‘Sounds really lovely, Penny. I’m pleased for you,’ Debbie says. But her face isn’t matching the words. She’s picking up some notes off the table. ‘Your care team had a review this week. We touched on it before, but I thought it might be helpful to visit it again. Your final year at university.’ She’s pausing and staring. ‘You spent a period of time on a psychiatric ward. Shall we talk about it?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Nick
Lisa offers him a mint and he grins. Not at the offer of a humbug, but the feel of her stockinged foot against his groin. They are sitting on a train, heading towards Bristol with strangers either side who’re both reading newspapers and taking up more than their fair share of space.
His beautiful fixer smiles back across the carriage table. He can’t believe he doubted her, that he marched up Kingsway towards home with marry in haste, repent at leisure thumping in his head, that he’d gone so far as to say the two of them weren’t going to make it. But thank God they talked. He finally told her how he felt about the house that wasn’t his, his offence at her obsession description, the deep trauma he’d felt discovering Dora wasn’t his mum; she explained how difficult it was to know what he felt about anything because he didn’t tell her. They spent the rest of that afternoon in bed, plotting and planning, making lists between cuddles and kisses, talking everything through several times.
He gazes at the passing green countryside through the window. There’s a mild anxiety about their mission today, but his heart feels so light. He and Lisa have managed to check off four out of five items on their list: his dad has a new hip; he and Lisa visited the private hospital and his father apologised for ‘generally being a grump’. Lisa accepted it with grace and a grin, nodding pointedly at Nick and saying she didn’t blame Harry for being out of sorts, anyone would’ve been more than just grumpy with such a painful hip and being surrounded by doubters. They’ve put Lisa’s house on the market and have spent the last few weekends viewing houses in Chorlton and Didsbury. They’ve had lots of sex and Nick has replaced his moodiness with talking. And now they’re tackling number five, hurtling towards Bristol on the pretext of a weekend away in Bath ‘so we have an excuse to pop in’, as Lisa puts it.
Nick telephoned Jamie Dillon before turning up at the black door of his tall and thin home.
‘Hi, Jamie, it’s Nick Quinn. Lisa and I are having a weekend in Bath,’ he said, trying not to show his nerves and speaking as though it was a routine call, rather than a chat with someone he’d not set eyes on for years. ‘Seeing as you’re so close, I thought it would be nice to introduce you to my new bride …’ Put that way, Lisa thought it a request Jamie couldn’t easily refuse.
He’d had to breathe very deeply, but Lisa was there by his side, knowing what to say and what to do. Thank God for her, his beautiful little fixer.
The phone was passed to Jude, Jamie’s second wife. ‘The house is upside down,’ she said warmly. ‘But if you promise not to look, it would be lovely to see you.’
Nick is now sitting with her at the bottom of the sloping garden in weak April sunshine. The grass is still damp from light showers through the morning. Jamie’s standing at a brick barbecue turning sizzling sausages, burgers and steak.
‘I promised the kids the barbecue last night,’ he’s saying. ‘Gabe is five now, you’d think I might have learned not to make promises. You’ll know what I mean if you and Lisa have kids. They do not forget anything.’
It’s lovely to be outside and will on summer, to drink rosé wine in a garden desperate to burst with colour, to breathe in the smell of charcoaled food and early blossom, but there’s a distinct chill in the air from both the climate and Jamie.
Nick ruffles his hair, his fingers catching the thin scar on his crown, glad he’s brought a thick jumper. He offered it to Lisa, but she said she was fine. She’s been crouched in the wooden playhouse with Jamie’s boy and girl for a good half an hour. She was solemnly handed a purse stuffed with pretend notes and coins to do her weekly shopping. Grinning at Nick, she presented her basket: soap powder, soup, spaghetti and cereal, all miniature-size. Now she’s being served high tea from tiny china cups and saucers, with a side dish of plastic toast, fruit and sausages. The clever replication of a whole host of food items has made his wife laugh. ‘Look, Nick, bacon and fried egg. And a bunch of French fries!’ she said a few moments ago.
He wants to thank God for her love.
