Tangled Lives (3 page)

She took a deep breath. ‘Please, this is important, Richard. My baby, the one I gave away.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh … Oh, God.’ He looked almost panicked. ‘He’s been in touch? When?’

‘This morning. I got a letter from Social Services saying he wants to meet me.’

Richard stared at her in silence for a moment.

‘OK … and will you?’

‘Well, yes, I’d like to. But it means telling the children, of course.’

He frowned. ‘Do you have to tell them at this stage? Couldn’t you just meet him first and see how it goes?’

‘I could, but why shouldn’t I tell them now?’

‘Oh, I don’t know … just seems a big thing if it’s going nowhere.’

‘What do you mean, “going nowhere”?’

‘I’ve heard of this before, Annie, and often it doesn’t work out. You know, no connection beyond the DNA.’

He made it sound so heartless.

‘This is my son, Richard. And the children’s half-brother.’

Richard laid his hand gently on hers. ‘Of course. Sorry. Not sure how to react, that’s all. If you want to tell them now, then you should. Up to you.’

But do I? she wondered. Do I really want to open this box?

‘Maybe I’ll write back and see when he wants to meet,’ she said.

Richard nodded approvingly. ‘Seems best for now.’

She felt shaky and weak as she made her way slowly
upstairs to the bedroom. Jamie and Richard can’t possibly understand the real significance of that letter. I’m not sure I do either. Except I’m seeing my son, my very own firstborn, for the first time in thirty-five years.

3

It was Monday night, and Ed was on his way home to his flat – now heated, thank goodness. As he walked from the Tube station he rang Emma for the third time to see if she wanted to meet up.

He was sure she said she’d be at home tonight, but her phone went straight to answer. Where
was
she? When he got in he grabbed a beer from the fridge. His flatmate, Mike, was in his room on his computer. Mike was an addictive gamer, often playing war games late into the night, and they rarely saw each other except to squabble over who finished the milk. He checked the phone again. Nothing. The familiar twisting in his stomach started up again. No matter how much Emma said she loved him – and she’d said it a lot since they began dating three months ago – he found it hard to believe her. Ed knew her reputation, of course. Like the rest of the family, he’d listened endlessly to Marsha’s lurid stories of Emma’s love life as a teenager, but he understood. She’d had a rubbish
upbringing – which was why she’d practically lived at their house – a mother who mostly left her with a string of au pairs, but when she was home flew into unpredictable rages and criticised her endlessly. And a father who lived in New Zealand with his new family and saw her once a year if she was lucky.

He’d got together with Emma when she was on the rebound from that psychopath Lewis, who by all accounts had been hideously jealous when he was with Emms. It got to the stage where he didn’t even trust her to go out without him, and began stalking the TV production company in Soho where she worked as a researcher. Emma had been terrified. But now he was going out with her, Ed could almost see Lewis’s point of view. There was something so mercurial about Emms. You thought you were holding onto her, but she was never quite there, even when she was actually in your arms. And then your mind began to play tricks.

He took a deep breath and called his sister.

‘Ed … how’s it going?’

‘Hi, sis … is Emms there?’

There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

‘Mash?’

‘Sorry, I’m here. Just painting my toenails and it’s got a bit crucial. You can’t stop mid-nail or it goes lumpy, so I was wedging my phone on my shoulder. Go on …’

‘I was supposed to be working tonight, but I swapped tomorrow’s shift with Andy – he has to go to some family
thing. So I thought I’d see Emms and she isn’t answering her phone.’

‘Sorry, she’s not here. I haven’t spoken to her since this morning.’

‘No probs, I’ll keep trying. If you see her, let her know I called.’

‘Sure … see ya.’

He hung up, embarrassed at his neediness, but he still couldn’t believe a girl as beautiful as Emma would give him a second glance. She was surrounded by those cool, Oxbridge media types at work, all of whom must be hitting on her twenty-four seven. Shut up! He needed distraction, and sat himself down in front of some ludicrous television show with another beer.

The next thing he knew he was stretched out on the sofa, his phone, which he’d left on the cushion beside him, buzzing in his ear.

‘Eddie?’

‘Hi, babe.’ He sat up, glancing at his watch. It was midnight.

‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you. God, I am so bloody knackered,’ he heard her say.

‘Working late?’ he asked.

