
Manus’s silence is all the answer I need.
‘I can’t.’
‘Fine.’
I go to stand only to be trapped by the weight of his hand on my arm.
‘Because I fell in love,’ he murmurs, lifting his head, his eyes finally meeting mine. ‘I fell in love with a girl sitting alone in a café, her head bent over her notebook as she puzzled over her sums. There was something endearing in the way she bit on the end of her pencil, her forehead pulled into a frown. I wanted to remove the frown and all the worries that went with it. I wanted to remove the pencil from her grasp and pull her into the tightest embrace. But I didn’t. I ran away because I was afraid.’ He pauses, his hand dragging through his hair. ‘My life was set and I was quite happy with it, thank you very much. I had my work and as little leisure as I could cope with and then you exploded on my life to ruin everything. After the initial shock and anger had worn off, I realised that you were in danger and something drastic had to be done to save you. I know I was wrong, completely and utterly wrong. I blew it in the biggest way possible and all I can do is apologise. But there’s no way back from this, is there? You’re never going to be able to forgive me.’
He stands, pushing back from the table before piling far too many notes under his saucer. ‘I’d just like to say how very sorry I am for everything.’ He lifts a hand to my cheek, cradling it briefly before turning and making his way to the door and out of my life.
Chapter Thirty Five
I have some decisions to make, some little, some stupendous. But that doesn’t make getting up from the chair any easier. I know I should move. The café is suddenly heaving with people pressing for tables and still I sit - my full cup the only excuse for staying. There are more reasons to leave than there are to stay, Nigel being the most important. But that doesn’t spur me on. It would need a hurricane or, in this case, the sight of a heavily pregnant woman laden down with shopping to drag me out of my stupor. I finally stand and offer her my table.
Boots is busy, but I ignore the shoppers browsing the tightly packed aisles. I’m on a mission and reluctant to ask for help. The clue was there, as far back as that second day, but I was too dim to twig. The thing that was missing from my washbag, the thing I should have spotted. The thing that should have stopped me in my tracks.
I needn’t have worried about Nigel. He’s just where I’d left him, as warm as toast with the central heating on full blast. Nigel will be fine, more than fine. It’s me I have to worry about now as I stare down at the little blue horizontal line looking back at me.
There’s mixed emotions; surprise, horror, anxiety and finally joy. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about him. I haven’t stopped thinking about him, not really. He’s filled my life to capacity and taken hold of my thoughts. He’s even occupied my dreams and with the sight of that blue line he’s now set to invade my future. How one man can make such a difference is beyond me, but there it is. I’m going to be a mother just like he’s going to be a dad. It hadn’t even crossed my mind in Holland because we were married in every sense of the word except perhaps the most important one. I should have looked for proof of our marriage; a photo, a dress, a certificate. I should have thought about birth control tablets. I should have thought of all of those things but it felt so right. It wasn't right. It was wrong. It was wrong on all the levels.
‘Shove up, Nige,’ and I curl beside him, his doggy warmth the only thing I need right now. No, that’s a lie, another one and there have been too many lies so far. I need him more than I’ve ever needed anyone and I’ve finally driven him away. I’m going to be the one thing I’d always sworn I’d never be. I’m going to be what my stepmother made such a hash of. I’m going to be a single mother.
Sleep is meant to solve a multitude of problems but no afternoon nap, no matter how long, is going to solve my life for me. I wake refreshed but still clueless as to what comes next. There is so much to think about; home, job, childcare and I can’t even decide what to have for supper. The one thing I do know is that I must eat. I grab Nigel and my bag and head out to fill the cupboards with the kind of food I should be eating and after, I’m going to search Ness’s flat for a pen and paper and make a list.
The list isn’t a long one in the scheme of things. The only problem is there are lots of questions jotted down and very few answers. I flick through the entries and tick off what I can. My flat in Hauteville is sorted and it only takes a quick ring to arrange to hand back the keys now that the place has been cleared. At least I won’t have the stress of having to think about cobbling together the rent each month and I still have somewhere to live. But not for long. Ruthie has been in touch about Ness’s apartment and she’s already found a potential buyer in the lawyer that’s arriving from Jersey to take her place. There’ll even be money left over after the mortgage has been repaid; a nice tidy sum that will act as a buffer for when I won’t be able to work.
