She laughs and I realize that she’s joking.
“I have a hypothetical situation for you.”
“Hypothetical.”
“Yes.”
This was a bad idea. I should hang up.
“Can a court order a woman to have a paternity test on her new baby?”
“That depends on the circumstances,” says Jocelyn.
“What if she’s happily married?”
“Is her husband demanding the test?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“A third party.”
“Someone who thinks he might be the father?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck, Megs, what have you done?”
“Nothing. This isn’t about me.”
Why am I still talking?
Jocelyn begins thinking out loud. “I practice commercial law, so I’m not an expert in this area. Most paternity suits are filed to establish financial or moral responsibility. The mother wants money, or a father wants visitation rights. If both husband and wife agree they’re the parents, I doubt whether any court would order a test.”
“What if the husband doesn’t know there’s a question mark over the paternity?”
“He would have to be told.”
“Even if it puts the marriage in jeopardy?”
“The wife put the marriage in jeopardy the moment she slept with someone else.”
“What if she knows the baby is her husband’s?”
“So you’re saying this third party is making a completely baseless accusation?”
“Yes.”
“There was no affair?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know—spite, jealousy, cruelty.”
“Are you being blackmailed?”
“This is not about me.”
“Right, of course. Well, my advice to your friend would be to come clean and tell her husband.”
“There’s no other way—no restraining orders or letters?”
“Not really.”
I can hear Jocelyn breathing down the phone. “Are you all right, Megs?”
“I’m fine. Forget I called.”
I hang up and take a deep breath, biting my bottom lip to stop myself from screaming. I am trapped. My past mistake is growing inside me, ticking like a time bomb that will go off unless I can stop Simon.
It doesn’t help that Jack is being so nice to me. He bought me flowers on Friday—arum lilies, which are my favorite—and he stayed home all weekend.
On Monday morning I wrote a blog piece: Reflections I had an ordinary Sunday. I don’t mean ordinary in terms of boring, but it was normal. I woke to the sound of two little people talking and giggling, having crawled into each other’s beds to read books. They played happily for almost an hour, letting me doze next to Hail Caesar.
Sunday morning means BBC Radio 2, plunger coffee, bacon and eggs, and the newspapers, of course. This was followed by swimming lessons—which I prefer to call “controlled not-drowning”—then lunch at the pub, before a long walk along the river, a bath, a cuddle, and a DVD (Frozen—again!).
Sunday is curry night and the house still reeks of chicken korma, no matter how many windows I open. Caesar drank half a bottle of wine. I fell asleep in front of a BBC costume drama. And at midnight I was ironing school clothes because I forgot to do it earlier.
It was an ordinary Sunday—except that Caesar said he loved me more than once. A more mistrustful wife might have been suspicious that he doth protest too much, but I’m not the skeptical type.
Men are so funny when it comes to understanding women. Caesar thinks my dream scenario for romance is a five-star hotel, a massage, champagne, a great dinner, fantastic sex, and falling asleep after an hour of him telling me how wonderful I am. In truth, I would settle for a Sunday like yesterday—a sleep-in, a cooked breakfast, a day with the kids, clumsy sex, and loads of voluntary cuddles and compliments.
Life doesn’t get much better than that.
AGATHA
* * *
At Euston I walk across the cavernous station concourse and wait in line to buy a ticket to Leeds. I’m wearing my best maternity dress with low black heels and a patent leather handbag over my shoulder. I make a point of messing up my request. The tickets are reprinted. I want people to see me. I want them to remember.
My train is on time. Pulling my suitcase along the platform, I ask a porter to help me lift it up the stairs and store it in the luggage bay. I find my seat. A businessman is sitting next to me, tapping on his laptop. I apologize for taking up so much room, using the royal “we,” pointing to my pregnancy.
“When are you due?”
“Any day now—that’s why I’m going home.”
“Home?”
“Leeds.” I notice his wedding ring. “Do you have children?”
“Two girls—six and four.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
“Yes, I am.”
He’s looking for my wedding ring. Not seeing one, he won’t ask. When the conductor comes along to check on my ticket, I make a fuss about looking for it, growing anxious and apologetic.
“Take your time,” he says. “I can come back.”
I search my handbag and the pockets of my coat, sighing in relief when I find the ticket.
The businessman relaxes. The conductor makes light of the delay. Both will commit me to memory.
The train rattles through the Midlands into the north of England, past plowed fields and pastures dotted with wheels of hay covered in plastic. Beads of melting sleet run slantwise across the fogged windows. My stomach rumbles. I should have brought something to eat before I left Euston.
Arriving in Leeds, I drag my suitcase to the cab rank and give the driver an address in Holbeck. He takes New Station Street, Wellington, and Whitehall Road, skirting warehouses and railway yards that look abandoned in the gloom.
The cab drops me outside Ingram Road Primary School, where lights burn brightly from within. The windows are draped in Christmas decorations and little heads on hunched shoulders face the front of the class. A bell sounds and children stampede for the doors, filling the corridors with laughter and shouted good-byes.
I grew up five streets away from here. I walked to school every day from age seven to twelve, dodging cracks and playing hopscotch on the footpath. The intersection where Elijah died is three blocks ahead, but I take a different route because I don’t want to be reminded of the accident. Instead, I quicken my pace, splashing through puddles, dragging my suitcase.
In Colenso Grove every redbrick terrace looks identical, with matching satellite dishes bolted to the walls. The front doors have been painted different colors—blue, red, yellow, or green—which could be a sign of self-expression or suburban anarchy.