‘I had to stay to make a couple of calls to the West Coast. They couldn’t talk to me till their afternoon and of course they’re eight hours behind. Anyway, one of them didn’t even answer and the other was fucking useless.’

‘Is this for the prison doc?’

Emma yawned. ‘Yeah … and then Bryan insisted we go for a drink, and one drink led to another, you know how it is.’

‘Nightmare,’ he said, making every effort to trust what she was saying. Bryan was Emma’s boss. He’d met him. He was paunchy and old and only talked about himself. No problem there.

‘Listen, got to go to bed. Talk tomorrow. ’Night … love you,’ Emma was saying.

‘Love you too.’ And he did love her. He’d loved her – worshipped her – since he was about sixteen. But it had almost been easier before, loving her from afar, certain she’d never look at him in that way. Now he seemed to live in a perpetual state of fear that he would lose her.

‘Mother, it’s me,’ Annie shouted into the intercom, and, after a certain amount of predictable fumbling Eleanor let her in to her elegant first-floor flat in Cadogan Gardens, two minutes’ walk from Sloane Square.

‘Darling, how lovely.’ The brittle, almost stagey delivery of her mother’s greeting always made it sound false to Annie, even when perhaps it wasn’t.

‘Mother.’ She air-kissed the ageing, powdery cheeks, inhaling the timeless scent of Joy.

They went through to the large, high-ceilinged drawing room, where Eleanor sat down heavily in her armchair, adjusting the navy padded hairband that held her grey bob back from her face. Her mother had been considered a
beauty in her youth – or so she had always told Annie – and even now she had the air of believing that still to be true in the way she held herself erect and proud.

The middle-aged Spanish housekeeper was dusting the rosewood table by the window, crammed with a variety of glass paperweights and silver-framed photographs.

‘Morning, Mercedes.’ Annie was very fond of the long-suffering woman. She was patient and kind with her tiresome mother, and she knew she would do anything, literally anything, to make sure Mercedes never left. She gave Annie a smile and discreetly disappeared, duster and spray-polish in hand.

Annie watched as Eleanor swept the room with an imperious glance, checking, Annie knew, for any faults in the housework. Finding none, she turned her attention to her daughter.

‘How are you?’ Annie asked, sitting opposite on the brown velvet sofa. The room was freezing, but her eighty-two-year-old mother seemed not to notice.

‘No complaints, darling. I could do without the wind, but otherwise I’m as busy as ever.’

Did she mean the April wind, or some internal complaint? Annie wondered. She’d never tell me if it was the latter, she decided, unless the situation was a dire medical emergency.

‘Yes, it’s been bitter for April.’

‘Caro and I went to a superb lecture at the V&A yesterday. It was that marvellous man you see on that
antiques programme. Can’t remember his name … Morley something. Then we had a jolly lunch in the cafeteria.’

‘Sounds fun. How is Caro?’

Eleanor pulled a face. ‘Oh, you know. So-so. That woman always has something to moan about. If it’s not her knees it’s her wayward son or the price of lunch – which I thought very reasonable, if a trifle slapdash. All those tiresome help-yourself places are. But dear Caro never lets up.’

Annie could picture the two old ladies in the V&A cafeteria, politely sniping at each other but enjoying every minute. The smile she couldn’t control received a reproving look from her mother.

‘Moaning is unattractive and, what’s more, it’s very bad manners. Always think of others before oneself. That was my mother’s motto and it’s been mine. Follow that rule and one can’t go wrong in life.’

True in essence, Annie thought, but perhaps her mother wasn’t the best advertisement for this oft-repeated mantra, since she seemed to have gone through life never considering
anybody
but herself, except in her strict adherence to the finer points of etiquette.

For a while they chatted about the usual inconsequential things that Eleanor always saved for her. It mostly involved society tittle-tattle about people mercifully far removed from Annie’s life now. Get on with it, Annie admonished herself, and took a deep breath.

‘Mother … I’ve got something I want to tell you.’ She
heard her own voice sounding alarmingly portentous.

Eleanor, stopped in her tracks, raised her eyebrows and waited, fingering the string of pearls around her neck.

‘Sounds ominous,’ she said.

‘It is. Well, “ominous” isn’t the right word. It’s more … well … I wasn’t going to tell you, but …’

‘Stop mumbling, darling. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’

Annie drew herself up, leaning forward on the sofa, steeling herself for her mother’s reaction. Does it really matter what she thinks, she asked herself.