It’s the rest of the list that’s full of don’t knows. Where do I want to live? Do I still want to persist with my art? My gaze wanders to his painting, propped up against the mantelpiece. It’s good, really good. So good I could take it along to that little gallery up Mill Street and get a valuation. But it’s the one thing I can’t sell, not now. There’s also the issue about the house in Holland. I still need to get in touch with someone to arrange both the clearance and the sale. There’s nothing salvageable and living next door to him would be the worst of ideas. And finally there’s the painting, that wonderful piece of art currently lurking in some bank vault. I need to decide what to do with it. I’d like to keep it, of course I would. But that would be both impractical and cost prohibitive. The insurance would run into thousands.
I push the list away and sip on my herbal tea. I’m off coffee for some reason. The kitchen is warm and cosy with the homely smell of shepherd’s pie filling the air as I continue with my promise to look after myself. But there are things I can start now while the cheddar cheese that I’ve grated on top continues its glorious transition from gloopy to crispy golden crust.
The apartment is open plan and minimalist to the extreme. Ness wasn’t a hoarder and, as she used to say every time she deigned to visit, if things weren’t either functional or beautiful, they were toast. The black bin-sacks are where I’d expected them to be, hidden under the sink and I start in the lounge. There are no knickknacks and few books but what there are get placed in the bag closely followed by her collection of DVD’s and paintings.
I leave the bathroom, after all, no one is going to want half-used soaps and shower gels. The guest bedroom is simply that; empty, functional, drab. I strip the bed linen and set the washing machine on before heading into the main bedroom and where Nigel has stretched out across the centre of the bed.
‘You’re the laziest thing,’ but all I get for my trouble is a brief wag of his tail before sleep reclaims him.
The built-in wardrobes line one wall and I know that it’s in this part of the room that I’ll have my work cut out. This is where she’d stored all of her documents relating to work and every other part of her life. I ignore the left-hand side and start on her personal belongings; racks and racks of designer suits, silk shirts, boots and shoes that all have to be examined and sorted before being placed into the relevant bag.
I tackle the kitchen next and soon it’s empty apart from one glass, one plate, one bowl and one mug – I don’t intend to have any visitors up for coffee. All that’s left are fifteen bin bags cluttering the entrance hall and the left hand side of the wardrobe. I’m tempted to ask Ruthie to come over but that would be the cowardly way out.
It’s mostly work related and therefore easy to sort. The pile for Ruthie grows as I separate old school books and notes about client cases and invoices. There are old birthday cards that I keep to one side and a shoe box full of old photos but the big reveal that I’ve been dreading isn’t here. There’s nothing from my mother. No old letters revealing a last-minute truth about my father. No letters ‘only to be opened after my death’. There’s nothing to help me find out just why he left us the house. I add her birth certificate on top of the box of photos and head into the lounge.
The lounge has been stripped bare apart from the furniture and Nigel, who’s now asleep in the middle of the sofa. I race through the cards but there are no surprises. Nothing but old birthday messages from an assortment of names I don’t recognise and they all get relegated for recycling.
I’m more hopeful that I’ll find something amongst the photos. Ness was a great one for holidays; Tenerife, Greece, Ibiza and there are plenty of images to trawl through. I start three new piles; photos to discard, photos for Marilyn and photos to keep. The discard pile grows as I cherry pick the best for Marilyn. The pile for me is very small, almost non-existent; her first day at school, one from her eighteenth and finally one of us together as toothy six-year-olds before life intervened to smash our baby teeth along with our hopes for the future. Towards the bottom of the shoebox the photos change as do the people. These aren’t Ness’s. These are Marilyn’s – the only thing of hers from her flat clearance that hasn’t been chucked.
I’m eager now, my breath caught in my throat as I scan through grainy images of her with her parents; dim distant figures I can barely remember. She was pretty in her youth with the same glossy sheen of hair and dark eyes that were Ness’s trademark and I can see that she would have never lacked for male partners. The box is empty and the table littered with images. But there’s only one that interests me; a photo of her standing with her back against a wall, a fag in her hand as she laughs at what’s being said to her. In itself it’s similar to the ten or so other images in the pile except for the fact that this one has been folded over, the plastic coating coming adrift where the crease has done its worst. I smooth it out and now she’s standing beside a man, a man I recognise from the images I’d found in his study. Aldert. I flip it over and there’s writing, writing so faint I can barely make out the words.
Cheating bastard.
And with those words a memory from months before.
You’re just like her…that tart of a mother of yours.
