Truly Madly Guilty(121)

He thought of Erika’s little face (she had a small darling face) and how she must have looked when she’d stood in the hallway overhearing those awful words. His fists clenched. He felt a sudden urge to hit Sam, because he obviously couldn’t hit Clementine.

The moment passed, as primal urges did. He’d never hit anyone in his life.

Anyway, even if Clementine hadn’t said what she’d said, obviously Erika’s relationship with her was too … strange? complex? dysfunctional? … for this to go ahead.

‘Absolutely not,’ he’d said to Erika. ‘She can’t be our donor. It’s not happening. It’s over. It’s finished.’

He couldn’t tell if she was relieved or shattered.

He’d been so adamant, but now, as he ran, his clothes getting wetter and heavier (you would think there’d be a point of total saturation, at which they couldn’t get any wetter, but apparently not), he was regretting his decision. Maybe he’d been too hasty.

It felt like another loss. Each time he thought he was doing well, avoiding the hope. Each time he told himself, I have no expectations, but with each new failure it hurt so much he understood the hope had been there after all, flitting seductively around his subconscious. It didn’t get easier either. It got worse. A cumulative effect. Loss upon loss. Like the ligament strain in that left knee.

So, what now? Anonymous donor? They were so difficult to find, unless they went overseas. People were doing that. They could do that. He could do it. He could do whatever it took to have his own biological child. He just wasn’t sure if Erika could. He had a terrible suspicion that if he said, ‘Let’s forget about the baby’, the first expression he’d see on her face would be relief.

His heart rate was up very high. He could hear himself puffing. He couldn’t normally hear himself puffing. That chest cold had affected his fitness. He concentrated on breathing in rhythm with his footfalls.

He saw a blue car coming his way from the opposite end of the street and realised it was Erika, on her way home from seeing Clementine.

He stopped, hands on his hips, catching his breath and watching her approach. He couldn’t see her face yet, but he knew exactly how she’d be driving, hunched over the wheel like a little old lady, two deep lines between her eyebrows; she didn’t like driving in the rain.

Her frown was the first thing he’d noticed about her when they worked together, long before they did the squash competition draw together. He didn’t know why he found it so appealing; maybe because it indicated that she took life seriously, like him, that she cared and she concentrated, she didn’t just float along the surface, having a great time. He’d never told her that. Women wanted to be noticed for their eyes, not their frowns.

She must not have lingered at Clementine’s after she’d delivered her news.

The car pulled up on the side of the road. She wound down the window and bent over the passenger seat to look up at him anxiously.

‘You shouldn’t run in this weather!’ she shouted. ‘You could slip! You haven’t even finished your antibiotics.’

He headed over to the car, opened the door and got in next to her. The car was warm. She had the heater cranked up.

Water slid off him, pooling all around him on the leather seat. He could feel it squelching. He was reminded of the night they pulled Ruby from the fountain; how they’d worked together, how they hadn’t needed to talk, they’d just acted. They were a good team.

Erika sat, still hunched over the steering wheel, studying him silently, frowning ferociously.

He put his hand to the side of her face.

‘Sorry,’ he said, going to draw it away. ‘I’m all wet.’

But she grabbed it back, and tilted her warm face into the palm of his cold hand.





chapter seventy-five



Vid’s house was full of people and music and the smell of good food, which was what he liked, what he loved. What was the point in having a big house like this unless you filled it with people?

The occasion was no occasion. What did you need an occasion for? You didn’t! It was spur of the moment. He’d made some phone calls and now the house was full. It was still raining, of course, but that didn’t mean all the fun had to stop, they were warm and dry in here, the rain would not stop them from living their lives! They should do this more often! They should do it every weekend!

All four of his daughters were here tonight, and at this point they were all talking to him, a rare and wonderful event. Of course his older girls all wanted something from him but so be it. That was parenting.

Adrianna wanted him to agree to do a choreographed father and daughter dance at her wedding. It would be filmed and then she’d post it on YouTube. It was her dream to go viral. He would do this, of course, although he was pretending he hated the idea. (He already had a few moves in mind.)

Eva and Elena wanted money, he assumed, and of course they would get it. He’d transfer it into their accounts tonight, after they left. All that was in question was how much. He would see how their negotiating skills were developing. Eva would get hysterical within seconds. He’d been trying to explain to her that hysteria was not an effective negotiating tactic ever since she was two years old.

His baby, Dakota, didn’t want anything. She was happy again, although he hadn’t realised just how sad the poor little angel had got. Tiffany’s idea of turning up at the cellist’s house had been excellent, even though they had never even offered them a drink. It had been wonderful to see little Ruby so happy and healthy after the terribleness of that night. It had been a giant weight off his back. He had walked out of that tiny cramped house feeling straighter and lighter (also thirsty).