The little girl stirs and opens big blue eyes. Waking in an unfamiliar place, she looks for her mum. When she sees me, she stares for a moment, curious, before deciding she can trust me and breaking into an enormous smile. I am acutely aware that there are defining circumstances in your life that requireyou to rise above something very, very bad, for a higher good—and that this might be one of them.
“I’ll wake Oliver,” I say, unable to pull together my emotions, or even properly identify them at this point, let alone articulate them.
This is his child, I can guess that much. And while part of me wants to storm into the spare room and throttle the man, I suspect he’s about to be faced with bigger problems than that.
“Chloe?” he says, startled, as he staggers into the kitchen looking annoyingly good for someone who just rolled out of bed. The sight of her wakes him up fast. His eyes dart straight to me, and he looks ready to gallop into a frantic explanation, but then he rounds the bench, notices the stroller, and his explanation morphs into questions.
There have been very few occasions when I’ve seen my husband at almost a complete loss for words, but here we are.
“This is Harriet,” Chloe says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her before.”
Now she really is crying. I should be too, but there’s just … nothing.
“How old is she?” Oliver asks.
“Three years and three months,” Chloe explains pointedly, before looking at me. “He said you’d broken up …”
I’m glad I’ve had that coffee, because my brain needs the caffeine to do the math. Three years and three months, plus the pregnancy. It does put this back around the time I graduated.Around the time Drew’s mum died. A flash of that kiss with Drew hits me and softens my burgeoning anger. I might have cut off the kiss at the time, but I’ve thought about it countlesstimes in the years since. Clearly, Oliver did more than kiss this woman.
He remains speechless, which annoys me, but then he steps across the kitchen and stands in front of the stroller, examining Harriet. I watch as he crouches down, looking at her with wonder, no doubt seeing what I saw—a mini-replica of himself. I can’t help feeling sorry for him that he’s missed the crucial start of her life.
Wasit while we were broken up? I’m recalculating, just to be sure, but coming up with the same timeframe. We’d definitely split; Oliver gets off on a technicality. But shouldn’t my heart be shattering over this? It’s definitely breaking, but not in the right way.
The dull ache in my lower abdomen heralds another month in which Oliver and I have failed to achieve what he clearly had no difficulty accomplishing with Chloe. Our marriage might not be conducive to raising a family, but secretly, selfishly, perhaps, I long for the companionship and distraction of a child in my lonely world.
What also strikes me, though, is the telling fact that I was hoping the dates were wrong. Wishing Harriet was somehow my “out.” Wanting an excuse—something to nail him on. Blame to cast. A reason to leave …
Then Oliver looks up at Chloe, concern spreading across his face as he meets her devastated expression. “What’s wrong with her?”
68
Drew
I must be a masochist, accepting their invitation to meet for lunch. I haven’t seen Evie since the day Mum died, and haven’t seen Oliver since that terse interaction at her graduation a few days earlier.
She sends me a text message every year on the anniversary of Mum’s death, and I ignore it, just as she asked. I wouldn’t be here today, wishing I were anywhere else, except that her text message this year was four days late:I thought of you on the anniversary. I’m sorry this is late. Things have been bad. Oliver and I are handling a life-and-death family emergency. And, actually, we need your help.
When I didn’t reply, she sent another:Please, just give us an hour to explain. This is bigger than the three of us. I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate. I’m sorry, Drew. For everything.
When they arrive in the doorway, I watch as he helps her shake off her coat and hangs it on the coatrack near the door. She’s in white trousers and a cream turtleneck. Absolutely polished, down to the painstakingly straightened hair. She looks good. I wish she didn’t. I hate myself for the way I react to her, every single time.
Oliver is moody and agitated, making sharp, nervousmovements as he waits for her to walk ahead of him. A stranger would see a man possessed with worry. But I know him. I don’t have a shred of trust.
They weave through the restaurant tables and over to where I’m sitting. I stand up and confront Evie, not knowing how to handle this reunion, given it was never supposed to happen, at her request. Handshake?
She tosses her handbag onto the seat and throws her arms around my neck in a hug—clinging on for longer than she should in front of her husband, in that way that seems to communicate volumes without words. It’s the same thing she did at her graduation, and I meet Oliver’s unimpressed glare over her shoulder as I slip my hands around her waist in response. What am I going to do? Totally reject the woman the way she specifically instructed me to?
She lets go and the three of us sit down. I just want to get this whole uncomfortable catch-up over with. “What’s this about?” I ask, before we can even look at the menus.
She glances at Oliver, as if they’re about to launch into a prepared speech. “Drew, something serious has happened and we need to ask you for help,” she begins. “I know this is awkward, but we all need to rise above that.”
I’m not going to rise above anything. These two have caused nothing but problems in my life foryears. I don’t need a moral lecture now.
“I have a daughter,” Oliver announces suddenly, staring not at me but at the salt and pepper shakers.
I look at Evie, confused.Oliverhas a daughter? My heart skips a beat in anger. For fuck’s sake.
“Congratulations?” I say, sarcastically.Congratulations on being the arse I always thought you were.
