'I ACTUALLY HAVE ANOTHER confession,' says Beth, smiling shyly. 'I have a photo of you.'
She reaches over to the photo frame on the far side of the table, turns it over, and hands it to you.
'Oh my God! How on earth did you get hold of this?' It's of you and your boyfriend at the time, taken at your Matric Dance in April 1992.
'Through Emily. I asked her to order me a copy.'
Emily must've found out about the photos via Angela, the ones taken by a professional photographer on the night of the dance. The ones that had been pinned to exhibition boards in the quadrangle outside the school secretary's office, easily accessible to the public. It was an order-by-number system, and Emily had clearly walked in off the street and ordered a photo!
'Then a month before your eighteenth birthday, I phoned Dylan and told him that I had found you, that I had a photo of you. We met up and I told him all the news and showed him this picture. We literally studied your face with a magnifying glass, looking for features we shared.'
You burst out laughing at the mental image, and find yourself feeling incredibly self-conscious.
'Ah! So yesterday when Dylan said he knew who I was, that's what he meant. He knew my name, and he'd even seen a picture of me! I can't believe you guys have known about me — my name, where I lived, even what I looked like — for a good few years already.'
'Yes. But we weren't allowed to say or do anything. We had to bide our time and wait for you to initiate contact. That was also the last time I saw Dylan. Three years ago.'
How ironic. There they were, sitting tight, waiting for you to make the first move. And there you were, counting down the years, the months, the weeks, the days, till you could get your hands on that file. It was ludicrous, really. All of you in awkward, frustrating limbo during that period, held hostage by the bureaucratic machinations of adoption legislature.