Coming Home (18 page)

I gave her a sad little smile.

‘You must miss James, too?’ she asked.

I stiffened. I didn’t want to talk about James. He’d taken me for a complete fool. But that didn’t mean there weren’t times when I missed his physical presence in my life.

‘It’s hardly the same,’ I said. ‘We’d only been together three years.’

‘Hmm,’ said Mum. ‘Now, how are we placed for some lunch? What’s spa cuisine anyway? I hope it’s not blended with massage oil.’

While we’d been spa-ing, I’d left my phone on silent in the locker and it had clearly been active. There was a string of concerned messages from Luca followed by a suggestion that we meet at my local at eight. After the emotion and physical release of the day, I’d rather have had an early night, but I was more desperate to talk to him about the Tom situation. My own thoughts were going in ever-decreasing circles—I really needed some outside perspective to help me decide what to do.

‘Thanks so much,’
I typed.
‘See you then.’

‘I
t’s lovely to see you again, Evie,’ said Miss Dawson. ‘It’s been a while.’

I only saw Miss Dawson on an ad hoc basis, now: maintenance, not crisis management
.

Two coffees sat on the table. I smiled to myself, remembering the days when I’d been so excited about the staffroom and the biscuit tin. Now I was in the sixth form, Miss Dawson picked up decaf coffees for us on her way in
.

‘So how are you?’ she asked
.

‘Look—no knitting,’ I said, showing her my empty hands. ‘Ta-da!’

‘Well, that’s a good sign.’ She stirred her coffee. ‘So, what’s been going on? How’s that boyfriend of yours? Luca?’

‘Ah.’ I looked out of the window. Trust Miss Dawson to hit the nail on the head. There were so many positive and happy things I could talk about but, today, Luca was not one of them. I pressed my lips together. ‘He asked me to marry him.’

‘Well, well, Evie!’ Miss Dawson sat back in her chair
.
‘That’s big news. And what did you say? You love him, don’t you?’

I exhaled hard while I nodded, tears suddenly clouding my vision. I talked to the table. Miss Dawson shifted forward as she tried to catch my reply
.

‘I said no.’

‘OK.’ She pushed a box of tissues towards me. ‘Let’s look at this. You’ve been together how long? Nearly two years?’ I nodded. ‘And you love him?’ I nodded again. ‘And he obviously feels the same or he wouldn’t have asked …’ She cocked her head at me. ‘So what’s the problem?’

I shook my head, unable to speak
.

‘Do you think you’re too young?’

‘Mmm-hmm. A bit.’

‘OK. I see that. You are only eighteen. But, you know, some people meet their life partner at an early age. It can work out. Even if you go to different universities. People do make it work.’

I sniffed. ‘It’s not that.’

Miss Dawson waited
.

‘I should have brought my knitting after all,’ I said
.

I got up and walked to the window. Outside, the clouds had gathered. A storm was brewing. The smaller trees bent under the force of the wind; leaves flurried through the playground. I turned and perched on the radiator, its warmth flooding through my clothes. ‘I love him too much.’

‘That’s not a good thing? I don’t think you can ever love a person too much.’

‘I’m scared. What if I lose him?’

‘Lose him, as in he’ll leave you? Or lose him, as in …?’

‘Lose him like Graham,’ I said, my voice small. ‘I lost Graham. I nearly lost Mum. I’ve practically lost Dad. I lose everyone I love. If I marry Luca, what if I lose him, too?’

T
he pub at the end of the road was never going to win awards, neither for its design nor for the menu. A converted run of four terraced houses now painted cream and self-styled as a commuter-belt gastro-pub, it had a tiny patch of muddy grass out the front, nestled against the main road. Three wooden picnic tables floated on the grass like rafts in a radioactive sea.

Just before 8 p.m., I stood outside it and, with fingers stiff from the cold, jabbed a number into my phone. I’d marched up the road from Mum’s full of righteous bravado and now my breath came out in puffs that floated up into the orange sodium glow of the High Street. But, before the line connected, I disconnected it and shoved my phone back in my pocket. Then I dithered on the pavement: should I or shouldn’t I call Zoe? What was the worst that could happen? That she’d be nice and I’d get drawn into a conversation with her? I shook my head at the thought, then I turned and walked slowly back towards the pub’s doors. But then … I spun on my heel and walked back down the pavement.

