“If you fall asleep I’m kicking you out,” says the librarian. “This is a library, not a shelter.”
Sitting at a computer, I create a username and password before beginning a search. Rory watches me from his pram. Periodically, I pause and stroke his forehead, explaining what I’m doing.
I type in a search for breast milk and come across dozens of classified ads: Healthy Mother Ready to Sell Extra Milk ASAP
Breast Milk for Sale, Excess Amounts (no drugs or alcohol) High Quality breast milk London SW1—organic diet only!
At the same time there are government warnings about sourcing breast milk from the Internet, saying it could be tainted or diseased. I wonder if they’d ask for identification. Would they care?
I contemplate sending an email, but wonder if the police might be monitoring sites like these looking for me. I can’t take the risk.
Deleting the search, I clear the browser history and take Rory across the road to the pharmacy, where I look at treatments for colic and brands of baby formula that I haven’t yet tried.
Hayden is waiting for me when I get home. Rory has fallen asleep. “I left the pram downstairs,” I say as I put him in his cot. “I picked up a few things for supper. Can you pop the groceries in the kitchen?”
Hayden hasn’t moved. I smell cigarette smoke. He promised not to do that.
I begin putting groceries away, sorting out the cold items for the fridge. Opening cupboards. Hayden is staring at me from the doorway. Something is wrong.
“Your mother phoned,” he says.
I don’t respond.
“When did she go back to Spain?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, continuing to unpack. Hayden picks up a can of tomatoes and seems to weigh it in his fist.
“She was pretty fucking surprised when I mentioned Rory. Do you know what she said?”
I don’t answer.
“She said, ‘Who’s Rory?’ And I said, ‘Your grandson.’ And she laughed like I was joking. ‘But you were at the birth,’ I said. And she laughed again.”
Still I say nothing. Hayden slams the can of tomatoes down on the counter, which sounds like a gunshot in the small kitchen. He holds it up again. I hear Rory start to cry.
“I can explain.”
“OK.”
“First tell me what you told her.”
“I told her about Rory. I said you had him in Leeds—a home birth. Is any of that true?”
“Yes.”
“Who was with you?”
“A midwife.” I fill the electric kettle. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Fuck the tea! Why did you lie to me?”
“I don’t get on with my mother. I knew she’d try to take control. She belittles me. She bosses me around. She manages to poison everything good in my life.”
“Why go to Leeds? You could have stayed in London and had the baby. I could have been there.”
“I got scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“I’ve never told you this before—but Nicky and I lost a baby. I was five months pregnant. She died inside me. I was terrified it might happen again. That’s why I didn’t want you there. I didn’t want anyone with me—not friends or family.”
Hayden doesn’t seem to know how to react. He wants to believe me, I can see that, but his faith has been shaken. He asks about the miscarriage. He wants the details—who, where, what, and why? I find myself telling him the truth.
“I saw what it did to Nicky—losing a baby. That’s why we divorced. The marriage couldn’t survive the heartbreak.” Rory is still crying, growing more and more distressed. “That’s why Nicky contacted me. He heard about me having a baby. He was happy for me, but also a little sad.”
“Is that why he topped himself?” asks Hayden.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I move towards the bedroom, wanting to comfort Rory. Hayden grabs me by the wrist, twisting it painfully.
“Why lie to your mother?”
“I didn’t lie to her. I just didn’t tell her. It’s none of her business.”
“Why do you hate her so much?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“She’s crazy. Manipulative. Cunning. She has a thousand clichés in her head and when she opens her mouth it’s like they’re all trying to escape . . . I bet she said she loved me.”
Hayden nods.
“Did she say I broke her heart?”
“Yeah.”
“Was she drunk?”
“She sounded sober.”
“She’s very good at hiding it.”
I peel Hayden’s fingers away from my wrist. He hasn’t finished. “What else have you lied about?”
“Nothing.”
“You lied to Jules, to me, to my family . . . It’s not right. You made me feel like an idiot.”
“I’m sorry.” I put my head against his chest.
He pushes me away, holding me at arm’s length. “Your mother didn’t even know about me.”
“Because I don’t talk to her.”
Hayden doesn’t answer. Stepping around him, I fetch Rory from the bedroom, jiggling him in my arms until he stops crying.
Hayden hasn’t given up. “I want to know the name of the midwife—the one who delivered the baby.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to her.”
“What can she tell you?”
“The truth.”
“I’m telling the truth. Why would I lie about her?”
“Call her.”
He knows! He knows!
I pick up my handbag and take out my mobile, flicking through the contacts list. Hayden waits.
“I can’t find it.”
“You don’t have her number?”
“I do. I’m trying to think . . . My phone was dead, remember? I have her number written down somewhere.”
“What about paperwork? There must be something.”
“Of course, lots of paperwork,” I say, getting flustered. “I can’t remember where I put it.”
He knows! He knows!
“So you have no phone number and no paperwork—this is bollocks!” He grabs his jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking Rory for a walk.”
No!” I say it too urgently. “I mean, where?”
“Maybe we’ll go to the zoo. He’s never been to the zoo.”
“Can I come?”
“No!”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to see you for a while.”
I make up a bottle for Rory and help Hayden get him ready. I’m still reaching for excuses, not wanting them to go. I tell him that I’m desperately in love with him and that I’ve never seen a father as wonderful as he is and that I couldn’t do this without him. I say that I would marry him tomorrow at Fulham Registry Office and I would go anywhere in the world with him, as long as we were together.
Hayden says nothing. He’s not listening to promises or platitudes. He doesn’t love me anymore.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, pleading with him.
“Tell anyone what?”
“I mean, don’t tell your parents about my mother. They might not understand.”
“You’re right,” he replies. “I don’t understand. You tell me lies and you don’t do anything to help us.”
“What does that mean?”
“You could have sold your story to the papers—the one about knowing Baby Ben’s mum. We could have made some money.”
“I don’t want to talk to reporters.”
“Mrs. Shaughnessy is doing plenty of talking. She’s always on the news, crying for the cameras. I’m sick of hearing her voice.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know her.”