After the meeting, I jog back home. I live in a tiny rented two-bedroom flat in Primrose Gardens, off England’s Lane, in Belsize Park. I had no idea how beautiful and green this part of north London was until I moved here. Hampstead Heath is only a ten-minute walk away from my flat. Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park are equally close.
Inside the block of flats, before heading upstairs I glance in my cubbyhole to see if I have any interesting mail. It’s all junk except for a credit card bill, which I decide can stay there.
The moment I walk through the front door, Louis charges towards me in his pilot’s costume. ‘Have you been a good monkey for Uncle H?’ I ruffle his bushy brown hair.
He nods. ‘We played pirates.’
‘Thanks, Hugo.’ I touch his shoulder. ‘I really needed to go today.’
‘How were your breakdown friends, Mum?’ asks Louis.
Recently, Louis overheard Hugo and me talking about AA and my breakdown friends, as Hugo calls them. He’d walked into the kitchen in his pyjamas and said, ‘What’s an alcoholic?’
Hugo and I exchanged glances. ‘It’s someone who drinks a little bit too much,’ I replied.
‘So if I drink too much Ribena, am I an alcoholic?’
‘No, sweetheart.’
He waited, clearly not understanding.
‘It’s if you have too much wine or beer, grown-up drinks.’
‘Uncle Hugo drinks beer and wine. Are you an alcoholic too?’
I can’t remember how we poured water over this heated conversation. I think it had something to do with having a biscuit before going back to bed.
Hugo, Louis and I head into the sitting room that now resembles a bombsite.
Louis grabs his play sword and swishes it in my direction, exclaiming, ‘You’re dead!’
I stagger to the floor, clutching my chest in defeat. ‘Right.’ I spring back to life and look at my watch. It’s early afternoon. ‘Let’s tidy this mess up, go for a walk and then do you fancy something to eat?’ I ask Hugo. ‘My treat.’
‘Pizza Express!’ shouts Louis, jumping up and down.
*
Hugo sticks close to me in the dark. Every now and then I take his arm to steer him along the road and make sure he doesn’t headbutt a lamppost or trip over a toddler. Hugo is six foot four with thick dark hair like mine, and a soft plump tummy held in by a wide leather belt. He makes me, an average five foot six, look like a midget beside him. We often wonder how we came out of the same person, me joking that I need a stepladder to kiss him hello. Though on the podgy side, he’s fit and always challenging himself to climb mountains and ski down black runs. His latest feat was climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. He promises Louis that when’s he older he will take him trekking up a mountain. It’ll be a strictly boys’ holiday, a time to bond.
Uncle Hugo and Louis are close. When I left Matthew, Hugo became a father figure to his nephew. He doesn’t spoil or indulge Louis to make up for the fact his dad is out of the picture. If Louis believes he can get away with eating a second chocolate marshmallow biscuit, he can think again. ‘I can see more than you realise,’ Uncle Hugo says, wagging a finger.
‘Careful. Step here,’ I say.
‘Up or down would be helpful.’
‘Sorry. Down.’
*
Pizza Express is in Belsize Park, close to the cinema with the comfy leather seats. When inside the restaurant, I slow down to allow Hugo to adjust to the darkness. A waiter leads us to a table by the window. It’s packed since it’s still the Christmas holidays. I notice Louis glancing at the next table, watching a dad going through the menu with his son. One of the waitresses comes over with a small pot of pens and crayons and a paper place mat for Louis to colour in.
‘Well, I’m guessing they’re not for me,’ Hugo says, already charming her.
I order apple juice and dough balls for Louis before reading the menu out for Hugo. Hugo can’t read in a dark restaurant. At work he reads from a computer screen, the typeface blown up. It’s clear he’s partially sighted since his eyes are inverted and he has a strong squint. His sight is in the corner of his eyes, so it’s hard for him to look directly at someone sitting opposite him. He tells me that when he is lost in a strange place with no one to guide him he finds it easier to walk in sidesteps. He calls it his sexy crab walk.
‘Lasagne,’ Hugo says, stopping me mid-sentence. ‘That’ll do.’
When we order our food the waitress asks if we would like to see the wine list.
‘No,’ says Louis, looking up from his place mat, pen in hand. ‘My mummy is an alcoholic.’
Oh, Louis!
‘Oh right,’ she says, blushing, before she flees from our table as fast as she can.
*
As we wait for our food, Louis is zooming his toy police cars around the floor, playing good cop, bad cop. ‘Don’t go too far,’ I call out to him.
‘So how was the meeting?’ Hugo asks.
Without mentioning names I tell Hugo that I saw someone from school there, adding that they didn’t stay for long.
‘Maybe he or she didn’t feel comfortable?’ Hugo suggests. ‘Hugs not drugs isn’t for everyone.’
‘Excuse me, we’re not all raving hippies.’
‘Did this person see you?’
‘Think so. Apparently his sister had a heart attack. She died, Hugo. She would have been around our age.’ I chew my nail. ‘He must be going through hell.’
‘When you next see him, talk to him.’
I nod. ‘By the way, how did your date go last night?’
‘I don’t think we’ll be heading down the aisle any time soon.’
‘No snap, crackle and pop?’
‘None.’
‘Oh bollocks. This one sounded so promising, too.’