Trying to look as if I knew where I was going—as if I had a purpose in mind—I walked down towards the estate
agent’s and stood staring unseeingly at the pictures of houses for sale and rent. I needed to do it. Already I knew I’d have no inner peace if I didn’t make this call. Turning my back to the estate agent’s window, I dialled again.

Ring-ring … ring-ring.

‘Hello? Zoe speaking.’

‘Hello. This is Evie. Evie Stevens?’

‘Oh … Evie … hello.’

‘I just wanted to tell you that I know. I know all about you and Tom.’

‘Oh. Oh my goodness. Evie …’

‘Are you positive my dad was his father?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘There’s no doubt?’

‘No. No doubt. It wasn’t that kind of …’

‘That’s all. I just wanted you to know that I know. Bye.’

‘Evie, wait! I—’

Click.

C
all made, I pushed my way through the double doors, trying to look like I walked into suburban pseudo-gastropubs every day of my life. Despite the interior being full of ‘atmospheric’ nooks and crannies, I spotted Luca at once, but paused, suddenly shy. After being in Dubai, where five minutes constitutes a long relationship, the shared sense of history I had with Luca was incredibly comforting. I bit my lips as I walked slowly towards the table, embarrassed by the rush of warmth and gratitude that swamped me. My life in Dubai suddenly seemed very far away.

‘Hey.’ I tapped Luca on the shoulder.

‘Evie.’ He jumped up, gave me a peck on the cheek and pulled out a chair for me and indicated the bottle of wine on the table. ‘Are you all right with Chablis?’

‘Of course.’ I smiled at him and he poured me a glass.

I took a sip, rolling the wine appreciatively around my mouth.

‘That’s good. Thank you.’

‘So …’ Luca looked at me expectantly. ‘I was worried about you today. What’s up? Is your mum all right?’

Clutching my glass, I took another sip, stalling for time.
Once I admitted what I’d found out, it would become real. Once Luca knew, I wouldn’t be able to hide away, pretending the whole thing hadn’t happened. A large part of me wished I’d just jumped on a plane and flown back to my other, relatively uncomplicated life, leaving no one any the wiser. I shook my head.

‘I don’t even know where to begin. It’s so complicated.’

‘The beginning’s a good place.’

I took a deep breath and blew it out through my nose. ‘OK. You remember what happened to my brother?’

Luca nodded. He was the only person I’d really talked to about the accident and he’d known the depth of my grief. Even ten years afterwards, I’d cried in his arms.

‘And you remember what happened with my mum after that? You know what she did before she was sectioned?’

He nodded again. I stared at my wine glass, noticed I was tapping my fingernails on the table and gripped my hand into a tight fist to stop myself from doing it. I chewed the inside of my lip and thought about how to say the next bit.

‘Well. I’ve just found out what my dad did around that time. He …’ I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them, took a breath and tried again. ‘He had another son. I have a half brother!’ The unfamiliar word came out with a sob.

Luca shook his head slowly. ‘No. I can’t believe it. How? How did that happen?’ He paused. ‘Do you know?’

I shook my head, my lips a thin line. ‘No idea. But the guy – Tom - is nineteen, so I’m guessing that Dad met the mum while he worked at the university. The Zoe woman looks about forty now so she must have been about twenty
then—maybe she was a student of Dad’s, or maybe they met somewhere completely different—who knows—’ I threw my hands in the air ‘—and had a one-night stand? Anyway, the upshot is, she got pregnant and didn’t get rid of it. So I have a half-brother. At university.’

There was a short silence as Luca processed what I’d just said. I looked up at the ceiling; I couldn’t make eye contact with him: the merest whiff of sympathy would break me. He seemed to know that.

‘How did you find out?’ he asked. ‘Did he contact you? Or did the mother? Or did your mum tell you? Does she even know?’

‘None of the above. Just call me Sherlock.’ I paused. ‘This is going to sound really weird,’ I said, ‘but I’ve actually met this “Zoe”. She was at Dad’s funeral. Get this: with Tom.’ I took in Luca’s shocked expression. ‘I know!’ I shook my head. ‘The mum was really nice to me at the funeral, but I didn’t know who she was then.’

Luca was still shaking his head.

‘I called her just now,’ I said. ‘Told her I knew.’

‘Sorry, what? Evie, you called this woman? You’re crazy!’

