The Secret Mother Read online

  He nods and I climb into the back seat.

  ‘Tessa!’ Scott calls out from behind me.

  But I don’t turn around. ‘Go! Now, please,’ I beg the driver. ‘He’s coming. I don’t want him to…’

  The driver puts his foot on the accelerator and pulls away. I hope he won’t feel the need to talk to me.

  ‘You okay, love?’ he calls out from the front.

  I catch his eye in the rear-view mirror, nod and look away. He doesn’t press me any further.

  Scott and Ellie. Ellie and Scott. Scott and Ellie Markham. They’ll get married, won’t they? Of course they will. He’ll divorce me. I’ll have to change my name back. It’ll be like the four of us never existed. Erased from his life. They’ll be married and have a beautiful little family, and everyone will say how lovely it is for Scott. That after everything he’s been through, he’s managed to find a second chance at happiness. And then they’ll whisper: but it’s such a shame about his ex – what was her name? Tessa, yes, that’s it. Such a shame. She still lives on her own, never got over it. You don’t get over these things, do you?

  I can’t lose it. Not yet, not here in this stranger’s taxi. I press my fist to my mouth. I must keep it all inside until I get home. Look out of the window. Look at the shopfronts, at the bars and restaurants, at all the happy people. Don’t think. Don’t think about Scott. About Scott and Ellie and their beautiful new baby.

  It’s a twenty-minute cab ride. I can’t afford it – especially after that ridiculous waste of money on my hair and new clothes – but there’s no way I could have handled being on the bus with other people, and it would have taken me at least two hours to walk it.

  I try to let my mind go blank. To dampen down the crushing disappointment. The sense of betrayal and humiliation. My mind is spinning. I can’t switch it off. The rational part of my brain reminds me that we split up over a year ago. Scott has no duty to look out for me any more. But why keep the news about Ellie from me for so long? All this time, when I was calling him and chatting with him – thinking we were still in it together – all this time and he was already pulling away from me, humouring me. Poor, stupid, annoying Tessa.

  ‘Nearly there now, love. Weybridge Road, right?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I call back, my voice not sounding like my own.

  He turns off the main street into my road, and my heart sinks a little further, if that’s even possible. I wish I could run away – I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to face my thoughts alone.

  ‘What’s all this?’ the cab driver says. He slows down, but we’re still a few houses away from my own.

  ‘It’s a bit further along.’

  ‘I know, love. But take a look at that lot. You got One Direction playing in your house tonight? Is Her Majesty paying you a visit?’

  I lean forward and stare through the windscreen to see a crowd of people up ahead, spilling out across the pavement and into the road itself. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘No idea.’

  We cruise down the road at a snail’s pace, getting closer and closer to the hold-up. There must be at least thirty people crowded outside my house. As we approach, I start to get a very bad feeling. The throng have turned to stare at the taxi. There are lights in the road. Cameras. Microphones.

  ‘Journalists,’ my driver says. ‘You haven’t killed anyone, have you?’

  ‘Shit,’ I mutter.

  ‘Are they here for you, love?’

  We’ve pulled up outside my house now, and the taxi is attracting journalists like iron filings to a magnet. Faces peer through the glass at me, cameras fire off rounds, and I try to shield my tear-streaked face with my bag.

  ‘Got anywhere else you can go?’ the driver asks. ‘I wouldn’t recommend getting out.’

  Muted voices fly at me through the glass.

  ‘Tessa! Can you tell us about the boy?’

  ‘Did you abduct him?’

  ‘Tessa, do you want to tell us your side of the story?’

  They must be talking about Harry. But how do they know? Why are they here? There’s nowhere else I can go. Scott’s place is obviously out of the question. Work will be locked up, and anyway, I can’t burden Ben with all of this. My parents passed away years ago, and I have no siblings, no close friends – I pushed them all away after I lost Sam. I can’t show up on any of their doorsteps now with yet more troubles.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask the cabbie.

