The Secret Mother(55)

‘Do you have a contact number for him?’ If I could speak to him, maybe he’d remember me. Remember having gastric flu.

‘Sorry,’ Margie says, her expression sympathetic, ‘we wouldn’t be able to give out that information.’

I stand there for a moment, racking my brains to think of anything else that might help me prove what I know is true. But I can’t. ‘Okay, well, thanks anyway.’ I leave the office, shoulders slumped, head down.

Out in the foyer, the receptionist says a cheery goodbye and asks if I found everything I was looking for. I nod, mumble a thank-you and make my way across the foyer, back through the sliding doors.

Outside, the sky is still heavy with unshed rain and I pause for a moment, suck in a breath of polluted, moisture-laden air. Am I losing the plot? Was Scott right about me? But despite what Margie told me back there, I’m still not convinced that the information on their system is correct. The time of Lily’s birth is out by twenty minutes – unless I really am remembering it wrong. What if Fisher was working that night, but he was negligent, somehow responsible for Lily’s death? He could have accessed the computer system and erased his name, changed the time of birth.

I’m starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist. Am I ignoring the truth, bending it to make it fit my own view of things? I’m sure I’m not, but when the records say one thing, how can I prove otherwise?

I slouch back to the car in a funk. Whether it was Fisher or Friedland there that night, it still doesn’t explain why someone would place Fisher’s son in my kitchen years later. There’s some kind of link, I know it. A car horn yanks me from my thoughts and I step back onto the pavement. I’ll get myself run over if I’m not careful. I wave an apology to the driver while he mouths expletives at me.

Back in the hire car, my heart still leaden, I make a decision. I really and truly believe that Dr Friedland was sick with flu that night. I know he was, I remember it clearly. I was so upset when I heard he wouldn’t be on the ward. Which means the information on the clinic’s system must be wrong. But if I tell Carly what’s really written on the records, she might stop pursuing the case. She might think it’s a waste of her time. And I need her to stick with it. I have to find out the truth.

My call goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message.

‘Hey, Carly. It’s me, Tessa. I’ve just come from the clinic and my hunch was right. Fisher was the doctor on duty that night. It must be connected to his son showing up at my house, don’t you think? Anyway, you should ask him about it when you get there. Hope you manage to speak to him. Good luck. Let me know how you get on.’

I end the call and start the car. Did my voice sound fake? Will she be able to tell I was lying? It takes me three attempts to get the car in gear. I’m all over the place. I should try to calm down or I’ll end up having an accident. I just lied to Carly. I lied to Carly. But I had to, didn’t I?

I turn on the radio and search for Classic FM, hoping to hear some soothing strings or piano, but instead there’s a brass band playing ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’. I switch it off, breathe in deeply and head to Moretti’s, wondering what kind of person I’m turning into. Could Scott be right? Is there something wrong with me? Am I becoming obsessed?





Chapter Twenty-Seven





All afternoon, I’m distracted. I don’t have time to think about the Fisher thing properly, but I also can’t give work my full attention, which irritates me. Usually, whatever problems I have, I can find calm here. So why is it being so damn elusive today? Janet has closed the café early, as there are hardly any customers around. Instead, she’s in the shop, which means I can work in the greenhouses uninterrupted, just the steady whoosh of rain against the glass. But I’m almost decimating these vines, because I can’t seem to focus on what I’m doing.

‘Step away from the secateurs.’

My stomach flips and I turn around. Ben is walking towards me, holding his hand out. As he comes closer, I place the secateurs in his palm, and wince.

‘What did that poor grape vine ever do to you?’ he asks, pushing down the hood of his navy anorak.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I reply, looking down at the plant’s amputated shoots. ‘I wasn’t concentrating.’

‘I can see that,’ he says. But there’s a mischievous smile behind his eyes. I wonder if this means he’s forgiven me for running out on him the other night.

‘Ben…’ I begin. ‘I just want to say…’

He holds out his hand again, but this time it’s to stop me talking. He shakes his head. ‘No more explanations. Let’s just not mention it again. Friends?’ he says.

‘Yes, please. I’d like that.’ My shoulders sag with relief. The last time someone asked me to be friends, it was Scott telling me about Ellie, and I had a massive meltdown. This time, it’s Ben, and I’m sad, but relieved. I couldn’t bear to lose his friendship.

‘It’s so quiet this afternoon,’ he says. ‘I’ve sent Janet home and I’m closing early. Want to come round for a coffee?’

I pause. Is this just an innocent coffee, or will he expect more? The thought of kissing him again makes my bones go soft, but I have to be strong.

‘I won’t jump on you, if that’s what you’re worrying about.’