Lydia was dishing up platefuls of (disappointingly stodgy) macaroni cheese when her phone started ringing. It was Monday teatime and when she glanced over and saw a number she didn’t recognize onscreen, she decided to ignore it. No doubt it would be some scammy call about a non-existent injury claim that she was supposed to have made, or the phone company trying to talk her into an expensive upgrade. No, thanks. Besides, the peas were about to boil over if she didn’t attend to them this second.
‘Tea’s ready,’ she yelled through to Jemima, who had been practising forward rolls up and down the living-room for the last twenty minutes. ‘Bugger off,’ she muttered as the phone began ringing a second time.
Jemima burst in, her bunches loose and wonky after her gymnastics, navy-blue school socks in wrinkles around her ankles. ‘Oh, I forgot to say, Mum,’ she began, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Guess what? Miss Sergeant’s getting married in June. To a lady!’
‘How nice,’ Lydia said, pouring a glass of milk for her daughter and putting it on the table. Miss Sergeant was Jemima’s kind, clever class teacher and the current object of hero-worship. The much-adored Miss Sergeant had been invited to Jemima’s birthday party back in January. (‘Please don’t feel you have to come,’ Lydia had whispered to her, taking her aside at pick-up time the day invitations came out. ‘At all.’) She had been the recipient of a very special Christmas card that had been laboured over for an entire weekend, and she also starred as the subject of countless anecdotes, observations and drawings. Lydia was pleased that her daughter had a great role model – it was a step up from Barbie, she supposed – but had been slightly taken aback by Jemima’s breathless, unending enthusiasm for the woman. She hoped she hadn’t raised some kind of stalker in the making, put it that way.
‘I want to get married to a girl too, when I’m big. I just like them more than boys. Hey, Mum – idea! Why don’t you get married to a lady?’ Jemima said, dragging the stool over to the sink so that she could wash her hands. ‘Then you won’t be lonely!’
‘I’m not lonely, darling,’ Lydia said, spooning carrots and peas onto their plates and trying not to leap on the defensive.
‘You are a bit lonely,’ her daughter insisted. ‘I heard you telling Bridget once. And you don’t have anyone to talk to, when I go to bed. Maybe I should stay up late with you tonight?’
Ever the optimist, always ready to try her luck – that was her girl. ‘That’s kind, but I’m fine, thanks,’ Lydia assured her, trying not to laugh. ‘Besides, you need your sleep after all that gym. Remember you were saying you wanted to be as tall as Poppy at school? Well, you grow when you’re asleep. So the earlier you go to bed . . .’
‘I’ll get taller and taller and taller!’ Jemima hopped down and shook her hands, soapy water flecking her school skirt where she hadn’t rinsed off the suds. ‘But you could marry a lady. If you don’t like men.’
Tenacity was her daughter’s middle name. Well, it wasn’t, obviously, but maybe it should have been. ‘Who said I didn’t like men?’ Lydia replied mildly. ‘Give those hands a proper dry, please.’
‘You said you didn’t. You said to Bridget, I hate BEEP men.’ Jemima gave her the side-eye before sliding into her seat at the table. ‘The beep was a rude word, by the way,’ she added with uncharacteristic primness. ‘And I heard it. I don’t know what Miss Sergeant would say if she knew I had heard words like that from my mum.’
‘Sorry.’ Lydia put their plates on the table, then cupped her hands around her mouth and pretended to shout out of the window. ‘Sorry, Miss Sergeant! It won’t happen again, I promise.’ She pulled a funny face at Jemima and decided it was time to move the conversation along now. ‘So! Tell me more about what happened on the trampoline anyway. Did you say you were learning a new routine?’
‘Yeah, but . . .’ Jemima waved her fork, unwilling to be distracted from the more important matter at hand. ‘You could marry Bridget,’ she persisted. ‘Why don’t you?’
