The First Time I Met My Father

Stories #5: Searching for The One with the Pied Piper of London

The clock on the mantel chimes eight. My body stiffens as I wait for the sound of Harry’s footsteps on the stairs. I’ve asked him to come with me to what might be the most important event of my life. Could he… really… be… The One?

I don’t mean Harry (my plus one), or The One as in future husband one — I’m talking about my father. That One.

I’ve been trying not to get my hopes up too high, but ever since I met Victoria, it’s all I can think about. Tonight, I’m going to meet her father (who I’m convinced is my father), and yet, he doesn’t know who I am or anything about me.

Victoria invited me to her party because I told her how much I wanted to meet him, and she’s the one who will introduce us. The event is at their family home in Westminster to celebrate her and her twin sister Alexandra’s 18th birthdays. Funny that we’re all 18. They were born in June, and I was born in July. If we really are sisters, we’re practically triplets!

I met Victoria a couple of weeks ago on a night out at L’Equipe. I immediately recognised her from the photo I saw in a magazine last year. She was chatty and friendly, and when I told her my mother used to know her father, she seemed intrigued. I must have appeared incredibly eager, but I was fizzing with excitement to meet her. She’s the link between us if he is, indeed, The One.

Mummy refuses to tell me who my father is, so I’ve been trying to find out myself for years. I have a few suspects, and the one I truly believed was The One (Winston Churchill Jr.) never replied to my letter, so I took that as a No.

She has dropped a few crumbs here and there, though too small to even call clues. When I was living with her, I would look through photos and letters she left lying around, but nothing added up or made sense. She’s a woman of many secrets, and the identity of my father isn’t up for discussion. Whenever I mention the subject, she either gets annoyed and says “not now” or, if she’s in a good mood, “I’ll tell you one day.”

But when will that elusive day come? I’m 18 now, a legal adult, and she still won’t tell me. I reckon one day is never, and nobody else seems to know anything. So, it’s up to me.

The first and only time I saw my new main suspect was on TV. Mummy was in the room and mentioned they were once engaged. That was a big crumb. More of a bomb — out of nowhere. I don’t know why he was on the news; all she said was that he’s in a lot of trouble. He was in a suit, giving a speech with an angry red face. I don’t think I look like him at all.

Later that night, Mummy took me out for dinner and told me more about him and why she broke off their engagement, dark sexual stuff I wish I could forget, but never will. That’s why I’m not entirely sure it’s him, because why would she tell me that? Surely a mother wouldn’t want a child to know those things about her father?

The reason I think it could be him is because of Victoria’s twin, Alexandra—“Ally”— perhaps my sister, who I’ll also meet for the first time tonight. A couple of years before I saw their father on TV, someone told me I looked like her. That was the first time I heard the Aitken name. Shortly after that, I saw the photo of them in a magazine at the Debutante Ball in Paris, and I was shocked. Ally and I have very similar facial features, especially below the nose. We could easily be sisters. I wonder what she’s like in person.

If I’m right about all this, 1998 might just go down as the most memorable year of my life. It’s been a hell of a year so far, and it’s still only September. In January, my brother’s friend, the photographer Bob Carlos Clarke, took me into Storm Models to meet Sarah Doukas. She signed me up right away, and just when things started picking up, I got knocked down by a motorbike. I’m lucky I didn’t lose my legs, or worse, my life.

The recovery was horrendous. After all those weeks in hospital, Mummy made me stay with her in depressing Hungerford instead of letting me go home with Cedric (my now ex-boyfriend) in London. I was still 17, a minor, so I didn’t have a say in the matter. The doctor said it would take about eight months before I’d be able to walk again, but I defied everyone and was back on my feet and out clubbing in three.

Soon after that, Cedric and I were over, and I was whisked off to St. Tropez by generous friends to stay at the palatial Château de La Messardière and celebrate my 18^th birthday.

Two minutes past eight. The party started at seven-thirty. I light yet another cigarette to calm my nerves, even though I’m running low and the evening hasn’t begun. I buy Marlboro Lights in ten packs to save money, and before I know it, ten go down to one. Twenty packs are almost three and a half quid now, double the amount I pay for a serving of rice from the Indian takeout over the road on the nights I’m not having dinner at Amir’s.

Amir’s dad, Shahram, is the late Shah of Iran’s nephew. Their house next door on Brompton Square is amazing; every time I go over there, it’s like walking through a museum. Considering they are royals in exile, there’s nothing remotely pretentious about them. They all hang out in T-shirts and sweatpants. It’s so kind of them to have me over for home-cooked meals as often as they do; otherwise, I’d be living on rice and Pot Noodle! I get the feeling Naz is concerned about me. Amir’s lucky to have such a caring mother, and his dad is very cool. I wonder what mine will be like.

