“That’s a big leap,” I say.
“Maybe”—he shrugs—“but I don’t want to be like him, Meg. I don’t want to waste any part of my life, and that includes being a father.”
He delivers this last statement as though pleading with me. I fight the urge to prick his grandiosity. I have seen Simon snort more coke than Charlie Sheen and change women more often than his designer ties. I hold my tongue and stay calm.
“There is a difference here, Simon,” I say, speaking softly. “You grew up without a father. My children have one.”
“But is Jack the right father?”
“He is the only father.”
“I want to be in my son’s life.”
“He is not your son. He has nothing to do with you.”
“I have a right to know if he’s mine.”
“You have no rights.”
“I talked to a lawyer. He said I could have a case. He said a judge might order a paternity test.”
I raise my eyes skywards. “Christ, Simon, have you any idea . . . this will destroy my family.”
He goes quiet. Inhales. Whispers. “Please understand, I don’t want to upset you, but I’ve thought about this. I’ve thought about you . . .”
“What does that mean?”
Simon’s face seems to be shapeshifting in the dappled light. “Do you ever think about our time together—back before you met Jack?”
“No.”
The answer seems to sting him.
“I was devastated when you left me.”
“You were stoned most of the time.”
“I was in love with you.”
“Rubbish!”
“I told you so.”
“You told every girl you loved her—it was part of your foreplay.”
“You’re wrong.” He touches my arm and makes me turn to face him. “I have said those words to two women in my life. One of them was my mother. The other is you.”
I study his face, looking for some sign that he’s lying.
“Are you saying . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“You’re still . . . ?”
“In love with you.”
He seems to hold his breath, waiting for me to answer. I can’t. He fills the silence—giving me a history lesson, recounting our first date and our first weekend away and our trip to Paris for Easter. He remembers everything, right down to what I was wearing when he first saw me.
“I’ve tried to forget you. I went to live in America and then Hong Kong. I dated loads of other women, hoping that one of them would make me forget you. I can’t tell you how it felt when I came back to London for Jack’s wedding and discovered that he was marrying you. I was happy for him. I carried on. I pretended it didn’t matter. I told myself that I’d meet someone, fall in love, and forget that I ever felt this way.” He hesitates. “That night when you fought with Jack and came to see me . . . I hate myself for saying this, but a small part of me hoped, wanted, wished I could tell you how I felt. I know what we did was wrong, but I can’t deny my feelings anymore. And if that night led to this . . .” He points to my pregnancy. “If you’re carrying our child, I want to play a part. I love you, Megs. Always have. Always will.”
His arms close around me, but I do not soften. My body grows hard like a mannequin and I push him away. My mind is racing. All these years . . . the dinners . . . the barbecues . . . the tennis and golf games . . . the Christmases and christenings. Did I give Simon false hope? Am I a terrible person?
“I have to go,” I mumble, looking around me, suddenly lost. How could I have missed this? I’ve known Simon for years. I know he’s prone to wheedling self-pity and sodden promises, but not love. Does he expect me to choose between him and Jack?
“I’m sorry, Megs,” Simon says. “I wish I could do this without hurting anyone, but I can’t live with the thought that a child came into the world not knowing his true father.”
“It happens all the time.”
“And it’s wrong.”
“Is this about me or the baby?”
“Both of you.”
The glibness of his answer triggers something inside me. I spin around and slap him hard across the face. It stings my hand. I have never hit anyone before.
“You truly are a selfish prick.”
“I love you.”
“No! Don’t you dare say that! If you loved me, you would never have told me. If you loved me, you would have sent me away that night instead of getting me drunk.”
Simon starts to protest. I interrupt him.
“If you go through with this—if you insist on a paternity test—I will make sure that you never see this child. You will never hold him in your arms. You will never again enter our house. You will be dead to me.”
AGATHA
* * *
This is my last day at the supermarket. I asked Mr. Patel if he could write me a reference but he said he didn’t know me well enough.
What an arsehole!
Consequently, I don’t feel guilty about stealing a Snickers bar and a can of Coca-Cola when I sneak outside on my break. Abigail joins me, lighting up a cigarette and waving the smoke away from me. We’ve perched our buttocks on a low brick wall behind the bins beneath an ivy-covered trellis.
“I won’t be staying long,” she says. “I’ve applied for a job at the new Apple store in Regent Street. They give you free T-shirts.”
“What about discounts?”
“Yeah. I need a new iPhone.”
She shows me her broken screen.
I like Abigail because she’s unapologetically loud and is far more adventurous than I am. She once hitchhiked across Europe and spent a month traveling in Turkey by herself. On top of that she rides a motorbike and has no interest in getting married, but that could be because her boyfriend has a wife and two kids.
Mr. Patel whistles out the back door. We’ve had our fifteen minutes. He wants me to mop the floor in the produce section, which is always the dirtiest spot. I fill a bucket with hot water and wheel it out of the storeroom.
“Excuse me,” says a male voice.
I step to one side and mumble an apology. It’s not until he’s gone past me that I realize who it is. Jack is scanning the shelves in the pharmacy section. He doesn’t have a basket or cart. It’s a quick purchase, something forgotten perhaps. He picks up condoms and reads the packet, trying to decide which brand or size to buy. Having made a decision, he goes to the checkout. Abigail has a little smirk on her lips as she rings up the sale.
Something about the scene makes me uncomfortable. Why would Jack be buying condoms? I set down the mop and walk to the front window. A car is double-parked out front—a black BMW convertible with a woman driver. I recognize her. It’s the estate agent who showed me around the house in Cleveland Gardens that Jack and Meg eventually bought. I watch as Jack gets into the passenger seat.
“What’s wrong?” asks Abigail.
“Nothing.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”