A Bit More of You

Chapter Two: Photograph

(Photo from scrapbook: My dad, 1960)

Mum and I arrived early in the morning to meet with this real estate agent and exchange keys. The agent was a tall, skinny lady with cold blue eyes and thin, bony hands and fingers. She wasn't very friendly but covered it up with a big, fake smile.

She was grinning like a Halloween pumpkin the minute she saw Mum and me coming around the corner, lugging our suitcases behind us. "Hello, dears!" she crowed. "Welcome to your new home!"

She sounded so false that I cringed. Mum saw me and whispered, "Now, Georgia, we have to be polite. I had to do a lot of soft soaping to this woman to get this flat at a decent price. Smile at her and say something like 'good morning' or 'how do you do'. No arguing or giving any cheek, okay?"

"Will we have to stick to these rules all the time?" I asked.

"Yes, and I've got several others to go over with you," Mum replied. The corners of her mouth crinkled up into a silly smile. I couldn't help but grin back.

"Hello, Mrs Edwards!" cried the real estate agent, gesturing widely with her hands.

"Hello, Veronica," Mum said politely. "And you don't have to call me Mrs Edwards. Just call me Michelle."

"But it's my job to be formal, Mrs Edwards," Veronica protested.

"I'd prefer you'd just use my first name," said Mum. "I've never been a 'Mrs' in my life."

Veronica's icy blue eyes nearly popped out of her head. "You're not married?"

"No, I'm not."

Veronica peered at me. "Is this your daughter?"

"Yes, I am," I said indignantly, taking hold of Mum's hand and squeezing it tight.

"Where's Daddy, then?" Veronica asked.

I didn't respond, my face screwed up in a scowl.

"Oh, her father and I broke up a long time ago," she said airily. "Things didn't work out, you know. I'd rather not discuss him in front of Georgia. It upsets her so."

I caught on to Mum's little act and tried had to look forlorn. Veronica didn't seem too convinced but didn't question us further. She simply handed over the key, wished us luck then clip-clopped off down the hall in her grotesque puce-coloured high heels. I heard her mumbling as she walked away. It wasn't hard to figure out exactly what she was saying.

"What a heel," I said contemptuously.

"Georgia!" 

"What? It's true! She doesn't have any right to ask stupid questions about where my dad is and stuff!"

"I know." Mum sighed and put an arm around me. "Y'know, it's just so awful not knowing where he is. He'd so love to meet you, darling."

"I don't want to meet him. Not now," I said. "I'm happy just being us."

"So am I," said Mum. She glanced down at the little silver key sitting in the palm of her hand. "Well, we might as well go inside."

I wondered what the flat would look like while Mum fumbled to get the key in the lock. I kind of hoped it would be really fancy and luxurious; a real film star accommodation. The flat turned out to be a disappointment, almost a beige and boring as our old home at Grandpa's - neutral colours, corduroy-covered chairs with floral cushions, and painfully stark watercolor paintings decorating the pale walls. The carpet was all worn and covered in fluff and suspicious-looking stains. The ceiling was going black with mold, mainly around the damp patches near the edges. One of the windows had a huge crack running up the entire length of the glass. Mum and I stood in the middle of the living room, gaping at our new home. It wasn't one bit like I'd imagined, and it seemed like Mum was having the same thought.