  ‘Twenty-seven pounds, love.’

  I try not to flinch at the expense and hand him a twenty and a ten. ‘Keep the change,’ I say recklessly.

  ‘Cheers. I don’t think you should go out there, they look like a pack of wolves.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, not believing it.

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll wait here, make sure you get through your front door okay.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I nod, square my shoulders and open the cab door. But I’m not prepared for the sheer force of humanity around me. The noise, the lights… It’s overwhelming, and it’s all I can do to stop my knees buckling. They’re so close I can almost feel their breath on my face as I try desperately to avoid eye contact.

  I keep moving straight ahead, and open my gate with shaking hands. Thank God they don’t follow me into my front garden. Instead they bark out their questions and take photos of my back while I rush along the short path to the door.

  I should have got my keys out when I was safely in the taxi. Now, I’m having to stand on the doorstep and fumble around in my bag while listening to their staccato shouts and cries from the pavement. After what seems like an eternity, but can only be a few seconds, I pull out my keys, slot the right one into the lock and almost fall into the hall, slamming the door behind me, my heart thumping with fear and confusion.

  What the hell just happened?

  Chapter Eight

  My mind is still reeling with Scott’s revelation, but how can I even process it with all those people outside my house? My brain can’t cope with everything that’s being thrown at it. This fresh crisis has sent my pulse into overdrive and my guts swirling. I don’t dare switch on any of the lights in case the press outside can see in.

  The answerphone flashes on the hall table, its angry red light a warning of danger. I press the message button and it informs me I have forty-one messages. Forty-one. I take a deep breath and press to listen. The first one is from a national newspaper journalist asking me to call her. The next message is from another paper. After that it’s a call from the local TV news. I listen to two more similar messages and then press the stop button. The answerphone still flashes. I place my finger over the light so I can’t see it. Just knowing about all those messages – all those people trying to pressure me to speak to them – makes my head swim. Most of them are probably from the journalists who are at this moment standing right outside my house. How long are they going to stay there? All night? Surely not.

  The landline rings. I ignore it. Then I have a better idea – I crouch down, scrabble about at the back of the hall table until I find the phone line, and yank it out of the wall. The ringing stops. Good.

  I straighten up and try not to think about all those people out there. Circling. Waiting. Even inside my house, I feel exposed, vulnerable, no longer safe. I hitch my skirt up, drop to my knees and crawl into the lounge towards the window – the street lamp outside giving me enough light to see by. I pull each of the shutter cords until the blinds close up as tight as they will go. I crawl into the dining room/office – a stale and musty room I never use any more – and close the blinds in here, too. Lastly, I straighten up, get to my feet and head into the kitchen at the back of the house, taking care of the last of the downstairs blinds. There are still small gaps in the slats, though. I wish I had heavy curtains instead. Even with the windows covered, there’s no way I’ll feel secure enough to put the lights on.

  In the dark, I collapse onto a chair at the kitchen table, afraid to go back into the sitting r
oom at the front of the house. Should I call the police? Would they even do anything? It’s quiet. Only the hum of the fridge and the sound of my ragged breathing. I cower in my seat like a cornered fox in a hole, waiting to be torn apart by the hounds. At least they can’t get in.

  With violently shaking hands, I turn on my mobile. I realise my default reaction is to call Scott. But I can’t do it. Not after what he told me this evening. His devastating revelation seems like days ago. No, right now I need to find out exactly what the media are saying about me. They’ve obviously found out about Harry, but why is it such a big story? What have they been told, and who told them?

  I open Google on my phone and type in my own name. As the search results begin to populate, my body goes cold. My name is showing up in a list of headlines that fill the whole screen. They even have a photo of me, taken before my new haircut but still recent. It must have been taken yesterday, because I’m wearing my new work fleece. This is unreal. I can’t believe I’m in all the newspapers. I tap the result at the top of the list and wait for the page to open.

