by Lucy Diamond
Paula bit her lip, trying to get her head round this version of her dad. He’d always seemed perfectly content to live in the same house for years on end, happy within the boundaries of that so-called small world. Clearly not.
He glanced across at her when she didn’t reply, looking awkward. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled after a pause, then a thought seemed to strike him. ‘You’re not just asking because your mum put you up to it, are you?’
‘No,’ Paula replied. ‘I haven’t heard a thing from Mum. Not for want of trying. I don’t even know when she’s coming home again, do you? I mean, I looked online, and the flights are every Sunday, so I’m hoping she’ll be back at the weekend, but . . .’ Her voice petered out, as she saw her dad shrugging.
‘I don’t know, either,’ he replied, his eyes mournful. ‘She’s never going to let me forget this, is she?’ he added after a moment.
‘Probably not,’ Paula agreed. ‘But then again . . .’ Her own hurt feelings lay like a tight bandage around her chest. ‘I dunno, Dad. I feel kind of sad about it myself,’ she confessed. ‘I mean, I’ve always looked up to you and Mum as, like, the happy-ever-after to aspire to. And now . . .’
He flinched but didn’t look away. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I’m really, truly sorry. I was a selfish young idiot – there’s no excuse. I never did it again, though.’ His voice shook. ‘Because I love your mother. I absolutely worship that woman. And as soon as Kathy left town, it was like the scales dropped from my eyes. I looked around me and realized how lucky I was, with your mum and you kiddies, and I realized, too, just what I stood to lose. You bloody fool, I thought. You stupid, stupid man.’ He buttered another piece of toast and shook his head. ‘It taught me not to take anything for granted. And from that day on, I devoted myself to Jeanie and the family. I swear.’
Paula nodded, believing him. He was a good man at heart, she knew that, and this whole saga seemed to have aged him, to have ground him down. He looked tired and defeated, a fuzz of stubble on his jawline, an ink smudge on his shirt. Sometimes you forgot that your parents were fallible human beings too, especially when they’d previously seemed so adept at life. ‘So what happens now?’ she asked. ‘I mean, Mum was pretty clear that she wanted nothing to do with Frankie. So what will you do if she turns up again, and Mum gives you an It’s-me-or-her ultimatum again? Who will you choose?’
Harry poked a triangle of toast into his fried egg and bit off the corner. ‘I’m not going to be had by any ultimatums,’ he replied, munching. ‘I’ll choose them both, of course. And if your mother has ever loved me, then she’ll know she can’t ask that of me. I can’t turn away my own daughter.’
‘Good,’ said Paula, remembering the alarmed face of her half-sister on the few seconds of video she had. Remembering too how strong a pull she, Paula, had felt inside, at the sight of her. That woman is my sister. My actual, real sister. ‘Then I’ll stand by you,’ she promised her dad. ‘Because I want to meet her too. Whatever Mum says.’
‘Whee! You’re flying! You’re a bird! You’re an eagle!’
‘I’m flying!’ Fergus yelled in agreement, as the swing soared up into the air. Craig had gone to meet an old magazine contact who wanted to discuss some possible feature ideas, and Frankie had taken Fergus down to the local playground where, joy of joys, they’d been able to get on his favourite swing without even having to wait.
‘Kick your feet out in front when you go up, that’s it,’ Frankie reminded him and pushed again. ‘Whee! You’re a rocket, shooting into space – you’re whizzing up to Mars!’
‘ROCKET!’ bellowed Fergus gleefully. ‘Harder, Mumma. Harder!’
Another push. ‘Wow! You’re a seagull zooming over the sea, hunting for fish!’ she cried.
‘I’m a PTERODACTYL!’ he replied, spreading his arms out wide as the swing arced up again. They’d just borrowed a library book about dinosaurs and it was his current bedtime reading favourite. They were both rapidly becoming experts on the subject.
‘Hold on tight, pterodactyl,’ Frankie warned as he wobbled within the sturdy safety bars of the swing, his chest banging against the front. She grabbed hold of the swing and put her hand on his little round tummy. ‘Ow. Are you okay, poppet? Do you want to stop?’
Fergus bucked in the seat, trying to make himself swing once more. ‘Again, Mumma. Don’t want to stop.’
