The Secret Mother Page 15

  I have my hire car for seven days, so I decide I’ll drive to work to keep the press at bay. Forty minutes later, I pull open the front door, preparing to do battle with the horde. But the pavement outside is empty. Silent. A puddle of morning light spreads out behind the houses opposite. Do I dare to even hope? I step out onto the frosty path and glance up and down the road: they’re not here, the press have finally gone. I exhale and experience a momentary feeling of lightness.

  No need for the hire car today, then. I walk to work with a nervous sense of freedom, trying to stop myself from holding my breath every time someone walks towards me, or past me, or when a car drives too close to the pavement, or I hear laughter, or someone talking louder than a whisper. Rolling my shoulders back and forth, I tell myself to calm down and enjoy it. They’ve gone, they’ve actually gone. I think I had convinced myself they would be with me forever. But I guess with no new elements to the story, no new angles to dissect, they’ve lost interest. My story is finally today’s fish-and-chip wrapper.

  I reach work fifteen minutes early, and the pavement outside is as blissfully clear of journalists as the road outside my house was. Despite everything else on my mind, I almost skip through the gates. I didn’t realise quite how much the media presence was dragging me down. I wonder if they’ve left Cranborne, too.

  ‘Morning, Tessa.’ Ben crosses the front yard and walks towards me.

  It feels like weeks since I last saw him. Time playing tricks again.

  ‘Good day off?’ he asks, doing his crinkly-eyed smile thing.

  I smile back, relieved that he seems pleased to see me. I’d made myself believe he was mad at me because of all the disruption my life has brought to Moretti’s.

  ‘It was… different,’ I reply. ‘But at least the press have gone.’

  ‘Sounds like something that needs to be discussed over dinner and a drink,’ he says. ‘You up for it after work? My treat. To celebrate the media finally leaving you alone.’

  I pause. Ben is great company, but I need to call the maternity clinic at lunchtime to see if I can find out any information about Fisher. And, depending on what they say, I may need to keep this evening free.

  He must have noticed my hesitation. ‘No worries if you’re busy,’ he says. ‘We can always catch up another time.’

  ‘Do you mind? I’ve got a few things to sort out.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. I might need you to help out in the shop this afternoon,’ he says, switching to boss mode. ‘Now the sun’s out, I’ve a feeling it’s going to get busy today.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply.

  ‘And with the press gone,’ he adds, ‘you shouldn’t get any more hassle from the customers.’

  ‘I can live in hope,’ I say.

  * * *

  The morning passes quickly. Most of my time is spent helping customers and netting Christmas trees. Ben was right, it is busy. Usually I prefer to work in the background, with the plants, away from actual people, but I don’t mind the demands on my time today – it takes my mind off everything else.

  At one o’clock, I grab a cheese roll from the café and take it to my favourite spot in the far greenhouse. The place where I’m least likely to be bothered by anyone. I only take a half-hour lunch on Saturdays, so I’d better make this quick. I call the Balmoral Clinic, the number still stored in my phone from before. A woman answers almost straight away.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I have a query. I wonder if you can help.’

  ‘I’ll try my best,’ the woman replies.

  ‘Thanks. A few years ago, I gave birth to twins at your clinic and I was wondering if you could give me the name of the doctor who was on duty at the time.’

  ‘A few years ago?’ the woman echoes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose we would have that information on our database.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great news,’ I say. ‘The date was the third of March—’

  ‘But we can’t give that kind of information out over the phone,’ she interrupts. ‘You’d have to put your request in writing.’

  My heart sinks. That will take ages. ‘How about if I email you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid we would need a signed letter from you.’

  That could take days! I can’t wait around that long. ‘I really need the information today,’ I say, trying my best to sound like a nice person she might take pity on.

  ‘Even if we could answer your enquiry, there’s no one from admin here at the weekend,’ she says. ‘If you’re local, you could always visit in person. You’ll need to bring two forms of ID, though – something with your address, like a utility bill.’

  ‘Brilliant. Today?’