I pace back and forth across the living room of The Chevallerie, wondering how much longer Harry will be. We call the house “The Chevallerie” because it’s on Cheval Place. Harry inherited it from an aunt he didn’t know existed. She left it to him in her will, and he’s kept everything exactly as it was when she lived here. Walking through the front door is like entering a time warp. His aunt must have been a wartime spinster. Everything is so old; all the furniture, pictures, and interiors are from the 1940s.

I check my reflection in the blotchy antique mirror above the mantel. I’m wearing all black, as usual. Not the most cheerful colour for a first meeting, but I don’t have any other going-out clothes. My whole wardrobe is black on black on black. That’s when I had an actual wardrobe to hang things in. Until a couple of weeks ago, I was living upstairs in the spare room, but I couldn’t afford to pay Harry the rent anymore.

It’s so frustrating that everyone thinks I’m taken care of because of my last name when the reality is the complete opposite. I skip meals because I don’t even have money to buy food, though I probably would if I gave up smoking.

My mother was married to “The Richest Man in the World”, but she’s been having money problems for years. Things got so bad, we had to move out of our big house in Chelsea and into a council house in Battersea on a hideous estate where my little brother got beaten up by local kids. That’s when I left home and moved in with Cedric.

When I couldn’t pay the rent for the spare room at The Chevallerie, rather than kicking me out, Harry said I could move downstairs, and now he charges me hardly anything. My new sleeping area, which I can hardly call a bedroom, is a tiny alcove between the kitchen and bathroom, probably once used as a wine cellar. They say life is full of ups and downs, and so far, that seems to be the case. One night I’m staying at a palace, the next I’m sleeping in a cellar.

A Knightsbridge cellar, but still. Am I Cinderella?

Harry’s bedroom is on the top floor. The entire ceiling is a massive skylight. There aren’t any windows down where I sleep. The whole lower floor feels haunted. When I need the loo in the middle of the night, I scurry across the cold stone floor and try not to look at the faces in the black and white photos hanging on the wall. They scare me. Harry doesn’t know who those random people are; he didn’t even know the aunt who gave him this house.

A loud creak resounds with every step, and Harry emerges from the staircase. He is tall and lanky and wears funny coloured hats. The first time I saw him outside the restaurant Momo, he was sauntering down Heddon Street with his hands in his pockets, a look of knowing on his face. There was something about him that reminded me of the Pied Piper, like he was someone who knew the way.

“Ready to rock, Petsy Khashog?” he beams. The twinkle in his eyes and warmth in his smile comfort me. He’s so tall he has to lurch his neck forward so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling.

I don’t mind that he calls me Petsy Khashog. I think it’s quite funny, actually.

I met Harry through Zac Goldsmith. I may spend a lot of time in nightclubs, but it’s lucky I do because that’s how I meet people, especially at L’Equipe. That’s where I met Amir, who introduced me to Shahriah, who introduced me to Zac, who introduced me to Harry.

Zac was part of the reason Cedric and I broke up. I wasn’t unfaithful, I just went out to Tramp one night with Zac, and then Cedric walked in and saw us sitting there together at a table for two. We weren’t even kissing – just having an innocent drink – but the sight of us was enough to make Cedric furious. He was humiliated that his girlfriend was out in public with another man.

Guys like Zac make guys like Cedric feel insecure and inferior. Zac “has it all” with none of the ego to match. He’s rich, handsome, and from a famous family, but also incredibly sweet and down-to-earth. Harry is one of his best friends. When I told Zac that Cedric and I were finished and I was looking for somewhere to live, he said he had a friend who’d just inherited a run-down mews house in Knightsbridge, and that’s how I met the Pied Piper and landed in The Chevallerie.

Now Harry and I are in the back of a black cab on our way to Westminster. It’s a balmy London night, and my nerves are buzzing. If the event is a disaster, we can leave and come home. The Chevallerie, Harry’s home, is my home, at least for now. No matter what happens, for sure it’ll be a late night. When is it ever not a late night? I’ll end up at the usual places, Browns or L’Equipe. Probably both.

I fall into a trance as we glide past glowing streetlights and swing around Hyde Park Corner, passing Buckingham Palace and an illuminated Big Ben. As the taxi enters the borough of Westminster, I clutch Harry’s arm, my voice coming out as a squeak—“Soon you might be witnessing a historic moment!”

“I’m honoured you asked me to escort you,” he grins.

