“I got a message from Paul,” he says. His expression is defensive. “I didn’t speak to him. It was yesterday.”
“Yesterday? At what time?”
“I’ll find it for you if you like,” he says. He checks his phone. “Here it is. He sent it at 11:03 yesterday. Friday morning. Telling me just to bring this chap Toby up here.”
“He sent it when we were in the car on our way,” Jayne says.
Why didn’t Mark or Paul try to call us if they already knew by then that they weren’t coming today? she wonders. Both would have known that we’d still be on the road and easily contactable. She checks her own phone again, wondering if she missed a call or message from Mark, but she didn’t. Not on any of the platforms.
The driver reads out Paul’s message.
“‘Hi Tony. It’s Paul. About the car tomorrow. There’s been a small change to arrangements. Same time, same route, but it’s going to be one passenger instead of three. Just the pickup for Toby Land. Thanks, mate.’”
He looks at Jayne and Emily. “And there was a last-minuteaddress change. Mr. Land texted to ask me to collect him from Addison Court this morning.”
Jayne frowns. Addison Court is a familiar address, but it’s not Ruth’s home address. She’s sure it’s in Bristol but can’t place it precisely at this moment. She can’t imagine it’s Toby’s sister’s address either, because she lives on a houseboat in the Wiltshire countryside.
Emily makes him show it to her. “I don’t understand,” she says. “Was that it? No more messages?”
“That’s it.”
He looks upset. “There’s not a problem is there? I did what I was asked to do. Paul’s always been happy with my work.”
“No,” Emily says. “You’re fine. Are you going back to Bristol now? Can you take me? Please? I’ll make sure you get paid extra.”
“Course I can,” he says. “But I’d like to get going asap if you don’t mind.”
Emily doesn’t hesitate. She climbs into his car. Before shutting the door, she looks at Jayne. “My bag,” she says. “Please?” And Jayne understands that she’s not invited to share this ride.
She fetches the bag and watches as the car backs down the lane and its headlamps disappear into the fog.
Imogen’s crying. She’s been crying for a while, almost silently apart from the odd small hiccup.
It makes me feel awkward. I sit opposite her, and I repeat, “I am your father. Your daddy.”
It’s as if she doesn’t hear me, though I know she can. She keeps looking between me and the digital clock on the oven, obsessively checking the time. I suppose she wants to know if Edie will be back soon.
I hoped very much that this moment, when I revealed our true relationship, would be different. I had intended to wait until I had the results of the DNA test so that I could present them to her as a way of delivering the momentous news, so that it was proven.
I’ve fantasized so often about watching her read the results in front of me and finding out that way that I can hardly believe I’ve just denied myself that pleasure. And now I know I should have stuck to my plan because she’s distracted and the moment isn’t going how I want it to, and how stupid and impulsive am I when the results are due later today?
I’m angry with myself but I try to focus on her, on how she’s feeling. I desperately want to be a good parent in this moment.
Her growing concern about Edie is exquisitely moving, in its way. It makes me hope she’ll be as eager for me to return to her one day.
But it’s a distraction.
I need her to grasp the facts of our new situation and the shocked expression on her face tells me that’s not happening. She hasn’t absorbed the news.
I understand that it might be because I frightened her, earlier, and I blame myself for that. I hate it when that happens. It’s always a cause of bitter regret.
If I can say one thing for my wife, it’s that she’s never shown any fear of me. Rather, and I’m not sure where she gets this from, possibly it’s because of what she’s been through personally, she brings a loving approach to our union where others in the past have sometimes run scared.
There’s very little else to recommend my wife, though. Her self-delusion about the state of our marriage is remarkably immature. She believes we’re happy together; she plans for our future. It’s an extraordinary misapprehension. Though it has suited mebecause it makes her very tolerable as a partner. But what kind of ambitious man settles for tolerable?
The forced march back from the railway track was a terrible idea, in retrospect, an unforgivable loss of control on my part. But my anger has ebbed now, and I will apologize for what happened.
I move slowly and cautiously to sit beside her, so as not to provoke alarm. “Hey,” I say, once I’m in place. Her face is crumpled and sad. She makes to get up. “Stay,” I say. She draws her legs away from me, hugging them. “I’m sorry for dragging you back home earlier, but I was worried! You have to admit your behavior was concerning. Why’d you run off and hide like that, sweetheart?”