Chapter Thirty Six
The Dutch house looks the same; comforting, familiar, homely. I would say welcoming but after so many weeks I have no thoughts on that front. Too much has happened for me to be certain of my welcome, my hand hovering across my stomach and the soft swell concealed by the drape of my jacket.
I’ve lost a sister but reclaimed a past, a past that’s given me a father even though I’ll never get to meet him. Yes. I’ve finally come to accept that Aldert was my father, mine and Nessie’s. With the discovery it now makes complete sense that he’d leave us the house.
There are things I’ll never know; things that, with Marilyn’s decent into the grips of dementia, I won’t be able to ask. I remember Manus telling me about Aldert being a likeable rogue with women falling for his blue-eyed charms. I suspect that he probably had a string of women on the go and my guess is he found out he was going to be a dad twice over. With abortion not available in Guernsey at the time he’d ended up with two babies and an increasingly jealous, untrusting and unfaithful partner. He went back to Holland, leaving me with a woman who had every reason to hate me.
I try not to think about my mother; the woman who must have abandoned me on that doorstep. I’ll never know for sure what happened. But now that I’m single and pregnant I don’t have the heart to think badly of her. She could so easily have travelled to the UK to end her pregnancy. For that I’m thankful.
There’s nothing left for me now in Guernsey. Ness’s apartment has been sold and my flat re-let. All I have is a couple of suitcases and a painting, which I shift from one arm to the other. Oh, and Nigel. How could I ever forget my faithful friend who is now back to normal following the removal of his plaster cast. So, I’ve come back to Holland to reclaim what’s mine. My house.
I’d like to say that I’ve also come back to reclaim Manus but he was never mine in the first place, not really. I’ve spent the last few weeks reliving every look and word between us and the reality is I don’t know what to think. I know what I feel but that’s different. My feelings don’t come into it. The truth of the matter is I let him walk away in Guernsey, something he’ll probably never forgive me for. But here I am anyway, not on my doorstep but his, my hand again flitting to my stomach before reaching for the door knocker.
There have been too many secrets over this business for me not to have learnt from their example. Secrets and lies hurt and there will be none of that between us. I’ll say what I have to and take it from there.
My heart shifts at the sight of Manus, standing in his shirtsleeves, his tie draped around his neck. But it’s not his clothes I’m drawn to. It’s his expression. Did he ever stare at me with that bland look stamped across his features? It’s not there now. Nigel barks but I don’t hear. I hear nothing except the sound of my heart drumming in my ears. I feel nothing except the pressure of his arms as he wraps them round me in the tightest of hugs, his lips finding mine.
We break apart. Of course we do. We have to speak. We have to sort out the mess I’ve made of things when all I want is for him to pull me back within the protective wall of his arms. I want to close the distance but I don’t. I stand in the doorway and wait.
‘You’re back,’ he says, his hand raking through his hair.
‘I’m back,’ I repeat. I reach out, my fingers lingering against the smooth skin of his cheek, my gaze never leaving his.
‘You said you could never forgive me?’
‘I said a lot of things,’ my hand curving around his neck but still I keep a distance between us. ‘There are also things I never said. Things I regret.’
‘What things?’ his back stiffening under my touch.
‘Things like thank you. Without your interference Nigel and I probably wouldn’t be here.’
‘There’s no need to—’
But I stall him with a shake of my head. ‘I’ve also never said I love you, Manus. I love you with all my heart.’
I step back to evade his seeking arms. I have to continue. I have to be completely honest with him even if it means the end - the end of us.
He’s confused and I don’t blame him. I’d be confused in his position.
‘I love you but I come with baggage.’
‘You know I love Nigel, don’t I boy?’ and he’s crouching down, trying to control his grin as he’s attacked by a relentless tongue.
I watch as man and dog become reacquainted and the flicker inside bursts into a roaring flame, a flame I fail to dampen despite the direction of my thoughts. Will he feel the same way about the news I’m about to impart. Having a dog is one thing but a child? Surely if he’d wanted children he’d have had them by now, my gaze shifting to the top of his head and the faint smattering of grey.
He tilts his head, his eyes seeking mine as he sits Nigel on his bent knee. I heave a sigh, patting Nigel briefly before stooping down and lacing Manus’s fingers through mine.
‘I know you do, my darling. But Nigel isn’t the baggage I’m talking about,’ and I place his hand flat over my stomach.
