Love and Other Drama-Ramas! (12 page)

“I’m sorry,”
he says finally.
“I — No. I just can’t. Forget I said anything. In fact, I think I’ve made a mistake. I should never have mentioned Bailey at all, or any of that baby business. I don’t want it in the book, OK?

“I was hoping things would be different by now. I moved back from London to try and make contact with him. To make up for the past, you know. But he won’t talk to me, you see. And Mac’s no help. He refuses to speak to me as well — let alone meet up. Jennie was better — sent me photos of Bailey every now and then. I found them at Mum’s when I discovered the letters. I’ve tried writing to Mac, ringing him at work, e-mailing. Nothing.

“I was at my wit’s end, so I rang the house last Friday. Bailey picked up — but it was a disaster. He went mental: started yelling through the phone, saying he hated my guts—” He breaks off, sounding upset. “I’ve messed everything up. My son hates me . . . my own son. And to be honest, I don’t blame him. I’ll never forgive myself.”

Friday! That was the night of the Golden Lions gig. No wonder Bailey was all over the place. He felt he’d been abandoned by Mills and Finn, both on the same day.

Mum’s speaking now.
“Would you have written back — if the letters had reached you?”

“Honestly?”
Finn says, blowing out his breath.
“I don’t know. I like to think I would have, but back in London, it was all about me and my career. I never had time for anyone else.”
He gives a dry laugh.
“No wonder I can’t keep a girlfriend. I’ll probably die alone too, just like Mum.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Finn,”
Mum says.
“You’re young.”

“I feel about a hundred. Look, I’m sorry for burdening you with all this, Sylvie. Just what you don’t need, right?”

“It’s my job, remember? I’m writing your story. But I think we should include the baby story. Maybe without mentioning your son’s name or anything to do with the newspaper reports. Why don’t you use the book as a way of reaching out to him? Send a copy to him, see if he responds. It’s worth a try. Admit you’ve made a lot of mistakes and say that you want to make it up to him. You could write an open letter to your son in the book, Finn, for the whole world to see.”

“Do you think it would work?”
Finn’s voice sounds achingly hopeful.
“I’d give anything to meet Bailey, to try and put things right.”

“It’s worth a try,”
Mum says softly. Then there’s a click and the tape ends.

I sit at the table for ages, staring into space. Poor Bailey. No one should have to deal with being rejected by both their mum and their dad — and in Bailey’s mind, Finn rejected him twice: first at birth and then when he never replied to his letters. I imagine Bailey sitting at his own kitchen table, writing letter after letter to his father, and never hearing anything back. No wonder he’s so unhappy and confused.

I sit there a few minutes longer before starting to shuffle Mum’s notes back into place, in case she comes home unexpectedly early. As I pick up Mum’s yellow notebook, a folded sheet of paper falls out of the back of it. I open it up. It’s a printout of a newspaper article.

I stop, tears filling my eyes. I just can’t read on — it’s too horrible. Suddenly there’s a knock on the front door. I hurriedly shove the sheet back into the notebook, in case it’s Mum and she’s forgotten her door key again, but then I hear Clover calling through the mail slot: “I know you’re in there, Beanie. Open up.”

Relieved, I swing open the door.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, spotting my teary eyes. “Is it Seth? Did you guys have a fight?”

“No! It’s Bailey,” I say, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I think I know why he’s so messed up, Clover.”

“Let me get this right,” Clover says slowly when I’ve stopped talking. “Bailey Otis, the guy who broke Mills’s heart, is Finn Hunter’s son? Are you positive?”

I give a huge nod. “Yes!”

She whistles. “This is explosive stuff, Beanie. And as for the letters Bailey sent Finn, any journalist would have a field day with that information. I can see the headlines now” — she frames her hands in the air —“‘
TOP CHEF REJECTS LONG-LOST SON SHOCKER.
’”

I look at her, aghast. “You wouldn’t, Clover.”

“‘Course not, Beanie. My lips are sealed. No wonder Bailey can’t hold down a relationship with someone like Mills, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mills treated him like a prince, right? So he pushed her away and took up with Annabelle Hamilton — who probably treats him like dirt. He doesn’t believe he deserves someone kind and decent like Mills — or maybe he’s just afraid of getting too close and getting hurt again, like he was when he wrote to Finn and never got a reply.”

“You should be doing psychology, Clover. How come you have such people smarts?”

“Experience, babes. School of hard knocks. I was an orphan, I was.” She starts singing “It’s a Hard-Knock Life” in a Little Orphan Annie voice. Then, going serious again, she says, “It’s terrible for Bailey and everything, but I don’t see why you’re so upset, babes.”

“There’s something else, Clover. About Bailey.” And I fetch the article from the back of Mum’s notebook and rejoin Clover in the living room.

“You have to read this,” I say and, while she does so, I check on Evie, who’s still transfixed by the talking pigs on TV. I crouch down on the floor and play with Alex, whizzing one of his trains up and down his wooden track and making “choo-choo” noises. For some reason, it makes me feel a little better. I lean over and kiss the top of his head, which smells a bit sweaty — he hates having his hair washed. Then I glance up at Clover. She’s sitting dead still, staring at me.

“Beanie,” she says gently. “How much did you read? And what’s this got to do with anything?”

“Only a few lines — but I also listened to some of Mum’s interviews with Finn on her Dictaphone. I think Bailey is Baby X.”

“
Bailey?
Are you sure?”

“Pretty much. I wish he wasn’t, Clover, believe me, but it all fits. I would have to read the whole newspaper article to be absolutely certain, though. Will you stay here while I do?”

