Authors: Elise Alden
Her expression didn’t change, but in her eyes I saw the finality of death.
“I’m sorry.”
“I neither desire nor require your sympathy. James will suffer but it’s Ryan I’m worried about. He’s going to need you when I—”
For the first time a small crack appeared in Francesca’s stoic facade. Her eyes glistened with moisture and on impulse I took her hand. I flashed back to our car trip years before and wanted to kick myself all over again. How different things might have been between us had I behaved differently.
“I’m not going anywhere, Francesca,” I assured her. “The belligerent teenager who thought only about herself is gone. I swear I’ll be here for Ryan and James.”
Francesca withdrew her hand. “James has his son.”
Her inflection on
his
made me flinch. “He told you about Ryan,” I said dully.
“Yes, and then we had a little chat.” She opened her handbag and handed me an A4 manila envelope.
Expecting more legalese from James, I took out the sheet of paper inside and read the header, then cut a glance at Francesca.
“Read it.”
It was legalese all right, but not from James. The letter was from a genetic testing laboratory based in North West London, dated shortly after Ryan’s birth. I skimmed the contents, eyes popping the further I read.
What the hell?
I read it again, this time more slowly.
“There must be a mistake.”
Francesca huffed. “Do you think I would allow my son to take responsibility for a baby without making sure it was his? You’d already signed over your rights but I had the test done anyway, as soon as I brought Ryan home. James never knew. He had enough worries with divorcing Caroline and finding another job.”
I didn’t answer because I was still processing...
processing...
...and no, it didn’t make sense.
All the same a little thrill worked its way from my mind to my heart, and wonder began to overtake my shock. But I was too afraid to allow it free reign. The paternity test had to be Francesca’s idea of a joke, a way to torture me for what I had done. She was dangling what I’d always wanted in front of my eyes only to tell me it wasn’t true.
But was she that twisted? A manipulative cow, sure, but not a sadist.
“James can’t be Ryan’s father,” I insisted.
Francesca arched her brows. “I understood quite the contrary from your speech.”
Cheeks burning, yet giddy with burgeoning hope I glanced at Ryan, seeing an amalgamation of James and myself in his features. “No ffff...way.”
“Even without the test I would know James is Ryan’s father,” Francesca said, her voice full of pride. “Watching my grandson is like watching my son all over again. He talks like James, walks like him and has the same mischievous personality.”
“Did you show this letter to James?” I asked eagerly.
The glacial look returned to her face. “Of course. He was distraught when he returned from Valencia. He decided you should also know the truth. For Ryan’s sake,” she said pointedly.
I winced, then took the plunge. “Did James say anything...about me?”
She observed me for a few moments and a small, satisfied smile appeared on her face. “Your actions destroyed the possibility of his love more effectively than I ever could.”
I breathed through the pressure in my chest. Francesca was the one dying but it felt as though
my
coffin was being nailed shut.
Francesca smiled. “James is socialising more, going out at the weekends and meeting new people.”
Meeting other
women
was what she meant. Sophisticated, rich and educated women. Women who were the opposite of Paisley Benton. If I’d thought that imminent death would transform Francesca from snob into saint I’d have been disappointed. As it was I drank my hot chocolate, the taste bitter on my tongue.
When Bonaparte came to take them home I high-fived Ryan and gave him his birthday present: a calligraphy set. We share a passion for embellishing letters and he seemed delighted at his gift. The gift was two weeks premature, but I hadn’t been invited to his birthday party and the following weekend he was going away with James and Francesca. Ryan let me kiss and hug him, briefly, and our cuddle kept me warm on the bus back to Marcia’s.
In her minuscule kitchen I ate spoon after spoon of Heavenly Delight ice cream while she worked out the mechanics of Ryan’s paternity.
“When you did the nasty with James you were smack in the middle of your fertile phase,” she said. “That one, light spot you had two weeks earlier was actually a period. The drugs messed with your menstrual cycle, just like I said. That’s why you thought you’d missed it.”
“But the test I took—”
“Was a cheap piece of crap. The outline was faint, remember? It probably picked up your hormonal fluctuations and not HCG. Didn’t I tell you to buy a different brand?”
