Tangled Lives (2 page)

She returned her attention to the letter, drawing a single piece of paper from the envelope.

‘What’ve you got there?’ Ed peered over her shoulder. But after a cursory glance, she instinctively closed the letter and pushed it under the pile. What she had glimpsed was almost incomprehensible. Like an automaton she got up and went to the frying pan, stirring the batter, reaching for the ladle, heating the butter. Only when Ed and Emma had their own pile of pancakes, and she had retrieved the remaining bacon from the oven, did she find an excuse to leave the room, knowing that if she didn’t have a moment alone, she would explode.

‘Anyone seen my phone?’ she asked, casting a vague glance around the kitchen.

The others all shook their heads.

‘Probably in the bedroom,’ Richard suggested.

‘I just need to check the deliveries went out alright. I’ll be back in a minute.’

She headed quickly for the stairs, the letter stuffed in the pocket of her grey tracksuit bottoms. Once clear of the basement, she ran up the two storeys to her bedroom and shut the door with exaggerated care. She sat on her
bed, her hands cold and shaking as she opened the letter again. This can’t be true, she told herself.

She took a few measured breaths and reached for her mobile, which lay on the bedside table.

‘Jamie, it’s me. Are you around for a coffee? … I can’t get away right now, everyone’s here for brunch, but what about later? … Three’s fine. The usual? … Brilliant … No, I’m OK, honestly … I’ll tell you when I see you. Bye … bye.’

Her voice sounded hoarse, but she was surprised any words came out at all.

The phone call seemed to have drained all her strength, and she lay back silently on the bed, clutching the letter in one hand, her mobile in the other. She felt almost ill, her heart clattering dangerously in her chest, but after a few moments she forced herself upright. Checking in the bedroom mirror, she saw that she looked deathly pale. They can’t see me like this. She rubbed her cheeks, took a few deep breaths, brushed her fair hair vigorously, then made her way downstairs. Ed and the girls were deep in conversation; only Richard glanced up.

‘Everything OK?’ She must have looked blank because he added, ‘With the deliveries?’

‘Oh, Carol wasn’t answering. I might drop round later, just to check.’

Richard smiled. He had long ago accepted her passion for her work. When Lucy started school, Annie had set up a small business making celebration cakes. It followed
on from the job she’d taken, aged nineteen, cooking director’s lunches. This was in the days when company directors still had nicely brought-up girls come in to prepare meals for themselves and their clients. It had been her mother’s idea, and she did as she was told – at that stage in her life she hadn’t felt she had many options. And it was at one such company, an accountancy firm, that she had met Richard Delancey.

Much later, Delancey Bakes had started in the kitchen of their Dartmouth Park house, but moved to small premises in Gospel Oak when orders began to flood in and the hot, sweet smell of baking took over the family home. In those days, she did much of the baking and decorating herself; Richard’s accountancy firm in Tottenham Court Road did the books. Latterly she employed four people and a delivery man, but all the cake designs were exclusively hers. Her elegant creations had become famous in London and the South, a Delancey cake a must-have for any credible wedding, party, christening or anniversary. But even now, she kept a keen eye on every detail of the business, and prompt, efficient deliveries were crucial.

She went to fill the kettle. ‘Who wants more coffee?’ She needed to keep herself busy and calm the panic bursting inside her head.

2

The cafe was full of weekend families, the atmosphere steamy, and thick with the noise from the large coffee machine and crying children. The walk had done her no good. Normally, exercise was Annie’s panacea; she believed almost every ill could be cured by a brisk walk over the heath, fifty lengths of the gym pool, a vigorous game of tennis with Richard. But today she could hardly contain herself for the ten minutes it took to reach the cafe. The east wind made the air bitter, but she didn’t care as she ran along the slippery streets, the letter burning a hole in her pocket.

Her friend – dark, neat, handsome, and tanned from a hiking holiday in Crete – was already there, guarding a cramped corner table by the window, texting furiously on his mobile. She had known Jamie since she was a child. He had lived in the same London square as she, and they had played together in the communal gardens, although her mother had never approved. ‘That Walsh boy’ was
how she referred to Jamie, as if he were some tubercular street urchin, when in fact his parents were mild-mannered professionals (his father a respected osteopath) who just happened to fall outside her mother’s snobbish and exacting social boundaries.