Though nervous and distracted, he’s tried to pay attention to the kids too. They’re both cute and chubby, their faces glowing and innocent. For ten minutes or so, Gabe leaned against his legs, lifting train engines with fat fingers, patiently explaining each name, rolling his bright eyes when Nick got it wrong. But he’s finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than Jamie’s ‘Mouse’ features and finding an opportunity to speak to him without his heavily pregnant wife in earshot.
‘Lily, Gabe. Food’s up! Come and get yours before the grown-ups eat everything,’ Jamie calls. The children collect theirs, taking a couple of bites before abandoning their plates and going back to their busy play.
Her baby bump huge, Jude stands with difficulty, stretching with a hand in the small of her back. Nick wonders how old she is. Late thirties, early forties, he guesses, at least a decade younger than Jamie. She rubs Lisa’s arm. ‘You’re freezing. You must need a jumper by now. Let me get you one of mine,’ she says. ‘I’m going up anyway and it’s nippy out here. I insist!’
Nick watches her slowly climb towards the patio doors, then turns back to Jamie. How old would he have been when Susan conceived? A year or two older than her, but still very young. Perhaps he never knew about the pregnancy; perhaps it’ll be a shock. He studies him discreetly. A neat sharp face, slight but sinewy, with greying hair and blue eyes.
There’s a resemblance; there’s definitely a resemblance.
Glancing at Lisa, he takes a quick breath. ‘I’m sorry, Jamie. I don’t know how else to say this. I think you might be my father.’
Jamie stares at him. He’s deeply frowning. ‘What?’
His heart beating fast, Nick finds himself scrambling for words, Lisa looking on and biting her lip. ‘I found out about Susan. I discovered she’s my birth mother; I saw the birth certificate. But the details of my father were blank. So I went to see your mum. She showed me photographs. She said that—’
‘That I had a crush on Susan? I did. Since I was about eight.’ He continues to stare. ‘But I’m not your father.’ Pallid and taut, Jamie’s face looks shell-shocked. He puts his plate on the table, his burger untouched, then lets out a long surge of air. ‘Sorry, Nick. I did wonder when you called …’ He briefly meets Nick’s eyes before looking away. ‘I haven’t thought about this for a long, long time. I haven’t wanted to. But I can tell you that I’m not your father.’
They silently watch the two children in the playhouse, one drawing the floral curtains in the panelled window of the cottage, the other opening them again. Then Lisa leans forward. ‘We’re sorry too, Jamie, for bringing up the past. But Nick needs to know more. He’s desperate for answers and there’s no one he can ask. When did Susan die? How did she die?’
Jamie turns to the sound of the patio doors closing. ‘She isn’t dead,’ he says hurriedly. ‘Not as far as I know. She did a languages degree at Manchester uni, went abroad for her second year and never came back. France, I think.’ He finishes quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Nick. This must be shocking, a lot to take in, but it isn’t something I want to think about, let alone talk about, especially in front of Jude or the kids, so …’
Jude hands Lisa a jumper, then sits down heavily. ‘Oh, aren’t you all sweet,’ she says, glancing at the table. ‘There was no need to wait for me. Come on, eat up before it gets cold, there’s plenty more.’
Nick chews his burger and politely answers Jude’s questions about his parents and work, but he finds it difficult to swallow. He’s reeling with shock. Susan is alive; his birth mother lives. He w
ould have been three or four when she left the country. He glances at Jamie’s children. Little Lily is three, she’s in the nursery class at school, she chats, walks and sings. Plays shop, serves tea. Surely he should remember something?
Then other thoughts: how could his mother abandon him? Kids at that age are gorgeous; loving and loveable, innocent and so appealing. And what about his mum-grandma, Dora? How had she felt when her daughter left Cheshire and didn’t return?
Jamie remains silent and stony-faced. ‘I’ll open another bottle of wine,’ he eventually says, standing up.
Lisa stands too. ‘I’m desperate for a pee, I’ll walk up with you.’
Nick watches them stroll to the patio doors, sees Jamie’s head dip towards Lisa’s as he listens to her speak, then he turns back to Jude, forcing out polite strangled questions. The area, the neighbours, the garden, the weather.
