‘Santi, darling.’ Neil thrust Paloma towards him. ‘She’s wriggling.’
Paloma’s feet whirled as if she was cycling. Santi folded his arms. ‘No.’ He stuck his chin out. His silk shirt was dotted with teething drool and scabs of rusk. ‘No, Neil, it’s your go.’
‘Yes, yes, very droll. Just take her.’
Santi ignored him, poured himself more wine.
Addressing the others, Neil said wryly, ‘I thought he knew the deal. I bring in the big bucks while he looks pretty and wipes the baby’s arse.’
There was muted laughter, a ‘Don’t say that!’ from Josh, and Santi stood up, knocking over his chair. Throwing down his fork, he strode away. An embarrassed silence broke out as he battled with the sliding doors. Everybody looked down at the table as Santi gave up with the doors and turned around, his nose in the air, to stalk past them and make his escape through the front of the house.
Paloma burst into tears. Possibly because she wasn’t accustomed to her papi showing such anger.
Neil looked dumbfounded.
‘Go after him,’ said Josh.
‘Yeah, Neil, go!’ Maeve widened her eyes, horrified by his inaction.
‘I’ll take Paloma.’ Anna held out her arms.
Neil stood, saying, ‘Sorry about him, folks.’
Josh said, ‘Maybe you should apologise to him, not for him.’
Heads swivelled at Josh’s unusual outspokenness.
The front door was left open. They could hear Neil’s feet on the path. Paloma’s cries redoubled.
‘Shush, sweetheart, shush,’ pleaded Anna, feeling helpless. I need to get good at this before December.
‘She likes her blankie when she’s distraught,’ said Josh.
He’d noticed. He noticed small things other people overlooked. ‘Thanks.’ Anna crept out to the hall, where the three overflowing bags of gear stood beneath the coat stand. Finding the grubby chequered blanket, she swathed Paloma in it and sat on the bottom stair, rocking her gently. Blankie was the only dirty thing in the baby’s life; she screamed for days if her parents dared to wash it.
The howls subsided into sleepy hiccups. Anna savoured the warm weight of the little girl. She’d missed out on countless moments like this with her own first child, but she’d been given a second chance. There were thousands of these moments ahead of her.
The baby inside her became startlingly real. It would draw breath on its own. Have likes and dislikes. Look like Anna, or look nothing like her. A ferocious sense of responsibility made Anna shake. They would be as close as the petals of a rosebud.
Neil and Santi brought their quarrel to the doorstep. Anna shrank back, out of sight, covering Paloma’s ears.
Santi was angry. Anna had never known him to raise his voice before. His anger was volcanic, molten. ‘Look me in the eye and tell me you think I am with you for this lifestyle of yours.’
‘It was a joke, darling. A joke.’ Neil sounded nervous.
As well he might, standing on the rim of a volcano, thought Anna.
‘A joke?’ Santi let out a short, irritated Spanish word Anna couldn’t catch. ‘Jokes are funny because they are true. No! No talking, Neil. I am talking for once and I do not stop until I say what I need to say. Deep down you believe that if you were not rich and if you didn’t flash your platinum credit card I would not have agreed to go out with you back then.’
‘The money doesn’t hurt, Santi.’
‘Vete a la mierda!’
‘You enjoy spending it!’
‘I warn you, Neil, do not insult a Spaniard. We are proud men. I am not a stereotype. I had a job when we met. I paid my rent. I held up my head. I was not some pretty boy on the lookout for a sugar daddy.’
‘You were a very pretty boy, actually. I—’
‘Stop it!’
Anna heard a slap.
‘I am not a type. I am me. Santiago Cortes Quintana. I am flesh and blood and all of my flesh and blood loves you, you stupid stupid man!’
‘Santi . . .’
That was not the Neil Anna knew. This Neil was . . . crying.
Anna wanted to creep away. This wasn’t for her ears. Instead, she curled up even smaller around Paloma. Standing up would mean shattering the fragile moment.
‘Santi, I thought we had a deal. I earn the money and you look after Paloma.’
‘Like a macho straight man? You may not have noticed, but I am not a lady, and this is not a traditional marriage. We build the future, you and me. I don’t want to be Doris Day, a nineteen fifties housewife in a pinny. I am your partner.’