‘Okay,’ Frankie said. ‘Get ready then, because it’s going to be a big one . . .’ She held on to the back and pulled him up slowly. ‘Hold very tight, because it’s going to be really, really big . . .’
Fergus squealed excitedly, kicking his legs. ‘Do it, Mumma. Do it!’
‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ Frankie teased. ‘Are you quite, quite sure?’
‘What an adorable little boy!’
Frankie almost let go of the swing, she was so shocked to hear the woman’s voice. The voice that had taunted her in nightmares all week, the voice she kept hearing in her head. He’s MY son. And I want him back!
‘Julia,’ she said, her heart thumping up into her throat as she glanced round and saw her there, the return of the Bad Fairy. She swallowed hard and set Fergus swinging, not wanting him to pick up on her panic. Oh God, oh God, she thought anxiously. What should I do? What should I DO?
‘We meet again,’ Julia said, smiling broadly as if they were old friends. Had she followed them there from the flat? Frankie wondered with a lurch. How long had she been watching? Had she seen Fergus joggle against the swing just now, when he wasn’t holding on?
‘Hi,’ Frankie said weakly, her heart fluttering like a dying butterfly.
‘I take it my letter arrived safely?’ Julia went on in a conversational tone. She was wearing cropped jeans and a bright-pink T-shirt, her wild spiralling hair pulled back under a navy headscarf. She looked radiant and Earth Mother-ish, her skin a healthy golden, her teeth white in her smile.
‘Yes,’ Frankie replied guardedly. ‘It did.’
‘Excellent.’ Julia leaned against one of the swing posts as if settling in at a bar. ‘And what did Craig have to say about the contents?’
What did Craig have to say? Absolutely nothing that could be repeated in a children’s play area, Frankie thought to herself. ‘He . . . he’s still mulling it over,’ she fudged.
‘Ahh,’ said Julia, her expression giving little away. ‘Well, he needs to hurry up and reply,’ she went on in a brisk, businesslike manner. ‘Because, obviously, if he won’t even attempt mediation to resolve the issue, then I’m legally entitled to go to court and issue an application for a child arrangement order. Just saying!’
The words sent a seam of ice splitting Frankie’s heart. Julia clearly hadn’t wasted any time ascertaining her rights and the procedures she’d need to take. ‘Right,’ she replied dully.
Julia flashed her another toothy smile. ‘Anyway. More importantly – hello, Fergus,’ she cried, stepping closer to the swing and wiggling her fingers in a little wave. ‘Remember me?’
Of course he doesn’t remember you, Frankie wanted to snap. You left him before he could even sit up, let alone form his earliest memories. Remember you? He doesn’t even know you exist!
Fergus was kicking his legs with exuberance, ignoring the interruption. ‘Faster, Mumma!’ he yelled imperiously. ‘Do a rocket again!’
‘Oka-a-a-ay,’ Frankie replied. Maybe if she and Fergus just closed Julia right out, she would go away. ‘To the moon, this time. Are you ready? Are you holding tight?’
‘He calls you that?’ Julia asked, arching an eyebrow. ‘He thinks you’re his mum?’
Frankie finched, finding the other woman’s presence ominous. What was she even doing there? If she thought Frankie was about to be manipulated into making introductions amidst the happy shrieks and laughter of the children’s playground, turning Fergus’s small world upside down with revelations, then she had another think coming. ‘Yes,’ she replied curtly, giving Fergus a push. Yes, he calls me that. Because in his eyes, that’s ex
actly who I am. All right?
A flicker of emotion crossed Julia’s face, before she strode a few steps further so that Fergus could see her better. ‘Hey, Fergus,’ she said in a wheedling sort of voice. ‘Hey, buddy, I brought you a present.’
Frankie found herself gritting her teeth. Oh, really? You’re going to bribe him now, are you? ‘Julia, I’m not sure this is the time or—’
The word ‘present’ had caught Fergus’s attention, though. ‘Mumma, who is that lady?’ he interrupted, trying to twist round in the swing.
‘Sit still, darling, and hold on,’ Frankie said at once, slowing the swing before he tried to fling himself bodily from it. Fergus was very keen on the concept of presents. It had been his birthday in April and he still liked to talk about the occasion months later, often wanting to leaf through the cards again and examine photos of himself wearing a party hat, tucking into Frankie’s best effort at a Thomas the Tank Engine cake.
