Free The Making of Us by Lisa Jewell Page B

we’re not getting any younger either. And when we’re gone, you’ll be all on your own. Take these papers, sweetie, keep them. At least then if anything happens – which it won’t –’ she squeezed Robyn again, reassuringly – ‘but if it does and you decide you want to meet him, you’ll have the wherewithal to do something about it, OK? And another thing to think about, even if you don’t want to meet your donor father – what about siblings? Brothers, sisters? I know –’ she cut into Robyn’s half-formed protests – ‘I know you don’t want that now. But in the future. One day. Maybe. OK?’
    Robyn eyed the folder of papers and exhaled. It was so charged with explosive potential she could almost hear it ticking. She thought of these nameless, faceless siblings and she hated them. She saw them as grotesque caricatures of herself, all fat lips and attitude, all thinking they were something special because their dad was a sperm donor, their dad was a French paediatrician. That was her role, nobody else’s. And besides, she’d had sisters, two beautiful sisters. It was irrelevant to her that they were dead; they were still there, inside her heart, and she didn’t have room in there for anyone new. Robyn pushed her heavy fringe behind her ears and regarded the folder.
    ‘What will you do with it if I don’t take it?’
    ‘Put it away,’ said her mother. ‘Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can find it. Later. When we’re gone.’
    Robyn thought about this. It was possible, she conceded, that she might, one day, for whatever reason, want to contact her biological father. Maybe she’d need a, you know, a liver transplant or something, or a future child might have some rare genetic disorder. She might one day need this man to stop being a two-dimensional Disney prince and become a fully functioning, flesh, blood and DNA human being. And maybe it would be better then to have these papers in her possession. She flopped back against the brown suede sofa and pulled an expression of resignation.
    ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘OK. Give it to me.’ She held out her hands. The folder felt heavy, as if it contained wet sand. ‘But I am not even going to sniff this stuff unless I really, really have to. You know that, don’t you? I so don’t need this guy or his other kids. I’ve got everything I need. OK?’
    She awoke in the night, clammy and unsettled, an unremembered dream pulsing in the corners of her consciousness. She felt lost and disoriented. Her stomach was full of undigested cake and carvery and cheap white wine. She immediately got out of bed feeling there was something she needed to do. She paced her room distractedly, rubbing her angry, distended stomach. Obviously she knew what she was about to do. She’d known it since she’d first felt the folder in her hands, taken ownership of them. She pulled the folder from the bottom of her chest of drawers and she opened it.

NOW
    Robyn had her microbiology file tucked under her arm and was wearing her black-framed reading glasses, even though she wasn’t reading. She had on a really cute checked shirt dress from Urban Outfitters with green tights and granny boots. She looked cool and clever. Geek chic. She dressed differently for college from how she dressed at home. At home, in Buckhurst Hill, she was more polished. Out here in the hard-nosed streets of London town she let it go a bit. She didn’t want to look like an Essex girl. Still had on proper underwear, though, and was wearing Mac lipstick and Agent Provocateur Boudoir perfume.
    She was on Gower Street, headed from a study session at the main library to a guest talk at the Institute of Neurology. She was alone. The sun was low and London felt strangely quiet, like it was early dawn and the tubes hadn’t started running yet. Where was everyone? she wondered. But she liked it, it gave her a feeling of exclusivity, of owning the place, like when they clear the streets to shoot a scene in a film and