She grabbed the ice cream and looked at me as though I was an idiot. Hell, I
had
been an idiot so I couldn’t even call her on it.
“I didn’t have the money and I didn’t think it would make a difference,” I said.
She let out a long, low whistle. “Well, hon, it made all the difference in the world. James is Ryan’s biological father, conceived on the day you met him. Don’t look so devastated. You should be happy.”
Happy?
Sure, as soon as I was done rearranging my insides. Nearly eight years of guilty baggage to unpack and nowhere to put it. Eight years of fretting about the lie I’d told and months of misery that I’d lost James because of it. My sour laugh bordered on hysterical. If I’d followed my own advice about telling the so-called truth, I would at this very moment be lying in James’s arms. But no, instead I had confessed. I had put honesty before my selfishness and taken the moral high ground.
Truth and lies.
And irony.
“I always knew God had a fucked-up sense of humour.”
Marcia sighed. “Don’t forget sadistic. He’s related to the devil, remember?”
She pushed the tub of Heavenly Delight across the table.
“Eat up.”
* * *
I took a swig of alcohol-free mojito
sin
straight from the bottle and then another, right after that. I followed it with Ambar Green: non-gluten, non-alcohol and non-flavour lager. I wished I had some real lager to chase down a real mojito. Or a bottle of Absolut. Something I could get drunk on.
It was Saturday night and another two weeks had passed with no sign of James. No pounding on my door and sweeping me into his arms, ecstatically happy at being Ryan’s father and ready to give me another chance. Oh no, James was busy “socializing,” making Francesca happy by wining and dining simpering Caroline clones.
Marcia had accepted an invite to dinner with Tarzan later on, after her shift at the Royal Free. When she asked my opinion on dating him I’d been positive, but in reality men sucked. Women too. Hell, everybody on the planet was a slimy chasm of pain just waiting to drown you in despair.
I slammed the mojito
sin
on the coffee table, trying to focus on the positives in my life—like Ryan. Was I a natural mother? Not really, but I remembered how I used to play with Marcia’s little brother, Kai, when he was small. I kept myself from hugging and kissing Ryan because I didn’t want to freak him out.
I glugged down the rest of my bottle.
“Happy birthday, Ryan Christopher.”
I took another swig of alcoholically challenged lager. The flat was eerily silent, dark and cold in the December freeze but I hadn’t turned on the heating. It wouldn’t warm me up or ease my emptiness. I didn’t want to picture James on a date after Ryan’s party so I imagined him at home, drinking champagne and dining on caviar or kangaroo or whatever it was that supercilious toffs eat.
Dining on self-righteousness.
Who the hell did he think he was to ignore me and act so superior? It wasn’t as if he’d never lied before, as if he’d never lied to
me
. Not in so many words but he’d made me feel things, made me believe that I was important. Worthy. Not just an addict who couldn’t take care of her own kid; not just somebody damaged and twisted before she’d even left childhood.
I took another swig of Ambar Green and twiddled the upper between my fingers. What did I ever do to deserve what had happened to me? Why
me
, goddamn it? Self-pity slithered into me like a python threatening to consume me whole.
“No fudging way.”
I turned on the light and stood in front of the long wall mirror, saluting truth and freedom with my fist. Before I knew it the upper was in my mouth, burning my tongue and making its way down my throat. I wretched and spat it out, falling to my knees.
I shook convulsively, hugging myself while my fraying self-control played Russian roulette with the rest of my life. The mirror showed a dishevelled woman dressed entirely in black, pale and hungry for one night of forgetfulness. Just a few hours of bliss because she deserved it after everything she’d suffered. She needed it to make it through another day.
My phone rang and my hand shook so badly I almost dropped it. It was Marcia, still on her shift.
“Ryan’s in A&E. Don’t panic but he’s been hit by a car. Dr Lewis is with him now and James—”
I crushed the upper under my boot on my way out.
* * *
When I got to the hospital Marcia was waiting.
“Minor injuries. Relax, okay?” she said in her no-nonsense nurse’s voice.