‘This is Julia,’ she added belatedly, in answer to his question. Oh God, she agonized as she lifted him down and the three of them moved a little way away, near the sandpit. Please let this be all right. Please don’t let Julia smash his world to bits with one ill-judged, impetuous remark. Please don’t let her try to snatch him away. She found herself glancing round to see if there were any mums she knew nearby, someone who could call the police for her, if Frankie had to give chase. If only Craig were here too, she despaired. At least they’d have safety in numbers then, a united show of defence!
‘Well, look at you,’ said Julia, crouching down and beaming at Fergus. She crooked a finger at him. ‘Do you want your present? Come and say hello to me.’
Fergus didn’t seem to like this idea, leaning against Frankie’s legs and sliding a thumb into his mouth. He stared at the floor and shook his head, no, and Frankie crouched down too, putting a protective arm around his small warm body. You can’t win him over that easily, love. ‘He can be a bit shy sometimes with people he doesn’t know,’ she said.
If Julia noticed the barb, she chose not to react, instead dipping a hand into a large canvas tote bag and drawing out a gift wrapped in shiny green paper. ‘Here you are,’ she said coaxingly, holding it out.
Still Fergus didn’t move. Frankie stroked his springy hair, finding herself checking out Julia’s shoes to gauge how fast the woman might be able to run, if she did make a grab for him. Gold high-heeled sandals with wispy, insubstantial-looking straps. Okay. They were probably safe. ‘Go on, darling, it’s all right,’ she told him. ‘It’s a present, for you!’ She dropped her voice to a pretend whisper. ‘And don’t forget to say . . .’
‘Fank you,’ he said obediently, stepping forward and taking the present. With a glance up at Frankie to check it was okay – yes, go on, you can open it – he tore apart the wrapping to reveal . . . ‘A bear,’ he said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Other children his age had bedrooms populated with whole jungles of cuddly toys, but Fergus had never been one for stuffed animals, preferring things with wheels that he could push around the floor, preferably crashing into one another.
‘A teddy, how kind,’ Frankie said politely. ‘Well, we really should be going now, so—’
‘What do you think you’ll call him? Wait – is it a girl bear or a boy bear?’ asked Julia, who seemed determined to engage with Fergus. She put a finger to her lips in an affected, wondering sort of way. ‘Can you think of any cool names?’
Fergus lifted a shoulder in one of his doubtful shrugs, and Frankie could almost read the thoughts that were going around his head. I dunno. Why’s she asking me? She’s the one who got it. I don’t even like bears!
Okay, time to wrap this up, Frankie thought. ‘Maybe we should call him . . . Lunchtime! Because that’s what time it is. Shall we go home now?’
Fergus giggled, rescued by her ridiculousness. ‘Lunchtime isn’t a name,’ he scolded, leaning against her.
‘Oh no? How about Ham Sandwich? Or Strawberry Yogurt?’
‘No, Mumma! Those are silly names.’
Julia looked hurt, as if her present wasn’t being taken seriously. But then she put on her big fake smile again and held her arms wide. ‘How about a hug before you go? A cuddle? Do you want a cuddle?’
Fergus bit his lip and glanced at Frankie again. He was like this with Craig’s Aunty Lindsey sometimes, who was always wanting to pinch his cheeks and hug him and kiss him, as if he were some kind of pet. ‘You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,’ Frankie said, still with her arm around him. Her thighs were starting to ache from her crouched position, but she paid them no heed. She would crouch like this all day if she had to.
‘Come here and I’ll tell you a secret,’ Julia coaxed, with a funny smile on her face, making her eyes big and round. ‘Do you want to hear a secret?’
Uh-oh. Frankie did not want Julia telling Fergus any secrets. No, thank you. ‘Well, we’re off now,’ she said, rising and taking Fergus’s hand, before wheeling him sharply around. ‘Bye.’
‘Oh, but I think he wants to know the secret,’ Julia said, in an awful sing-songy voice, one that set Frankie’s teeth on edge. She was trotting up behind them, heels clacking against the path, the smell of her sickly perfume making Frankie want to gag. ‘Because it’s a very cool secret!’
‘Julia, just leave it,’ Frankie warned, without breaking stride. Her hand was becoming clammy where she was gripping on to Fergus and she found herself wishing she’d brought the buggy with her, so she could bundle him into it and run. ‘Another time maybe. Goodbye.’
