The Love of My Life(27)

‘I was honest about Janice’s mental health crisis after she gave birth to their son. He didn’t like that. Thought it was insensitive.’

‘You’re fucking kidding me!’

‘Nope.’

There’s a long silence.

Then: ‘Leo,’ Emma says. ‘Please don’t ever stop being the sort of person who wants to tell the truth. Jeremy Rothschild sounds like a complete megalomaniac.’

I take another draught of my pint, smoothing down my trousers. I don’t go as far as wearing a suit at work, but even these not-particularly-smart chinos are out of my comfort zone.

‘Hmm. How was trampolining, anyway?’

‘Good,’ Emma says. She’s stopped shouting; the cafe sounds quieter. ‘Listen, Leo, your mum called me.’

‘Oh dear. Why?’

It’s been nearly ten years since I found out I was adopted, and my relationship with my parents is still bumpy. I didn’t talk to them for the first few months. I felt that if we were ever to recover I’d need some time away, so I asked them for a bit of space – just a month or two, I told them, nothing permanent – but Mum wouldn’t respect it. She wrote and messaged incessantly.

She’s very smart, my mother, and until that point I’d thought her to be quite robust as well. But my silence broke her. She developed an emotional destitution that she still can’t seem to rein in.

For Ruby’s sake, I’ve worked hard at patching things up. But it’s still there between us. It was my right to know who I was, and I don’t understand how my parents could see it any other way.

‘She called to say your dad has flu,’ Emma says, before pausing to go and rescue a child whose hand Ruby is trying to hammer.

‘Proper flu,’ she says, on her return. ‘He’s pretty sick.’

‘Poor Dad.’ I sigh. ‘Although I can’t help thinking this is another test.’

Mum’s started laying down little challenges in recent months, to see how I respond. Last month it was a message via Emma to say her pension had been stopped and nobody knew why. It made me furious, really, because I do care – of course I do – but I knew her motive was to see if I’d offer to help.

‘It probably is,’ Emma agrees. ‘But either way, you should ring her. Maybe you could whizz up there to help them for a day or two? She said he fell ill on Sunday, so if you wait until next week there shouldn’t be any risk of you getting it.’

‘Urgh.’

‘Leo,’ she says quietly. ‘They’re Ruby’s only grandparents. And they’re good people, no matter how wrong they got it.’

‘Oh, I know. OK, I’ll call her. Will you be able to do the nursery drop-offs and pickups?’

She starts to say she can, then stops. ‘Oh, hang on. It’s my conference at Newcastle University next week. Sorry, I should have checked the diary before calling you.’

We bat this back and forth for a while, and in the end Emma offers to take Ruby to Newcastle with her. She’s only speaking on Monday morning and Thursday lunchtime; she says she can take Ruby up to the Northumberland beaches on Tuesday and Wednesday. Ruby’s never actually been to ‘Mummy’s crab beach,’ and there’s no way I’m taking her into a house with flu.

‘But are you sure?’ I ask.‘You can’t hunt for crabs with Ruby.’

‘I can’t, no, but we can do lots of rock pooling and sand-castles.’ She’s had to raise her voice again; the cafe seems to have filled up with screaming babies.

‘All right. Why not? Then we can go together in the summer holidays, like we said.’

‘It’s a plan!’ she shouts. ‘I’ll book flights for me and Ruby later.’

After the call, I go to WhatsApp her. I want to thank her for making me feel better.

She’s online, writing me a message, so I wait to see what she has to say first.

Hi. Just spoke to Leo. I’m coming up to Northumberland next week so yes, we can meet. I’ll be in touch again to make a plan when I’ve booked.

I start a reply: Not sure that was for me! But before I press send, I pause. Who was it for?

One of the staff at Newcastle Uni? Or maybe Susi, her friend from school in Scotland? Doesn’t Susi live somewhere up round Tyneside, these days?

My phone buzzes. Sorry! That was for Susi, not you!

I head back to work.

The afternoon passes in a fog of word counts and Emma, obit planning and Emma; phone calls and Emma. I finish the double agent’s obituary and make a start on a woman who choreographed the British Olympic synchronised swimming team for three decades. I also discover that one of the military chaps I wrote up last week – we call them Moustaches – had lied about his World War Two military cross. I decide I haven’t the energy to break the news to his family, who are pushy enough already, so I just shelve the obit entirely.

I think about that WhatsApp again.

She was writing to an old friend, I tell myself. There’s nothing more to say.

Other than it didn’t quite read that way.

Later, when I’m getting into bed, she zooms off to the loo. ‘Code Brown!’ she whispers.

For reasons I don’t like, I check WhatsApp, and find she’s online. She is not writing a message to me.