by June Hopkins
A loud bang on the door makes me jump. Jesus! Who's that at this time of night? Mum must have forgotten something. I run downstairs quickly before she knocks again; I don't want Harry waking up. It doesn't occur to me that she has her own key. I pull open the door. Fuck! What the hell is he doing here? I stare at him. He doesn't speak, just stares back at me with those beautiful eyes and then I know, without him saying a word, that he knows about Harry. The blood rushes from my head and I actually fall to the side; I think I'm going to faint. I'm horrified. I've never fainted in my life. I'm not a swooning, fainting type of person. I grab the wall for support. Tom obviously thinks the same, and he quickly steps forward and takes my arm. "Annie, it's ok," he tells me gently, and I allow him to escort me into the kitchen where he sits me down while he goes back to shut the door. Jesus, I must look like some old granny in a nursing home. Will this nightmare never end? I take some deep breaths to calm myself down. I'm shaking now; this is horrendous. Tom comes back to the kitchen and sits down opposite me at the table.
"What are you doing here?" I ask with a shaky voice.
He looks steadily at me for a long time before answering. "Is Harry my son, Annie?"
I scrutinise him warily. My head is full to bursting; he's waiting for an answer. I rapidly try to think of a crap story to make up but I know there isn't any point in lying. The cat is well and truly out of the bag and weirdly, as I slowly nod my head in the affirmative, I feel a weight being lifted from my shoulders. Tom lets out a loud sigh, "Why didn't you tell me?" he asks quietly. I watch his handsome face, a face so like Harry's; two peas in a pod there is no doubt. I scrabble about in my brain for an explanation but before my thoughts can slot together my mouth opens and I begin to babble.
"I didn't think it was fair to you. You were off to your new life, to Melanie. You didn't ask for Harry, you and I were just a mistake, well, on your part anyway. You didn't want me. How would you have felt if I had told you? Rang you up three months into your new life and told you that you were going to be a father. What would you have done Tom? Would you have rushed back, dumped your new life, and put a ring on my finger? Would you even have believed me?" I'm surprised to find that I'm crying. I can feel the tears wet on my face. I know I'm waffling, trying to get it all out there. I need him to understand; desperate to make him believe it was all for the best. I look at him helplessly, "I'm so sorry, but I did what I thought was best at the time."
He doesn't say a word, he just gazes at me. I search his face for a clue to his thoughts, and I can see his mind ticking over. The tears really come now. "Oh God Tom, please say something."
He pushes his hands up over his face and rubs his palms at his eyelids. Blimey, he's not crying as well is he? As he moves his hands away I see that no, he's not. Oh well, shame, that would have made me feel slightly better. I turn round and drag the kitchen roll off the kitchen cabinet behind me, take a couple of squares and noisily blow my nose. Tom looks at me in surprise but doesn't comment on the bugle call.
"I'll get us a drink, I know I need one," I tell him as I get up and go through to the lounge where I rummage around in the sideboard and eventually find an old bottle of brandy; a Christmas or birthday present handed over years ago by an old boyfriend with a delighted smile on his face. One who was promptly dispatched not long after this donation, given that we had dated for three months and he still hadn't a clue that I hated brandy. His last girlfriend, the one he rebounded off of, however, loved the stuff! The bottle is stashed at the top, out of Harry's reach. I grab it and take it back to the kitchen and drag a couple of mismatched glasses out of the kitchen cupboard.
He still hasn't spoken; just watches me pour the amber liquid into his glass. He picks it up and knocks it back in one. Certainly a man after my own heart. I do the same and nearly choke on it as it burns a path down my throat. Hate it or not, it is the only alcohol in the house and will have to do. Blimey, that hit the spot. The shock of it starts to penetrate the fog in my brain. I pour us both a larger measure and this time sip at it slowly. My brain has woken up, thoughts start pouring in thick and fast all jumbled up. I try to put them in order and then it occurs to me, how did he find out about Harry, and how did he get my address? That feeling I'd had earlier, that he must have known before he got to the pub, that's why they were there. Has Lissa dropped me in it? I fill the silence, "Tom how did you find out?"