Lydia tried not to sigh as she dug into the macaroni. ‘I’m happy with things as they are,’ she said. ‘Just the two of us. I thought you were too? In fact, I remember you saying—’
‘If you married Bridget, we could live in her house, though. And I could share Rohan’s bedroom. Can I?’
‘Darling . . .’ This was getting out of hand. ‘To marry someone, you have to be in love with them, okay? You have to really, really like them—’
‘But you do like—’
‘And feel like kissing them all the time.’
‘You and Bridget hug each other. I’ve seen you!’
‘Yes, but . . . it’s different. She’s my friend. I’m not madly in love with her. I don’t want to kiss her.’
Jemima pouted. ‘That’s not very kind. Poor Bridget!’
‘She probably doesn’t want me to kiss her,’ Lydia pointed out. ‘Anyway! I’m glad Miss Sergeant is getting married. Did she tell you anything about the wedding?’
‘Not really.’ Jemima looked thoughtful for a moment as she speared a carrot and swished it through some cheese sauce. ‘Mum, can I tell you a secret? A really, really big secret that you’re not allowed to tell anyone?’
‘Of course. Anything. You’re not getting married as well, are you?’
‘No! Mum! Don’t be so silly. The secret is . . .’ Jemima looked around theatrically, as if double-checking they were alone for this revelation, then lowered her voice. Clearly it was a matter of extreme importance. ‘The secret is . . . I’m going to ask Miss Sergeant if I can be her bridesmaid. And I think she will say YES!’
Later that evening, not long after Jemima had gone to bed, Lydia’s phone started ringing again – the same number as before, she saw. ‘This had better be good,’ she grumbled, flicking a finger across the screen to answer the call. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi.’ It was a man. A hesitant man, by the sound of the pause that followed. ‘Is that Lydia Fox?’
A sales call, she guessed. ‘Yes,’ she said, still on her guard. ‘Who’s calling?’
‘I think you knew my brother,’ said the man. ‘Patrick Sheppard?’
Lydia frowned. Patrick Sheppard, she repeated to herself, racking her brain but drawing a complete blank. ‘Never heard of him,’ she said.
‘Really,’ said the man. Was that sarcasm in his voice? ‘Well, he’s been paying you money every month for seven years.’
Paying money for . . . ? Lydia’s hands felt clammy all of a sudden as the penny dropped. ‘You mean Patrick Armstrong,’ she said shakily. Shit! What was this about?
‘No, I don’t mean Patrick Armstrong. I mean Patrick Sheppard,’ came the testy response. ‘Look, I don’t know what your game is, but leave my sister-in-law out of it, all right? If you’re thinking of harassing her or—’
‘What?’ Lydia couldn’t follow the conversation any longer. None of it was making sense. ‘Whoa, hold on a minute. What are you talking about? I’m not harassing anyone. And the only Patrick I used to know was called Patrick Armstrong – or at least that’s what he told me,’ she said, with rather less conviction, as cogs began clicking and turning in her brain. After their split, Patrick seemed to vanish off the face of the earth. The maintenance money he’d paid her every month appeared on her bank statements as coming from PS Holdings Limited, but when she looked up the company to try and get an address, she’d found that it was registered to an accountant’s office. An accountant who refused to give her any further information about the company. PS Holdings, she repeated to herself now. PS for Patrick Sheppard, maybe? Her head was whirling. ‘I’ve no idea who your sister-in-law is,’ she added.
‘Well, she had your phone number on her fridge door, so that’s obviously not true,’ the man said.
He actually sounded aggressive now, as if he was angry with her. For doing what – existing? she thought crossly. Having fallen in love eight years ago? And what was all this rubbish about a fridge door anyway? Maybe he was some random weirdo. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong number,’ she said. ‘Bye now.’
‘Wait!’ he said just as she was about to hang up. And despite the strangeness of this conversation so far, something gave her pause. This man knew about the maintenance money, after all. If he really was Patrick’s brother – her Patrick – then what was his reason for getting in touch after so long?
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Let me start from the beginning. I’ve been helping with Patrick’s accounts and I’m ringing up about a monthly payment that goes out to you.’