  ‘No. Like I said, our admin staff don’t work weekends. Pop in on Monday between nine and five thirty.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, deflated. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’

  This is so frustrating – I’ll have to wait a whole two days to find out what I need to know. How will I be able to wait that long?

  I split the rest of my day between the shop and the garden, with barely two seconds to breathe, let alone think about James Fisher. By the time six o’clock rolls around, Carolyn, Janet, Ben and I are all on an exhausted high.

  ‘Great day, everyone,’ Ben says, cashing up at the café till. ‘Thanks for all your hard work.’

  ‘No problem,’ Janet says as she heads to the door. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Bye,’ we all call.

  ‘I’m off, too,’ Carolyn adds with a wave, walking across the café.

  ‘Oh, Carolyn,’ I call out, catching her up. ‘Can I ask a quick favour?’

  ‘Need another lift?’ she asks. ‘You know those newspaper people have gone now?’

  ‘Yeah, thank God. And thanks for the offer, but I don’t need a lift. No, I was wondering if you’re able to swap a half-day. I’ve got an appointment next week, so I was hoping I could work Sunday morning for you if you’ll do Monday morning for me.’

  ‘You want to work tomorrow morning?’ she asks.

  ‘If that’s okay?’

  ‘It’s more than okay. My feet are killing me, I’d love a lie-in tomorrow. You’re on, if it’s okay with the boss.’ She raises her voice so Ben can hear that last part.

  ‘If what’s okay with the boss?’ he calls back over the chink of coins being poured into banking bags.

  ‘Me and Tess are swapping. She’s in tomorrow morning, I’m doing Monday.’

  ‘As long as someone’s here, that’s fine by me,’ he replies.

  * * *

  On the walk back home, I text Carly. If she’s going to see Fisher on Monday, I need to keep her up to date with everything I’ve discovered.

  Hope you’re having a good weekend. I’ve got some pretty big news about Fisher.

  ???

  I found out he used to work at the same maternity clinic where I gave birth.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  I know. It’s pretty mental.

  Which clinic? Was he your consultant?

  The Balmoral. Don’t know if he was on duty that night or not. Am going to the clinic on Monday morning to find out.

  Cool. You go to clinic. I’ll go to Cranborne. Let me know if you find out anything else. Something ‘fishy’ going on here – geddit? Sorry, crap joke.

  I smile grimly at the phone screen. Yeah, something fishy is definitely going on here. Something that’s making my stomach feel like there’s a writhing worm in it, slithering about, cold and uncomfortable. And I suspect this feeling will stay with me until I’ve worked out exactly what it is.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I stop at the supermarket on my way home to pick up some essentials, my whole body brimming with nervous energy. I should run it off or something, but I know I won’t do that. I’ll probably go home and read instead. Try to distract myself until Monday, when I can go to the clinic and hopefully find answers. I’ll work Carolyn’s shift tomorrow morning and then, in the afte
rnoon, I’ll go to the cemetery.

  Back home, I dump my shopping on the table. Stare around the silent kitchen. Am I really going to spend another long, miserable night alone when my perfectly nice boss has asked me out? I shove the food in the fridge and pull my phone out of my bag. He answers it after two rings.

  ‘Tess?’

  ‘Hi, Ben.’ My mouth is dry. I swallow. ‘I was wondering if that offer of dinner and a drink still stands.’

  ‘Yes. Sure it does.’

  ‘Great. Shall we meet at the Oak?’

  ‘It’ll be a nightmare in there on a Saturday evening. How about I cook us something instead?’

  ‘You cook?’

  ‘Of course I cook. I’m Italian, remember? Two things in Italy we take very seriously, cooking and football, but I’m not much of a football fan.’ I hear the smile in his voice and find myself smiling back, even though he can’t see. ‘Give me an hour,’ he says. ‘Don’t use the work gates, come round the front of the house and ring the bell.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Want me to bring anything?’

  ‘Just you.’

  I shower and change, deciding not to go overboard, opting for jeans, a pale blue wool jumper and a pair of navy suede ankle boots with spike heels – my one concession to the fact that it’s a Saturday night. Is this a date? I wonder.

