Someone Else's Son (2 page)

Oddly, the boy didn’t do anything.

‘What we want to know, Jason, is who should little Tyler call Daddy? You or your brother?’ The expected rumble of audience disapproval flew around the studio.

Good work
, came through her earpiece.

That did it. The brother, who hadn’t said much so far, launched himself at Jason, swearing, yelling, toppling him backwards off the chair that was designed to be just a little unstable. Carrie waited a beat, knowing security had been briefed to do the same – they wanted a scuffle, but not bloodshed. People might still be eating breakfast.

Carrie stepped back as security marched on stage and pinned the brothers back in their chairs. ‘Now just settle down, the pair of you.’ Her voice was commanding. The studio silenced. She spoke first to Jason, then to the camera. ‘I think it’s time we brought on Bobbi-Jo and heard what she has to say about all this, shall we? Followed by the results of the DNA test.’

Carrie allowed the strand of blond hair to cut across her cheek.
Nice
, she heard the director say in her ear. ‘Join us back on
Reality Check
after the break to find out who little Tyler’s daddy really is. Don’t go away.’ Then her famous eye-hand signal, warning the viewers that she was watching them, that her cameras could soon be delving into their lives.

‘Off-air,’ the director called out. ‘Two minutes forty-five.’ It was three minutes in reality, but they always ran fifteen seconds ahead. Working in live television, despite the unpredictable contents of the show, suited Carrie perfectly. Everything was precise, controlled and scheduled. Just the way she liked things.

The audience shuffled, mumbled and whispered. Carrie ignored the line-up of dysfunctional guests on her stage. She strode off set, sat on her own chair, sipped specially imported Swiss mineral water, allowed the make-up girl to touch up her cheeks, her eyes, and the stylist to set back that loose strand of hair so that when she tipped her head a certain way, it could fall free all over again.

‘One minute ten,’ she heard in her ear. Just how would she get this tough little nut to crack before the results? She stood, stared at him sitting rigid with fear on stage. Bobbi-Jo was in the wings opposite: fat, red-faced, eager to get on television to brag about sleeping with an underage boy.

Carrie felt for them, really she did, each and every one of her guests. She was all too familiar with the burning deep inside her chest – the guilt, the sadness that their lives, despite appearing on her show and the help they offered afterwards, would never really change. Then came the rush; the warm lake of security that swept through her, that kept her going, that made her so damned good at her job.

I’m not like them
.

Gloss was slicked across her lip. She strode back on stage, faced the camera, smiled and prepared to take apart the miserable family sitting behind her.

 

Brody Quinell was lying in the dark wondering what stank. Maybe it was the takeaway cartons from the other night, or it could be the drains again. Perhaps it was coming from the flat above. They were pigs. He didn’t really care. He liked lying in the dark, feeling the autumn sun stream in through the window, warming his skin, imagining he was on the beach. Jamaica. He could hear music – the dull thud-thud of a bass line. But it wasn’t reggae and there were no steel drums. Some emo punk dirge. But he quite liked it. It made him resonate. Down the hall, someone screamed and a toddler wailed. The music went up louder.

Brody’s mobile phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. ‘Yeah,’ he said. It would be the university. He didn’t want to think about work today. He just wanted to lie in the dark and be left alone. He sat up suddenly, finding the floor with his feet. ‘He did?’ He wiped big hands over his tired face, reigniting himself. ‘Are you sure?’ The slow, definitive
yes
brought Brody fully upright. ‘Shit,’ he said. He felt around for his clothes. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Hold fire. Don’t let this get out, right? Don’t talk to
anyone
.’

Hopping into his jeans, Brody called Fiona. ‘Come on, come on . . . answer . . . Fiona, you have to get over here right away. Something’s happened.’

‘Of course,’ she replied in her usual hyper-efficient manner. ‘Everything’s in hand, Professor.’ Then there was a knock at the door. With the phone still pressed to his ear, Brody fumbled his way across the room and answered it with one leg still out of his jeans. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

‘I see you’re all ready,’ Fiona said, striding in. She snapped her phone shut. ‘It stinks in here, Brody.’ She sniffed her way to the kitchen and knocked the top off the bin. She pushed down the contents and tied the bag.

‘My housekeeper’s been off sick.’

‘You don’t have a housekeeper. But if you did, I’m pretty certain that, yes, she would be sick.’