‘I’ve heard from Kent Social Services. My son wants to meet me.’

‘Your son?’ Eleanor looked as puzzled as Richard had, then horrified. ‘You mean the adopted one?’

‘Well, I’m not talking about Ed, Mother.’

‘That’s outrageous! What does he want? It must be money. He’s heard you’re successful with those cakes of yours and he wants a handout.’

‘Mother!’

‘Well, darling, really. Think about it. He must be what, thirty-something by now? Why has he suddenly come out of the woodwork? I hope you’re not going to indulge him.’

‘What sort of a woman wouldn’t want to meet the baby they gave away?’

‘A very sensible one, in my opinion. You’re soft, Annie, you always have been, just like your father. That’s how you
got yourself into this mess in the first place. Take it from me, no man of that age needs a mother. He’ll just use you.’

‘Thanks.’ She got up; she’d had enough. ‘Anyway, I thought I should let you know.’

Eleanor tutted. ‘No need to take umbrage, darling. I’m just warning you. I’m sure dear Richard has said the same thing.’

Here we go, she thought crossly, the Dear Richard moment. He didn’t remotely fit the bill for Eleanor’s Ideal Husband. He wasn’t aristocratic, didn’t have inherited wealth, land or a title, hadn’t gone to Eton or Oxford, didn’t buy his clothes in Jermyn Street or have his hair cut at Trumpers. Yet to Eleanor he could do no wrong. Richard played up to her mother, tongue in cheek, but in fact the two got on surprisingly well.

‘He hasn’t, actually.’ Annie reached down to give her a chilly peck on the cheek.

‘Well, he should have. This chap … you know nothing about him. Just because he’s your son, you think he’s bona fide, but he could, for instance, be violent. You have no idea who adopted him. They weren’t necessarily nice people you know, darling. Not like us. They could have been drinkers, or criminals. Feckless, at any rate. One can’t rely on his having our values.’

Our values! she spluttered silently. Our values? Would they be the ones that ran her daughter out of town, a teenager and pregnant? He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have our values, she thought.

‘We don’t even know the exact provenance of his genes,’ Eleanor added, her look sly.

‘I’d better get back to work,’ Annie said, ignoring the pointed remark.

‘Be angry with me if you like. But promise me, if you do see the boy, make sure Richard is there too. Please, darling. I’m serious.’ The old lady looked anxiously at her.

‘Yes, Mother,’ she replied, her heart softening at her mother’s obvious, though surely misplaced, concern.

Even the raw wind was a relief to Annie as she made her way across Sloane Square to the Tube. It was Richard who had insisted she tell her mother before she told the children – Daniel was, after all, her grandson. She was glad it was over; the conversation with her mother reminded Annie of so much she’d tried hard to forget.

Lucy was sitting at the kitchen table cradling a mug of tea when Annie got home.

‘Not at work?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘I took the morning off. It’s the interview on Friday and I need to practise.’

‘Interview?’ Annie frowned.

‘You know, the volunteer NGO job? I told you.’ Lucy looked a bit put out that her mother hadn’t remembered. ‘Which is great, but I’m hopeless at interviews. I get so nervous my voice shakes. Will you go through the sort of things they might ask? You know, coach me?’

Annie’s heart sank. She knew her youngest was hell bent on saving every child in Africa. It had started in her teens when she watched a documentary about AIDS orphans. She and Richard had been sure it was just a phase, but Lucy had gone on to choose a degree in Social Anthropology at SOAS, and was now utterly committed to working in an African orphanage.

‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘But you don’t think Dad would be better qualified to help? I’ve never been for a proper interview in my life. Mother secured all my jobs.’

‘I suppose that was one of the advantages of your posh upbringing.’

‘Hmmm. Well, without sounding like a brat, it certainly didn’t seem like an advantage at the time because it was always the job that Mother thought would be suitable. I didn’t have any say.’

‘Couldn’t you tell her you didn’t want to do it?’

‘I suppose the problem was that at that stage I didn’t know what I wanted to do. If I had, I’m sure I’d have stood up to her.’ She didn’t add that, at the time, she had lost all confidence in herself, that she hadn’t cared much
what
she did, as long as it was something that stopped her having too much time to think about the baby.