She pointed me towards the curtained alcove where Ryan lay, his leg in a cast. My heart did a little flip-flop and settled. He had road burn on his face and elbows and he looked pale.
“Pum! Look at my cast,” he said, wincing when he shifted position.
I checked him over as he told me how he’d rushed across the road to get his rugby ball. Small tremors ran through me as I imagined the worst, told myself it hadn’t happened and reached out to touch him and reassure myself he was alive.
James came back from his chat with the doctor and stood behind me. He looked serious but in control, making me wonder how many medical emergencies he’d dealt with while I’d stoked my grievances in Spain. How many sleepless nights had he spent nursing a fever or watching over Ryan during an illness. I bowed my head, ashamed at my past.
Ryan looked at his dad. “Am I in trouble?”
“How many times have I told you not to throw that ball around near the road? You’re lucky the car was going slowly,” James scolded. “We’re ready to go.”
I leaned down and kissed Ryan’s forehead, controlling the urge to hold him tight. “Not the best way to spend your first day being seven but I’m glad you’re okay.”
He gave me one of James’s long, penetrating looks. <<
Are you my mother?
>>
His eyes begged for truth and I stuttered for an answer. Much as I hated to renege on my agreement with James, much as I was jeopardizing future contact with Ryan, I couldn’t and wouldn’t lie to him.
<<
Yes
.>>
Ryan’s face changed, and if his expression wasn’t ecstatic at least it wasn’t hostile.
<<
Can I still call you Pum?
>>
I let out a strangled laugh-cry. <<
Sure.
>>
James looked between us.
<<
I
told him.
I’m sorry.
>>
He glanced at the door and I got up, ready to step outside so he could lay into me but he put up his hand.
<<
I
was going to tell him soon anyway
.>>
I swallowed, too choked to speak.
“There’s leftover birthday cake,” Ryan said. “Do you want to come home with us and have some?”
James answered before I could think up an excuse. “She can come but only for a little while. You’re in the sin bin.”
“Thank you, James,” I gushed.
A small nod, and then he picked up Ryan’s coat and handed me his shoes so he could carry him out of A&E. We travelled to Matham Manor in silence, James driving a Mercedes with a dozing Ryan and myself in the back. Francesca met us at the door and made a point of sticking around while I helped James to get Ryan settled and into bed. I felt like telling her not to worry about me seducing her precious son with my working-class wiles, but of course I restrained myself.
Ryan took a strong pain-killer and I read to him from
Beast Quest:
Hecton the Body Snatcher
until he fell asleep. After one last kiss I shut Ryan’s door and went to pick up my coat from the sofa. Francesca was sitting at the breakfast bar and James was at the cooker. His hair was wet so he must have just had a shower while I was with Ryan. He’d replaced his jeans and T with black trousers and a shirt that matched the shade of his eyes.
Was he expecting company? The small table to the side of the breakfast bar was set for two—no wine glasses. My pulse rocketed. Was James going to invite me to stay?
Of course not
, I chided myself. It was a Saturday night so maybe he was planning to entertain one of his female friends. The smell of garlic and oregano made my stomach clench and I hoped it wouldn’t growl and embarrass me.
James opened the oven door and checked on whatever he was cooking.
I sniffed the air. “Kangaroo?”
“How did you guess?”
Francesca frowned. She got up and kissed James on the cheek, speaking in rapid Italian. I hate it when people do that. Deliberately speaking in a foreign tongue is rude, isn’t it? And Francesca gave me little looks while she did it, which I thought pushed it beyond rude and into obnoxious. Then she walked to the front door, paused, and waited for me. Well, that was just plain awkward.
“It’s late. Bonaparte can give you a ride home,” she said.
Right, no kangaroo for me tonight. I glanced at James. “May I use your bathroom?”
Even more awkward but a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do. My non-alcoholic binge was just as bladder-filling as the normal kind. I’d rushed out of the flat, spent all my time with Ryan and now I had to spend some time with myself. Mother and son watched me until I disappeared into James’s bedroom. I felt their eyes stuck to my back like pins to a cushion.