The Secret Mother(20)

‘I really appreciate you calling, Ben. I can’t tell you how much I…’ My voice breaks and I take a breath. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

‘Of course I did. I wanted to check you were all right. I need you to know that I’m on your side, okay?’

Now he’s done it. I wish he would stop being quite so lovely. I don’t think I’m going to be able to answer him without crying.

‘Tess? You still there?’

‘Yes,’ I squeak.

‘That’s it, I’m coming over.’

‘No!’ I take a breath. ‘No, no, I’m fine, honestly. I should probably just go to bed and hope they’ve lost interest by tomorrow.’

‘You don’t have to come to work, take as much time off as you need.’

‘Thank you, but at this point, work is all I have.’ It comes out sounding bitter, so I add a fake laugh. ‘I will come in, if that’s okay.’

‘Of course. But only if you’re sure.’

‘Hundred per cent,’ I reply, hot tears sliding down my cheeks.

‘Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. But call me if you need anything. I mean it.’

‘I will. Thank you, it means a lot… to know someone’s on my side. They’ve twisted everything, you know.’

‘I can imagine,’ he says softly.

‘Okay, well, see you, Ben.’

‘Bye, Tess.’

I end the call reluctantly. For a brief few moments I don’t feel quite as hopeless. But I have to face the fact that, despite Ben’s kind words, I am truly alone in this. Dreading the night ahead, I shuffle over to the sink, pour myself a glass of water and climb the stairs.

Will this nightmare never end?





Chapter Nine





I wake before my alarm clock. Somehow I slept all the way through last night. How, I have no idea. I dreamt of whimpering babies and screaming journalists and – oddly – people with sharks’ faces. But at least I slept. And now the memory of yesterday comes crashing into my head. Scott, Ellie, their baby, the media… Are the police going to want to speak to me again? Surely after everything the press are saying, they will be under pressure to find out who Harry is, where he came from. And, most importantly, how he ended up in my kitchen.

The alarm clock goes off, derailing my thoughts. Probably a good thing. There’s no point speculating. I decide the best thing for me right now is to get up, get dressed, go to work and try not to think too much. I know that’s wishful thinking, but I can try. At least Ben’s on my side. I wonder if Scott has seen the news, if there are any journalists camped outside his flat. Nice of him to call and see how I’m doing.

I slide out of bed and tiptoe over to the window. Twitch back a corner of the curtain and peer down into the damp, dark morning. My whole body gives a little jolt of fear when I see the journalists are still out there, laughing, chatting. Uncaring about how their lust for gossip impacts on my life. Did they stay out there all night, or have they regrouped this morning?

My stomach lurches at the thought of going outside and having to face them. I’ve done nothing wrong, so why should I let them intimidate me? But it’s not just them, is it? They’ve been taking pictures, filming, writing stuff about me, so now everyone in the country knows about my past and will start drawing conclusions about what I have or haven’t done. Old friends and colleagues will be shaking their heads, pitying me or hating me for what they think I’ve become. Assuming I’m guilty before I’ve had a chance to prove my innocence.

I shower and dress and tiptoe down the stairs, my heart pounding. I’m not hungry, but I shake a few cornflakes into a bowl. There’s no milk, so I’m faced with the choice of eating them dry or with water. I opt for water and they’re actually not that bad. Not great, but not too disgusting. I chew and swallow, chew and swallow without tasting. I’m still not allowing myself to think about Scott. If I do, I know I’ll never make it into work, I’ll just lie on my bed and give in to my sadness. I picture myself sobbing, howling, smashing things. But the reality is, I’m here, eating my breakfast with a calm exterior, going about my daily routine.

I rinse out my empty bowl, throw on my fleece, hat and gloves and grab my phone and bag. If only there was a back way out of my house. But I live in a row of terraces; our little houses are all joined together, our gardens separated by high fences and bushes. There’s no way out. Unless I pole-vault over twenty garden fences, the front door is basically it.

I take a breath. They can’t hurt me, they won’t touch me. I just need to ignore them. Be purposeful. Don’t respond and don’t break down. So why are my knees going soft and my palms sweating?

Stop thinking, do it quickly.

I bow my head and open the front door. Immediately, there’s the flash of lights and the click, click, click of cameras. They’re clustered around my front gate, spread out along my wall, calling my name from the pavement. Throwing out provocative questions that I try and fail to block out. A car drives past and beeps its horn several times, whether at me or the journalists, I can’t tell.

I walk carefully down the path and open my gate.

‘Are you going to talk to us, Tessa? Tell us why you took him?’

Outside the gate, I turn left, but they’re blocking my way. I try to walk around them, stepping down into the road, but they move with me. It’s no good; if I want to get by, I’m going to have to force my way through. I shoulder past two youngish guys, casually dressed in jeans and parkas. They cast a quick grin at one another, like this is all some hilarious game. Then I shove my way through the rest of the pack and start walking quickly.