One minute my heart is splintering into a thousand shards as fear takes a grip and the next I’m swept off my feet and cradled to his chest.
Our tears mingle. Our thoughts converge as the invisible thread that binds pulls and twists into an unbreakable bond.
Manus backs through the door, kicking it behind him, Nigel yapping at his ankles.
We’ve come home.
Epilogue
De Telegraaf
Vanessa to stay in Holland
The Rejksmuseum are delighted to announce the acquisition of a previously unknown painting by Johannes Vermeer. Vanessa is a particularly fine example of the artist’s skill in depicting light and shade and with a palette limited to only four colours, including his trademark use of lapis lazuli. The painting is thought to have been executed around 1664 between A Lady Writing a Letter and the Girl with a Pearl Earring.
The museum is indebted to the estate of Aldert de Wees for their most generous gift.
De Telegraaf
Marriage announcements
The marriage took place on Saturday, April 7, 2018, at the Nieuwe Kerk, Delft, between Dr Manus van der Hooke and Victoria Marsh, eldest daughter of the late Aldert de Wees.
Birth announcements
Van der Hooke
On 29th October, 2018, to Victoria, née Marsh, and Manus, a son, Aldert Manus.
About this book
Tying up the loose ends.
I first saw Johannes Vermeer’s painting, Girl with a Pearl Earring, as a sixteen-year old and the idea for the book has been bubbling under ever since. Vermeer produced less than fifty paintings, of which thirty-four have survived - sadly none of which are my Girl in a Blue Dress. He was born and lived in Delft.
Signature: Vermeer mainly avoided the usual bottom right-hand corner to sign his paintings. In addition, the letter V is often indistinguishable in favour of the letter M because, of course, the letter M contains a hidden letter V within its arms. In Girl with a Pearl Earring he signed the painting in the upper left-hand corner with Meer, the letter I standing on top of the M to represent his first name, Johannes.
‘But you couldn’t remember what you looked like. I, on the other hand had no difficulty in distinguishing between you both. Why do you think I never called you Vanessa? You were Victoria from that very first day. You’ll always be Victoria.’
I squash down his words. They don’t make any sense. ‘You still haven’t replied to my question? I’ve watched quite a few crappy made-for-TV movies in my time. There are other ways; witness protection, round-the-clock police surveillance. You lied – You did more than lie and I can’t ever forgive you for that. Tell me why you pretended to be my husband or I’m leaving,’ and I punctuate my words by gathering up my bag.
Manus’s silence is all the answer I need.
‘I can’t.’
‘Fine.’
I go to stand only to be trapped by the weight of his hand on my arm.
‘Because I fell in love,’ he murmurs, lifting his head, his eyes finally meeting mine. ‘I fell in love with a girl sitting alone in a café, her head bent over her notebook as she puzzled over her sums. There was something endearing in the way she bit on the end of her pencil, her forehead pulled into a frown. I wanted to remove the frown and all the worries that went with it. I wanted to remove the pencil from her grasp and pull her into the tightest embrace. But I didn’t. I ran away because I was afraid.’ He pauses, his hand dragging through his hair. ‘My life was set and I was quite happy with it, thank you very much. I had my work and as little leisure as I could cope with and then you exploded on my life to ruin everything. After the initial shock and anger had worn off, I realised that you were in danger and something drastic had to be done to save you. I know I was wrong, completely and utterly wrong. I blew it in the biggest way possible and all I can do is apologise. But there’s no way back from this, is there? You’re never going to be able to forgive me.’
He stands, pushing back from the table before piling far too many notes under his saucer. ‘I’d just like to say how very sorry I am for everything.’ He lifts a hand to my cheek, cradling it briefly before turning and making his way to the door and out of my life.
Chapter Thirty Five
I have some decisions to make, some little, some stupendous. But that doesn’t make getting up from the chair any easier. I know I should move. The café is suddenly heaving with people pressing for tables and still I sit - my full cup the only excuse for staying. There are more reasons to leave than there are to stay, Nigel being the most important. But that doesn’t spur me on. It would need a hurricane or, in this case, the sight of a heavily pregnant woman laden down with shopping to drag me out of my stupor. I finally stand and offer her my table.
Boots is busy, but I ignore the shoppers browsing the tightly packed aisles. I’m on a mission and reluctant to ask for help. The clue was there, as far back as that second day, but I was too dim to twig. The thing that was missing from my washbag, the thing I should have spotted. The thing that should have stopped me in my tracks.