He puts a hand up to his chin, which he rubs thoughtfully with his finger. I can tell he's struggling with something, I wait. I wait for about 30 seconds until curiosity gets the better of me, "Was it Lissa?"
He smiles slightly and slowly shakes his head, "No Annie, it wasn't Lissa."
I'm confused and a little disturbed, I can tell he's not lying, “Then who? How?"
"Ben," he tells me simply.
"Excuse me? Ben? But Ben doesn't know, at least I didn't think he did."
"Yes Annie, he does. He's known from the start, when you first became pregnant."
My mind is slow to process this information. I can't get my head around it. Ben has never let on; never given me any reason to suspect he's in the loop but then Lissa has said that she's often wondered if he did know something.
"But how? I don't understand. How can he have always known?" It's my turn to put my head in my hands and close my eyes, trying to search my memory for the evidence it needs to confirm or deny this.
"It wasn't difficult to work out Annie, come on. I'd confided in him about that night in the hotel; I was worried about you. I felt terribly guilty for taking advantage and then running off to the States, and so I'd asked him to keep an eye on you, make sure you were ok. When you announced you were pregnant he became suspicious. He never believed your tale about the drunken one night stand and honestly, neither did I. As Harry got older the evidence was there for all to see; after all, he is my double isn't he?"
My head shoots up, "You've seen him?"
"Photo's, I've seen photos. Ben sends them to me."
This statement hits me like a thunderbolt, “I’m sorry, let me get this straight, did you just say that Ben sends them to you? Ben, sends you photo's of my son? Exactly how long has this been going on, Tom?"
He has the decency to look uncomfortable, "Pretty much since he was born; more as he got older and it became obvious that I was the father."
Holy fucking shit! I feel like I've just been punched in the stomach. Oh my God, he's known all this time, known that he has a son, yet he has never once contacted me. I feel my stomach contract and run for the sink, just in time to throw up. I breathe quickly trying to stop the sickness; Tom comes to me and puts his hand between my heaving shoulders.
"Annie, its ok," he tells me with a concerned voice.
Why does he keep bloody well saying that, when it is blatantly obvious that everything is far from ok? I am angry now, boiling angry. Who the fuck does he think he is?
"Get your hands off of me," I hiss at him from the depths of the luckily empty washing up bowl. I hear his sharp intake of breath as he pulls his hand from me and steps away. I know he is surprised at my anger and this gives me a certain amount of satisfaction. I don't look up and go back to emptying the contents of my stomach. Once the retching subsides I bring my head up, keeping my face averted from Tom. I run the tap and cup my hand under the running water, using it to rinse out my stale mouth and then reach for a tea towel to wipe my sweaty brow. I waste another minute or so swilling out the bowl and even have to surreptitiously stick my finger in the plughole to ease down the passage of the lumps. I am using my body to shield my actions from him and using the time to think. With my mind clear, and with as much dignity as I can muster under the circumstances, I slowly turn around and glare at him with narrowed eyes. “I want you to leave," I tell him in a quiet voice.
"What? Annie, we need to talk about this."
"Out, now, get out, out of my house now!" I point towards the door to exaggerate my point.
"Annie please, I want to meet Harry. I need to get to know hi
m, just give me a chance please."
I am explosively angry now, I feel like my brain is about to explode.
"Are you having a fucking laugh? How dare you come back after all this time and calmly tell me that you've known all along but couldn't be bothered to get in touch. You've allowed Harry and me to struggle for all these years and did nothing, and now, for whatever reasons your sick mind has devised, you think you can just waltz into our lives and do what, Tom? What do you expect to gain from this?"
He is rubbing at his forehead again and slowly shaking his head. He looks up at me, "Annie, look, I understand why you are upset but remember you are at fault as well." I feel my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline in disbelief. "You've deliberately kept Harry from me all this time. You could have told me about him, I would have supported you both financially." His hands are stretched out to me and he is looking well and truly sorry for himself.
