‘But then what happened to my real parents? Did they die? Like Jayne in school’s Dad did?’
‘Holly,’ she’d say calmly, barely looking up from the housework as if to reduce the enormity of where this conversation was headed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that family is family and that all families are different? Sometimes you have a mum and a dad who aren’t able to bring up a child by themselves and sometimes you have someone like me, who’s on her own, but who wanted nothing more than a little girl exactly like you.
‘I wanted a child like you so badly, then you came along and you were like a miracle for me. It was December when you first arrived and suddenly there you were. My own personal little Christmas miracle.’
‘But Mum …’
‘… What’s really important,’ she’d add, stopping to affectionately ruffle the top of my head, ‘is that in our little family, no child could possibly be more loved than you.’
‘But where did my real mum and dad go?’ I persisted, with all the stubbornness of childhood.
‘Sweetheart, they didn’t go anywhere, and if you ever wanted to meet them, then when the time is right I’m sure we can. But here in our little family, there’s just the two of us: you and me. And if you ask me, we’re the best, happiest family you could ever ask for.’
Didn’t stop me from being utterly consumed with thoughts of my birth parents though, particularly when I was old enough to fully understand, and Mum told me everything. All about my birth parents, how ridiculously young they were when I was born, my biological mother nineteen and still in college, while my father was younger still, just eighteen and barely out of school. She told me how they’d no choice but to put me up for adoption.
But then before what happened I’d happily have battered down the Adoption Authority’s offices to track down my birth parents, wherever they were now, wherever life had taken them.
Whereas after, I gave up even caring. The only family I’d ever had was gone, so what was the point, I figured. After all, I’d been lucky enough to have the best parent anyone could possibly have asked for.
And that, for me, was plenty.
D-Day. Thursday. Date night.
I’m in News FM, but as it’s one of my ‘turn up for work even though I’m not getting paid’ days, I’ve got a secret, cunning plan to slip out of here about 4ish, grab a lightning-quick blow-dry, then race home to try on about twelve different outfits before fecking them all in a big mound on the floor as soon as I hit on ‘the one’.
But after years of toiling away in the doldrums, wouldn’t you know it? That’s exactly the moment when my whole career suddenly decides to go stratospheric. Afternoon Delight is just wrapping up for another day and I’m at my desk packing up so I can surreptitiously slip off unnoticed. Next thing, I’m cast into shadow as our presenter Noel, all six feet three of him – the brandy and port gut included – is suddenly towering over me.
‘Hey there, Holly,’ he smiles fake-sincere, in that man-of-the-people-I-feel-your-pain way he goes on. ‘Not in a mad rush off somewhere, I hope?’
I jump a bit, but then it’s pretty unheard of for Noel to linger round as soon as we’re off air. Ordinarily, he just skedaddles out of here the very minute the red studio light clicks off, then heads off to glamorous TV land for his far more salubrious night job presenting Tonight With … at Channel Six. In fact, we’re doing really well if we see or hear from him before the next day’s pre-production meeting.
Not to mention that this is the second time he’s deigned to single me out in the last week alone.
‘Ermm, well actually …’ I begin to say, but it’s a waste of my time as he just cuts right over me anyway.
‘Thought not, good,’ he says. ‘In that case, you can walk me to my car. It’s high time you and I had a bit of a talk.’
That, by the way, sounded like more of an order than a polite request, so with a ‘what the f**k?’ cartoon caption coming out of my head and on numb autopilot, I trail along in his wake. Hard though not to be aware of a lot of raised eyebrows from round the office, particularly from Maia Mars, who’ll doubtless start spreading rumours that I’m now having a hot affair with the boss right under everyone else’s nose.
I’m still utterly at a loss to know what this is all about and the two of us are all alone in the lift before Noel even acknowledges that I’m actually sharing the same airspace as him.
‘So then, Holly,’ he says just a touch patronizingly as he focuses on his own reflection in the steel metal lift door, then starts adjusting the thick clump of grey hair he’s so inordinately proud of from side to side. I can only guess to make it more camera-friendly.
‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on your work lately, you know, and I have to say I think you’re really doing a terrific job.’
‘Oh, well thanks, Noel,’ I somehow manage to stammer, still mystified but secretly thrilled.
‘That piece about long-distance online relationships last week? Pure gold,’ he goes on, still concentrating on his own reflection, like he’s about to be papped the minute he leaves the building. We reach the car park level on the lower basement floor and the lift doors obediently ping open for him.
‘Anyway, here’s the deal,’ he goes on, striding out of the lift and on through the icy-cold car park, as I struggle two paces behind him madly trying to keep up. ‘I think you’re long overdue a trial run out at Channel Six by now. You’ve worked hard and it’ll be good for us to try you out as a freelance journalist in TV land as well. You deserve a shot; you’ve earned it. So what do you say?’
A weak, watery ‘what?’ is all I can come out with, I’m so utterly flabbergasted.
Channel Six? Is that what he just said? A proper telly gig? And one that even pays me properly? Because this, well, this would be it then. This is a proper break for me. The big one, what I’ve been waiting for and working towards all this time.
‘Now I’m not in a position to offer you anything permanent, you do understand,’ Noel turns to caution me as we finally reach his car, an ostentatious boom-era, seven series BMW with all the bells and whistles on it you’d expect. ‘So it goes without saying that you’d still keep on working here at News FM too.’
‘Of course,’ I tell him, ‘I’d never leave the station high and dry like that.’
‘Good, good. Because all I can offer you right now is a try-out as a freelance researcher, nothing more,’ he goes on, car door open, hopping inside to the cushiness of the cream leather driver’s seat. ‘So, at most, we’re talking maybe one evening’s work per week on Tonight With … . I’m afraid, budget-wise, that’s as much as is on the table right now.’
‘Of course, I completely understand—’
‘I’ll monitor your progress closely and we’ll see how you get on from there.’
‘Ermm, well … that’s really great, Noel. And thanks.’
‘Human interest stories, that’s what you really excel in, Holly. Particularly stories that appeal to women. You know the kind of thing I’m after; you could