Back to the payments again then. Something inside Lydia crumpled. Oh no. She hoped this wasn’t heading where she thought it might be. Was Patrick trying to get out of paying her any more? ‘Right,’ she said warily, her heart stepping up a gear. She tucked her legs underneath her on the sofa, then changed her mind and swung them down. Stood up in the middle of the room and dug her toes into the soft rug, as if anchoring herself. Here we go.
‘And – forgive me for asking – but I’m trying to work out . . . ah . . . your relationship to Patrick. Er . . .’
Lydia pulled a face even though there was nobody there to see her. Her relationship with Patrick? There hadn’t been one since he had ditched her, then disappeared from her life. ‘So why don’t you ask him that?’ she replied after a moment.
There was an awkward pause. ‘He’s not here right now,’ the man said. ‘He . . . Look, could we meet up, maybe? It might be easier to talk about this in person.’
Talk about what? ‘This isn’t some kind of trick, is it? Has he put you up to this?’ She remembered the date all of a sudden and groaned. ‘April Fool’s Day – very funny. Hilarious. Who are you really? Did Bridget give you my number?’
‘No!’ he replied. ‘It’s not a trick or – or anything like that, I swear.’ There was a pause, then he said, ‘Look, I know this is all a bit out of the blue. But can we meet?’
‘Is he going to be there? Is that what this is about?’ Lydia asked. She was starting to feel nervous. If this was some long-winded preamble to Patrick telling her he wasn’t going to pay her child maintenance any more, then he could think again, because she would find a solicitor and take him to court. Her career had come to an abrupt halt after Jemima had been born; the unsociable hours didn’t work with a baby to factor in, plus the cost of childcare was only marginally less than her salary. She’d been a stay-at-home mum for five years, the two of them forced to live in her dad’s spare room for the first year because she was so skint, only getting some part-time shop work from her godfather once Jemima was old enough to go to school. She needed the money from Patrick, that was the point. She relied, very heavily, on his monthly contribution to their daughter’s upkeep.
‘No, it’ll just be me,’ the man said. ‘When are you free this week?’
She didn’t like the sound of this. She didn’t like the sound of it at all. She felt very much as if she might be walking into a trap, but all the same she was intrigued at the thought of Patrick coming back into her life. ‘I finish work at one tomorrow,’ she found herself saying. ‘I could meet you in Gunnersbury Park café at about half-past?’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Er . . . how will we recognize each other?’
‘I’ve got a red mac,’ she said, wrinkling her nose at how weird this was. At least if they met in the café there would be other people around, she thought, in case he turned out to be a complete nutter. And she’d have her bike with her, so if the worst came to the worst, she could just hop on it and pedal away, fast.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, and that was that.
Hanging up, she slumped back into the sofa, pulling a plum-coloured velvety cushion across her middle and hugging it for comfort. She had no idea what to make of the man’s strange accusations (harassment?) and his guardedness about Patrick. She hoped she wasn’t getting involved in something unpleasant. Still frowning, she texted her best friend Bridget with the number that he’d called her on. Bit random, but if by any chance I am not at school pick-up tomorrow, I have gone to meet the person who has this number. Please pass it on to the police if I am found dead in a bin bag a few weeks later.
Bridget phoned approximately two seconds after the message had been sent. ‘Whaaaat? Are you going on a date or something? What’s his name? Tell me everything!’
Lydia felt herself collapse a bit inside, because this was probably going to be the exact opposite of a date. ‘I don’t know his name,’ she confessed miserably, still clutching the soft cushion. He hadn’t mentioned it and, in her fluster, she hadn’t thought to ask. ‘It’s not what you think, though. I’ll tell you more when I see you, but I don’t have a good feeling about this.’
‘Can I help? Do you need moral support? An angry kick-boxing friend beside you?’ came Bridget’s next questions and Lydia smiled weakly, before remembering the conversation she’d had with Jemima over dinner.
