Page 73 of Forever, Maybe
And don’t even get her started on his metabolism. Another gift from the genetic lottery. While Chrissie wasn’t related to Alan and Karen Gordon by blood, she’d inherited their shared physique: squat, sturdy and a little too squidgy for comfort.
The sight of Mikey devouring cake with obvious glee would send pulses racing across the country, followed, seconds later, by traffic to her website. Likely enough to crash it.
“Alright then,” she said begrudgingly, determined not to let him think he’d had a clever idea. “Budge up. The cake won’t be ready for ages yet.”
Mikey shrugged and swung his legs off the sofa arm to make space for her.
“What are you watching?” she asked, plopping down.
“Heir Hunters.”He leant forward slightly, animated. “It’s this show where companies track down heirs to estates. You know, people who don’t even know they’re related to the person who’s died and then they inherit a fortune!”
“Yawnsville.”
“No, really! It’s kind of fascinating,” Mikey insisted. “Pops and I watched one the other day. Some woman inherited nearly three hundred grand. From a distant cousin she’d never even heard of!”
“Whatevs.”
Chrissie pulled out her phone and checked Instagram, marvelling as usual at the sheer attention her posts generated. Four weeks ago, she’d launched @chrissiecakes, and her wildest dreams hadn’t come close to predicting the response. Orders were pouring in faster than she could keep up.
Dad’s voice echoed in her head:“Be patient, Chrissie. Don’t hand in your notice at work just yet.”
Patience wasn’t her strong suit. The past month had been a whirlwind of sleepless mornings and late nights, starting at five in the morning., coming home from her day job and then baking until her back, hands, head and everything else ached. Even when she was in the office, she was sneakily replying to comments and DMs. Weekends? Forget about it. Every Saturday and Sunday were consumed by cakes, pastries and bakes to keep up with demand. And Dad always there, camera in hand, ready to capture her latest masterpiece.
The chaos had been exhilarating, but it had also completely derailed her original mission to find Mikey’s birth mother. She hadn’t done anything since that frustrating search a month ago. Scrolling through social media platforms and Googling names had gotten her nowhere, and she hadn’t found the time—or energy—to dig deeper since.
“…the census is a brilliant resource. We uncover many branches of family trees using it,” said an earnest, middle-aged man on the TV, his dark hair and matching beard lending him a scholarly air. The label at the bottom of the screen identified him as the founder of one of the companies featured onHeir Hunters.
“Why’s it so useful?” asked the off-camera interviewer.
“For many reasons,” the man replied with practiced ease. “First, it’s legally required to fill it in, so it provides a snapshot of where the entire population is at a given time. And if we have the deceased’s birth certificate, we can trace their parents, siblings and sometimes even cousins.”
Ping, ping, ping!Chrissie’s brain synapses fired up with possibilities. The census! Of course—that might be the key to finding Eleanor Stephenson. Mikey knew the hospital where he’d been born, so she could narrow the search to that area. And if Eleanor had any other children, those siblings could lead her straight to her.
Her pulse quickened. She sank back into the sofa, trying to look casual as the programme unfolded. The man on the TV continued explaining how his company used the census, making it all sound oh-so simple.
“…names can trip you up when you’re researching genealogy,” said a square-jawed blonde woman, now onscreen. She gestured to a sprawling family tree spread across three tables in an open-plan office. “Take Elizabeth Cole, for example. Her mother’s name was Elizabeth too, but when we traced her side of the family to find cousins, we hit a wall. Elizabeth can appear as Liz, Lizzie, Beth, Bet—even Nell.”
Chrissie’s brain lit up again. What if Eleanor Stephenson went by another name? Ellie, Ella, Elle, Lora or even Nell?
Her excitement fizzled into hesitation. Should she keep searching for Mikey’s mum without asking him first? A stab of self-doubt lingered in the air. But then she remembered that time a few months ago when she’d arranged for him to meet Jaden, a work acquaintance, at the pub.
“Mikey, you’re going out tonight,” she’d declared, ignoring his protests. “Jaden’s sweet, gorgeous andtotallyinto cops.”
He’d moaned and grumbled for a solid five minutes but eventually gave in. Now he and Jaden were still together. Thankyou, Ms Cupid.
He might end up a bit cross about this, too, but he’d get over it. She was sure of it.
Chrissie shifted her phone into her far hand, away from Mikey’s line of sight, and surreptitiously Googled the census. The one from 1991—closest to Mikey’s birth year—could be her golden ticket.
‘Find Mikey’s mum’ mission was a go-go once more.
Chapter thirty-three
May2016
Nell’s parents were perhaps the last people in the UK still clinging to the BT phone book, long after everyone else had migrated to Google. She picked up the familiar yellow book, surprised by how much lighter it felt compared to her childhood and teenage years when every household had a landline, and the internet was still a distant dream.
She was upstairs in her childhood bedroom, in the same semi-detached house in Norwich where she’d grown up. The room had undergone at least two redecorations since she’d left, but traces of her adolescent self lingered. The old-fashioned dressing table she’d salvaged from a skip, sanded, painted white and varnished was still there, as were the framed sketches she’d done as a teenager—artistic attempts that now made her cringe with their raw naivety.