She edged her way past a toddler spitting croissant onto the flap of his high chair, peeled off her hat and coat and crammed them by the window.

‘Whoa …’ Jamie searched her face. ‘You look manic. What’s up?’ He rose to embrace her across the table.

She returned his kiss, then dithered for a minute, trying to find the words but failing. So she just unfolded the crumpled letter from Kent Social Services and smoothed it out on the cafe table in front of him.

‘Wow! That’s wonderful!’ he said when he’d read it. He glanced up at her, and she saw his smile become uncertain. ‘Isn’t it?’

Annie found she was cold, even in the over-heated cafe. ‘I never thought …’

‘What is it? Thirty years? No, more. Thirty-five.’

She nodded. ‘I’d given up thinking I’d ever see him … I just never imagined … after all this time …’

‘Nor me. The children must be a tad surprised.’

She winced at his understatement.

‘They don’t know. Nor does Richard. It just came this morning when we were all having breakfast. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. It was hell, pretending everything was normal.’

Jamie raised his eyebrows. ‘I must admit I never thought he’d pitch up. But you’ll see him at last. That’s brilliant, darling.’ Despite Jamie’s words, his eyes were bright with concern.

She dropped her face into her hands, the background noise fading as she tried to make sense of her emotions. A pulse thudded in her head.

‘I want to see what he’s like, of course, but …’

Jamie looked puzzled. ‘But what? Isn’t this exactly what you’ve wanted all these years? To meet Tom again, to know what happened to him?’ He glanced down at the letter again. ‘Well, Daniel now.’

‘Daniel … Daniel Gray,’ Annie whispered, turning the name over on her tongue. Strange to think he’ll never have known the name I gave him. It had been Tom from the moment he was born. She had dreaded the birth, longed for it at the same time. She’d just wanted it over, to forget the whole thing had ever happened and get back to her life. But by the time they came to take him away, she knew every inch of him by heart. She counted his breaths, marvelled at the perfection of his newborn skin, the velvety cap of strawberry-blonde hair, gazed into his dark eyes, felt the squeeze of his starfish fingers, pressed her nose to his body to inhale the warm, milky scent. Never, not for a moment, did she imagine that her nineteen-year-old self would fall in love with that tiny, scrumpled form. She could still feel the softness of his skin beneath her fingers as she sat in the crowded cafe today.

‘How on earth did they trace you?’

Annie shrugged. ‘No idea.’ She paused. ‘Mother? But she’s moved since then.’

‘Anyway, she wouldn’t do that without telling you, would she? Pass on your details like that.’

Such faith! Jamie’s forgotten what she’s like, she thought, even though he’s borne the brunt of her spitefulness for years. He had, in the end, won her mother’s grudging respect with his charm and good manners, despite the fact that he’d declared himself gay at the age of twenty-one and gone on to train as a nurse – a series of events that had made her mother’s eyes widen in horror. ‘I did warn you,’ Eleanor had declared self-righteously, ‘there was always something not quite right about that boy.’ Jamie, however, despite Eleanor Westbury’s caveat, had been very successful. He was currently in charge of the ICU at a busy north-London hospital.

Jamie tried to get the attention of the frenetic waitress.

‘What can I get you?’ the Russian girl snapped, daring them to hesitate for even a second before making their choice.

‘Cappuccino, extra hot, double strength, no chocolate, please.’ She spoke fast, eager to get back to the subject of Tom. Jamie asked for English breakfast tea.

‘You want milk with that?’

‘Please.’

‘You don’t sound very keen to see him,’ Jamie commented after the waitress had gone.

‘No, I am. Of course I am.’

‘So what is it? What’s bothering you? I mean I know this is a big moment, but …’

‘I suppose it’s telling the children,’ she interrupted. ‘Richard knows, of course. But having to admit to the others that I haven’t been exactly truthful all their lives.’

Jamie raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would they care? They’ll probably be gripped to meet their brother.’

‘You think so?’

‘Well, it’s intriguing, isn’t it? Meeting a rel you didn’t know you had? I’d be excited.’

She smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm. Was it that simple? Wouldn’t they be upset she hadn’t told them? It was such a huge secret. And what about Ed? Maybe the girls wouldn’t mind having a brother, but how would he react to not being her only son?