‘No, but thank you. By the way, just so you know, my daughter would like us to get married and, to be honest, I’m finding it hard to think of a reason why not right now,’ she said, and they both laughed. ‘Thanks, Bridge. Sorry to go all dramatic on you; it’s probably nothing, but . . . Well, I’ll find out. Coffee on Thursday?’
‘You bet, and they’re on me, with brownies too,’ Bridget replied. She seemed reluctant to go. ‘Call me if you need me, won’t you?’
‘Thanks. I will.’
Patrick Armstrong – or Sheppard, she supposed – had burst into Lydia’s life like an unexpected firework, dazzling and beautiful, but over too soon. She had fallen for him so hard, so absolutely, it was as if her feet left the ground whenever they spoke. It had been a good time in her life, full stop really; she was living in a shared house with Bridget and two other friends, and worked as an events organizer at an arts space in Richmond. Life was one long whirl of fun – she loved her job and her friends, she was busy all the time and making the most of being young and single. And then one evening, introducing the first act at the arts centre’s monthly open-mic comedy night, she caught Patrick’s eye amidst the audience and the world started to spin even faster.
Oh, sure, she’d had boyfriends before, but with Patrick everything was different. She felt different for a start – free and uncontained – and he was a million miles away from previous loser boyfriends, who’d all been either emotionally stunted or hopelessly unfaithful. Patrick was a proper man: ten years older than her, confident, clever and handsome. He treated Lydia like a princess, taking her to gorgeous quiet restaurants and boutique hotels and art-house cinemas. Her housemates all developed crushes on him too when he stayed over the first time and made everyone poached eggs for breakfast the following morning. Who wouldn’t fall in love with a man like that?
The only problem with a firework relationship was that once it had shot up unfeasibly high, bright and sparkling, it was fated to fall just as quickly back to earth again; scorched and extinguished, dead. And whatever future Lydia thought the two of them might have shared together, her dreams were immediately shattered when, five months in, she discovered she was accidentally pregnant. They were in The White Swan on a warm May evening when she broke the news, sitting out at a table by the river and, fool that she was, she’d been nursing a secret wild hope, ever since seeing the test result, that Patrick would take her hands and express his joy. It’s all a bit of a rush, she imagined him saying, but we can make it work, right? You’re the one! This is meant to be.
Instead, he could hardly wait to get away – and out it had all come: the harsh blurted truth about a wife and children, delivered in scant sentences like a series of gut-punches. I’ve been meaning to tell you, he said, his eyes sliding away from hers just to underline the lie. Let me give you some money to get rid of . . . to take care of things.
It all added up then, too late. Why he only ever came to her place; why he preferred those quiet, tucked-away restaurants and hotels on the outskirts of the city. How he’d never really said much about his family, and wasn’t on social media. A fling, he’d called their relationship, when in her mind it had been true love, or at least heading in that direction. In hindsight, she’d been so dazzled by his brightness that she hadn’t looked closely at all the small print. And okay, so they had only been seeing each other for a short while, but their split knocked the wind out of her sails so thoroughly that she’d never really recovered.
Angry to have been conned, heartbroken that she’d never see him again, she had entertained thoughts of revenge; of wrecking his life just as he’d ruined hers. But either he’d given her a false surname or he’d vanished from London, because he seemed impossible to track down, both online or through the electoral register. She had his phone number and that was it, she realized belatedly. He had kept her like a dog on a lead, and she’d been only too keen to trot along devotedly after him, willing to give him all the power.
Pride kept her from contacting him again, plus the few shreds she had left of her dignity. And maybe, if she hadn’t been pregnant, she would have carried on with her life and bounced back from the disappointment there and then. Everything would have been simpler – she could have stayed in her job and her house, she would have met somebody else and written Patrick off as a warning to keep her wits about her, and not go diving in head-first thinking you were in love. Instead, she had been plunged into the quandary of what to do. If only her mum had been around to lean on, to ask! It had been the hardest, loneliest decision of her life. Then, once Frank, her dad, had finished threatening to track down Patrick and knock his block off, he’d said gruffly, ‘You know, Lyddie, you were a surprise to me and your mum. You weren’t planned. And you turned out to be the best thing ever for us. The most wonderful surprise.’