Brody heard Fiona pull the rubbish sack from the bin and dump it outside on the concrete balcony that ran round the interior of the block, connecting up the hundreds of dismal flats. A group of kids jeered from one end of the run, calling out obscenities to Fiona. She shut the door.

‘Do you want me to dress you or are you going to do it yourself?’ she said.

Brody lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to think first.’

‘Don’t you want to get straight down . . .’ Fiona stopped. She knew better than to interrupt him, he reckoned. If what he’d just been told was true, then he damn well deserved a smoke. He’d discovered a genius.

‘Like I said, when I’ve finished my cigarette.’ Brody felt around the floor for the ashtray. He knew it was around there somewhere. When he couldn’t find it, he flicked the ash out of the tiny window opening. It blew right back in, but he didn’t notice.

Fiona paced Brody’s small living room. He knew she hated coming inside. Usually he was ready and they would head straight out. She said it was depressing with its sickly orange and brown carpet, nicotine-coloured walls and dark, dusty furniture. Nothing was put away. He’d lost count of the times she’d tried to get him to move out. He flatly refused.

‘Can’t you suck a little harder?’ she said.

‘I’m thinking.’ Brody put on a shirt, belted his jeans and walked around the room, knowing every square inch. He leant on the back of a chair. ‘Thing is,’ he said slowly, ‘what do I do with him now?’

‘Write the introduction, publish the paper and give him another one to do.’ She rattled her car keys. ‘Which you’re never going to be able to do unless you put that thing out.’

‘It’s the bigger picture we’re looking at now. What this solution means for the rest of the mathematical world.’ Brody was getting excited. ‘Even fucking Einstein couldn’t do it, Fi.’ He strode across the room, catching his leg on the coffee table. He took Fiona’s slim shoulders between his big dark fists. ‘Correction. It’s not a big picture any more. It’s an enormous one. That boy’s sat silent in my class for months. I knew he was different.’

‘Thanks, but I quite liked my suit without the cigarette ash.’

Brody was sweating, perhaps with anticipation, perhaps with fear of what it all meant. Ricky was his responsibility now. He was the one who had slipped the unproven statistical theory into the student’s assignment in the hope that the sullen, shy and friendless boy would rise to the challenge. ‘This is life-changing,’ he said, dropping the butt out of the window.

He linked arms with Fiona and allowed her to take him to the car. He belted himself in and heard the engine tick over. He heard the mid-morning news on the radio, quickly followed by a click as Fiona turned it off.

‘Hurry,’ he said. ‘I want to get there now. I want to see it for myself.’

Then there was silence. The engine cut out.

‘What’s going on, Fiona? Drive me to the university.’

‘No,’ she said quite simply. ‘I want you to move out of this dump.’

‘What?’ Brody was incredulous. He banged the door with his fist. ‘Just get driving, Fiona. I want to see Ricky before the story breaks.’

‘No.’

Brody heard the keys being taken out of the ignition. ‘Now don’t be stupid, woman. This isn’t what I damn well pay you for.’

‘You don’t pay me. The university pays my salary.’

‘Same darn thing.’ They both knew that what he meant was, without him, she wouldn’t have a job. ‘Drive me or I’ll walk.’

‘Then, unless you agree to getting a new flat or a nice house somewhere, you’ll have to.’

Brody heard her little gasp. She had just told him to walk to work and clearly regretted it. He said nothing.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ She jammed the keys back into the ignition and started the engine, but Brody was already out of the car. He leant back in through the open window.

‘Fine. You want me to walk, I’ll walk.’

‘No, no . . . don’t. I just don’t like seeing you living in . . .’ Fiona hesitated, ‘. . . in there.’

‘Honey, then don’t look.’ Brody laughed. ‘I don’t.’ He turned, snapping a telescopic white stick out of his bag. Like a beagle, he sniffed the air. He angled his face skyward, paused for a moment, then swung through a hundred and eighty degrees.

He knew Fiona would be watching, stunned how he knew the exact direction of the university. So he didn’t get killed on the road, she tailed him in first gear all the way.

Half an hour later, Brody gave up and was back in the car.

 

‘I did say white, Martha.’ Carrie spoke softly, which was, as Martha knew from experience, worse than yelling. ‘
White
.’ A whisper. She really didn’t want to shout.

Carrie pressed the pedal of the gleaming bin and allowed the Swiss chocolates to fall from her hand.

