The First Mistake(34)

‘Well, I’m not sure the official channels are going to be much help. I applied for child maintenance a few years ago and they opened a file, but they never managed to track him down. I don’t know if they keep looking – I don’t suppose they have the time.’

‘And if someone doesn’t want to be found . . .’

‘True enough,’ she says. ‘But I did have a look on the internet, with the little information that I have.’

I reach into my bag for a pen and pad, relishing the idea of having someone else’s problem to focus on instead of my own.

‘So, what have you got so far?’ I ask, turning to a fresh page and writing Beth before underlining it.

She smiles wryly. ‘So, he had his own business.’

‘And?’ I ask.

‘Surprise, surprise, it no longer exists.’

‘Okay, what about his parents?’ I ask.

There’s a flash of something in her eyes, but as quick as it came, it’s gone again. ‘I didn’t meet either of them, so no leads there.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Did he have any hobbies? Any places he used to go?’

‘He worked really hard and was away a lot. He was hugely ambitious, and he wanted the best for us.’ She laughs hollowly. ‘Or so I thought.’

She stops and looks lost in her thoughts, as if it’s only just dawning on her that when he said he was working, he was actually with the other woman.

‘Did you own a place together?’ I ask, in an attempt to bring her back.

‘We didn’t get that far,’ she says. ‘He was just about to move in with me.’

‘So, there’s no paper trail at all?’ I say.

She shakes her head ruefully. ‘It’s embarrassing. How can I know so little about my child’s father?’

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. It’s just one of those things, though I do hope you know his name.’

She looks at me witheringly, but there’s humour in her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘And his date of birth, actually.’

‘See,’ I jest. ‘What else do you need to know?’

She rolls her eyes, but I can see that she appreciates me adopting a more light-hearted approach.

‘So, come on,’ I say, my pen poised. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Thomas Evans,’ she states boldly.

I can see her lips moving and hear a muffled sound, but I can’t even begin to compute what she’s saying. My head fills up with a hotness that feels like it’s trapped, with no way out. I need air to breathe, but I panic that I can’t take it in quickly enough.

I want to throw myself across the table and hold a hand to her mouth, so that she can’t say anything more. But because I don’t, she continues, blissfully unaware.

‘Date of birth, 21 May 1976.’

Her head tilts to the side, a look of concern on her face, and I try to stand up, but feel so dizzy that I immediately fall back down again. I can’t breathe, my lungs won’t let me, and my body burns.

‘But . . . but it can’t be,’ I falter. ‘That’s not possible.’

The last thing I remember is Beth mouthing, ‘Are you okay?’, seemingly in slow motion. Then everything goes black.





PART 2



Nine Years Earlier – Beth





14


It had been a long day – I was off the back of parents’ evening and knew I was staring down the gun at thirty English tests. Jacob’s attempt to rearrange ‘is pen pig the in my’ into a sentence was on top of the pile; ‘My penis in the pig’ was beautifully written, but not quite what I was looking for. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

‘Just come for one drink,’ Maria had pleaded, and for a moment I had been sorely tempted to go for three. Would a class of seven-year-olds really worry if I didn’t correct their grammar and just gave them a big red tick and gold star instead? But then I remembered Mrs Pullman, who had expressed concern that little Bertie’s answer to What could you do better at? had gone unchecked. How was I to know he’d write spillings?

‘No, I’d better get off,’ I’d said. ‘I’m definitely up for Friday though. My treat, so name your poison.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Maria had laughed as she pulled her coat on, and I smiled ruefully. I was still thinking I should have gone when I was in my car driving down the A23, my hands twitching on the steering wheel, waiting to see if the good fairy or bad fairy would win out.

Just one, said the dark, forbidding figure on my left shoulder.

Go home and do your marking, piped up the pure, angelic voice on my right shoulder, just that little bit louder.

I was pleased I’d listened to her, because as soon as I was indoors, and changed my tartan skirt and polo neck for a dressing gown and slippers, I was happy to be there, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t have to leave my snug haven until the next morning.

I didn’t promise I wasn’t going to have a drink though, and poured myself a generous glass of red wine as I psyched myself up to tackle Jacob’s vocabulary conundrum. One final look at my phone and then I’d hide it under a cushion and pretend that I was controlling it, rather than it controlling me.