The Bad Mother (9 page)

Nothing could take away the sick feeling he had every time he crossed the line from one parent to the other. If anything, the fact that Mum now knew about Nula made it worse, because he could no longer kid himself she wouldn’t mind. And the way she pretended not to be upset only proved that she minded
a lot
.

He ought to cycle over to pay his grandparents a visit. Grannie Pamela always did lots of baking to celebrate the start of every school holiday, and she was probably expecting him. But every time he thought about what Tessa had said about Hugo not being his real grandfather any more, everything felt wrong and he didn’t want to deal with it.

He’d drawn up his revision timetable and sorted out all the books he needed to prepare for next term’s exams, but it still stressed him out to sit in his room and look at the pile of work he’d have to do. Maybe he’d just go for a spin on his bike. He didn’t have to stop and hang out with his mates. But he might go around by Tamsin’s house. In which case, he’d clean his teeth before he set out, and maybe wear different jeans.

Twenty minutes later, after a fierce burst of speed along the main road and back to burn off his restlessness, Mitch
rounded the corner of the narrow street that led towards Tamsin’s house. He leant back in the saddle, steering the bike nonchalantly with one hand. When he saw her standing there, waiting for the Dalmatian puppy to finish peeing against a fence post, he put his other hand back on the bar to correct a potentially fatal wobble. She looked up, saw him, and smiled. He drew to a halt beside her.

‘Hi.’ He hoped she’d assume his breathlessness was due to physical exertion.

‘Hi, Mitch.’

Ecstatic that she remembered his name, he smiled back, and was repaid by an answering look of relief. He remembered his vow to be Hemingway, not Fitzgerald, to behave as if her glamorous background were of no importance. ‘Have you broken up already, then?’

‘Yes. Thank goodness!’

‘So? You here for the holidays?’

‘Yes. The whole time. I was going to go see my mum, but she can’t have me.’

‘Your folks not together?’

‘They are – it’s just she’s on a project in LA.’ Tamsin shrugged, the ends of her straight honey-coloured hair brushing her collarbones.

‘Sorry. Mine are splitting up,’ Mitch told her. ‘Pretended for ages it wasn’t happening, but now they are. Really sucks.’

She looked at him anxiously. ‘Mine aren’t splitting up. Mum was offered work she really wanted, and it’s taking longer than expected, that’s all.’

‘You must miss her.’ Mitch corrected his blunder and was relieved to see her smile return.

‘Dad’s organised a nanny for when he’s not here,’ she said. ‘Can you believe it? I suppose it’s better than being all by myself, but, I mean …’ She sighed and made an exaggerated pout, then parodied herself in a singsong voice. ‘Whatever!’

They laughed together, and Mitch bent down to stroke the dog, scratching him behind the ears in a way that made the animal pull at the lead and jump up at him.

‘Down, Blanco!’

‘Not called him Pongo, then?’

‘Not quite. Blanco!’ She pulled again sharply on the lead. ‘He’s supposed to have been to training classes.’

‘Probably wants off the leash.’

Tamsin agreed. ‘I’ve got a special whistle to call him back. And he does obey. But I don’t know where to go. Come next month, he won’t be allowed on the beach any more.’

‘Walking on sand and shingle isn’t much fun anyway. I can show you some good walks, if you like.’ Mitch had spoken without thinking, and now cursed himself for blushing. But her face opened joyfully.

‘Oh, would you? That would be so fun.’ She looked up at Mitch clear-eyed, then, succumbing to shyness herself, also bent over to pat the dog. ‘You’d like that, Blanco, wouldn’t you?’

‘We could go now, if you like.’

‘I can’t.’

His heart fell: she was just being polite.

‘Dad has plans. But I’m free tomorrow.’

‘Any time you like!’

She smiled. ‘Mid-morning? Come to the house. Over there.’ She pointed, and Mitch pretended the information was new to him. ‘Press the buzzer on the gate, and I’ll let you in.’

‘Ok. Tomorrow then. Bye, Tamsin.’

‘Bye, Mitch.’

As Mitch rode away without a care in the world, he speculated that very probably his real grandfather was a racing driver or a fighter pilot.

TWELVE

Tessa was taken by surprise when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch: 5.30 already. She left the leather-bound Visitor books spread out on the floor, and, wiping away the film of dust on her hands, went to greet the first of the evening’s guests. Declan Mills was a regular. A buyer for a chain of American-owned organic supermarkets, he came from London on a monthly visit to local farmers. Felixham was slightly out of his way, but he claimed to love the chance to be so close to the sea, explaining that he used to come to the area as a kid on family holidays and enjoyed coming back.

