Chapter Seven
The loud ringtone of my mobile startled me awake and I groped around on the bedside table. Still groggy, it took me a moment to silence the alarm as I sat up. The bathroom door was ajar, and light spilled into the room through the gap to reveal the absence of Beck's suitcase. The room beyond the open door was empty. I brushed a hand over the cold duvet on his side of the bed. Disappointment washed over me, which was ridiculous. One night together and I'd expected him to escort me back to the airport. Hoped he might figuratively—if not literally—hold my hand during take-off.
I rolled over to place my mobile back on the table and bit my lip at the white business card laid on the top. A small smile lifted my lips as I plucked it off the wooden surface. A little bubble of hope tried to rise up inside me. Maybe he'd gone to grab some coffees. But as I read his scrawled note, my smile disappeared.
Sorry, but I won't make the flight. Work called. Don't worry, you'll be fine. Beck.
I flicked the card over and in raised gold lettering, was a mobile number. Nothing else.
International man of mystery. I laughed as I flipped the card back over. He'd been going to Malta to visit his parents. International maybe, but not so much with the mystery. But he'd left me his number, hadn't he? The note didn't say to call him, though it implied that. Or maybe that was the only paper he had to leave a note on. And it was a business card. It didn't exactly say, “I enjoyed our night and want a repeat performance.”
I flopped against the pillows with a deep sigh. Flicked the card back over to read his scrawled message again. No mention of the previous night. I thought there had been a connection between us. That it had been more than just sex. Had hoped it might have been the start of…something, maybe.
I dropped the card on the table and threw the duvet off me. Had the previous night not meant anything to him? What if I'd imagined a connection between us? What if I was just one in a long line of other women he'd done this with?
Glancing again at the card, I reread that last sentence.
Don't worry, you'll be fine.
But I shoved that bubble of hope back down as it tried to float free again. He'd left his business card. And didn't that make me feel special?
But I could call him once I returned from Malta. Maybe.
Then again, if the previous night had meant as much to Beck as it had to me, why had he left without waking me? Left without more than a quickly scrawled message?
It had been years, but I could just about remember the start of my relationship with Jack. Even in the beginning—when the sex had still been good—it hadn't made me feel the way I had felt in Beck's arms. Had never felt…complete. Like Beck was a magnet that had rearranged the pieces of my heart until they all fit in the right place. Until I felt something instead of numb. Felt alive again.
There was nothing I could do about it; I had a plane to catch. So I climbed out of bed thinking of our too-short time spent together in the room. But I had the option to call him. It didn't have to be just one night.
Nearly an hour after leaving the hotel a sense of déjà vu hit me as I wandered down the tunnel to board a different plane. I stopped to lean against the flimsy wall. Swallowed hard as my stomach tried to escape back to the safety of the hotel room, and I was thankful I'd skipped breakfast. Pressed my clammy forehead against the cool plastic wall. Don't worry, you'll be fine. I repeated Beck's words over and over in my head as though if I said them enough times, they'd come true.
And statistically, the odds of something happening on this flight were low. But the old adage of bad things coming in threes popped into my head. Sliding a sweaty palm up the wall, I lifted my head and pushed myself upright. That was just superstitious nonsense. Nothing would happen. Except I'd end up in Malta—hopefully with some answers to the hundreds of questions I had.
Settling into another window seat, I fastened the belt around my waist. Pulled it as tight as it would go around my lap. My seat was further forward in the plane than the last time, but I could still see the wing. I looked it over and then let out a snort. Like I knew what I was looking for. But it looked intact, no gaping hole spewing wires, so that was a bonus.
A passenger walked past in the aisle and I glanced up. Of course it wasn't Beck. He'd told me he'd wouldn't be on the flight, but it didn't stop me from checking every single passenger that walked by. Until an elderly gentleman slowly lowered himself into the seat next to the aisle. Propped a wooden walking stick between the gap in the empty seats between us. He paid no attention to me so I stared out of the window, fingers clutching at the armrests.
And then we were moving. Runway up ahead.
You'll be fine. You'll be fine.
As the plane picked up speed so did my heartbeat, and I forced myself to breathe. Nothing flapped on the wing. Everything looked fine. And then the plane lifted. The rows of cars and houses below slowly receding until they looked like toy Lego pieces on a mat.