I needn’t have worried about Nigel. He’s just where I’d left him, as warm as toast with the central heating on full blast. Nigel will be fine, more than fine. It’s me I have to worry about now as I stare down at the little blue horizontal line looking back at me.
There’s mixed emotions; surprise, horror, anxiety and finally joy. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about him. I haven’t stopped thinking about him, not really. He’s filled my life to capacity and taken hold of my thoughts. He’s even occupied my dreams and with the sight of that blue line he’s now set to invade my future. How one man can make such a difference is beyond me, but there it is. I’m going to be a mother just like he’s going to be a dad. It hadn’t even crossed my mind in Holland because we were married in every sense of the word except perhaps the most important one. I should have looked for proof of our marriage; a photo, a dress, a certificate. I should have thought about birth control tablets. I should have thought of all of those things but it felt so right. It wasn't right. It was wrong. It was wrong on all the levels.
‘Shove up, Nige,’ and I curl beside him, his doggy warmth the only thing I need right now. No, that’s a lie, another one and there have been too many lies so far. I need him more than I’ve ever needed anyone and I’ve finally driven him away. I’m going to be the one thing I’d always sworn I’d never be. I’m going to be what my stepmother made such a hash of. I’m going to be a single mother.
Sleep is meant to solve a multitude of problems but no afternoon nap, no matter how long, is going to solve my life for me. I wake refreshed but still clueless as to what comes next. There is so much to think about; home, job, childcare and I can’t even decide what to have for supper. The one thing I do know is that I must eat. I grab Nigel and my bag and head out to fill the cupboards with the kind of food I should be eating and after, I’m going to search Ness’s flat for a pen and paper and make a list.
The list isn’t a long one in the scheme of things. The only problem is there are lots of questions jotted down and very few answers. I flick through the entries and tick off what I can. My flat in Hauteville is sorted and it only takes a quick ring to arrange to hand back the keys now that the place has been cleared. At least I won’t have the stress of having to think about cobbling together the rent each month and I still have somewhere to live. But not for long. Ruthie has been in touch about Ness’s apartment and she’s already found a potential buyer in the lawyer that’s arriving from Jersey to take her place. There’ll even be money left over after the mortgage has been repaid; a nice tidy sum that will act as a buffer for when I won’t be able to work.
It’s the rest of the list that’s full of don’t knows. Where do I want to live? Do I still want to persist with my art? My gaze wanders to his painting, propped up against the mantelpiece. It’s good, really good. So good I could take it along to that little gallery up Mill Street and get a valuation. But it’s the one thing I can’t sell, not now. There’s also the issue about the house in Holland. I still need to get in touch with someone to arrange both the clearance and the sale. There’s nothing salvageable and living next door to him would be the worst of ideas. And finally there’s the painting, that wonderful piece of art currently lurking in some bank vault. I need to decide what to do with it. I’d like to keep it, of course I would. But that would be both impractical and cost prohibitive. The insurance would run into thousands.
I push the list away and sip on my herbal tea. I’m off coffee for some reason. The kitchen is warm and cosy with the homely smell of shepherd’s pie filling the air as I continue with my promise to look after myself. But there are things I can start now while the cheddar cheese that I’ve grated on top continues its glorious transition from gloopy to crispy golden crust.
The apartment is open plan and minimalist to the extreme. Ness wasn’t a hoarder and, as she used to say every time she deigned to visit, if things weren’t either functional or beautiful, they were toast. The black bin-sacks are where I’d expected them to be, hidden under the sink and I start in the lounge. There are no knickknacks and few books but what there are get placed in the bag closely followed by her collection of DVD’s and paintings.
I leave the bathroom, after all, no one is going to want half-used soaps and shower gels. The guest bedroom is simply that; empty, functional, drab. I strip the bed linen and set the washing machine on before heading into the main bedroom and where Nigel has stretched out across the centre of the bed.
‘You’re the laziest thing,’ but all I get for my trouble is a brief wag of his tail before sleep reclaims him.
The built-in wardrobes line one wall and I know that it’s in this part of the room that I’ll have my work cut out. This is where she’d stored all of her documents relating to work and every other part of her life. I ignore the left-hand side and start on her personal belongings; racks and racks of designer suits, silk shirts, boots and shoes that all have to be examined and sorted before being placed into the relevant bag.
