This scene comes from an idea I have for a thriller which I shared a bit of last time we met. It is about identical twins born to a surrogate for a rich couple who have paid for a designer baby. One twin is chosen by them to be their daughter, and the other is rejected to an uncertain fate. The surrogate rescues the rejected twin and brings her up as her own. This scene comes after the rejected twin, Jo, has discovered that she has an identical twin and tries to find out more about her and her life.
Jo stared at her laptop screen. How was she going to find her twin when she didn’t know anything about her? She typed “how to find someone?” into her browser and scrolled through the links displayed. Several were Police or Government sites giving advice on what to do if someone had gone missing suddenly and unexpectedly, and she quickly discounted these. Instead, it was the ones concerned with finding and reconnecting people with lost family members that grabbed her attention. That was exactly what she was trying to do, wasn’t it? She clicked on the first link. Reading through the criteria to be eligible for their help, her heart sank. “You must know the full name and date of birth of your family member”, it stated. Of course, she knew her sister’s date of birth as that was the same as hers, but she didn’t know her name, let alone where she lived or anything else that might be useful. She clicked on the next site and the ones after that, but the criteria were the same. Without, at least, a name and a date of birth, they couldn’t help. She sighed, frustrated; it was impossible. Or was it? A fragment of a TV drama she had watched a few weeks ago surfaced in her mind. She remembered the “spooks” in the show using facial recognition software to find a terror suspect from his image caught on CCTV. They were identical twins, weren’t they? Their features were identical, so if such technology could find her from an image, it could also find her twin. The question was, was such technology available to the public? She searched again, this time for “facial recognition”. Links to many different sites offering to trace a person from their photo appeared. She sat back, relieved. That’s it. Finding her twin was going to be much easier than she had first thought. It seemed that she simply had to upload a photo of herself to one of these free facial mapping sites and press enter.
Butterflies danced in her stomach as she uploaded the most recent photo of herself that she could find. It was one her mum had taken of her shortly before she went into the hospice. She was standing in front of that huge bronze sculpture of Robin Hood outside Nottingham Castle smiling at the camera, pretending to shoot an arrow like Robin. I’ve lived in Nottingham all these years, but I’ve never even been to the castle, her mum had said. At least I can right that wrong before I go. Jo wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye at the memory. Hesitating, she stared at the cursor which hovered over the green “continue” button on her computer screen. Her mind raced. Should she click it? She felt sick. Did she really want to do this? Did she really want to find her sister? Sister, that’s a laugh. She hadn’t even known she had a sister until a few days ago. Let’s face it, she was just a stranger even if they looked the same. She didn’t know anything about her life and vice versa. And did she really want to know? She had been fine without her until now, her and mum in their own private bubble, so why upset things? And if she did find her, what would that do to the bubble? Would mum and her special bond be broken by having to share to her with someone else? What would she do then? What would she even say if she did get in contact with her? Hi, you didn’t know I existed but, surprise, I’m your sister! Would she dismiss her as a crazy person or would it be a happy family reunion, all hugs and kisses? Perhaps they’d hit it off straight away, feel like they’d found their missing piece. Best friends forever! Share each other’s clothes and make up tips, party and swap boyfriends. Share secrets and be each other’s shoulder to cry on. Somehow she doubted that.
Taking a deep breath, Jo clicked and watched images fill the screen, unable to resist the pull of her curiosity. As she scanned the first few photos, she froze, an uneasiness creeping up her spine as she recognised herself. How could this be? Mum had been so meticulously careful about not allowing photos to be taken of either of them in public. Nobody must know where we are, she had said so seriously that it had frightened her. Jo remembered the whispering and smirks of her classmates as she was taken to the library on school photo day, the only child whose mum refused permission for her to have an annual school photo taken or to feature in any school photo, for that matter. Where’s Wally, I mean Jo? Ryan Priestly had teased as his mates egged him on, waving the class photo at her, hot, as she fought to hold back hot humiliated tears. She had hated being different from the others, but her protests had fallen on deaf ears, one of the few things that her mum didn’t give in to her on. Yet, despite her mum’s efforts not to leave any material trace of either of them, here in front of her were picture after picture of her. Her among the crowd by Queen’s Hospital watching the half-marathon, the perfect place to see the runners twice. Her climbing Kinder Scout for her Silver Duke of Edinburgh expedition. She’d forgotten the selfie Claire had taken at the summit of their sweaty, red faces. Mum would’ve gone mental if she had discovered it. And her rushing past a group of girls being interviewed by the local paper about their GCSE results, just in shot, smiling broadly. She could still feel the buzz of excitement she had had, eager to tell her mum what she’d got. She was so happy in that moment, her future of A levels and university clearly ahead. But then Mum got sick. The intense sadness of losing her mum suddenly caught her unawares, grief just waiting to destabilise her, and she sobbed uncontrollably.
It wasn’t until after work the next day that she felt able to continue. She started to scroll through the photos again, then froze. Her eyes transfixed on an image halfway down the page. It definitely looked like her: the same oval face, rosebud lips, and almond-shaped hazel eyes, but the young woman’s hair was dirty blonde, not her natural brunette. Holding her breath, she clicked on the image, opening up an Instagram photo in front of her. A stunningly beautiful version of herself posed in front of what she imagined must be some sort of mosque, from its minarets and domes. The sky was a deep blue, and Jo could almost feel the warmth of the sun. The woman’s eyes were fixed on the camera, flirting with the person behind it. She clicked on the profile at the top of the page, revealing a myriad of posts. She’d found her, there was no denying that.
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