Mark said calmly, ‘You can tell Fran it’s two-fifty or zero. I’m not negotiating. It’s more than generous. She will own her own home.’
‘But have nothing to support the kid. I think it needs to becloser to half a mil,’ Tim said in a cocky voice, looking over Mark’s shoulder.
‘In your dreams,’ tossed back Mark. He pursed his lips, then said, ‘You can’t even look at me, can you, Tim?’
Tim shuffled his feet, then turned his head, his eyes grazing over Mark’s.
Mark had seen this body language so often in the City. He knew when someone was lying, but what he couldn’t figure out was, why.
There was one obvious explanation and he grasped at it, ‘It’s not mine, is it? You’re just trying to fleece me. Why?’
Tim swallowed. ‘She shouldn’t have slept with you.’
‘That was her decision.’
‘She’smygirlfriend.’
Suddenly the mist cleared from Mark’s mind. ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’ Mark started laughing. ‘All those phone calls you disappeared to answer when you were’ – he made two sets of apostrophe marks with his fingers – ‘“helping me” with the DNA test.’
Tim covered his eyes with his hands.
‘She’s your girlfriend. Chances were always much higher it was yours. You had your own cheek swab that day, you just swapped mine for yours, which is why this letter confirms the child is mine. And it’s not, is it? The baby is yours.’
Mark could hear himself breathing, waiting for Tim to reply. He was convinced he’d rumbled Tim, but he didn’t think he’d got to the bottom of this scam. It didn’t stack up. Fran wasn’t a devious person. Was she being fooled herself? Did she know about the swapped DNA swab?
‘Have you told Fran the truth, that you’re trying to swindle a financial cushion off me, and ruin my life into the bargain? Do I need to force the three of us to go through another round of DNA tests?’
The seconds ticked past. Mark listened to the distant roar of planes taking off from the airport.
Finally, Tim said, ‘You’re right. I’m the father.’
Mark huffed. ‘You’re a waste of oxygen, aren’t you? Why have you put me through this?’
‘Revenge. You’re loaded, you wouldn’t have missed the money.’
Mark thought about his coach’s motive. Why hadn’t he been as decisive eighteen months ago? He would’ve plotted his own revenge far more diligently than this prat.
Mark had a flashback to his childhood, his mother’s expression of stoic pride on Prize Day, sitting there in her second-hand unflattering hat, clapping for two parents, while Mark’s eyes raked the crowd seeking out his wayward father. He took two paces towards his would-be blackmailer.
‘I won’t interfere in your relationship with Fran. But you make sure you make a fist of it with the child, or I will report you for attempted blackmail and fraud.’
Thirty-five
It was Fran’s last day working at Martin’s tennis centre. She was going home to have the baby in Norfolk. Emily had the day off, and the women were slumped in chairs on the terrace. Emily was drinking lemon water from the bottle, wondering why Mark had been so furtive this morning. The very second the dishwasher was on, he’d snatched up the car keys and left. She heard the door slam, and the gates squeak open. Emily didn’t know where Mark was going, why, or how long he would be. What was he hiding from her?
Fran nibbled at a chocolate muffin, a piece of paper in her hand, each mouthful of muffin interspersed by a snort of laughter. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she carped, slapping the page against her leg, then saying in a high-pitched voice, ‘Individual cheese soufflés with a parmesan crisp. Where did he dream that up from, and wait’ – she giggled at Emily – ‘what about the rillettes of salt cod with a black squid ink reduction?’
Emily laughed back. ‘If you want a real treat, cast your eyes over the list of desserts!’
Fran put the page down. ‘You don’t think he’s being serious, do you?’ She squinted at the older woman. ‘We are talking about a man who, this time last year, didn’t know how to cook a sausage?’
‘I don’t want to discourage him. He’s only cooked simple foodso far, and the guests love the idea.’ She finished her drink. ‘He is a bit of a prat, though, isn’t he? He’s my prat, and I love him, but he’s gone way over the top here, hasn’t he?’
‘If I were doing this, I’d offer comfort food. After a week of posh dinners, don’t you long for a decent fish pie?’ said Fran, crossing her arms over her chest.
‘Or he could do something alternative, maybe Ottolenghi style with all the seasonal fresh vegetables from the markets?’
Fran tugged an earlobe, then started to nibble a fingernail.