Harry knows all about my father situation. I think he feels sorry for me, which makes it hard for him to stay cross with me. When I first moved in, I had a Yorkshire Terrier puppy. Mummy turned up at the hospital after my accident with it in a basket as a get-well-soon present. I named him after her old friend, Sammy Davis Jr., who she’s always gushing about. I thought that would make her happy. Anyway, she would not let me leave Sammy the Yorkie with her in Hungerford (unless I moved back in), so I took him with me to The Chevallerie where he made a lot of mess, caused problems between me and the piper, and destroyed my best pair of heels. Now he’s staying at Jane’s house. I met Jane out at Tramp. She’s a watch dealer and has a young daughter who loves dogs, so at least I know Sammy is being taken care of. Jane said I can have him back whenever I want.

The taxi pulls up outside a grand house on Lord North Street. My heart is pounding. What if this all goes horribly wrong, or what if I’m the one who's got this all wrong? Harry squeezes my hand as we enter and make our way across the marble floor. We swipe a couple of glasses of champagne from a nearby tray. I won’t know anyone here, so I stick to Harry like sellotape. The crowd is intimidating. Everyone knows everyone. Young people, old people, posh people, rah rah rahhh. What am I even doing here?

Victoria comes rushing over with a great white smile. She is so lovely and welcoming. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you to Daddy!”

Oh my god. This is it. The moment I am finally going to meet him.

There he is, an imposing figure in the center of an enormous drawing room surrounded by guests chattering, drinking, clinking. I follow Victoria, coursing through the crowd like a shark—laser focused—face to face—eyes meet—hands make contact—shaking—now speaking, he opens with: “Victoria tells me you’re a supermodel.”

What? I bray at the preposterousness of the word. Supermodel, I am not. “Er, no,” is all I can muster.

He swiftly changes the subject, averting his eyes. “I knew your mother once. Do send her my regards.”

I stand there stupidly, waiting for him to make eye contact again, but he doesn’t. He is looking behind me, dark irises flicking left and right, everywhere but at me. I want us to carry on talking, but he has nothing more to say, and I am literally speechless. This man could be My Father.

I underestimated the enormity of this moment. I will remember these precious few seconds forever. It means everything to me, but to him, it’s just a passing moment of no real consequence.

Why would it be? I am nothing to him. I am no one.

Eyes searching, heart falling, I turn to Harry. He stands beside me like a sturdy pillar, beckoning me to lean on him. Did they even meet? Is the moment really and truly over? It is.

The crowd swallows Victoria’s father into a new moment, and I am gone.

“Let’s go outside to the garden,” Harry says, putting a protective arm around me.

Spirit deflated, I breathe in the night air and linger at the edge of a crowd. A live band is playing, and an animated couple fills the open space, dancing under the moonlight. I look closer and recognise the faces — the ethereal girl is Ally, my apparent doppelganger. The over-excited guy has bright blonde hair; he was the one between the Aitken sisters in the photo of them at the Crillon Ball in Paris. Jo Bamford is his name.

Ally might be the most confident girl I’ve ever seen in my life. She looks like she hasn’t a care in the world, and she moves like a sylph. Their dance is coordinated, rehearsed, with specific steps, spins, kicks, and twirls. It’s a performance.

And then… Bam! Crack!

It happened so fast—he flung her in my direction, an arm flew in my face, the back of a hand hitting my glass as I lifted it to my lips for a sip.

They carry on dancing. Neither one of them noticed. I am stunned.

My hand over my mouth, I look for a crack in the champagne glass. Nothing. Was it my tooth? Am I bleeding? I panic and hurry back inside to find a bathroom. One of the waitresses passing around trays shows me where to go.

Now I am in a little room with dark red walls closing in on me. I feel claustrophobic. Is this a room or a womb? Pulsing, gaping red, all around me. I check and recheck my mouth, gums, and teeth in the mirror. If the champagne glass had knocked me any harder, this could have been a disaster. A bloodbath. But I see no blood. Not a drop.

Face burning, eyes prickling, am I about to start crying? Fuck.

I splash cold water on my cheeks to pull myself together. This was all a big mistake. I do not belong here.

I open the door, and there’s Harry, waiting for me. “You OK?”

“Yeah,” I am glad to see him. At that moment, I really love him. “I’m fine.”

“What do you want to do? They’re serving food over there.”

I look across the hall and see a snake of people around a long wooden table piled with dishes and plates.

“I think I want to leave,” I say.

“Let’s go for a drink and a bite at Nam Long,” he says. “My treat.”

Their famous Flaming Ferrari comes to mind, the strongest cocktail I’ve ever had. I could sink one or two of those after this. I’m still stunned. Startled. Stupefied.

I nod in agreement. “OK.”

Harry crosses the threshold and steps into the night. I follow the Pied Piper’s lead.