‘Well, what would you have done?’ The words shot out of my mouth like bullets. Was I coming across as unhinged? I didn’t know any more what was real. My world had tilted; everything was suddenly skewed, off balance.

Luca took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m not judging you. I’m just taking it in. Sorry.’

I twisted my wine glass. ‘The worst thing is, I don’t think Mum knows. I found out when I was closing Dad’s
email account. I found a secret email account with correspondence between him and this woman, Zoe, and I pieced it all together. It must have happened soon after the accident. I just don’t know how to tell Mum. We went to a spa today and I was going to tell her, but she cried during yoga. The teacher told me she’s really fragile and I just don’t know what to do. She has to know—right? I have to tell her?’

Luca’s forehead wrinkled.

‘You do have to tell her, Evie. It’s just a matter of when. Personally, I’d tell her as soon as possible. But how is she? If she’s “fragile”, you don’t want to risk …’ He tailed off. He looked down at his wine glass, as if the answers lay there. Then he sighed, and looked up again. ‘Look, if I were your mum, I’d want you to tell me as soon as you found out. I’d be hurt if you kept it from me.’

‘But how can I tell her now? It’s too soon.’

‘Look at it this way: How did you feel when you found out your dad had kept it from you for so long?’

‘I’m not planning on keeping it from her for twenty years!’

‘Sure. But what if it drives a wedge between you and your mum? What if she blames you for keeping it from her? You need to be open with each other. She’s all you’ve got left now. Family secrets always end in tears. You can do it, you can tell her, but you have to play it really carefully.’

I drew patterns with my nail on the condensation on the side of my glass.

Luca spoke again. ‘And you don’t want to meet this Tom person? If it were me, I’d have to. I couldn’t know there was
someone who shares my genes out there without making an effort to meet them. I just couldn’t.’

We sat with our thoughts.

‘Telling your mum might be painful,’ said Luca softly, ‘but it’d be for the best. It might even be good for her. You could make sure she got the right support this time. As there’s a history?’

‘He looks just like Graham. I’ve seen pictures.’

‘You think it might be too much for her?’

‘Oh God. I don’t know. Buggery shitty fuck fuck. Why is life so complicated? I just don’t know!’ I banged the table in frustration, making our glasses jump.

There was another silence.

‘So do you think you’ll get in touch with your … um … brother?’ Luca asked.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about it. What if he’s awful? What if he looks like Graham but is nothing like Graham?’

‘Evie. The chances of him being just like Graham are pretty non-existent,’ Luca’s voice was gentle. ‘Please don’t expect that of him. He’s not Graham. He’s never going to be Graham.’

‘I know.’

We sat in silence with our wine. Luca picked up the empty wine bottle. ‘Another one?’

I shook my head. ‘Maybe just a glass. My round.’

When I came back from the bar, Luca was busy on his phone. ‘Have you looked for this guy online?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got a signal. What’s his full name again?’

‘Tom Peters.’ I looked around the pub, pretending not to be interested.

Luca tapped his screen. ‘Right. Got him. Loads of entries. Facebook, Twitter. He appears to be at Warwick University. God bless social media. Here. Have a look?’ He held out his phone.

I shook my head. ‘Thanks, but no. Not like this. I want to do it properly at home when I’ve got time to take it all in. Not half drunk in a pub.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘So I have to tell her?’ I asked Luca as we stood outside the pub.

Luca shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet against the cold. ‘Yes. But pick your time.’

‘OK. Thanks for coming tonight. I really appreciate it.’

‘No problem. It was a pleasure.’

Our eyes locked, then Luca stepped forward and pulled me into a hug that was half polite, half something more. He went to kiss my cheek but got my hair. My lips connected with his ear. I remembered with a jolt of embarrassment how much he liked having his ears kissed.

‘OK, bye then.’

‘Bye.’

I walked slowly away from Luca, then glanced quickly over my shoulder. He was walking purposefully down the High Street, his phone clamped to his ear. I felt a surge of jealousy for the recipient of the call and, reflexively, got
my own phone out. Without stopping to think if what I was doing was right or wrong, I opened the email I’d forwarded to myself from Dad’s account, double-clicked the mobile phone number for Tom and waited while it rang one, two, three times, then, ‘Hello? Tom speaking?’ Crisp and efficient; a smile in the inflection, the timbre of his voice achingly similar to Dad’s.