‘Life’s better when we play to our strengths. I’m good at business and you’re—’
‘Nobody waved a magic wand over me and gave me the gift of being good with babies. I learned because I had to.’ There was a pause. Anna could sense Santi’s spirit sag. ‘I learned because I wanted to. This is not about chores, Neil. This is about feelings. Why can’t you see that?’
Neil said nothing. He sniffled instead.
Santi whispered, ‘There is a reason why Paloma doesn’t call you Daddy.’
When Neil spoke, it was with a heavy voice, as if he’d aged on the doorstep. ‘I never thought I’d be a father. I never let the thought in.’
Anna closed her eyes. So much in common and they’d never discussed it.
‘I hid my homosexuality. I didn’t grow up like you. I grew up terrified that somebody would guess. That I’d get called a poofter. Get beaten up. Thrown out of home. So, I split in two. There was straight Neil, working hard, making a name for himself. Then there was gay Neil, clubbing, drinking, having one-night stands. Yes, some gay men were having children, but it was complicated, unusual – on the whole we were uncles and godfathers. It felt unfair, it felt like a tragedy, to be honest, but I cauterised those feelings. It wasn’t going to happen for me. Then . . . you.’
Anna heard Santi’s muted Aww. The man was a softie inside that gym-bunny bod.
‘I thought we’d have a wild night or two, then you’d go back to your own kind. The slim kind. The good-looking kind. But something happened. We talked. You cared. Remember that morning when you ran after me with an umbrella so I wouldn’t get wet on my way into the office? That’s when I fell for you, Santi. Not in bed. Not in a bar. Under an umbrella.’
‘I was already in love with you by then.’
‘I know that now. But . . .’ Neil couldn’t seem to spit it out. ‘Look, this is hard to say. None of this, this couple with a child thing, comes easily to me. Secretly – God, I hate saying this – deep down, part of me thinks it’s wrong.’
Anna’s gasp was cloaked by Santi’s gasp.
‘I know, I know, but you want the truth. It’s conditioning, Santi. If you grew up in a house with my dad, you’d struggle with the concept too. He was hard-line. He thought men living together as lovers was unnatural. I can hear Dinkie thinking how can a baby have two fathers but no mum. I don’t agree with my dad – goes without saying, I married you in front of a hundred people – but you have to allow me time to catch up.’
‘These are the basics of our life together, Neil.’
‘I know. But I didn’t sign up for this fatherhood thing. You told me you’d always longed to be a father, that one day you knew it would happen. It was you who wanted to adopt, wasn’t it?’
‘You agreed!’
‘I gave in.’
‘No, no, no. That is not true.’
‘It’s more true than you want it to be, Santi.’
Anna looked down at Paloma, now asleep with her mouth open. Thank goodness she doesn’t understand language yet.
Chapter Eleven
Lunch at Neil and Santiago’s
CROQUETAS DE JAMÓN
SUQUET DE RAPE
CORDERO ASADO
The shed was quiet after a productive day. In the light of her desk lamp, Anna surfed the internet. Shoes. Then dogs. Then that day’s New Yorker cartoon. A few feet away, Yeti – in a paisley headscarf – snored
in the size-L dog bed that he’d already outgrown.
Sam had left some time ago to collect Isabel. They were going to a new restaurant. Or maybe a movie. Somewhere sparkly and sexy, thought Anna, knowing her own evening would involve rubbing salve into her aching back and staring at her feet, wondering if they’d ever deflate.
And waiting.
Waiting for the baby. Waiting for the right moment to tell Josh about Luca and Thea (he’d been elusive; Is he ignoring my texts because he knows something is up?). Waiting for a letter that might or might not arrive was worst of all; she’d taken matters into her own hands. She’d written to Carly, and was now waiting for a reply.
She wouldn’t have done it if Luca was still around. He hadn’t been around for two months now, ample time for her to pick holes in his professional advice.
In her defence, Anna argued – feebly – that by posting the third letter rather than hand-delivering it, Carly had left a trail of crumbs.
Come find me.
The internet made sleuthing easy. Sitting across from Sam in the shed, she’d searched furtively for a Carly in the postcode on the last envelope. She’d wondered if Carly was a nickname, or short for something, but no, it was a name in its own right. Luckily, it wasn’t overused; there were only five women named Carly in roughly the right area.