  There’s no way I’m walking over there in these heels, so I decide to make use of the hire car. I check myself in the hall mirror – my hair’s still a bit damp, but it’ll be fine. My face could do with a bit of help, though. I root around in my bag for a lipstick, find one rolling around the bottom and take off the lid. Pale pink, that’ll do. I smear it on lightly and press my lips together. Okay. I’m ready, I think. No, I am. One last glance in the mirror, and I leave the house and walk down the pathway onto the gloriously empty pavement.

  * * *

  The drive over to Moretti’s only takes five minutes. I spend those minutes trying to analyse how I feel about Ben. He’s a great employer. He’s a nice guy. He’s good-looking, maybe even handsome. Yes, definitely handsome. Going to his house for dinner has to be a date, doesn’t it? I realise I’m nervous – as in butterflies-in-the-stomach nervous. Which is ridiculous, given that it’s just Ben. But maybe that’s because he’s never been on my radar as anything other than a boss and a friend. I’ve only known him since I started working at Moretti’s, but we clicked straight away – same sense of humour, I guess. I need to keep it that way – strictly platonic. I can’t afford to lose my job, and I don’t have the mental energy for a relationship. There’s too much other crap going on in my life right now.

  Suddenly assailed by a flurry of doubts, I use the back of my hand to wipe off my lipstick. Don’t want to send out the wrong signals. I’m regretting wearing heels, too. Oh, for God’s sake, Tess. Pull yourself together. I could hardly have turned up in my work fleece.

  Ben welcomes me into his hallway and takes my coat. ‘You look lovely,’ he says.

  I mumble a thank-you. He looks incredible in dark jeans and a bottle-green open-necked shirt, his dark hair flopping forward over one eye. Even in heels, I still only come up to his shoulder. As we lean forward to kiss on the cheek, I realise he smells good, too – citrusy and masculine. Damn, I need to get a grip.

  ‘Really sorry,’ I say. ‘I should’ve brought some wine. I feel awful that I didn’t get you anything.’

  ‘You offered. I told you not to,’ he says with a smile.

  ‘Well, I know. It still feels rude to arrive empty-handed.’ I follow him into the kitchen, where he turns and places a glass of red wine in my hand.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘You’re not empty-handed any more.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m driving.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll call you a cab later.’

  I pause, take a sip. ‘This is delicious.’

  He grins and pours a glass for himself. ‘Saluti,’ he says, clinking my glass.

  ‘Saluti,’ I reply, feeling like a fraud. The extent of my Italian is ciao and spaghetti.

  ‘You sit there and talk to me for a minute,’ he says, gesturing to a chair at the rustic kitchen table. ‘I need to check on my sauce.’

  ‘Smells gorgeous,’ I say, sitting down, my mouth beginning to water. I take another sip of wine. ‘What are you cooking?’

  ‘Ravioli capresi,’ he says, standing at the range and flinging a tea towel over one shoulder. ‘My mum’s recipe. Be ready in about five minutes.’

  A cream jug sits in the centre of the table filled with winter daffodils. I try to imagine Scott cooking Italian food for me and filling a vase with flowers. The closest he’d have come to that would’ve been a takeaway pizza and wilting carnations from the local garage. But I know I’m being uncharitable – Scott doesn’t own a garden centre or have Italian parents. Maybe thinking mean things about him is my way of coping with him leaving me behind.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ I ask.

  ‘No, it’s all under control. Can’t have anyone messing up my perfectly orchestrated menu.’ Ben narrows his eyes, then grins, and we chat about mundane things – work and the weather and such – until he brings over two terracotta bowls of ravioli garnished with basil and Parmesan. He places one of the bowls in front of me, and then sits so we’re at right angles to one another. Strangely, this feels more intimate than sitting opposite him, his arm now only a hand’s width from mine.

  ‘I’m famished,’ I say.