Hugo has joined an online dating agency. He tried to persuade me to join a single-parent dating website too, but right now I’m happy being on my own. The idea of meeting strangers in pubs doesn’t appeal anymore. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for being on your own. I feel in control when it’s just me; I can do what I like, see who I like, wear my yoga pants most of the time and eat ice cream out of a tub in front of the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. My last relationship, with a lawyer called David, ended nine months ago. He was six years older than me and on paper every woman’s dream: good-looking in that male model catalogue way, old-fashioned in that he liked to pick up the tab in restaurants, he didn’t like football (hurray), was a good listener (rare) and was refreshingly honest about how much he wanted to marry and settle down, when most blokes can’t even commit to a second date. I met David in an art gallery. I was gazing at a sculpture of a man’s head by Picasso when I became aware of a tall dark stranger watching me. ‘I’m glad I don’t have such a large nose,’ he said, guessing why I was smiling, before introducing himself. We went out for dinner that night and to my surprise Louis and a recovering alcoholic didn’t put him off. As our relationship progressed he was positively supportive, suggesting he gave up booze too. David could not have been more different from Matthew. I told myself that it didn’t matter that my pulse didn’t race when we were together or that my head wasn’t intoxicated by thoughts of him when we were apart. Those kind of relationships spelt trouble. And for a time I did enjoy feeling safe and part of a couple. Our relationship lasted a year. Mum only met him twice but was bitterly disappointed when we broke up. Janey was infuriated when I kept on saying he was too perfect, especially when her last date had quibbled over the bill, saying he hadn’t eaten any garlic bread. Hugo liked him, but knew there wasn’t enough spark. Another factor against us was that David wasn’t a natural with kids. He and Louis didn’t hit it off as I’d hoped. I could tell David was irritated if Louis cut into his weekend paper time or spilt juice over his paperwork. When David began to talk about holidays and us moving in together I knew, from my reaction, that I had to break up with him. The pressure of more commitment was keeping me awake at night. I knew I was lying to myself and to David, pretending my caution was Louis. I wasn’t ready because I wasn’t in love with him.
‘She kept on saying “poor you”,’ Hugo says, bringing me back to his date. ‘She didn’t get the fact that when you’re born blind it’s all I have ever known so there is no need to feel sorry for me. I only wish I’d been able to see the price of the wine she was merrily ordering. It was literally poor me by the end of the night.’
Hugo tells all his stories on air. He’s a journalist and radio presenter. When he left university he did work experience for the BBC, longing to break into broadcasting or journalism and began working for them on the production side soon afterwards. He moved to the other side of the microphone five years ago, when he began writing a blog about being partially sighted and it received so many hits that he was given his own midweek show on Radio 2 called How I See It. Hugo is honest about everything, from the barbecue fluid left in the fridge that he almost mistook for fruit juice to how he gets around on the tube and buses, to films and books, political views and most popular of all, the single scene in London.
My mind drifts to Ben again. I wonder if he takes Emily out for meals. I’ve never seen him out and about, or bumped into him at the supermarket. I’d say he’s about forty, but then again beards can age people.
‘Polly?’
‘Sorry.’
‘You’re still thinking about that guy from school, aren’t you?’
I’m wondering why he left so abruptly.
‘Maybe he’ll go to another meeting,’ Hugo says. ‘It can be pretty daunting first time.’
*
Back at home, later that evening, I say goodnight to Louis. He’s been unusually quiet since we left Pizza Express. His pilot costume now hangs on one side of his wardrobe, next to his clown suit. Fido the toy dog is under the duvet covers with him. It was one of Uncle Hugo’s toys, so ancient now that Fido’s fur is threadbare and he’s missing an eye. ‘He’s half blind,’ Hugo had said. ‘Rather apt, don’t you think?’
‘We thank our lucky stars for Uncle Hugo, don’t we?’ I say. ‘What was the best thing you did today?’
‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why doesn’t Dad visit me?’
I take a deep breath. Understandably, Louis is beginning to ask more questions, especially when we go out and see families together in parks and restaurants. ‘Daddy has to work out his problems,’ I say. ‘He has many problems, it has nothing …’
He pushes my hand away from his cheek and for a second the angry look in his eyes reminds me of his father.
‘What problems? Where is he?’
‘He had to go away …’
‘Where?’
I have no idea. ‘Louis, he …’
‘Doesn’t he want to see me in my pilot costume?’
‘No, I mean yes …’ I wish I knew the right thing to say. How much should you tell a five-year-old? ‘He can’t come home, Louis.’
‘Where is his house? We can go and see him.’
I shake my head.
‘Louis, your dad has problems,’ I repeat, adding before he can interrupt, ‘things I can’t explain to you, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.’
*
Later that night, I sit down on my rocking chair in the corner of my bedroom. It’s my favourite spot in the house, my thinking spot. From the window I can see the communal gardens and the larger neighbouring houses with their bay windows. Often I try to imagine what each family is like behind closed doors.
As I rock back and forth, I vow that one day, when Louis is old enough, I will tell him the truth about his father. I feel guilty that I’m raising him as a single mum, but at the same time, if Matthew never showed up again I’d be relieved. Finally I’ve reached the stage where I don’t look over my shoulder all the time; I feel safe at night. I’m lonely, but then everyone gets lonely, right? But at last I sleep without worrying about creaks and night-time noises. I don’t have nightmares that he might be outside, watching us.
I don’t blame anyone for the choices I made. I had to fix myself. I’ve made a start, and want nothing and no one to threaten the life Louis and I now have.
But I can’t stop Louis from asking questions.
My parents kept too many secrets. I can see my mother now, buttoning up her lips whenever I asked anything personal. She kept my Aunt Vivienne a secret for years.
When the right time comes, I will tell Louis about my past and what has led us here.