Emma shakes her head. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘We don’t know. Let me talk to the nurse, and maybe we can—’
‘Josh. Wait.’
The room, temporarily, feels as though it is floating. Suspended in the hinterland between two opposing versions of our reality.
‘You and my dad did look awfully alike,’ she says. ‘Back in the day. Mum said people used to joke she’d replaced you with a lookalike. No offence.’
I decide, just for once, to let this outrageous slander slide. ‘But you’re very similar to Lawrence, Emma. In lots of ways.’
‘No, that’s what I’m saying. Maybe I don’t look like Lawrence. Maybe I look like you.’
‘I meant, personality-wise.’
She shrugs. ‘Nature or nurture, though?’
‘Nature,’ I say firmly.
‘You and Mum both have brown eyes,’ she says slowly. ‘And I have blue.’
Like most normal people, I know next to nothing about inherited eye colour. Though, for some inexplicable reason, I do seem to remember that Lawrence’s eyes are green. Is that closer to blue, genetically? I have no idea.
‘You honestly can’t remember anything about that night?’
‘Bits and pieces. Not much. And nothing to do with me and your mum...’
‘Getting it on?’
I lean back against the worktop, almost feeling a blush coming on. ‘Sure. If that’s what the kids are calling it these days.’
A smile creeps over her face. ‘Look at you getting bashful.’
‘Must we.’
‘Did you really drink a whole bottle of brandy?’
‘I think so. The hangover’s the only part I do remember.’
‘Half a bottle of brandy would kill me.’
‘It almost killed me.’
‘We should take that test.’
‘Emma—’
‘I’m serious, Josh. I need to know. Don’t you?’
I do, of course. But at the same time, I cannot even begin to compute that this brilliant and shining woman could possibly be my daughter.
Then again, we’ve all been happy to assume she’s Lawrence’s. Which is equally ludicrous, if you ask me.
‘Will you go out and get one? Please?’
‘Okay. I will. But there’s something I need to do first.’
I tell her what I’ve been thinking about for a few days now.