The view disappeared, obscured by huge fluffy white clouds; it was like being in a cocoon of cotton wool. A smile tugged at my lips—I'd done it. The seat belt sign went off, and I flexed my stiff fingers from their death grip.
I was on my way to Malta.
***
I had planned to eat at my dad's restaurant the night after I arrived in Malta, but I was already a day late arriving. And once I was there, I didn't want to put it off any longer, hoping that it would get rid of the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. And my skin was too sensitive; the drag of my clothes over it made me scratch until I gave up and headed for the tiny bathroom in the hotel.
The room might be small and plain with blank white walls, but the view more than made up for that. I was so high up in the hotel, I could see the coastline. Not that I'd spent much time admiring it.
I switched the shower off and wrapped the fluffy white towel around my chest. Padded back out towards the bed and my open suitcase. I'd laid out all my outfits to try and decide what I should wear, but there wasn't much advice on what to wear to meet your dad for the first time when he might not know you exist.
I twisted my hair up into a bun and decided it didn't really matter what I wore. My stomach flipped at the sight of the birth certificate. I dragged on a pair of jeans and a purple floaty shirt. Folded the birth certificate in half and slipped it into my handbag. Shoving my feet into my Skechers, I shook out my hands. Wandered over to the window and leaned my forehead against the cool glass.
How would I even do this? “Hi, Dad, I'm the daughter you didn't know about.”
No, don't call him Dad.
“Hi, do you remember my mum, Tracy? Pretty sure you slept with her.”
God, no. I couldn't say that.
Okay, maybe I wouldn't say anything to him. Just have some lunch and see if he was working. If I saw him, then inspiration of what I should say might come to me. And if it didn't, then I could go back another day once I had come up with something.
I grabbed the key card and headed for the lift.
As I hurried along the streets towards the restaurant, I thought about how long it had taken me to find him. The months I'd spent searching for him online from the little information I had found on my birth certificate. I'd spent hours on social media trying to track him down. But if he had a Facebook account, or Twitter, or anything else, I hadn't found it.
The only other information I had besides his name was his profession: Flying Officer. Lost count of the number of visits and hours I'd spent at the library in Marsdon scouring old newspapers and RAF publications looking for any mention of him.
I'd totally lucked out when the local newspaper had run a feature on his retirement from the air force and his return to Malta—not to serve that time. Victor and his wife were opening a restaurant on the island. A long-held dream they'd had, apparently, it reported.
I may have squealed when I found the article, which had earned me a dirty look from the librarian and a shushing. After which I had hurried home to use the Internet to carry on my research in the privacy of my home where I could make as much noise as I liked.
A quick search of the restaurants in Malta—there weren't that many—turned up Saint George's. So called after the rock and shoals out at sea located not far from the restaurant. A family-run establishment by husband and wife duo, Mr and Mrs Hardacre.
As I stood in front of Saint George's, I wondered if they didn't open during the day. The place was deserted. Metal patio chairs and tables were set out, but none of the parasols were open and they were all empty.
I weaved my way through the tables towards the entrance, but the only thing waiting for me was a sign taped to the window: Closed until further notice for family bereavement.
I don't know how long I'd stood there, staring at that sign, wondering who had died. Wondering how I could find out. Until an elderly gentleman came and stood beside me.
“Terrible thing,” he said, nodding at the sign.
Murmuring my agreement, I considered asking him for details but before I could frame a question, he carried on.
“Out of the blue it was. One minute he's prepping for dinner service, the next minute he's keeled over on the floor, clutching his arm.”
He. He. My brain kept throwing that one word at me. My head swam. If the restaurant was closed, then he had to be talking about my biological dad. Light-headed, I dropped into one of the metal patio chairs before my knees gave way. The man shook his head as he stared at the sign.
“His poor wife didn't know what to do. Couldn't stay here after. You know, run the restaurant without him. She's been back in England since the funeral. Not sure what she'll do with this place.”
When I didn't answer, he glanced my way, eyes widening.
“Here, are you all right?”
Nodding, I gave him a weak smile. “Too much sun, I think.” It wasn't even that hot, but thankfully he took the excuse. And eventually left me sitting alone outside the restaurant. I'd sat there staring at the sign until my mind and heart stopped racing.
Until I realised that I was too late. I would never meet my biological father.