The Many Colours of Us: The perfect heart-warming debut about love and family

‘Will you get Johnny to book me a flight?’

‘If you’re lucky, I might even book it myself.’

6th June 1987

My dearest daughter,

Happy fourth birthday, my darling. It’s been a year since I saw you and what a year it has been.

Seeing you this time last year has kick-started me into working harder, into ‘living up to my potential’ as my tutors at St Martin’s used to put it. I’ve been sober for one year and sixty days. I’ve been to meetings every day for the last 425 days.

And with my sobriety has come a new-found love of my work. I’ve known for years that the drink has been destroying my love of art, but I hadn’t realised how much it had destroyed my productivity. The last year has been spent in a fever of activity at my studio in Whitechapel. One day I hope to show you the studio, the place where I painted the work for my first major exhibition.

Yes, that’s right! Tonight, on your fourth birthday in lieu of the Campden Hill Road party, I will be exhibiting my work for the first time. The paintings are already at the gallery and I’m sitting here in an almost empty studio feeling rather nervous I must admit. I expect this is the artist’s equivalent of stage fright. I hope your mother isn’t too angry that some of her guests will be late to the party, as I know they are coming to the exhibition!

Dad is coming down from Yorkshire to see the exhibition as well. This is a man who, to my knowledge, hasn’t left Yorkshire since Mum died! Frank and I are astonished, delighted and nervous in equal measures. In an hour or so Frank will pick me up and then we’ll be off to Kings Cross to meet Dad.

I wonder if you’ll ever meet your grandfather? I do hope so. He’s quite a character under that gruff exterior, although it’s taken me a long time to figure that out. Frank and I will be sure to tell him all about you.

Happy Birthday, Princess. Wish me luck!

Your Father

Chapter 7 (#ulink_054aa0fa-9361-5728-b7a0-907f03856048)

‘Bella!’ Marco di Palma yells at me from halfway down the street. Luckily, I’m heading his way, but if I wasn’t I’d feel obliged to stop in for a coffee at least. Marco has an incredible ability of getting passers-by into his restaurant no matter what. I guess that’s why it’s always so busy.

Marco owns the Italian place at the bottom of our road. This restaurant has been here for as long as I can remember. Johnny used to bring me here when I was a child. Mum never came with us; Italian food is bad for the figure apparently. She tried to drum this into me for years but I’ve always ignored it without detrimental effect.

Marco’s is such a big part of my life that I can’t smell garlic cooking or freshly ground coffee without being transported to this little place on the corner of our road, with its gingham tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. All the money in the world wouldn’t make me choose a fancy restaurant over this.

Marco di Palma greets me with the same white-toothed grin he has greeted me with since I was a child. In over twenty years he has hardly changed at all, except for a little grey hair at his temples. He runs his restaurant with the same passion and enthusiasm.

‘Bella Julia!’ he exclaims again as I approach, grabbing my face and planting three over the top kisses on my cheeks. ‘And where is your beautiful mama tonight? And Signor Johnny? Will they be joining you?’

‘Not tonight,’ I reply, marvelling at Marco’s endless optimism that one day the Philadelphia Simmonds will eat in his restaurant. ‘Mum’s in New York.’

‘Your favourite table then?’ he asks pointing me in the direction of the table I always sit at in the summer on the patio.

‘Could I have somewhere a little more private tonight, Marco? I’m meeting someone.’

‘Is Dr Alec visiting us tonight?’ he exclaims to the entire restaurant. ‘We always love to see Dr Alec!’

Marco makes this pronouncement as though he and Alec are the greatest of friends when in fact, on the few occasions I’d brought Alec here, he had been nothing but disparaging of the whole experience. Alec will always put fancy restaurants above little Italian places with gingham tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. To herald Alec’s potential arrival with such reverence is almost as optimistic as thinking my mother will ever eat here.

I break the news quickly, like tearing off a Band-Aid. ‘Alec and I have split up I’m afraid.’ I pause for the dramatic effect I know Marco loves. ‘Alec is moving to America without me.’

‘Ah the bastard!’ Marco screeches, making all the tables in the restaurant jump a little. ‘If I ever see him…’ He shakes his fist at me rather alarmingly. Then suddenly his face changes as though he is trying to work something out. ‘So, who are you dining with tonight, Bella?’ he asks with a wink. ‘A new man?’

‘My mother’s lawyer,’ I say firmly. I don’t want Marco getting any ideas or bringing roses and champagne over for no reason. He is known for getting carried away. Another reason why his restaurant is always full.

Marco winks at me again and tells me he understands, when clearly he doesn’t understand at all. But then neither do I so I just tell him that Edwin and I do have some legal stuff to go through and need some peace and quiet.

Marco finds me a corner table with benches on either side, flourishing his tea towel. ‘Is everything all right, Bella?’ he asks in a serious tone I have never heard him adopt before.

‘Yes,’ I lie brightly, astounded at how easily I lie about how fine I am these days. ‘Why?’

‘Well, meeting lawyers, no man, your mama in New York?’ He throws his hands up into the air.

‘Everything’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘We’re just going through some financial stuff that Mum has handed over to me.’ Not quite a lie I suppose.

He seems satisfied by this and taps his nose at me before wandering back out into the street, flicking a tea towel in his wake.

Edwin texted me over the weekend. He wanted to know if I was OK, worried about how upset I’d been when he gave me the letters. I assured him it was just a shock and he asked me if he could take me for dinner. It seemed a little out of character, but if someone as handsome as Edwin Jones wants to take me out for dinner, who am I to argue?

Pen and I analysed this in detail on the phone.

‘You’re a fast mover,’ she said, when I told her about the dinner invitation. ‘Is it allowed?’

‘Is what allowed?’

‘Dating your lawyer?’ she asked, clearly delighted at the prospect.

‘He’s not my lawyer, he’s my mother’s lawyer. And we’re not dating.’

‘Like hell you’re not. Sounds like a date to me.’

I heard her tapping something into her iPad.

‘Oh, very nice,’ she said.

‘What is?’

‘Edwin Jones, of course. I’ve just googled him.’

‘Of course you have.’

‘How tall is he?’ she asked. She’s only 5’1”. Graeme calls us Little and Large, but she knows I have a bit of a complex about dating men who are shorter than me.

‘About six four,’ I replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the butterflies in my stomach.

‘Then he’s clearly perfect for you. You know what they say, the best way of getting over someone is getting…’

‘Yes, thank you, Pen,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s not a date.’ I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to convince Pen or the butterflies.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just…’ She trailed off with a sigh.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.