One of these Carlys remained a mystery. Two of them, judging by their Facebook photos, were at least ten years too old. One was three years old, and was the proud owner of a new prosthetic leg, according to the local news site.
The fifth and final Carly was in the right age bracket, according to the electoral roll. She’d stared at the address until it blurred, and even as she’d thought, No I mustn’t, Anna had ferreted out decent writing paper and her favourite pen. She’d written in haste, and dashed out with Yeti to post it, ignoring the October drizzle, forgetting even to pull on a cardigan.
Now, a fortnight later, she had to assume that Carly – Bonnie, Carly, my daughter – had read the letter.
Dear Carly
I have tracked you down. I’m sorry if you don’t want to hear from me but I dearly want to communicate. If we could meet we could talk and maybe we could heal some of our wounds.
It’s entirely up to you. I won’t use your address again. You have my word on that.
I send you only love,
Anna
Yeti turned over in his sleep, legs twitching as he chased a dream rabbit down a dream hole. Out in the garden, a pale bird flexed its wings in a bush. Anna leaned forward, glad of a speck of beauty in her evening.
It was a Lidl carrier bag. Like Luca, she thought, leaping on the unlikely metaphor. It seemed to be a treasure, but when I looked closer, it was just a piece of rubbish.
Peering into pots, stirring, tasting, Josh was in Santi’s way when Anna arrived for lunch.
‘Stop! Off!’ Santi, wearing an apron as if it was haute couture, smacked Josh away from the cooker. ‘Everything must be perfect.’
The Spanish feast was in honour of his parents, who were expected any minute. Anna helped herself to a cold drink and gave herself an afternoon off from worrying, waiting, wondering. ‘Can’t wait to see your mum again, Santi.’
Mari Carmen – noble-looking, conservatively well-dressed – had made an impression on Anna. She was the sort of contained, elegant but warm woman that Anna would like to be.
Santi wrapped his arms around himself, swooning. ‘Oh my mama! She’s a goddess.’ He pushed Josh out of the way, backing him onto a high stool. ‘Stay! You should have brought Thea today. I don’t cook on this scale very often.’
‘She’s busy,’ said Josh.
I bet she is. Anna said, ‘You’re letting your hair grow, Josh.’
‘Yeah.’ He pushed a lock behind his ear, self-consciously. ‘D’you like it?’
‘Suits you.’
‘They’re late.’ Santi scowled at the kitchen clock. ‘They’re going to Oxfordshire after lunch. Is that how you say it?’
‘Yes. Why Oxfordshire?’ asked Anna, loitering by the tapas.
‘To visit my Uncle Juan José.’
Neil, putting out wine glasses, said, ‘How come this uncle wasn’t at the wedding, darling?’
Anna was glad they’d patched up their rapport.
‘Because he is a priest. More Catholic than the pope. He would not approve of us.’
‘So,’ said Neil, setting out bottles of a good red, ‘there’s at least one member of your family who doesn’t know about your sexuality.’
Perhaps the rapport was still under strain – that comment sounded pointed to Anna.
The chink of glasses brought Sam in from the high-ceilinged living room where he’d been buried beneath the Sunday supplements with Isabel. ‘I’ve had a funny pain in my leg all day,’ he said.
‘In future,’ said Neil, ‘how about you tell us what doesn’t hurt?’
‘Charming,’ laughed Sam.
‘Is that a car?’ Santi was jumpy. He ran out to the hallway, wooden spoon in hand, and peered out through the dimpled glass of the front door. ‘Joder! No! How? Father Juan José is here with my parents.’
‘Calm down,’ said Neil, strolling out. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘He cannot know! He’ll make a scene!’ Santi jumped from foot to foot. He seemed on the verge of tears.
‘If he does, I’ll throw him out,’ said Neil.
Almost screaming, Santi said, ‘He’s a priest! Both my grandmothers would rise out of their graves and kill me with their bare hands if I upset the priest of the family!’
Neil was grim-faced. ‘We are what we are, Santi. You of all people don’t need to be told that.’ He pulled open the door.
Mari Carmen was first in, her eyes pleading for forgiveness. ‘I called you many times,’ she said in machine-gun Spanish as Santi kissed her. Then, in educated English, ‘Father Juan José surprised us at the airport.’