Perhaps, looking back, it had been silly of her to make such a massive decision swayed by sentiment, but it was the thought of her mum undergoing a similar dilemma and choosing to say yes to the baby – yes to Lydia’s life – that clinched it in the end. Maybe it was the hormones as well, buoying her with optimism; whatever, she had said yes, too. Yes to single motherhood and all that it entailed.
As far as Patrick was concerned, she had at first ruled him out of the equation – she didn’t need him! – until after Jemima’s birth, when her dad encouraged her to get back in touch. He’s the child’s father and he has a responsibility, like it or not, Frank had said. Whatever your feelings about him now, Jemima won’t thank you for it later if you don’t at least try. You have to contact the man, Lyddie, and that’s that.
He had a point, so Lydia had rather grudgingly sent Patrick a text message, along with a picture of Jemima. Here is our daughter, she told him. We would both love you to be a part of our lives, whether that’s in person or merely financially.
Yes, if she was honest, she had felt a faint flicker of hope that he might change his mind when he saw their baby girl. Because, come on, she was beautiful and it was such a cute picture of her round pink face, her rosebud lips pouting as she slept, those ridiculously long eyelashes. But Patrick rang up the same day and sounded terse, not clucky and admiring at all. ‘Is that some kind of threat?’ he began the call, before setting out his terms, cold and clinical. It was best if he didn’t see the baby – he actually called her that, ‘the baby’, as if Lydia hadn’t just told him her name, as if Jemima wasn’t his own flesh and blood – but he would contribute towards her upkeep every month, providing Lydia stayed away. If she ever tried to mess up his family life, he would stop the payments immediately. Was that clear?
By now, of course, any hope had been completely snuffed out and whatever love she’d once felt had curdled to hurt and then to hatred. She loathed Patrick for responding with such unfeeling curtness, for laying out such horrible, mean-spirited parameters. If she’d been wealthier herself, she would have told him where to shove his payments. But she was not wealthy, so she was trapped in a corner, unable to do anything other than agree. Yes, it was clear. Yes, she understood. And so began their silent monthly transaction, of Patrick paying Lydia to keep them both out of his life. She had absorbed the sting of his double rejection and tried to remove him from her head – successfully, mostly, as motherhood kept her busy and distracted – as Jemima changed from a baby to a toddler to a little girl, and Lydia held it together, made things work. They had managed this far anyway, and she was proud of herself.
But now . . . Now her life was in danger of being stirred up all over again. Patrick – via this brother of his – was back in touch, and she couldn’t help nervously remembering the terms of their agreement. How the payments would stop if she broke his stupid rules. Had she unwittingly let something slip? Jemima had asked questions now and then, but Lydia had never once blown Patrick’s cover or intruded on his life. She didn’t think she had, anyway. So why was he on her case now? What had changed?
Oh God. She was dreading this meeting. She knew already she wouldn’t sleep well tonight. Patrick Sheppard, she thought to herself, glancing back at her phone and realizing that she could go foraging for more information about him, now that she knew his real name at last. It was like being handed the key to unlock a mystery – she could type his name into the search bar and go digging, gorge on pictures of his wife and children, see what else she could find.
Sometimes you could know too much, though. Sometimes this sort of knowledge hurt. Did she really want to torture herself by poring over the details of his life without her? Her hand hovered over the phone and then she snatched it away. No, she thought. She had come this far; she could live without knowing a little while longer, thank you very much. She would deal with whatever new twist or turn was coming her way tomorrow.
She glanced across at Jemima’s year-two school photograph on the bookcase nearby, taking in the dearly loved dimpled face that was half-Lydia, half-Patrick with a pinch of pure Jemima for good measure, and felt a twist of fear inside. Whatever this was about, she just hoped she could handle it.