The Love of My Life(77)

He smiles uneasily. ‘Well, I think I’ve probably given you quite a shock . . .’ He looks at Jill. ‘Did you not . . . I mean, did Emma not know I was . . .’

‘She didn’t know,’ Jill confirms, and although her voice is bright I can tell she’s doubting herself now.

‘I’m tougher than I look,’ I lie. I have longed for this moment my whole adult life, and I will not throw it away. ‘Ah – shall we sit down? If you’re staying? I could make you a cup of tea?’

‘I’ll do the tea,’ Jill says quickly, and I want to cry again, because I so desperately want to make Charlie a cup of tea myself. I want to make him a packed lunch, a birthday cake, a DIY pizza, a cheese sandwich. I want to give him water and juice and Calpol and his first ever beer.

Jill disappears into her orderly kitchen to shelve the hot chocolate and start the tea, while Charlie and I enter the foreign land of a shared room. He chooses an armchair; I take the sofa. He picks at the arm of the chair and I can see he’s scared of being trapped in here, with my huge emotions. But he stays. He stays, and from time to time he even looks at me.

‘So . . . How are you?’ he asks. ‘This must be quite a shock!’

From somewhere, I conjure a smile. ‘It’s the best shock I have ever had. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.’

He nods, and I see how overwhelmed he is; what courage has been required to walk into this flat. ‘Me too,’ he says, politely. ‘It’s strange, but very nice to meet you.’

It’s very nice to meet you.

Silence, which is interrupted only by Jill bringing our teas and some pastries, before excusing herself.

We both go for the same apricot Danish and then withdraw, laughing nervously. Charlie takes a swig of tea (very milky, one sugar, mug held by the handle) and I reflect guiltily on how ratty I was in Jill’s car. She’s doubtless found a way to cover for me with Leo, too, just as she did when I bumped into the Rothschilds in Northumberland four years ago. I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve her kindness, but Jill has always had my back.

‘So . . .’ I hesitate, afraid to ask Charlie anything that might frighten him away. ‘So – you said you’d tried to contact me on Facebook . . . ? Is that right?’

Charlie tries a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he says, fiddling with his teacup. ‘Yeah, I wrote to you a couple of times but you blocked me the second time.’

‘I – what? Of course I didn’t! I wouldn’t! I’d have been overjoyed to hear from you!’

He looks doubtful. ‘Oh, it’s OK, I mean, it must have taken you by surprise . . .’

Leo, I think, suddenly. Leo’s been into my Facebook messages, looking for answers to the clues I’ve left.

But why would he block Charlie? Does he know about him?

I look up. ‘Can I ask what you said in your messages?’

‘I just gave you my number and asked you to get in touch.’ Charlie, my son, starts fiddling needlessly with his shoelace. (He wears his laces perma-tied, with the tongues of the trainers sliding off to the sides. He doesn’t appear to be wearing socks underneath. He doesn’t appear to be someone who irons his clothes, yet he’s not scruffy, exactly, more just . . . eighteen.)

He sits up, suddenly. ‘My name on Facebook is Charlie Rod. Dad said it was best not to use my proper name, because of him and Mum and whatnot. I did wonder if it’d be better if I used my full name to message you.’

Carefully, I tell him that I think he was probably blocked by mistake. ‘I presented a TV series a few years ago,’ I say. ‘It was repeated recently, so I’ve had a bunch of strange people getting in touch, and my husband blocked them. He must have assumed you were one of them.’

He nods, knowingly, but I have no idea if he’s just being polite or if he’s actually looked up – maybe even watched? – an episode of This Land.

A silence opens up, but it’s not painful. I sense he’s coming round to the reason for his presence; the reason why now is the time he felt ready to meet me.

In the bathroom I can hear Jill’s phone ringing. I’m pretty sure I hear a muttered ‘Please, just go away,’ but she doesn’t answer the call.

‘When I couldn’t get hold of you, I tracked down Jill,’ Charlie says. ‘She comments on your Facebook posts quite a lot and I could tell by the things she said that you two are good friends. She’s very nice,’ he adds, and the admiration I feel for this young man soars. How many eighteen-year-old boys have the presence of mind to say something kind about a middle-aged woman they don’t even know?

‘Anyway, I said I was keen to talk to you and asked Jill to pass on my number. But Jill was like, why don’t I get you and Emma together . . .’

‘I hope you didn’t feel pressured,’ I say, because I know how Jill can be when she’s got an idea in her head.

‘Not at all. I just really wanted to ask you about Mum.’ His voice is suddenly firm. ‘That’s why I needed to talk to you.’

I fix my smile. He mustn’t see how disappointed I am.

‘I know Dad’s asked you,’ he’s saying, ‘but have you really not heard from her? No emails, no messages?’

‘She wrote me a letter,’ I say, carefully. ‘As you know. Your dad gave it to me. But beyond that, nothing. Or at least, nothing I’ve seen. We definitely haven’t spoken, if that’s what you mean.’