Good grief he is truly unbelievable. There was I carrying this secret for eight years, safe in the knowledge that I was doing the right thing for the right reasons. Misguided, maybe, but for the right reasons nonetheless. There had been no malice, no personal gain in my decision, only a need to protect him; and now he stands in my kitchen with the gall to tell me that even though he knew and did nothing, I am in the wrong. Well that well and truly takes the biscuit. That's it, I've had enough, I want him out of my house immediately. In a deceptively quiet tone I tell him once again to leave, his response is to take a step towards me, his voice placating.
"Annie look, come on, there's no need for all of this unpleasantness. Let's sit down and talk this through like mature adults."
Big mistake. Without any real time to consider my reaction, my hand shoots up with a speed that surprises me and I slap him hard across his designer stubbled cheek. My brain on some level obviously decides that this action makes me feel better and there is now no stopping me. I am hitting him wildly and violently, striking at him anywhere there is an opening. I'm intent on hurting him; I want him to feel a little of the pain that I've endured over the last eight years. I'm dimly aware that I'm screaming at him, calling him all sorts. I'm on a roll and there is no stopping me until my wrists are grabbed in a vice like grip. Before I have time to think, his mouth is on mine and I am being kissed hard. I've been shoved up against the kitchen unit and I feel it digging painfully into my back, but I couldn't care less.
This is what I've dreamt of for eight long years and regardless of the revelations tonight and the vomit breath and the skanky bed clothes, I am going to let this go wherever he wants to take it. That destination becomes all too clear as I am divested of my pyjama bottoms in record time. He hasn't stopped kissing me, my chin is sore. He swings me round and without breaking mouth contact, picks me up and literally throws me onto the kitchen table, a feat in itself. I hear a glass shatter as it’s knocked onto the floor. He is lying over me, my legs are wrapped around his waist and I feel him rummaging around undoing his designer jeans. I am clawing at his hair and his shirt alternately, my hands have a life of their own. He whispers my name and that nearly finishes me there and then. This is so intense.
Oh God, here we go. I feel him pushing at me; one buck of the hips from either of us and he'll be in. And then I see James, clear as day in my mind’s eye. He might as well be in the room. I shove Tom off me with a strength I didn't know I had. We are both panting like a couple of dogs. Tom is staring at me with a wounded, confused expression as well he might. I look back at him full of remorse. I feel terribly guilty; guilty about James and guilty about Tom who is wilting before my very eyes. I also feel frustrated and unfulfilled, literally. I become aware that I am on the table, legs open as if I'm about to give birth and quickly push myself upright, covering myself up. Tom takes my lead and pulls up his jeans, deftly doing them up and shoving his shirt haphazardly into the waistband. We are both breathing heavily; I can hear him and I know equally that he can hear me.
Carefully, and more importantly quietly, I unstick my bare backside from the tabletop one cheek at a time and ease myself off with as much dignity as I can muster, keeping my dressing gown closed tight around me. My pyjama bottoms are in a heap on the floor by the units. They are a glaring reminder of what nearly occurred and I long to pick them up and put them on, but decide against it, much too embarrassing. I walk the few steps required and stand in front of them, shoving them up against the unit with my foot.
"Annie, I'm so sorry. That shouldn't have happened." I chance a glance at him; he's looking straight at me, face contrite, so like Harry when he's sorry. My heart goes out to him.
"Tom please, it's fine," I sigh heavily.
"Can we talk? Or would you prefer me to leave? I will you know. I don't want to upset you any more than I already have."
I battle with myself. Half of me wants to be left alone to mull over all of this, the other half desperately needs to know what the hell is going on, as I really feel that I've just slipped into the Twilight Zone. As it is, the nosey bitch in me wins out. I sigh again, "No, Tom lets talk. Fancy a cuppa?"