‘Well, I’m going to tell him anyway,’ Julia said, all syrupy and sweet. ‘Hey, you’ll never guess what, Fergus.’ She gave a fake little laugh that made Frankie want to scream. ‘It’s ever so funny because . . . well, because I’m your real mummy!’
Chapter Thirteen
Alison stood at the kitchen worktop and poured herself a gin and tonic. Ice cubes, a juicy slice of lime, a swizzle stick to mix it all together. She sipped the concoction thoughtfully, then added more gin. Nothing worse than a G&T without a bit of poke – that was her motto. Well, it wasn’t, but maybe it should be.
Wandering out into the garden with her drink, she sat down on her old wooden Lutyens bench and wiggled her bare toes. It was a warm June evening, and the blooms on the peonies were gorgeously ripe and full. The sweet peas were romping up the bamboo wigwam, white and lilac and crimson, with their delicate notes of scent just reaching her. Further down the garden, the alliums stood to attention like a row of soldiers, their rounded starry heads a rich purple against the stone wall, while her luscious pink roses spilled over with fragrance. Alison took a long swig of gin, breathed in the beautiful surroundings and exhaled. Okay, then. Was she ready for this? Was she bold enough to dare?
That morning she’d been cutting the hair of Mo Marshall, who was seventy-five, wise and permanently cheerful, and Alison had found herself confessing how she’d been feeling a bit blue recently.
‘Ah, Widow’s Itch, that’s what you’ve got,’ Mo had said with a dirty cackle. She was having her hair washed at the time, and Alison, rinsing off the suds behind her, was glad that her client couldn’t see the startled look on her face. ‘You want to get back in the dating world, my girl. Have yourself a bit of fun.’
Widow’s Itch? It sounded like some revolting sexually transmitted disease, but according to Mo, every bereaved woman experienced it at some point or another. ‘Don’t fight it, feel it,’ she advised, wagging a finger as Alison rubbed in the conditioner. ‘If you hear what I’m saying.’
Alison wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what Mo was saying, but she was a firm believer in Business Rule Number One: the customer is always right. And so she did her best to make interested-sounding noises while Mo detailed the pros and cons of various matchmaking sites she’d sampled, and went on to provide her with a full list of tips and anecdotes when it came to modern-day dating. This is not for me, Alison assured herself, snipping and styling and blow-drying. I’m just nodding and
being polite here, that’s all. But then Mo had ended her little spiel by taking Alison’s hand and saying earnestly, ‘We all just want some companionship, at the end of the day, don’t we? And a bit of a laugh and a cuddle to sweeten the evenings.’
The phrase resonated within Alison. Yes, actually, she found herself thinking. Mo was right: if Alison was honest with herself, she did want those things. But did she really have the nerve to venture out in search of them?
Come on, girl. You might as well have a look, at least. Check out the totty, said Mo in her head. You could almost hear that cackle of hers echoing around the garden.
Alison took a deep breath and switched on her laptop. Now, what was that website called, the one that Mo had told her about? Silver and Single, that was it. ‘There’s another called Grab-a-Granny, but I’ve heard a few dodgy things about it,’ Mo had advised, wrinkling her nose. Grab-a-Granny indeed, Alison thought, eyes spinning heavenwards. Where was the dignity in that?
Silver and Single it was, then. Just to shut Mo up, if nothing else. ‘Well, here goes,’ she said aloud, and then for some reason she picked up her glass of gin and held it in the air. ‘Cheers to you, Rich, wherever you are. Nobody will ever match up to you, my darling. But let’s just see who else is out there.’
Then she typed in the name of the website and, suddenly feeling a bit trembly and giddy, clicked on the link.
Silver and Single . . . You’re Never Too Old! Come on in, the water’s lovely, read the introductory page, and Alison gave a little sniff because, actually, she didn’t think of herself as ‘old’ in the slightest, and certainly didn’t need a website to tell her as much. ‘That’s your first warning,’ she said darkly. Any more patronizing nonsense and she’d switch the silly thing off and go indoors. Her finger hovered over a scarlet heart-shaped button that urged ‘Join Us!’ and, after a deep breath – Got to be in it to win it! Mo reminded her – she clicked again. She would merely investigate at this stage, she told herself. She would simply have a look. It didn’t mean she actually had to do anything she didn’t want to.
