The Girl in the Mirror(40)
We pull up in front of a palace. The parapets and colonnades hail from a bygone era, yet the building is impeccably maintained, and the white walls glisten in the afternoon sun. The surroundings are Arcadian; manicured grounds sweep down to a postcard of a beach. Are those actual peacocks prowling amid the sculpted herbage?
“You’re rich,” I blurt out, then feel my face grow hot.
Daniel smiles. “We would be, if my grandparents hadn’t had eight children,” he says. “There are sixteen grandchildren now, so we each own a sliver of this place, but yes, it keeps the wolf from the door. Speaking of which, wait here, let me get your door for you.”
He jumps out of the car, and I’m alone with my image of sixteen Adams and Daniels who each own a slice of this paradise.
My door swings open, but it’s not Daniel—it’s Adam. His voice is gentle and sweet, but he’s not talking to me.
“Look who’s here, matey,” he coos. “Mummy’s back.”
I guess we turned up sooner than expected. Standing beside Adam on the green lawn is one of the many heirs to this fortune. He stands as still as a statue, and he stares at me as if I am a ghost.
Tarquin.
My son.
11
The Disc
“Tarquin! Tarky!” I tumble out of the car, my mouth stumbling over the unfamiliar nickname. Isn’t he supposed to run into my arms? But he stands his ground and even—am I imagining this?—shrinks back as I scoop him into a decent impression of a loving embrace.
I’ve barely seen Tarquin since the wedding. In Thailand he was unconscious, and he didn’t seem to have grown any bigger. All this time, I’ve been thinking he was a baby, a formless puddle of baby fat rolling around in a onesie. But this is a boy, a fully formed human. A stranger.
What do I say? How do I talk to him? “Cootchie-cootchie-coo” or “How are you, young man?” I can’t speak in case I get it wrong, so I stay silent, covering my confusion with tears. I cling to the kid, willing him to hug me back, trembling lest he come out with some bombshell like “Hello, Auntie Iris.” He wriggles in my arms.
Adam is talking in a singsong voice. “Look, it’s Mummy. Tarky missed Mummy, didn’t he?”
I take my cue from Adam. “Hello, Tarky,” I say, an octave higher than my usual tone. “Mummy missed you, too.”
Tarquin says nothing. Adam continues to speak for him. “Tarky is happy now.”
Thank God. It seems that the brat still hasn’t learned to speak. I remain on edge, in case his silence is mere bashfulness, but when he starts babbling, “Orby-borby-borby,” it’s the most welcome sound. Adam’s lack of attention to the noise shows me that he doesn’t expect his son to say anything meaningful. Tarquin isn’t as grown-up as he looks; it’s just that they’ve cut off his curls, and he’s walking on his own two feet at last. Aside from that, he’s still a baby.
Fortunately, Tarquin is soon packed off with some relative. I have nothing to fear from a mute, as long as I can keep emoting like a long-lost mother every time I see him.
I’m introduced to a bevy of in-laws. I can’t believe how many I have: grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins with their wives and children. Luckily, Adam’s an only child, and apart from his parents, who are in Australia, I haven’t met any of his family before. In any case, Adam fends off any difficult questions, explaining that his dear wife is in shock.
I pass through a glittering lobby of polished marble and ascend a sweeping staircase. The luxury at La Belle Romance goes beyond extravagant and into the realms of disconcerting. They install us in the Diamond Suite, which must be the hotel’s finest. I goddamn hope so, anyway. The word magnifique was coined to describe the chandelier in here.
Daniel changes the dressing on my wounded hand, I take a long shower, and soon I am languishing on a purple chaise longue while manservants bring me platters of fruit. Adam hovers like an anxious nurse, and Daniel lurks behind him. The doctor is adamant that I shouldn’t overeat, but eventually he relents and lets me scoff a chunk of spicy lamb.
“I thought you said your wife was vegetarian?” he asks Adam.
“I said she had vegetarian leanings . . .” Adam replies, before I have a chance to freak out—Summer had dipped in and out of vegetarianism so many times, I’d stopped paying attention. Did she eat meat on the boat? Surely she did? She definitely cooked a few meat dishes.
“But you know how it is with pregnancy,” Adam continues, shrugging. “She got hungry.”
Pregnancy. It’s too late to tell Adam I’ve had a miscarriage. Why have I let the moment go by? I guess because that was what saved me from the police inspector. That and the empty water tanks were what tipped him from suspicion to sympathy. If I hadn’t been poor pregnant Mrs. Romain, he would have dragged me off to the police cells. Perhaps he still will, but at least I’ll have time to get my story sorted first.
Never mind. I can have a miscarriage later.
Adam is so fond and attentive that chills run up and down my body as he kneels by the chaise longue, leaning close to me, brushing a stray hair from my face, squeezing my hand. But he’s being so platonic, so respectful of my grief. And the doctor is circling like an oceanic predator, staring at me with his golden eyes. Am I behaving like a pregnant woman?