I tackle the kitchen next and soon it’s empty apart from one glass, one plate, one bowl and one mug – I don’t intend to have any visitors up for coffee. All that’s left are fifteen bin bags cluttering the entrance hall and the left hand side of the wardrobe. I’m tempted to ask Ruthie to come over but that would be the cowardly way out.
It’s mostly work related and therefore easy to sort. The pile for Ruthie grows as I separate old school books and notes about client cases and invoices. There are old birthday cards that I keep to one side and a shoe box full of old photos but the big reveal that I’ve been dreading isn’t here. There’s nothing from my mother. No old letters revealing a last-minute truth about my father. No letters ‘only to be opened after my death’. There’s nothing to help me find out just why he left us the house. I add her birth certificate on top of the box of photos and head into the lounge.
The lounge has been stripped bare apart from the furniture and Nigel, who’s now asleep in the middle of the sofa. I race through the cards but there are no surprises. Nothing but old birthday messages from an assortment of names I don’t recognise and they all get relegated for recycling.
I’m more hopeful that I’ll find something amongst the photos. Ness was a great one for holidays; Tenerife, Greece, Ibiza and there are plenty of images to trawl through. I start three new piles; photos to discard, photos for Marilyn and photos to keep. The discard pile grows as I cherry pick the best for Marilyn. The pile for me is very small, almost non-existent; her first day at school, one from her eighteenth and finally one of us together as toothy six-year-olds before life intervened to smash our baby teeth along with our hopes for the future. Towards the bottom of the shoebox the photos change as do the people. These aren’t Ness’s. These are Marilyn’s – the only thing of hers from her flat clearance that hasn’t been chucked.
I’m eager now, my breath caught in my throat as I scan through grainy images of her with her parents; dim distant figures I can barely remember. She was pretty in her youth with the same glossy sheen of hair and dark eyes that were Ness’s trademark and I can see that she would have never lacked for male partners. The box is empty and the table littered with images. But there’s only one that interests me; a photo of her standing with her back against a wall, a fag in her hand as she laughs at what’s being said to her. In itself it’s similar to the ten or so other images in the pile except for the fact that this one has been folded over, the plastic coating coming adrift where the crease has done its worst. I smooth it out and now she’s standing beside a man, a man I recognise from the images I’d found in his study. Aldert. I flip it over and there’s writing, writing so faint I can barely make out the words.
Cheating bastard.
And with those words a memory from months before.
You’re just like her…that tart of a mother of yours.
Chapter Thirty Six
The Dutch house looks the same; comforting, familiar, homely. I would say welcoming but after so many weeks I have no thoughts on that front. Too much has happened for me to be certain of my welcome, my hand hovering across my stomach and the soft swell concealed by the drape of my jacket.
I’ve lost a sister but reclaimed a past, a past that’s given me a father even though I’ll never get to meet him. Yes. I’ve finally come to accept that Aldert was my father, mine and Nessie’s. With the discovery it now makes complete sense that he’d leave us the house.
There are things I’ll never know; things that, with Marilyn’s decent into the grips of dementia, I won’t be able to ask. I remember Manus telling me about Aldert being a likeable rogue with women falling for his blue-eyed charms. I suspect that he probably had a string of women on the go and my guess is he found out he was going to be a dad twice over. With abortion not available in Guernsey at the time he’d ended up with two babies and an increasingly jealous, untrusting and unfaithful partner. He went back to Holland, leaving me with a woman who had every reason to hate me.
I try not to think about my mother; the woman who must have abandoned me on that doorstep. I’ll never know for sure what happened. But now that I’m single and pregnant I don’t have the heart to think badly of her. She could so easily have travelled to the UK to end her pregnancy. For that I’m thankful.
There’s nothing left for me now in Guernsey. Ness’s apartment has been sold and my flat re-let. All I have is a couple of suitcases and a painting, which I shift from one arm to the other. Oh, and Nigel. How could I ever forget my faithful friend who is now back to normal following the removal of his plaster cast. So, I’ve come back to Holland to reclaim what’s mine. My house.
I’d like to say that I’ve also come back to reclaim Manus but he was never mine in the first place, not really. I’ve spent the last few weeks reliving every look and word between us and the reality is I don’t know what to think. I know what I feel but that’s different. My feelings don’t come into it. The truth of the matter is I let him walk away in Guernsey, something he’ll probably never forgive me for. But here I am anyway, not on my doorstep but his, my hand again flitting to my stomach before reaching for the door knocker.