‘Anyway, darling, you can’t
not
see him, you’d go mental knowing he was out there. You know you would.’

This was true. She had wanted this, as Jamie said, since the day they took Tom away. But it was the baby Tom she yearned for. This Daniel person, although just as much her son, obviously, was now a thirty-five-year-old man. All previous imaginings would be meaningless.

She took a deep breath. ‘Won’t he hate me for what I did to him?’

Jamie didn’t reply for a moment. ‘Depends what happened to him, but he can’t be wanting to see you just to say how much he hates you. That’d be perverse. Unless he’s … well, I’m sure he’s not.’

‘Not what?’

‘I was going to say unless he’s a nutter.’ Jamie shot her an apologetic grin, but she wasn’t really paying attention.

‘They’ll think it was a terrible thing I did … giving my baby away.’

‘No, they won’t. You can explain why. It’s not as if you were the first teenager ever to have an illegitimate child in the sixties. I’m sure I’d have had one myself if it was possible.’

When Annie didn’t respond, he went on, ‘Come on, Annie, buck up. It’s a bit of a shock, I’ll grant you, but it’s basically good news. Your long-lost son is back!’

She suddenly realised what he was saying. ‘No, you’re totally right,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m being pathetic. Of course I’ll meet him … and finally see how he turned out.’

Jamie patted her hand approvingly. ‘Atta girl! Feel the fear. Live the dream!’

She laughed. ‘Shut up, will you? You’re making me sound like some half-witted reality-TV contestant.’

‘Hmmm … now there’s an idea. Has it been done?’ He paused, head on one side, then spread his palms in the air, gazing, dewy-eyed, into the middle-distance. ‘I can see it now: mothers reunited with their long-lost children, lots of sobbing and regret, bit of stagey rage, but mainly LURV. We could call it
Mum Swap
, or
Family Makeover
… what about
This Is Your Mum?
’

‘Giving your baby up for adoption isn’t funny, Jamie.’

Jamie looked contrite. ‘No. No, sorry, of course it’s
not. But I genuinely think it’d be marvellous to be reunited with a child you gave up. This has been hanging over you for thirty-odd years, Annie, even though you never, ever mention it. Well, now you can finally lay your past to rest and be, well, free.’

I’ll only be free, she thought, if Tom forgives me. As Jamie said, she didn’t talk about it, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t felt guilt, a lasting regret, since that day. Her life had been good, she had three other beautiful children, but that didn’t negate her feelings about her firstborn.

As they left the restaurant and walked arm in arm along the icy pavement, Jamie stopped and dragged Annie round to face him.

‘I’ve had a thought. Suppose he wants to meet his father too?’

Her eyes widened.

‘I mean, if he’s after his gene pool, you won’t be the whole story, will you?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Well, you’ll have to tell
him
too.’

‘So?’ She pretended nonchalance. Tell Charles Carnegie that he has a son? The thought of it made her feel slightly sick. Jamie and Marjory were the only people in the world who knew Tom’s father’s identity, and that included the man himself. Even Richard hadn’t wanted to know who he was.

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ she replied.
‘You know, I get the feeling you’re enjoying this, Mr Walsh,’ she added, digging her friend hard in the ribs as they began to walk again.

Annie found her husband in his office. Unlike the rest of the house, she hadn’t been allowed a hand in decorating Richard’s room, and the result was a calm, uncluttered, functional space: a manly mahogany bookshelf neatly filled with accountancy manuals and historical tomes, a black leather desk chair, burgundy curtains, and a large Scottish landscape on the wall opposite the window giving a splash of, albeit muted, colour. Richard was poring over the usual spreadsheets on his screen.

‘Where are the children?’

He looked up, surprised at her tone. ‘Umm … Lucy’s gone out to meet Rosie, I think. The others are slumped in front of the TV downstairs. Why?’

She sat down on the black padded leather chair beside Richard’s desk as her husband’s eyes slid back to his screen. ‘Richard, something’s happened.’

Richard, clearly engrossed in a riveting spreadsheet, reluctantly dragged his eyes away from it and waited for her to speak.

‘Tom … the baby. He’s contacted me.’

‘The baby? What baby? Sorry, not sure what you’re talking about.’ He was still miles away.