‘No?’ Dawn asked. She looked bewildered.
‘No, I always thought that half of that wasLucy’sfault,’ I said. ‘And the other half was just Lucy’s…illness, really. Like any other illness.’
‘Really. You never felt guilty?’
I shook my head. ‘She is an actual person with her own brain, you know. She didn’t come with some secret remote control I keep in my pocket.’
‘Oh, gosh!’ Dawn said. ‘That must be nice. I wish I could say the same.’
‘You felt guilty? You actually felt like it was your fault?’
‘Of course,’ Dawn said. ‘How could I not?’
‘Wow. You never said.’
‘No. Maybe I didn’t.’
‘But anyway, you’re wrong, you know, what you said before…’
Dawn frowned at me. ‘Which bit?’
‘That Lucy is Billy’s child.’
‘It’s just that the photo—’
‘No, I understand what you’re saying, Dawn,’ I said. ‘And he may even be the guy who provided, you know, the little spermatozoid or whatever that wriggled its way in back in 1990. I mean, he also maynotbe and I guess we’ll never know. Hopefully, we’ll never know.’
‘But—’
‘No, shush,’ I said. ‘Listen. She’s not his child. Lucy will never be hischild. Being someone’s child, being a parent, that’s a relationship, not just a one-off event. That’s hours of work. It’s thousands and thousands of hours of work, actually. It’s nursing them through chickenpox and driving them to dance class and bloody violin even though they play like shit; it’s parents’ days and dragging them out of squats and taking them to rehab. It’s worrying about them and crying about them and saving them and then doing it all over again and again and again until it works. So no, you’re wrong. Billy’s never even met her, for Christ’s sake. At this point… at the point we’ve got to now, Lucy is very much our child. We made her, we saved her, Dawn, not Billy. She wouldn’t even bealiveif it wasn’t for you.’
Dawn pinched the bridge of her nose to stem the tears. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’m assuming Billy doesn’t know about this?’ I asked. ‘You didn’t actually tell him, did you?’
Dawn shook her head and sniffed. ‘No, he didn’t ask,’ she said. ‘He never even asked if I kept the baby.’
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Classy guy. The more I hear, the more I like him.’
‘I know,’ Dawn said. ‘I can barely believe I ever looked at him. Oh, and, for what it’s worth, you’ve aged far, far better. He looks dreadful.’
I nodded. ‘I actually saw him on TV a couple of years ago and I have to say he didn’t look particularly attractive. My guess is too much booze.’
‘My guess is too much coke.’
FOURTEEN
PANDORA’S BOX (BY DAWN)
We started to walk home and almost instantly it began to drizzle again – a drizzle so fine that it was little more than a mist, but it soaked my jeans and left my face shiny and wet all the same.
As we walked, Rob told me his half of the story, the fairytale of Rob and Cheryl.
Was it better to know, or not to know? While he spoke, that was the question I kept asking myself.
Because, knowing something had happened but notwhathad been so hard, I’d caved in to the idea that we needed to talk. And yet the details were pretty unbearable too. Specifically the duration – learning that his affair had gone on foryears– was particularly hard to hear.
But I tried to understand. We’d decided on honesty and non-judgement, so I really did my best.
