The Secret Mother(21)

‘Can you look up at the camera, Tessa? Let us get a good photo?’

I keep my head down. Keep moving, one foot in front of the other. Don’t think about the neighbours and what they must be thinking. Take deep breaths. Don’t let them see I’m scared.

‘Where did the boy come from?’

‘Did you take him?’

Their questions bring Harry’s sweet face to my mind, and an unexpected tear drips down my cheek. But I don’t want to wipe it away, to draw attention to the fact they’ve made me cry. I’m more angry than sad right now. I want to yell at them to piss off and leave me alone, but they’d probably love that, so I keep walking. Marching along the pavement, dodging other pedestrians, who must be wondering what the hell is going on – unless, of course, they recognise me from the news.

Is this circus going to follow me all the way to work?

Fine, I think. Fine. Follow me, see if I care. I square my shoulders, run a gloved hand over my tear-streaked cheek and begin to jog.

‘You can’t run from the truth, Tessa!’ a journalist calls out.

‘You wouldn’t know the truth if it punched you in the face!’ I yell back, instantly biting my lip. Bang goes my resolution to maintain a dignified silence. My response has released a torrent of new questions.

‘So give us your side of the story!’

‘Tell us what happened, Tessa.’

‘Did you take the boy?’

‘How did he get into your house?’

‘Were you acting alone?’

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

The whine of a motorbike approaching from behind. More bloody press trying to pap me. It cruises by my side, a guy on the back taking photos, calling out my name, asking the same questions as the others. I stop in my tracks, letting it coast ahead before jogging across the road to put some distance between me and the bike – not that it will make any difference, they’ll still be able to get their shots from the other side of the street with their long lenses. The rest of the media troop behind me, following me across the road, still shouting, still clicking their cameras.

I’m not used to jogging. I haven’t run like this for months and I’m in bad shape. Sweating, out of breath. My increased pace hasn’t put these guys off one bit. In fact, they look like they’re enjoying it, revelling in my added discomfort. I’m not even halfway to work. How will I keep this up? I slow to a fast walk, sweat clinging to my back, my chest tight, sharp pains shooting up my shins. I should have stayed home. How did I ever think I would have the mental and physical stamina for this?

Don’t stop. Don’t cry.

A shiny truck pulls up on the kerb ahead. Probably more of them come to harass me. The passenger door opens in my path and I hear someone yelling my name. I’ll have to alter course to avoid the door.

I stop for a second. I know that truck.

‘Tessa, get in!’

Oh, thank God. It’s Ben.

I sprint to the vehicle and throw myself into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me and sliding down low in the seat. Ben pulls away into the traffic, and in the wing mirror I see the gaggle of press on the pavement where I left them, like stranded passengers on a runway.

‘Thank you!’ I pant, my heart pumping so furiously I’m worried it’s about to explode.

‘They’re outside Moretti’s too,’ he says, grim-faced.

‘I’m so sorry, Ben.’

‘You don’t have to apologise. I just didn’t want you to have to deal with them on your way in, but I see you’ve already been mobbed.’

‘I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…’ I don’t trust myself to say any more without breaking down.

‘Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re safe from them in here. Bunch of bastards.’

I take a breath. ‘They can’t get into the gardens, can they?’

‘Not legally, no. I’ve told them they’re not allowed on the premises. Some of them offered to pay their way in, but I told them to keep their money.’

‘Thank you.’ I shake my head, still bewildered at how things have come to this.

‘A couple of them tried to get me to talk about you. Asked what you’re like and… well, if I thought you took the boy. Don’t worry, I didn’t say a word.’

‘Ben, I really am sorry. I hope it won’t affect your business. Look, I totally understand if you don’t want me to come to work at the moment.’

‘Are you kidding? I’m getting free advertising here.’ But his smile doesn’t look natural, and I notice tense worry lines around his eyes. He’s putting on a brave face. Having your business associated with a suspected child abductor is not the image anyone wants to portray. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to keep this up before he’s forced to let me go. And I wouldn’t blame him.

Within minutes, we reach Moretti’s, and my heart starts pounding once more when I see the crowd outside the gates. Journalists and onlookers stare in our direction, hungry for yet more juicy titbits to add to their fabrications.

‘I’d get down if I were you, Tess,’ Ben says. ‘Don’t give them the opportunity for any more photos.’

I don’t wait to be asked twice, unclipping my seat belt and sliding into the footwell.