‘But the box was white, pet.’ Martha shrugged.

‘The chocolates. I wanted white
chocolates
, Martha.’ Carrie shook her head and brought her vibrating phone to her ear. ‘Yes, Leah. What’s up?’ She walked across the kitchen to the vast expanse of window that gave way to a view of the garden with its steel waterfall, glass walkways and Japanese plants. ‘Me? Uptight?’ Carrie laughed. ‘Why on earth would I be uptight?’ She paced through the vast hallway and into the drawing room, making sure Martha was out of earshot. ‘The stupid woman got milk chocolates. Not white. This whole cooking thing is getting to me.’

Carrie kicked off her shoes and curled up on the leather chaise that had recently been delivered. She was glad Leah had called. ‘Do I really
have
to do it?’ she begged – and Carrie rarely begged – her mood softened by her friend and producer’s lilting Irish accent. It reminded her of her country house. Of the garden. Of grass. Of everything green and lush. Of when things were normal.

‘Can’t you come over early? You know I don’t do kitchens.’ Carrie examined her hands, wondering if there was time for a manicure before they arrived. ‘Five o’clock, honey. Please. And get some nice white chocolates on the way over. Swiss.’

Carrie disconnected before Leah could argue. She joined her housekeeper back in the kitchen. Things needed to be sorted.

Martha was virtually invisible, her white uniform blending against the glossy white cupboards. All that stood out was her grey-black hair, her blue eyes. Eyes that didn’t believe what Carrie had just done. That little box would have probably racked up fifty pounds on the food hall account.

‘You really don’t want them?’ Martha swallowed and blinked. ‘I need a thank-you present for my surgeon. The tumour hasn’t spread.’

‘What?’ Carrie glanced up. She smiled and waved her hand. She was on the phone again. ‘No, no. Take them, Martha.’ When there was no reply, she left her phone on the stone worktop. ‘And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful before.’ She reached out for her housekeeper’s shoulders, her hands hovering above the older woman. Martha had been with her for nine years. She knew a lot about her. Too much, she sometimes thought. ‘What time are the caterers coming?’ She folded her arms across her cashmere sweater. Touching her wouldn’t be right.

Martha’s skin paled, making her even more invisible. ‘Caterers?’

‘Yes.’ Carrie laughed, bordering on nervous. ‘The caterers. I told you to book them a week ago for this wretched dinner tonight.’

‘But . . . but you said you wanted to cook for yourself. That home cooking was in fashion and everyone was doing it to save money.’ Martha held her breath. ‘The ingredients are being delivered later, pet.’

Calmly, just as Martha had seen her do on TV before she let rip at one of her guests, Carrie fell silent. She made a slit of a smile before narrowing her eyes. Her chin jutted forward just a little more than normal, and her shoulders tensed. A single vein on the side of her neck – not usually visible – ticked in time with her heartbeat.

‘When I said home cooking was
in
,’ she said slowly, ‘I didn’t mean that I would be doing any actual cooking.’ She allowed a little laugh, knowing that she was unable to lose her cool in front of the housekeeper. If she sacked her, she’d probably sell her story to the papers, despite the confidentiality agreement.

Carrie sighed. Television had taught her control, if nothing else. Keeping her voice level was easy. Things could still be sorted. Just. She had people. She had enough money to book an entire restaurant – hell,
buy
an entire restaurant – if necessary. Leah had said that the producer from the States would appreciate some English hospitality. English hospitality was what she would give him.

‘Where’s Clive today?’ Carrie thought fast. Was her Hampstead house, all four thousand white square feet of it, really enough English hospitality? It was a little Spartan. She hadn’t thought this through properly. ‘Damn it, Martha. Get me Clive.’

Carrie went to lie down. It was only eleven thirty. Things could be done. This could be sorted. She reached for the remote control and drew down the blackout blind. She felt a headache coming on. Moments later the phone beside the bed rang.

‘Clive, thank God. Can you fly three of us to Charlbury later? You’re an angel. You and Sally go somewhere nice this weekend on me. Love you.’ She hung up. Then she touched the direct dial button to Charlbury Hall. ‘Answer, answer . . . come on.’ She breathed deeply, just how her therapist had shown her. ‘Daniel. I’ll be home for dinner tonight with two others. Can you make it English?
Very
English . . .’ She was about to hang up. ‘And you have my permission to use wines from the second cellar.’