It was when Declan had emailed to make this booking that the idea of the Visitor books had first occurred to Tessa: what if Erin had met Roy Weaver because he’d been a guest? Averil had always been proud of how many people returned for a second or third visit, if not annually. It had been the subject of heated discussion once Tessa and Sam had notionally taken over, when Averil objected to some of their changes on the grounds that her regulars wouldn’t
like it. It had been difficult making the point that Averil’s regulars were literally a dying breed. Nevertheless, Averil’s pride meant she had treasured the Visitor books, the gilt-edged pages signed, often with added comments, by every guest. For years they had gathered dust on a shelf in the snug, and it had taken Tessa a while to locate the volume she wanted.

Tessa had been born in June 1975, and she had already skimmed through all the entries from the previous summer, but without success. As she went to open the door, the thought took shape that Roy Weaver, like Declan Mills, might have come to Felixham because it was familiar from earlier family holidays. Erin had said she thought Roy was twenty-three that summer: perhaps there was a chance, however faint, that if she searched further back, she would come across the names and old address of her paternal grandparents.

Declan, a stocky man with neat, graceful movements, greeted her with his usual kiss on the cheek.

‘It’s your same room,’ she told him.

‘I know the way,’ he smiled, picking up his bag. ‘And I’ve a nice bottle of wine, if you’d join me for a drink later?’

This had become a pleasant arrangement between them. When the season allowed, Declan liked to walk over to South Felixham for a pub supper, getting back before dark, then relax with a drink and the local paper. Since Tessa did not have an alcohol licence, he often brought with him some interesting bottle recommended by his
supermarket’s wine buyer. While most of the other guests usually chose to watch television in their own rooms, Declan was happy to include anyone who preferred to spend their evening more sociably.

After settling the other guests – a well-to-do couple searching for a second home to buy in the area – Tessa ate supper in the kitchen alone. Only a few weeks ago she would have appreciated some quiet time to herself, but Mitch and Lauren were with Sam, who now had room for them to stay over, and the effort of not thinking about her kids making themselves at home with Nula made her restless and irritable. But neither did she want to give in to the temptation to spend the evening leafing further back through the Visitor books: she must not let the search for her father, for this mysterious untapped potentiality, become an obsession. So she was glad of Declan’s promise of company. In the two years or more he had been a guest, she had got to know him reasonably well. He was fluent and well-informed, a shrewd listener with a sharp sense of humour. He wore a wedding ring, and, although he never directly mentioned his wife, he stayed on the right side of flirtatious – enough to be flattering, but not so much that Tessa felt pressured.

That evening she brushed her hair and put on fresh lipstick before joining him in the guests’ sitting room with two glasses and a bowl of olives. She was glad to find him alone.

‘An organic Pinot Noir from Napa Valley,’ Declan announced, pouring her a full glass.

‘Thanks. Good health.’

They clinked glasses and sat back. ‘It’s pigs tomorrow,’ he laughed. ‘Belly pork. One celebrity chef, and we can’t sell enough of it.’

‘To pigs, then!’ Tessa raised her glass again.

‘When does Sam open his new place? Soon, isn’t it?’

‘Next month.’

‘All on schedule?’

‘I think so.’

‘So what’s going to be on his opening menu?’

‘Oh – I’m not sure yet.’

‘Tell me to shut up if I’m trespassing, but you don’t sound as enthusiastic as you used to be.’ He gave her a disarming grin.

‘No. Well, we’ve agreed on a divorce.’

Declan raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged.

‘I did wonder,’ he observed. ‘You Ok with that?’

‘Fine. But I’m trying to take more of a back seat. Let him get on with things, you know?’

Declan nodded. ‘Funny business, divorce. Having to train oneself out of old habits. Then all of a sudden it’s done, and you’ve moved on.’

‘You were married before? I didn’t know.’

‘Why would you? Only lasted a year or two. Met at uni, a bit like you and Sam. Except no kids. Don’t suppose I’d even recognise her now.’

‘You wouldn’t know how to go about finding people you’ve lost touch with?’ hazarded Tessa, seizing the moment.

‘One that got away?’ He sounded amused.

