“Really? Your mother said you were at the same place.”
My heart skips. “When did you talk to my mother?”
“In August—on her birthday. Are you still in Fulham?”
“No. Yes.”
Hayden is watching me.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I say. “Let’s meet somewhere.”
“Great. I have a meeting in South Kensington. I can meet you afterwards. Is that OK?” Nicky names a place and we agree on a time. “Make sure you bring Rory. I want to meet this miracle baby.”
“How do you know his name?”
“Sara told me, of course.” He laughs.
I end the call quickly. Hayden is standing over me.
“Who was that?”
“An old friend.”
“A boyfriend?”
“No, not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s a friend of the family—a pseudo uncle. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“So you’re meeting him.”
“For coffee.”
“Can I come?”
“You’ll be bored. How about you take Rory to your mum’s? She’ll like that.”
*
The restaurant is one of those hole-in-the-wall places in South Kensington that defy physics by being bigger on the inside than the outside. There is a bar along one wall, opposite a series of booths. Farther from the front, the restaurant opens out into a large dining area overlooked by a mezzanine level. By day it serves coffee and cream teas. At night it becomes a tapas bar.
Nicky hasn’t changed much. He’s a little grayer around the temples and has put on a few pounds. The extra weight makes him look more feminine because it sits on his hips.
“You didn’t bring the baby,” he says, sounding disappointed.
“No. He didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Shame.”
Nicky takes my coat and hangs it up for me before summoning a waitress to take our order. It’s strange, sitting opposite my ex-husband after all this time—hearing his voice again, which sounds so intensely familiar, but also foreign because it belongs to a past life. Unlike Hayden, who is quiet and moody, Nicky is cheerful and expressive, wearing his heart on his sleeve.
We’re not far from the Victoria and Albert Museum and tourist coaches are parked along the road outside. Workmen are putting up Christmas lights, stringing them from overhead wires that are threaded between lampposts and trees. Come nightfall, the wires will disappear in the darkness and the lights will make everything look festive and bright.
“So how did you do it?” asks Nicky, not dropping his gaze.
“Do it?”
“Get pregnant.”
“It just happened.”
“Really?”
His eyes are so intense it’s like he’s wearing makeup.
“If you must know, I used a donor,” I say angrily, before apologizing. “Sorry. I don’t want people knowing.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “It’s simpler.”
“Your mother didn’t mention you were pregnant.”
“I didn’t tell her until the third trimester. I didn’t want to get her hopes up—not after what happened the last time.”
Nicky’s eyes cloud over with sadness and he takes a moment to compose himself. Our coffees have arrived.
“Are you with someone?” he asks.
“Engaged.”
“Good for you.”
I tell him about Hayden, playing up the navy angle, making it sound like he’s destined to captain his own frigate or be vice admiral of the fleet.
“We’re going to get married in the summer and honeymoon in Tahiti.”
“Tahiti? Wow! So he’s the biological father?”
“Yes,” I reply.
Nicky folds and unfolds his napkin. “That story about the stolen baby—such a terrible business.”
“I haven’t been following it closely.”
His eyebrows lift. “It’s hard to avoid.”
“I have been rather busy of late.” I laugh, not meeting his gaze.
“Yes, of course.”
Nicky begins talking about how he drove past our old house in Highgate. “I think they’ve done an attic conversion,” he says. “We always talked about doing that . . . when we had children.” He looks at me apologetically, wishing he could take the statement back. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if our Chloe had lived? She would have been four this year.”
I don’t answer.
“I wonder all the time,” he says. “I see a little girl in the street, or the park, and I imagine that she might be our Chloe—alive and well, being raised by someone else.”
“If I thought that, I’d go crazy.”
“You’re right. We both went a little dippy, didn’t we? I remember you talking about stealing a baby. You were kidding, I know, but you said we should find a couple who already had children and take a baby from them.”
“I was grieving.”
“Of course.”
I manage to hold Nicky’s gaze when all I want to do is look away. The creature inside me uncoils.
He knows! He knows!
“So where did you have your baby?” Nicky asks.
“In London.”
“Oh, Sara said it was in Leeds.”
“What I mean is, I gave birth in Leeds but came straight back to London. Hayden had just flown in from Cape Town. He’s been fighting pirates in the Indian Ocean.”
Nicky tilts his head. “I was in Leeds a few weeks ago. I knocked on your mother’s door. The place looked closed up. A neighbor said she’d gone to Spain for the winter.”
“She came back for the birth.”
“And then went back to Spain?”
“Yes.”
He knows! He knows!
I look at my watch. I’m not wearing one. I glance at my phone. “I really have to go. Rory has to be fed.”
“Sure. Absolutely.” Nicky gets up and holds out my coat while I slip my arms into the sleeves.
“It was lovely seeing you again, Aggy. Look after that baby.”
“I will.”
We separate on the pavement outside. I walk two dozen steps and look back. Nicky is still watching me.
He knows! He knows!
He returns my wave before crossing the road, heading for the nearest Underground station. When he’s far enough ahead of me, I turn and follow, keeping my head down and weaving between pedestrians. Nicky is tall enough to spot in a crowd.
He knows! He knows!
He won’t say anything.
He’ll tell the police.
He has no proof.
It doesn’t matter.
South Kensington station is always busy. There are multiple walkways and passages leading to different platforms. Keeping Nicky in view, I pull up the hood of my coat, shielding my face from the cameras. At one point Nicky pauses to give money to a busker playing the violin. I stop suddenly and turn, walking against the flow. After a few seconds, I spin back and follow him again.
He has reached the eastbound platform of the District and Circle lines, which is crowded with sightseers leaving the museums. Murmuring apologies, I brush past shoulders and weave between bodies, following Nicky to the far end of the platform.
I glance at the information board. The next train is a minute away. Nicky is looking at his phone.
He’s calling the police.
He could be reading emails.
Or sending a message.
It’s nothing.
He’s jealous because you couldn’t give him a child.
Nicky loves me.