What Lies Between Us(79)

My first response was disappointment that he was putting yet another person ahead of his mum. His real mum. Not only was I competing for attention with Dylan’s fake family, but also this boy. He was a complication and he was coming between us. Then after our falling out at my house, I knew that I was slipping further and further down the pecking order. After a few days of dwelling on it, the frustration became too much. I had to say something. I messaged this Noah and suggested he might want to cool it with Dylan as he had other priorities in his life. I heard nothing in return until my son called the following afternoon.

‘How could you?’ he snapped. ‘You had no right to send that message.’

‘Well, if I hadn’t, when would you have got in touch?’

‘I have my own life, Nina. I keep trying to tell you that but you don’t listen. You have to give me some space.’

‘I’m not saying that you don’t have your own life, I’m just reminding you that I’ve already missed out on so much, I don’t want to miss anything else. You owe me that.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t owe you anything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that what your mum did to us was terrible. But in the long run, it was you that she hurt, not me. It didn’t do me any harm. And I’m sorry if that sounds blunt or even cruel because I really don’t mean it to. But you have to understand – while I’d like you to be a part of my life, you cannot be all of it. If you can’t respect my space and my relationships then you can’t be in it.’

The sharpness of his words robbed me of my breath. ‘Let’s talk about this in person,’ I begged.

‘No, Nina, not at the moment. I think in the long run, a little distance now will do us some good.’

After he hung up, I clutched the phone to my chest and spent the rest of the night in tears, waiting for him to acknowledge his mistake and call back. But he didn’t. It’s been a week since he last replied to a text, so here I am to talk this through in person.

The doors ahead open and the people in front of me are greeted by a woman with wide-open arms. She offers kisses to both cheeks of each guest before they are ushered inside. As the door closes, I take a deep breath and then slip inside behind them.

‘Room for a little one?’ I ask, and without giving her the opportunity to respond, I kiss her cheeks first. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. You look amazing.’

‘Oh thank you,’ she says politely, but she has as much of an idea of who I am as I do of her. ‘Can I take your coat?’

‘Lovely,’ I reply, and slip it off while she takes it to a nearby cloakroom. ‘Where shall I leave this?’ I ask, pointing to the bottle in the bag.

‘If you want to give it to the birthday girl herself, I saw her a few minutes ago in the orangery with the girls from the WI.’

The orangery, I repeat to myself. It’s just a fancy name for a conservatory. I give her a controlled smile and make my way along a corridor and in the direction of the music. I should be crippled with anxiety but I’m not, and that fills me with extra confidence that I’m doing the right thing by being here.

I take my time so that I can absorb my surroundings. It’s apparent Dylan downplayed the description of his home. It’s beautiful. Everything is painted white and grey and each floor is parquet. The hallway is vast with its crystal light-fittings, side tables, glass ornaments, white potted orchids and family photographs in bejewelled framing. I pause to pick one up – I recognise a young Dylan as he is the only dark-haired child; the rest are blond. I remember what his adoptive mother looks like from the photos he showed me. In another, she is lying on a white sofa, holding him up in the air. His face is illuminated by the widest of smiles and I find myself replicating it. There are more of him and his pretend brothers and sisters taken throughout the years: holidaying in one of the Disney parks, playing with buckets and spades on golden sandy beaches, and at the top of a skyscraper overlooking New York’s Central Park. Between them, Dylan’s parents and Maggie took away my opportunity to give these things to him.

Eventually I reach the orangery at the rear of the house. It’s the same size as the ground floor of my home, only with added flashing disco lights. Guests are dancing and singing along to songs I recognise from the 1980s. Dylan’s adoptive parents have a lot of friends. But if I had their money, I’d have a lot of friends too.

I look around but I can’t see my son. I find myself making my way back towards a grand wooden staircase that reminds me of the repeats I watch of Downton Abbey. I climb them and count eight doors leading off the landing. The walls are scattered with more family photographs of the children as babies. I stop to examine more of my son. He’s the cuckoo in the nest. All I need is for him to see what I see and that he could have a better, more loving home with me and not them. In one photograph he is alone and pedalling on a little blue bike and I imagine myself pushing him on it along a path. I remove the picture from the wall and slide the photo from it, placing it inside my handbag.

Only after opening several doors do I finally arrive at Dylan’s room. I recognise his coat lying on the bed next to an iPad. I switch it on, use his date of birth as his passcode and examine his search history. Among the football scores, porn sites and his own newspaper’s website are many searches for Jon Hunter. I wonder what he thinks when he reads those stories and examines those photographs. Does he see what I see, all those missed years and opportunities with his real family?