My Husband's Wife(80)

‘Thank you.’ Part of Carla wanted to throw it back. Their ‘gift’ made her feel dirty. Humiliated. It was clear Lily just wanted to get rid of her. ‘That’s very kind. But there’s just one more thing.’

Alarm flashed across Lily’s face. Her eyes grew stony. She thought Carla wanted extra money! The knowledge gave Carla power. Of course she did. But that would come later.

‘Could you please,’ continued Carla, brazening out the hostility in those eyes, ‘write down the name of Tony’s hospice?’

Lily’s face softened. ‘Of course.’ She reached for a pen. ‘Here it is. I will ring you soon, Carla. I’m so sorry about this. Like I said, we’ve had a few problems. Ed isn’t quite himself.’

Outside, Carla tipped open the envelope. A thousand pounds? If those two thought that was enough, they were very much mistaken.





33


Lily


‘I wasn’t sure that you’d come.’

We’re sitting outside an Italian restaurant just off Leicester Square. I’m still shaken after our dinner with Carla. Not to mention everything that’s been going on with Tom. After all, that’s partly the reason I’m here.

It’s unseasonably sunny for this time of year. I’m not wearing a coat, but I do have my sunglasses on. Red frames. They’re necessary protection against the low-burning orange circle in the sky, but they also let me observe my companion without allowing him to make that eye contact he was always so good at.

Joe Thomas, it has to be said, looks like any of the businessmen walking past. Respectable in that dark-blue suit. Clean-shaven. Tidy hair. Shiny, black, pointed shoes. And a tan.

‘What do you want?’ I’m keeping my tone deliberately level. Act normal, I tell myself. It’s why I suggested this place in full view of the world.

His fingers position the cutlery so that it is perfectly in line with the edge of the place mat. His nails are clean. Well kept. ‘That’s not very polite.’

‘Polite!’ I laugh. ‘What do you call perverting the course of justice then?’ I lower my voice, even though it’s quite low anyway. ‘You killed your girlfriend and then made me believe you were innocent.’

‘You wanted to believe I was innocent.’ My companion leans forward so his breath mingles with mine. ‘You thought I was like your brother.’

I sit back. It was a mistake to come here. I see this now. Yet I too have my questions to ask. ‘I don’t want you to send cards any more. How did you know when my birthday was?’

‘I looked it up. You can look almost anything up.’ Joe Thomas smiles. ‘You should know that. I wanted to remind you that I was still thinking of you. But it’s Tom I’m here about.’

I freeze. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you know already. It’s why you’re here. I would have come earlier, but I’ve been working abroad until recently. And when I came back, I found out you’d had a child.’

He leans across the table towards me again. ‘I need to know, Lily. Is he mine?’

My body goes cold. Numb. Underneath the table, my legs start to shake. Words are about to tumble out of my mouth, but I manage to pull them back and replace them with better ones. ‘Of course not. Don’t be so ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Gripping the edge of the table, I stand up.

‘I’m talking about us.’ Joe’s voice is pleading. His former arrogance now carries a note of desperation. ‘Don’t go. I must have the truth.’

‘The truth?’ I laugh. ‘What do you know about truth? You’ve allowed your imagination to run riot, Mr Thomas.’ I stop myself. It’s not his fault he has ‘behavioural issues’, as we argued in court. But that doesn’t explain everything he’s done. ‘You were my client twelve years ago and I’ve lived to rue the day I helped you get off. It’s something I will never forgive myself for.’ Tears blind my eyes. ‘Poor Sarah …’

Joe is clutching my hand now. ‘I do have some feelings, you know. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. But it helped others – all of those other victims.’

I pull my hand out of his. People are looking at us from the adjoining table. I throw down a twenty-pound note to cover our drinks and walk off, through the square.

‘It’s Tom. He’s in trouble.’ Even now, some weeks later, my mother’s taut voice, sprung with fear, haunts me. I hear it in my dreams. I hear it when I wake up. And I hear it when I’m meant to be concentrating in meetings, even though I know that that particular ‘Tom emergency’ has been sorted.

Until the next one.

Ed and I had rushed down to Devon of course. It was just after that shock encounter with Carla at the gallery. I left quick, sharp messages of instructions to my secretary and junior partners while Ed drove, his mouth set in that thin line which said, ‘For God’s sake, can’t you forget about work while we sort out our son.’

I know what he meant. I’ve told myself the same thing over and over again, especially when I see another woman with a son of Tom’s age walking past us in the streets or queuing up for Madame Tussauds.

But Tom would never stand like that in a line. He would be worried about whether our feet were in the ‘right’ position. He would be asking the woman behind us why she had a mole on her chin and how long it had been there and why she hadn’t had it removed. Children like Tom don’t always realize when they’re being rude.