There have been too many secrets over this business for me not to have learnt from their example. Secrets and lies hurt and there will be none of that between us. I’ll say what I have to and take it from there.
My heart shifts at the sight of Manus, standing in his shirtsleeves, his tie draped around his neck. But it’s not his clothes I’m drawn to. It’s his expression. Did he ever stare at me with that bland look stamped across his features? It’s not there now. Nigel barks but I don’t hear. I hear nothing except the sound of my heart drumming in my ears. I feel nothing except the pressure of his arms as he wraps them round me in the tightest of hugs, his lips finding mine.
We break apart. Of course we do. We have to speak. We have to sort out the mess I’ve made of things when all I want is for him to pull me back within the protective wall of his arms. I want to close the distance but I don’t. I stand in the doorway and wait.
‘You’re back,’ he says, his hand raking through his hair.
‘I’m back,’ I repeat. I reach out, my fingers lingering against the smooth skin of his cheek, my gaze never leaving his.
‘You said you could never forgive me?’
‘I said a lot of things,’ my hand curving around his neck but still I keep a distance between us. ‘There are also things I never said. Things I regret.’
‘What things?’ his back stiffening under my touch.
‘Things like thank you. Without your interference Nigel and I probably wouldn’t be here.’
‘There’s no need to—’
But I stall him with a shake of my head. ‘I’ve also never said I love you, Manus. I love you with all my heart.’
I step back to evade his seeking arms. I have to continue. I have to be completely honest with him even if it means the end - the end of us.
He’s confused and I don’t blame him. I’d be confused in his position.
‘I love you but I come with baggage.’
‘You know I love Nigel, don’t I boy?’ and he’s crouching down, trying to control his grin as he’s attacked by a relentless tongue.
I watch as man and dog become reacquainted and the flicker inside bursts into a roaring flame, a flame I fail to dampen despite the direction of my thoughts. Will he feel the same way about the news I’m about to impart. Having a dog is one thing but a child? Surely if he’d wanted children he’d have had them by now, my gaze shifting to the top of his head and the faint smattering of grey.
He tilts his head, his eyes seeking mine as he sits Nigel on his bent knee. I heave a sigh, patting Nigel briefly before stooping down and lacing Manus’s fingers through mine.
‘I know you do, my darling. But Nigel isn’t the baggage I’m talking about,’ and I place his hand flat over my stomach.
One minute my heart is splintering into a thousand shards as fear takes a grip and the next I’m swept off my feet and cradled to his chest.
Our tears mingle. Our thoughts converge as the invisible thread that binds pulls and twists into an unbreakable bond.
Manus backs through the door, kicking it behind him, Nigel yapping at his ankles.
We’ve come home.
Epilogue
De Telegraaf
Vanessa to stay in Holland
The Rejksmuseum are delighted to announce the acquisition of a previously unknown painting by Johannes Vermeer. Vanessa is a particularly fine example of the artist’s skill in depicting light and shade and with a palette limited to only four colours, including his trademark use of lapis lazuli. The painting is thought to have been executed around 1664 between A Lady Writing a Letter and the Girl with a Pearl Earring.
The museum is indebted to the estate of Aldert de Wees for their most generous gift.
De Telegraaf
Marriage announcements
The marriage took place on Saturday, April 7, 2018, at the Nieuwe Kerk, Delft, between Dr Manus van der Hooke and Victoria Marsh, eldest daughter of the late Aldert de Wees.
Birth announcements
Van der Hooke
On 29th October, 2018, to Victoria, née Marsh, and Manus, a son, Aldert Manus.
About this book
Tying up the loose ends.
I first saw Johannes Vermeer’s painting, Girl with a Pearl Earring, as a sixteen-year old and the idea for the book has been bubbling under ever since. Vermeer produced less than fifty paintings, of which thirty-four have survived - sadly none of which are my Girl in a Blue Dress. He was born and lived in Delft.
Signature: Vermeer mainly avoided the usual bottom right-hand corner to sign his paintings. In addition, the letter V is often indistinguishable in favour of the letter M because, of course, the letter M contains a hidden letter V within its arms. In Girl with a Pearl Earring he signed the painting in the upper left-hand corner with Meer, the letter I standing on top of the M to represent his first name, Johannes.