  ‘Good. Oh, hang on, I forgot the salad.’ He goes to the fridge, brings a bowl of red and green leaves to the table.

  ‘From the garden?’ I ask.

  ‘Where else? Help yourself to dressing.’

  ‘Oh my God, this is like eating sunshine,’ I say through a mouthful of creamy pasta and tomato sauce.

  ‘Glad you like it.’

  We eat in silence for a few moments. It’s a little awkward, but not painfully so. I try to push all the other stuff out of my head, but it’s hard to be in the moment when so much is crowding my mind.

  ‘Not out partying on a Saturday night, then?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah. I’m not twenty-two any more.’

  ‘No, but you’re not ninety-two either.’

  ‘I go out,’ he says defensively.

  I widen my eyes and we both laugh.

  ‘Okay, sometimes I go out,’ he amends. ‘Occasionally I go out. All right, once in a blue moon I meet the lads down the pub. You know, exciting stuff. Truth be told, I’m a bit of a workaholic. Moretti’s has kind of got under my skin this past year.’

  I nod. ‘I can see how you’d want to spend all your time here. It’s a pretty amazing place.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’

  I hope he doesn’t ask me about the promotion again. I’m not quite ready to give him an answer.

  ‘I like having you working here,’ he says, looking me in the eye. I stare back for a moment, but I can’t hold his gaze. I’m nervous about what might be happening. The butterflies in my stomach flap their wings. I take a sip of wine and spear a cushion of ravioli.

  ‘How come you’re not married?’ I ask, finding my voice again, but feeling immediately embarrassed for asking such a personal question. ‘Sorry,’ I stammer. ‘Tell me to mind my own business if you’d rather not answer that.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ he says with a shrug. ‘It’s a boring story about an Italian boy and his girlfriend. The boy thought they’d live happily ever after. The girl shagged his best mate.’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘That’s awful. What a bitch.’

  He smiles and nods. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When did that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Couple of years ago. I should’ve known something wasn’t right between us. I asked her to marry me three times, and each time she wanted to wait.’ His tone is light, but I can see the pain behind his eyes.

  I put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine, all ancient history. And anyway, I didn’t in
vite you to dinner so I could wail and gnash my teeth over ex-girlfriends.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Wail away, it’s better than talking about my shitty life.’

  There’s a pause before we both dissolve into laughter.

  ‘God, we’re a right barrel of laughs,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, you can tell I don’t have many dinner guests,’ he replies, rolling his eyes and topping up our glasses. ‘I need to brush up on my social skills.’

  I realise that I’m actually enjoying myself. It’s a novel situation. ‘I think your social skills are just fine,’ I say.

  He catches my eye and then takes a deep breath. ‘In case you haven’t guessed by now, I like you, Tess.’

  I stop laughing and scan his features to see if he’s messing with me. To see if he means what I think he means.

  ‘I like you a lot,’ he murmurs. Then he leans forward and, without warning, kisses me on the mouth, his lips soft and achingly tender. The fresh, warm scent of him surrounds me.

  Before I know what’s happening, we’re on our feet, my fingers caught up in his dark hair, his hands sliding beneath my jumper, his touch electrifying. We’re kissing so hard it sets the core of my body alight.

  ‘Tessa,’ he murmurs as he trails kisses down my neck and across to my ear lobe, making me shiver with pleasure.

  I don’t care about my earlier doubts or what happens after tonight, all I know is that I need him now.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I gasp.

  ‘You sure?’ He pulls away from me for a moment, his dark eyes soft and enquiring.

  ‘Yes.’

  We tumble out of the kitchen and I’m hardly aware of our surroundings as Ben pushes me up against the wall. All I want is his hands, his tongue, his body hard against mine. He stops, and I pull him back towards me, but he resists. Instead, he takes my hand and leads me up the narrow staircase to his bedroom. We shed our clothes in a blur of tangled kisses, and fall onto his bed. I don’t feel anything like myself: I’m hungry, angry, demanding. Skin, salt, sex – he gives me all I need to blot out the rest of the world. I don’t want this to end. Not ever.