  I scan the story. They’re saying I abducted a five-year-old boy. Okay, they’re not actually saying I did it, but they’re asking the question: ‘Did Tessa Markham abduct a five-year-old boy?’

  No, I bloody did not.

  Again I wonder how they found out about Harry. Could someone at the police station have said something? No… Of course, it’s so obvious. I suddenly realise who it was.

  Carly.

  My snooping neighbour. It had to be. Who else saw Harry? No one. But how did she find out about the rest? Well, I hope she got a nice juicy payout on the back of my misery. What a bitch.

  I click on another image. This time it’s of a journalist with a microphone. The video starts up. She’s standing on my street! Pointing to my front door, asking if the woman who lives here is a serial child abductor. Oh God, she’s talking about when I found the baby in the pram. They’re interviewing the child’s mother. She’s there with the reporter, outside my house, damning me. Saying how it was a travesty that I wasn’t found guilty back then. They’re making me sound so terrible, like I’m guilty of these heinous things. But I’m not. I’m not. Am I?

  ‘It’s been two days, and the child has not yet been reunited with his family. No one knows where he came from or how he ended up with Tessa Markham. Perhaps there are more questions that need to be asked.’

  I click on another image, of a local newsreader in a studio. He’s talking about my past, about my dead children. Saying that soon after Sam died, I was suspected of child abduction, but no charges were ever brought. Why haven’t they mentioned that it was me and Scott who called the police on Sunday? I mean, would I have called the authorities if I’d abducted Harry, if I meant to keep him?

  I can’t bear to watch any more. To have it all raked over yet again. To have them speculate over the worst thing that can happen to a mother. Why am I being forced to confront all this again? Won’t my past ever leave me alone?

  My mobile judders in my hand, making me almost lose my grip on it. Don’t tell me the press have got hold of this phone number too. But now I see it’s Moretti’s number. It must be Ben calling, he must have seen the news. He’s probably calling to fire me. I guess I can kiss goodbye to that promotion, whether I wanted it or not. I can’t face talking to him. Not now.

  Ten seconds later, my phone pings, telling me I have a voice message. I sigh. May as well see if I still have a job to go to tomorrow.

  ‘Tessa, it’s Ben. Please call me when you get this message. Look, I’ve seen the news. I’m worried about you. The press are being a bunch of jerks. Try and ignore them if you can. I can come over if you need some moral support.’

  My throat tightens at his kindness. I can’t believe he’s seen all that crap on the news and still thinks I’m a decent human being. My phone rings again: it’s Ben calling back. This time I answer.

  ‘Hello.’ My voice sounds small, pathetic.

  ‘Tessa, I just left you a message. Are you okay?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Shall I come round?’

  ‘Better not.’ I manage a grim laugh. ‘I’ve got half of Fleet Street outside my house.’

  ‘Shit. I can still come over, though. I don’t care about that lot.’

  ‘I really appreciate you calling, Ben. I can’t tell you how much I…’ My voice breaks and I take a breath. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘Of course I did. I wanted to check you were all right. I need you to know that I’m on your side, okay?’

  Now he’s done it. I wish he would stop being quite so lovely. I don’t think I’m going to be able to answer him without crying.

  ‘Tess? You still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I squeak.

  ‘That’s it, I’m coming over.’

  ‘No!’ I take a breath. ‘No, no, I’m fine, honestly. I should probably just go to bed and hope they’ve lost interest by tomorrow.’

  ‘You don’t have to come to work, take as much time off as you need.’

  ‘Thank you, but at this point, work is all I have.’ It comes out sounding bitter, so I add a fake laugh. ‘I will come in, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course. But only if you’re sure.’

  ‘Hundred per cent,’ I reply, hot tears sliding down my cheeks.

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. But call me if you need anything. I mean it.’

  ‘I will. Thank you, it means a lot… to know someone’s on my side. They’ve twisted everything, you know.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ he says softly.

