Mistaken Identity

MISTAKEN IDENTITY
"Would you like to taste the wine sir?"
My date nods at the waiter, holds the offered glass lightly in his well
manicured hand, sniffs long and hard, then takes the tiniest sip.
Another nod, and the waiter pours wine into both our glasses, wipes the
neck of the bottle and places it reverently to one side.
That's what I really enjoy about this kind of work. I get to sample the
best things in life. Maybe it's not for long, just for a few precious
hours, a couple of nights a week but that's better than nothing. It
certainly beats my other job, waiting tables at The Copper Kettle, two
shifts, five days a week.
"Penny for them," says my date, bringing me out from my thoughts.
"I was just thinking how nice it must be to know the difference between
good and really good wine."
He smiles at me, a warm, almost genuine smile. "You hardly need to
worry about things like that, Trisha, not with your looks."
I blush. I can still blush, even now.
He pats my hand. "Shall I order for both of us?"
"Good idea - just don't make me eat oysters!"
He laughs, revealing immaculate white teeth.
The food begins to arrive. The waiter hovers, fills glasses, clears
cutlery, places food in front of me that is almost too beautiful to
eat, leaving just enough of a gap between courses. We make idle chat,
there's no need to talk of what it is to come, that's taken as
read.
Then I notice the merest hint of a frown cross Marcus's face.
"What's the matter?" I ask him.
"That blonde girl, at the table nearest the door. She keeps looking
over here."
2 MISTAKEN IDENTITY
I take a quick look. "You must be imagining it, I've never seen her
before in my life. Just ignore her. Go on telling me about your villa
in the Algarve."
We talk like old friends, between mouthfuls. This is going to be easy.
Suddenly Marcus's voice drops to a whisper.
"Don't look now, but she's coming over." I must look puzzled for Marcus
says, "Her. The blonde, the one who kept looking at you."
I turn my head as the girl reaches our table. She is tall, slim,
elegant. Her clothes do more than fit her, they adorn her. Her hair is
golden, glossy, like an ad for shampoo, and the scent of CK's Obsession
wafts gently round her. The grey eyes remind me of my mother's.
"I'm sorry for interrupting. " She swallows. "Look, this is
difficult."
I see irritation cross Marcus's face. This is not what I need.
"If you have something to say, kindly get on with it, " he says. " The
lady and I are trying to have a quiet meal."
His voice is hard, I sense her discomfort. What does she want?
She fumbles in her bag, brings out an old photo and hands it to
me.
"This is my mum - Pat Turner. My natural mum that is, I'm adopted. She
looks so much like you, I thought, I hoped."
My eyes are joined to hers, I cannot look away.
"Well now you know you were mistaken. Go away, and leave us in
peace."
"I'm sorry love" I say, uselessly.
She looks into my eyes, as though she can read my very thoughts. "I've
been looking for
3. MISTAKEN IDENTITY
three years. Someone gave me this photo and told me she'd moved to
Portsmouth so Kevin and
I, that's my husband, " she turns to smile across at him, pride all
over her pretty face, making my heart lurch, " booked a fortnight's
holiday. I've looked everywhere for her. If I don't find her by this
time next week, I'll have to give up." She pauses, looking lost. I want
to put my arms round her, hug her close. " I really
thought&;#8230;.." her voice fades away.
I think she may be about to cry.
I'm still holding the photo. It was taken in 1976. I've got my arm
wrapped tight around Bill's waist. We're standing at the end of
Southend pier. We both have stupid grins on our faces.
"I'm sorry truly I am, but that's not me. My name's Tricia, Tricia
Wilson " I lie, as I hand the photo back.
Still she hesitates.
"You heard what the lady said, now push off." Marcus's voice is hard,
abrupt, cold.
She takes a step back, looks in her bag for a card and gives it to me.
"Please. Take this. Just in case."
Our fingers touch, my heart aches. I give her a weak smile and murmur
something about wishing her luck in her search. She goes back to her
table, her head held lower than it was. I see her speak to her husband.
He puts his arm round her shoulder and I know she is weeping
I look across the table at Marcus. He is angry, angry at being
interrupted. It takes all my charms to calm him down again. The girl
leaves soon afterwards. I see them out of the corner of my eye. I
breathe a sigh of relief. With an effort I force myself to eat at least
some of the delicious dessert. The cheesecake is light, delicately
flavoured with limes and topped with a thin
4. MISTAKEN IDENTITY
layer of kiwi fruit and just enough cream, but my appetite is gone. I
find it hard to swallow. I push the plate to one side.
Marcus leans towards me and picks up my hand. "How about we leave the
coffee, have a nightcap in my room?" His thumb is rubbing my
palm.
I try to take my hand away but he holds on to it, squeezing.
"I, I'm not sure," I say.
"Come on now, darling, we both know what we're here for." His handsome,
unlined face contorts with a leer. His eyes stare at my cleavage. "I've
been wanting to get my hands on you ever since we met. I bet you're
really something." My hesitation irritates him. "What's wrong? No-one's
turned me down before. Isn't ?150 for extras enough? I can make it
?200. ?250 if you'll stay the whole night."
?250. It's such a lot of money to me, so little to him. I wonder what's
the matter with me. I've done this before, at least a dozen
times.
I'm only 41, and I still have the looks and figure of a woman ten years
younger. Some men only want an escort in the true sense of the word.
Just someone to talk to , or to be seen with. You only have to look the
part. Others want more, a lot more, and usually I go along with them. I
get lonely , and sometimes any kind of company and closeness is better
than nothing.
"I'm sorry Marcus. Maybe some other time. I'm just not in the
mood."
"Well that's great! I'll be letting the agency know about this. I was
told you'd be ready for anything."
I shrug, push my chair back and get up. "Don't worry, I'll call myself
a cab."
"Good," he snaps, and is gone.
5. MISTAKEN IDENTITY
My flat feels cold and unwelcoming as I step inside but at least
Marmaduke is there to greet me. I turn on a bar of the fire, and make
myself a milky coffee. Marmaduke makes herself comfortable in my lap. I
reach down over the dozing cat's back and pick up my bag. I take the
business card out of my purse and read it.
'Rebecca Harrison, BA Hons. Interior Design Consultant.'
There's an address, somewhere in Notting Hill. In my mind's eye I
imagine her home. It'll be perfect, I'm sure. Warm, inviting,
comfortable. A place where I would never fit in. My thoughts drift back
to 1976. It was so much harder then. Girls, and I was only fifteen when
I found out I was expecting, girls didn't keep their babies then. It
just wasn't done.
I only held her in my arms for a few minutes before she was taken from
me for
ever. I felt such love in those few precious moments. She was part of
me. Part of Bill.
We broke up shortly afterwards. His parents sent him to live with his
gran.
We kept in touch for a few months but then it fizzled out. I don't
think he could cope with knowing we'd given our baby away. Now she's
back in my life again, or could be.
Tomorrow I'll call the agency, tell them I won't be offering extras in
the future. Before I go to bed I put the card away, somewhere safe .
Somewhere I can find it again. When I'm ready.
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