‘No. Nothing romantic.’ She hesitated, unsure how much she wanted to say. But there was no one else she could talk to, and Declan would be gone in the morning: by the time she saw him again, she could tell him she’d decided to forget all about it.

‘What then?’ he prompted.

She took a deep breath. ‘My father. My biological father.’

‘Wow.’ Declan reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses. ‘This sounds like a story.’

‘Yes, and no. Turns out I was adopted by my aunt. But I know almost nothing about the man who fathered me, and I’d like to find out.’

‘Get yourself a PI.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Private Investigator. Expensive, but that way you’ll know every available route’s been tried.’

‘Sounds a bit shady!’

Declan laughed. ‘I know what you mean. Tell you what, I could ask the Head of Security at work, if you like. He’s an ex-cop with very good contacts. At least he’d have some idea of what’s possible.’

‘Let me think about it.’

‘Sure.’ He helped himself to an olive.

‘But thanks.’ She looked across at him, appreciating that he stuck to practicalities and did not pry too far into her emotions; but, at the same time, she needed to talk. As she tried to decide how far to trust him, he met her look with a frank and pleasant smile.

‘What happens in Felixham stays in Felixham.’ He crossed himself with a mocking look up to heaven. ‘Regard me as your confessor, if you like.’

Tessa laughed, relaxing back into her armchair. ‘In one way, there’s nothing to tell. The aunt who is in fact my mother has gone back to Australia, and I don’t particularly care if I never see her again. I’m not being harsh. There was nothing there. No connection.’

‘Think it will be any different if you find your daddy?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s asking a lot.’

‘But he’s half my DNA. I mean, my mother’s my aunt, my aunt’s my mother – same difference, really. But his half I know nothing about. That’s half of me.’

‘What if he’s not that keen on some long-lost daughter turning up on his doorstep, upsetting whatever family he’s got now? It’d certainly freak me out!’ Declan leant forward, pressing his point. ‘For all you know, he could be a priest or a politician, or – I dunno – he might have realised he’s gay!’

Tessa listened in stubborn silence.

‘Did he know about you at the time?’ asked Declan in a more serious tone.

‘No.’

‘Then he might not want to know about you now either.’ He leant across and laid his hand on hers. Tessa was taken aback: he had not touched her deliberately like this before. ‘Men don’t think about paternity the same way a woman would,’ he went on. ‘Excuse my French, but it’s just a fuck.
What happens after is nothing to do with us guys.’ He squeezed her hand and let go. ‘I’d hate to see you disappointed, that’s all.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Tessa was almost relieved. ‘And I’m over-romanticising the whole thing. I’ve this fantasy that by finding my other half I’d be finding part of myself that’s lost. But it’s rubbish really.’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Declan. ‘We all think like that. Think there’s a key to everything.’ He leant over to pour more wine. ‘I was brought up a Catholic. Was told that God has a plan for me. Even when you stop believing, you still keep asking, What’s the plan? No one wants to believe there isn’t one.’

Tessa laughed. ‘So I’m not looking for my father, I’m searching for my place in some great cosmic design?’

‘Yeah! Seriously, we all want an explanation, a cause, some meaning. Nothing wrong with wanting to explore who you are.’

Tessa was waylaid by the thought that she’d usually be listening out by now for Lauren and Mitch coming home from Sam’s, ten minutes’ walk away. But they were at Nula’s flat. Was Nula kissing Lauren goodnight? Would Nula smile at Mitch in the morning when he came tousle-headed into the kitchen in search of orange juice?

‘Look,’ Declan interrupted her distress. ‘If it’s important to you to find your daddy, don’t let me talk you out of it.’

‘I can’t imagine going through the rest of my life without at least trying to find out who he is. Even if we never meet.’

Declan nodded. ‘You may not want me involved, but if you’d like to give me whatever information you’ve got on him, I can ask this guy at work the best way to track someone down. Up to you. Just say the word.’

‘Actually,’ decided Tessa, ‘that would be great. Thank you.’

THIRTEEN

Mitch was sick of revision. But to stand any chance of applying successfully to a good university he had to do well in every exam, which meant allocating a precise amount of time to each different subject. Never before had he been so aware of time passing. Each day of the holidays that he spent indoors with his books and his computer was one day less to spend with Tamsin. Once term started and she returned to her boarding school, especially if her dad wanted weekends in London, he might not see her at all until half-term. That thought made it impossible to concentrate on European nationalism in the nineteenth century.