  ‘Okay, well, see you, Ben.’

  ‘Bye, Tess.’

  I end the call reluctantly. For a brief few moments I don’t feel quite as hopeless. But I have to face the fact that, despite Ben’s kind words, I am truly alone in this. Dreading the night ahead, I shuffle over to the sink, pour myself a glass of water and climb the stairs.

  Will this nightmare never end?

  Chapter Nine

  I wake before my alarm clock. Somehow I slept all the way through last night. How, I have no idea. I dreamt of whimpering babies and screaming journalists and – oddly – people with sharks’ faces. But at least I slept. And now the memory of yesterday comes crashing into my head. Scott, Ellie, their baby, the media… Are the police going to want to speak to me again? Surely after everything the press are saying, they will be under pressure to find out who Harry is, where he came from. And, most importantly, how he ended up in my kitchen.

  The alarm clock goes off, derailing my thoughts. Probably a good thing. There’s no point speculating. I decide the best thing for me right now is to get up, get dressed, go to work and try not to think too much. I know that’s wishful thinking, but I can try. At least Ben’s on my side. I wonder if Scott has seen the news, if there are any journalists camped outside his flat. Nice of him to call and see how I’m doing.

  I slide out of bed and tiptoe over to the window. Twitch back a corner of the curtain and peer down into the damp, dark morning. My whole body gives a little jolt of fear when I see the journalists are still out there, laughing, chatting. Uncaring about how their lust for gossip impacts on my life. Did they stay out there all night, or have they regrouped this morning?

  My stomach lurches at the thought of going outside and having to face them. I’ve done nothing wrong, so why should I let them intimidate me? But it’s not just them, is it? They’ve been taking pictures, filming, writing stuff about me, so now everyone in the country knows about my past and will start drawing conclusions about what I have or haven’t done. Old friends and colleagues will be shaking their heads, pitying me or hating me for what they think I’ve become. Assuming I’m guilty before I’ve had a chance to prove my innocence.

  I shower and dress and tiptoe down the stairs, my heart pounding. I’m not hungry, but I shake a few cornflakes into a bowl. There’s no milk, so I’m faced with the choice of eating them dry or with water. I opt for water and they’re actuall
y not that bad. Not great, but not too disgusting. I chew and swallow, chew and swallow without tasting. I’m still not allowing myself to think about Scott. If I do, I know I’ll never make it into work, I’ll just lie on my bed and give in to my sadness. I picture myself sobbing, howling, smashing things. But the reality is, I’m here, eating my breakfast with a calm exterior, going about my daily routine.

  I rinse out my empty bowl, throw on my fleece, hat and gloves and grab my phone and bag. If only there was a back way out of my house. But I live in a row of terraces; our little houses are all joined together, our gardens separated by high fences and bushes. There’s no way out. Unless I pole-vault over twenty garden fences, the front door is basically it.

  I take a breath. They can’t hurt me, they won’t touch me. I just need to ignore them. Be purposeful. Don’t respond and don’t break down. So why are my knees going soft and my palms sweating?

  Stop thinking, do it quickly.

  I bow my head and open the front door. Immediately, there’s the flash of lights and the click, click, click of cameras. They’re clustered around my front gate, spread out along my wall, calling my name from the pavement. Throwing out provocative questions that I try and fail to block out. A car drives past and beeps its horn several times, whether at me or the journalists, I can’t tell.

  I walk carefully down the path and open my gate.

  ‘Are you going to talk to us, Tessa? Tell us why you took him?’

  Outside the gate, I turn left, but they’re blocking my way. I try to walk around them, stepping down into the road, but they move with me. It’s no good; if I want to get by, I’m going to have to force my way through. I shoulder past two youngish guys, casually dressed in jeans and parkas. They cast a quick grin at one another, like this is all some hilarious game. Then I shove my way through the rest of the pack and start walking quickly.