After a few minutes Lisa and Jamie return. He refills the wine glasses, she squeezes Nick’s hand.
Jude looks up at her husband. ‘Aren’t you having a top-up?’ she asks with a smile. ‘I thought you were drinking for me too while the going is good!’
‘An offer I can never refuse,’ he replies, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘But I thought I’d drop off Lisa and Nick at their hotel later. It’s only thirty minutes away, save them catching the train. I can get sozzled after.’
They speed towards Bath in the dusk. Nick sits in the front at Lisa’s insistence, but he doesn’t know what to say; he has no idea what she said to Jamie in the garden, so he stares silently through the window, his breath shallow and tight in his chest. Jamie doesn’t speak, but after several miles, the car brakes abruptly and he indicates right, pulling into a dark lay-by. He turns off the engine, removes his seat belt and lowers his head. When he lifts it, his voice sounds loud in the silence.
‘Sorry, I would suggest we go to a pub for a drink, but I can’t be too long. Bedtime’s a nightmare with the kids. It’ll be even worse fairly soon.’ He looks briefly at Nick. ‘Lisa says you need to know, good or bad, that the uncertainty is worse than knowing the truth. I’m not so sure, Nick. Cans of worms …’
‘The can is already open though, isn’t it?’ Lisa says clearly from the back seat. ‘We both saw that look on your face, Jamie. A look of hurt and pain. Please tell Nick what you know about his father.’
Jamie looks fixedly through the black windscreen, then takes a shuddery breath. ‘Derek is your father. My father Derek is also yours.’ He continues to stare, his eyes glassy, his voice flat. ‘I know this because I saw them. Him and Susan.’ He clears his throat. ‘I was going fishing with Patrick and Matt, but we’d forgotten the bait so I offered to cycle back. It was in the garage, the bait, it was in the bloody garage. I would’ve been none the wiser, but I decided to go into the bungalow. Knowing Mum wasn’t there, I thought I’d please Matt and Patrick by stealing some custard creams, bourbons, maybe even crisps, whatever I could lay my hands on. I heard noises, grunts. Went to look. Susan and my father were in my parents’ bedroom. They were … well, they were in the act—’
Even though Jamie’s appalled face tells him otherwise, there’s a feeling of disbelief. ‘But she was only fifteen when she had me,’ Nick says. ‘He was, well, he was—’
‘An adult, a husband, a father? A forty-one-year-old man? I know. I never forgave him. I distanced myself, got stuck in my studies, came here for university and stayed. I would’ve cut myself off completely had it not been for Mum.’
They’re quiet for moments. Then another thought hits, like a slap. Nick takes a shallow breath before asking. ‘Was it … consensual?’
‘Can sex with a child ever be that?’ Jamie replies sharply. Then he sighs. ‘I don’t know, Nick. I didn’t want to know. I was angry with them both.’ He lifts his hands. ‘She was the star of his film nights; every other slide was of her. And he was always charming, generous behind that damned bar, a sweet liqueur or three on offer every time. I saw them and I bolted. Puked in some bushes, then cycled back to Matt and Patrick as though nothing had happened.’ He still doesn’t turn. ‘I dream about it sometimes. Even now. Standing at the door, her fair hair spread on the pillow. Her silence and stillness, his grunting, his white bum. Pumping, pumping hard.’
The image making him retch, Nick covers his mouth. He needs to escape, he needs air. But as he gropes for the door handle, a car pulls up beside them, so he winds down the window, thankful for the breeze.
‘Need any help? Have you broken down?’ the driver asks. ‘I have some jump leads in the boot if that helps,’ he says in a light West Country accent.
Jamie leans forward. ‘Cheers, mate, but we’re good,’ he replies.
Revived by the chilly air, Nick absently watches the car drive away. ‘So, you and Matt are my half-brothers,’ he says, one fact surfacing from the sludge of his thoughts.
‘Nothing personal,’ Jamie replies, turning on the ignition. ‘But I don’t want to think of it like that. I love my mum dearly. It would kill her if she knew. I’ve never told Matt. I don’t want my wife nor my children ever to know, even when Mum dies.’ He turns to Nick, his voice laced with disgust. ‘Consensual or not, Susan was only fourteen; he was no more than a paedophile.’