He smiles slightly, "I would love one," I can hear the relief in his voice. I turn and fill the kettle and switch it on.
"Can I use the bathroom please?" he asks quietly.
"Of course. Up the stairs, first on the left."
I take the opportunity to put on my pyjama bottoms the minute he disappears up the stairs and then rush through into the sitting room to use the mirror and brush which I keep by it, usually to run through Harry's hair before running out the door to school in the mornings. I don't linger over my reflection for too long as, to be perfectly frank, it's a little too late to worry about it. Even so, I quickly brush my hair to restore some sort of order and minimise the wild man of Borneo look I've acquired. My mouth and chin are red from his stubble. I quickly check my eyes for muck in the corners and my teeth for any sick residue, although had there been any Tom would surely have cleaned that out for me. I shudder. That is sooo gross. Cringing, I head back to the kitchen to make the tea. I set the steaming mugs down on the table and remember the shattered glass, so I grab the dustpan and brush and sweep it up. I spend extra time making sure that I've got it all in case Harry comes down in the morning without his slippers.
Tom seems to have been gone ages; surely he's not having a good old turnout in my bathroom? Noooo he wouldn't do that, would he? So where is he? Oh Shit! I fly up the stairs and there he is in Harry's doorway, his back to me, obviously staring at my son. Quietly I creep up behind him and hiss at him, making him jump, "What do you think you are doing?"
He starts at my voice and guiltily looks around the door at me.
"Sorry, I just needed to see him; make sure he's real I suppose." He gives a last longing look into the room and then steps back onto the landing pulling the door closed behind him.
"Don't," I tell him tightly, “he likes it partly open."
"Oh sorry, of course,” he pushes the door back again, "is that ok?"
"Fine," I stand back against the wall arms folded to let him pass. He obliges and heads off downstairs looking sheepish.
I look into Harry's room myself; I want to see what Tom has seen. My baby is snuggled under his duvet, his dark head on the pillow facing the door, his beautiful face angelic in his peaceful slumber. The light from the landing falls perfectly on him. No wonder Tom was transfixed. I try to imagine how he feels, seeing his son for the first time. Pretty weird I should think. Well at least he shouldn't be disappointed. I know I'm biased but Harry does look Christmas card perfect right at this moment.
I leave the room and, for the second time in two weeks, I go downstairs to face the music with a bloke.
Jesus, my little cottage appears to be turning into the location for a soap opera. My cosy, uneventful life is fast beginning to rival Eastenders for drama. If I were to write a script and send it in, they'd never believe it; say it was too far fetched, the public would never buy into it.
Chapter 9
I enter the kitchen qui
etly and once again take my place opposite Tom at the table. "So," I say, "let's talk."
He sighs heavily and gazes at me with those gorgeous eyes. I feel as if he's staring right into me, as if he can see right into my soul. My heart begins that up tempo beat, the butterflies are back and having a whale of a time in my stomach and I breathe deeply to try and calm myself.
"Where to start?" he says quietly.
"The beginning works for me," I tell him. I'm proud of myself for keeping my voice steady against all the odds.
"Of course, the beginning. Right, yes, excellent idea." He squirms slightly in his seat and clears his throat. I wait.
"As I have already said, Ben told me that you were pregnant pretty much the day or day after you found out. I remember that you had turned up at their place in something of a state, upset and frightened. You told them you were pregnant, made up some story of a great night out, a night that had ended with you sleeping with a complete stranger. You had no idea of how to find him, not even a name. Not very 'you' is it Annie?" He pauses and his eyes penetrate mine questioningly. My eyes slip away and I suddenly find my kitchen floor very interesting indeed.
I am a little peeved, however. I mean, how does he know how I behave? For all he knows I could be a right tart, surrounded by men on the dance floor, having it off on a regular basis with complete strangers. Could have a mass of admirers beating a path to my door, each hoping to sample my overly generous curves and get their hands on my fat bits. I mean, what's he trying to say, that I'm not desirable enough, not sexy enough?