She shakes her head, her eyes sad. “Beanie, trust me. You don’t need to know all the details. I’m begging you. Leave it be.”

“Bailey’s my friend. I have to know what happened to him. And you’re here now.”

“Yes, I am. I’ll stay for as long as you like and entertain the tiddlers while you read. I think I need a sticky hug from Alex and Evie. Here.” She hands me the article, and I perch on the side of the armchair and pick up where I’d left off:

When I’ve finished, Clover lifts her head from the train track where she’s playing with Alex. “You OK, Beanie?”

“Yeah. Just want to see if there’s any more info on the Internet.”

Switching on the computer, I Google “Baby X.” There are dozens of results: “
THE BISCUIT BOY
” (
Irish Daily Express
), “
THE MIRACLE OF BABY X
” (
Irish Sun
), “
DUBLIN’S HOME ALONE CHILD
” (
Irish Independent
), “
LITANY OF QUESTIONS OVER ABANDONED CHILD
” (
Irish Times
).

I read through each article carefully, but they all say pretty much the same thing. Now I’m convinced — it’s Bailey, all right. When I’ve finally finished reading, I look up from the screen, wipe away my tears, and take a few deep breaths. “It’s definitely Bailey, Clover. It all fits.”

“I’m so sorry, Beanie,” Clover says from the sofa — she’s hugging Evie on her knee. “Some people don’t deserve to have children. I don’t know what to say. It’s honestly one of the saddest things I’ve ever read. And I can’t believe the baby — Baby X — is your friend Bailey. It’s so surreal. How can a mother do something like that? To her own son?”

A huge lump forms in my throat. “I know.”

“Come here, Beanie” — Clover throws her arms open —“group girlie hug with Evie.”

I sit down on the sofa, and she puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. I shut my eyes, willing my tears to stop, and for a while time seems to stand still.

Then I hear Alex say, “Me hug,” before feeling his little body piling on top of us. I open my eyes just in time to see him crawl onto Clover’s lap and throw himself toward me in a dangerous toddler lunge.

“Alex, you’ve just elbowed me in the stomach, you troll,” I say. And despite everything, Clover and I start laughing.

We’re still sitting on the sofa — Evie asleep on Clover’s knee, me and Alex curled around Clover like newborn puppies — watching
Peppa Pig
, when Mum walks in, swinging a shopping bag. She smiles. “You lot look cozy.”

“Ma-ma,” Alex says, jumping up and holding out his arms. “Ma-ma.”

She drops the bag and swings him around, then rests him on her hip.

“What did you buy, sis?” Clover asks, eyeing the bag. “Give us a peek.”

Mum bends down — Alex’s weight and kicking legs making it rather awkward — and pulls out what looks like Batman’s cape.

Clover bites her lip — Mum’s shopping mistakes are legendary. Mum puts Alex down on the floor and throws the material over her head. For a second she’s lost in the swathes of black cloth, but then her head pops through the hole. “It’s a poncho,” she says with a grin. “They’re all the rage apparently, and I needed a new coat. What do you think?”

“Doesn’t do much for your curves,” Clover says diplomatically.

“Amy?” Mum asks hopefully. “Do you like it?”

I make a face. “Sorry, Mum. It might be useful if you want to dress up for Halloween, though. Add a pointy hat and,
voilà
, one witch costume.”

Mum pulls it back over her head, making her hair go all sticky-up from the static, and stuffs it quickly back into the bag. “I’ll take it back.”

“Probably best,” Clover says kindly. “If you’re looking for a coat, Sylvie, try Zara. They have fab army-style ones that nip in at the waist and would really suit you.”

“Thanks, Clover,” Mum says. “And I might take you or Amy with me next time. You girls have such good fashion eyes.” She flops down on the sofa beside us. “So what have you two been up to, then?”

I stare down at my hands. I’ve put everything back carefully on the kitchen table, but I still feel guilty.

“We were discussing our plans for your bachelorette party,” Clover jumps in, saving my bacon. “Weren’t we, Amy?”

“Abso-doodle-lutely,” I say firmly. “And it’s all top secret, so don’t even ask.”

Mum looks a little worried. “As long as it doesn’t involve tiaras, Temple Bar, and chocolate you-know-whats, I’ll be happy.” (Dublin’s Temple Bar is notorious for wild bachelorette parties.)

“Temple Bar’s not on the agenda,” Clover says, “but chocolate willies — now there’s a thought . . .”

“Clover!” Mum glares at her.

Clover laughs. “Only winding you up, sis, settle your tights.”

Evie stirs a little and then opens her eyes. Within seconds she’s wailing like a banshee.

“Bottle time for this little madam,” Mum says, taking her off Clover. “Then I’ll put her down. You guys OK with the junior kamikaze here?” She nods down at Alex, who is crashing his wooden Thomas engine into Percy at full speed.

“No problemo, Mum,” I say.

As soon as she’s out the door, Clover turns to me and asks in a low voice, “Has Sylvie copped that you know Finn’s son?”

“Of course not,” I whisper back. “I only found out myself this afternoon, remember? Should I tell her?”

Clover shrugs. “I have two minds about it. You see, Sylvie told me she’s signed a confidentiality agreement with Finn’s agent. She can’t talk about any of the stuff Finn tells her ever — not even after the book’s published. I think you reading her notes is a breach of contract.”

I wince. “So she might lose her job, you mean?”

“It depends how seriously they take the agreement. I guess it all hinges on what you want to do with the information.”

I look at her in surprise. “
Do
? Meaning what?”

“I know your weird little brain inside out, Bean Machine. You want to help Bailey and Finn work things out, don’t you? Orchestrate some sort of father-and-son reunion.”