The word takes moments to sink in. Stunned by revulsion, Nick barely registers the soft squeeze of Lisa’s hand on his shoulder. Paedophile? Yes, Jamie is right; their father is a paedophile. Oh God, oh God, what the fuck?
Indicating left, Jamie steers the car back onto the dark road, then he drives for a while without speaking. When he does, he sounds weary. ‘Did my father know that I saw them? Did your mum and dad realise who the father was? What did Susan tell them? And what about poor Patrick? What did he know? He never visited us again. Ever. No more days out or fishing. No more film nights, thank God. A whole host of worms I stopped thinking about a lifetime ago.’
Yanked back from his bleak thoughts by the mention of his brother, Nick turns to Lisa and stares. Patrick, God Patrick; he’d temporarily forgotten about his distress. What did he say? His fault, he said. He should never have gone fishing that day.
They lie on the bed, Lisa with a glossy magazine from the coffee table and Nick with his thoughts. He feels guilty about spoiling her weekend. They splashed out on the hotel, never thinking for a moment that the outcome of their search would be this, lying in silence on a luxury divan, when they should be enjoying the bath house and spa, then strolling into town for dinner.
Lisa sips bottled water and turns the page. She looks at him from time to time with a reassuring smile. He knows she’s giving him space and he’s grateful. Overwhelmed with shock and fatigue, he’s having difficulty concentrating on any one thing. Like the paper game of consequences he used to play with Patrick as a child, each answer he unfolds takes him in another unexpected direction.
He rocks his head to Lisa. ‘Turn on the television if you want,’ he says again. It’s flat-screen and large, but takes up a fraction of space in the lofty room. There’s a fireplace and a desk, a coffee table and an armchair. Bang in the middle of the Georgian Royal Crescent, the hotel cost a fortune. But what does money matter? All the wealth in the world couldn’t change his sheer devastation right now.
‘No, it’s fine. I’m enjoying reading how the other half lives.’ Then a glance of green eyes. ‘Anything I can get you? Do you want to talk about it?’
He finds the scar on his crown. ‘No thanks and no.’
He goes back to the mental game. How does the consequence start? Nick met Dora. Dora, his mother-grandmother. She has a daughter who lives; a daughter erased, cut out of a photograph, out of her life. Pretending it hadn’t happened. Can people really do that? The thought is incredible. Clearing away the spilt milk? No point looking back?
Feeling febrile and restless, he stands. Feels the radiator, then draws the heavy curtains to open the sash window. He stares at the inky view, wondering whether to walk it off at the park opposite, but his legs feel too heavy. Like his mind, his body
is a paradox. It’s blowing hot and cold; it wants to move, it wants to stay still.
In Hale Barnes. That’s where they met. In a triangular house. Not a bungalow.
‘Oh my God, here’s a thought – what about the wedding money?’ he asks, turning.
Lisa puts down the magazine, tightens the belt of her towelling robe and pats the bed beside her.
‘That’s a tricky question. I don’t know, but if you give it back it’ll look very odd. He’ll know that you know, surely?’ She peers at his face. ‘Would you want that?’
‘God no. I doubt I’ll ever want to see him again, let alone acknowledge … The thought of what he did makes me sick.’ He scrunches his eyes. ‘But then again—’
‘He’s the godfather you’ve loved. He’s also your dad. Part of him is you.’
Nick unfurls another slice of paper in his mind. ‘I was only three or four. Why did she abandon me? Why did she never come back?’
‘Because she was so young? Because she was at uni and wanted a life? Maybe she intended to come back but met a—’
He jolts upright. Thinks of Patrick rocking, his obvious distress. Susan must have told him; who better than her twin? ‘Or because when she looked at me, she saw him, her rapist?’
Lisa puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps. We don’t know how she felt. Who knows, maybe she loved him. I know she was very young, but still, there are other sides of love not everybody understands.’ She kneels by the bed to see his face. ‘Perhaps one day you can ask her. Would you want to contact—’
The scar’s hot and it itches. ‘No, of course not. Why would I?’
‘Because she’s your birth mum?’
My Husband's Lies Page 27