‘I did, I did!’ Father Juan José, disconcertingly attractive in his inky black cassock, stood beaming on the doormat. ‘You can fit one more at the table, can’t you, Santiago?’ He had the air of a man who expected a baroque welcome.
Santi did his duty, fawning, bowing, holding up Paloma to be blessed.
‘I was so sorry to miss your wedding.’ Father Juan José was holding court, beaming at everybody. ‘It’s time I met your wife, yes?’
Santi pushed Anna forward. ‘This is Anna,’ he said, his voice a squeak.
Uncle Juan José took Anna’s hands in his. ‘It is such a pleasure to welcome you to the family, Anna. The baby looks just like you!’ He stood back and looked down at her stomach. ‘Another one so soon!’
‘Um, yes,’ said Anna, stunned, trying to think quickly. ‘We like to keep busy.’
‘I see.’ Father Juan José’s smile reasserted itself. ‘Congratulations.’
Introductions were made as Father Juan José was given a tour of the show-stopping house. Santi took Anna’s hand, and demoted Neil to brother-in-law as they passed through room after exquisite room.
‘Precioso, precioso,’ murmured the priest, appreciating the artworks and the finishes and the come-sit-on-me soft furnishings. ‘Oh,’ he said, surprised, in the master bedroom, a cavernous loft painted dove grey.
They all followed his line of sight. Sam sniggered. Isabel gulped. Josh slipped away, shoulders shaking.
‘Ah. Yes. The painting,’ said Santi, swallowing hard.
Opposite the bed was a life-size, lifelike portrait of Santi, looking over his naked shoulder, arching his naked back, showing off his naked buttocks. It was one of the most homoerotic images imaginable.
‘I painted it,’ said Anna.
‘Yes, she painted it,’ garbled Santi.
‘The male nude,’ she said to Father Juan José, whose mouth hung open, ‘is a classical subject. I was thinking of Michelangelo.’ She swept her mind for other artists. ‘And, um, Leonardo da Vinci.’
‘Yes, Michelangelo painted lots of angels in their socks,’ mur
mured Neil.
‘Very nice brushwork.’ Father Juan José put his nose almost to Santi’s watercolour bum. ‘It is an arresting piece.’
They all needed the pre-lunch aperitivo. Santi’s father kept mopping his brow, and Mari Carmen couldn’t meet her son’s eye. In the kitchen, Neil gave Anna a tray of delicious bites.
‘This is your job, darling,’ he said. ‘You’re the hostess. I’m only the bloody brother-in-law.’
Santi kept whispering apologies, with one eye on the vaulted sitting room. ‘What else could I do?’ he asked desperately.
‘Tell the truth?’ Neil was starchy; he retreated into his shell when hurt.
‘Look, I came to London to be free, but Father Juan José represents centuries of conditioning. I can’t come out to him.’
‘Perhaps now you know how I felt telling my father.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Santi, stirring the monkfish stew, ‘I do.’
Isabel was an asset over lunch. She knew Father Juan José’s part of the country well, and she diverted him with talk of places and people they had in common.
‘Papi!’ yelled Paloma, having had enough of her strangely attentive Auntie Anna.
‘Just as well,’ said Santi to Neil under his breath, ‘that Paloma doesn’t call you daddy yet.’
Anna saw how Neil’s face clouded. ‘Yes, thank God,’ he snapped.
‘Ah, a wedding picture?’ Father stood up, glass in hand, to examine a framed photograph on the white grand piano that nobody could play.
Anna leapt up. From a distance, the snap was recognisably of a happy couple, their heads close together as confetti rained down. Closer up, it was a happy kiss between Santi and Neil. She took in Father’s this doesn’t compute expression as Mari Carmen crossed herself back at the lunch table. ‘Santi and my brother are very close,’ said Anna, as Neil covered his face with his hand.
‘Very,’ said Father. ‘It’s, er, nice to see family getting along. Ah, here you are!’ He leaned over and picked up a picture of Anna in a slightly less ornate frame. ‘What a lovely simple gown.’
Anna had apparently walked down the aisle in a slip dress from Next. She had also got visibly pie-eyed at her own wedding reception. Neil had framed the photograph to tease her; her mascara was halfway down her cheeks and her hairdo was inexplicable.
The Sunday Lunch Club Page 21