The Bride's Baby

CHAPTER NINE

FOR a whole minute Tom didn’t move. Taking the time to regain control over his breathing, over parts of him that seemed to have a will of their own.

His heart, mainly.

For a moment there he’d been certain that Sylvie was going to kiss him back. Reach up, put her hands to his cheeks and hold him while she kissed him and he climbed over the table to get at her, show her everything he was feeling.

But this time she didn’t lose it. Attuned to her in some way he didn’t begin to understand, he’d sensed an almost imperceptible hesitation and he’d put a stop to it before he embarrassed himself, or her.

In fact common sense suggested that the most sensible thing he could do right now was walk out of the back door, climb into his car and head for the safety of London.

But he’d run before. There was no help for him in distance and Sylvie was locked into another relationship. She’d said it plainly enough. She’d made a commitment and she always delivered on her word.

No matter what she was feeling deep down, and he knew she had felt the same dark stirring of desire that had moved him, she wouldn’t lose her head again.

As for him, the need to face himself in the mirror every morning would keep him from doing anything he’d regret. Hurting her any more than he already had.

He dragged both hands through his hair, flattening it to his head, staring at the ceiling as he let out a long, slow breath.

He’d lived without love so long that he could barely remember what it felt like, could only remember the fallout, the pain. It was an alien concept, something he could not begin to understand. And spending a lifetime watching from the sidelines as friends and acquaintances fell apart and put themselves back together again offered few clues. He had always kept his distance until, finally, he’d arranged what had seemed like the perfect marriage to the perfect trophy wife. A woman who’d neither given nor wanted deep emotional commitment.

Just the perfect trophy husband.

Then he’d come face to face with Sylvie Duchamp Smith and, from that moment on, his perfect marriage had hung like a millstone round his neck. But, like Sylvie, he’d made a commitment and, like her, he always delivered on his promises.

Yet even when he’d been granted a last-minute reprieve he’d still fought against feelings he did not understand. He’d been emotionally incapable of saying the words that would have made everything right. Had instead, for the second time in his life, reduced a woman to tears.

His punishment was to watch helplessly as she planned her wedding. A wedding that she didn’t appear to be anticipating with any excitement, or pleasure, or joy.

He clung to the edge of the sink, reminding himself that she was pregnant. That whatever she was doing, for whatever reason, her baby had to come first.

He turned on the tap but, instead of filling the kettle, he scooped up handfuls of water, burying his face in it to cool the heat of lips that still tasted of her.

And then, when that didn’t help, ducking his head beneath the icy water.

Sylvie abandoned her burden on the library table and gave herself up to the comfort of one of the old leather wing-chairs pulled up by the fire and closed her eyes, but more in despair than pleasure.

The intensity of the attraction had not diminished, that much was obvious. It wasn’t just her; it was a mutual connection, something beyond words, and yet it was as if there was an unseen barrier between them.

Or perhaps it was the all too visible one.

One of the things that Candy had been most happy about her ‘arranged’ marriage was the fact that Tom wasn’t interested in children and her figure was safe for postperity.

But that was the thing about arranged marriages. There had to be something in it for both parties. This house was a pretty clear indication of what Tom had in mind. Posterity. An heir, and almost certainly a spare. Maybe two.

The family he’d never had.

So what was his problem?

If it was a business arrangement he wanted, she had the same class, connections, background as Candy and she was nowhere near as expensive. On the contrary, she was entirely self-supporting. And the heir was included.

Maybe it was her lack of silicone implants that was the deal-breaker, she thought, struggling against a yawn. Or the lack of sapphire-blue contact lenses.

‘If that’s what he wants, then I’m sorry, kid, we’re on our own,’ she murmured.

Tom pushed open the library door and stopped as he saw Sylvie stretched out in one of the fireside chairs, limbs relaxed, eyes closed, head propped against the broad wing.

Fast asleep, utterly defenceless and, in contrast to the hot desire he’d done his best to drown in a torrent of cold water, he was overwhelmed by a great rush of protectiveness that welled up in him.

Utterly different from anything he’d ever felt for anyone before.

Was that love?

How did you know?

As quietly as he could, so as not to disturb her, he placed the tray on a nearby table and then took the chair opposite her, content just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Content to stay like that for ever.

But nothing was for ever and after a few minutes her eyelids flickered. He saw the moment of confusion as she surfaced, then the smile as she realised where she was.

A smile that faded when she saw him and, embarrassed at being caught sleeping, struggled to sit up. ‘Oh, Lord, please tell me I wasn’t drooling.’

‘Hardly at all,’ he reassured her, getting up and placing a cup on the table beside her. ‘And you snore really quietly.’

‘Really? At home the neighbours complain.’

‘Oh, well, I was being kind…’ He offered her a plate of some home-made biscuits he’d found as she laughed. Teasing her could be fun…‘Have one of these.’

‘Mrs Kennedy’s cure-alls? Who could resist?’

‘Not me,’ he said, taking one himself. Then, as it melted in his mouth, ‘I can see how they got their name. Maybe she should market them? A whole rang of Longbourne Court Originals?’

‘With a picture of the house on the wrapper? Perfect for the nostalgia market. Except, of course, that there won’t be Longbourne Court for much longer. Longbourne Conference Centre Originals doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?’

He didn’t immediately answer. And, when he did, he didn’t answer the question she’d asked.

‘When you asked me if I bought the house for Candy, I may have left you with the wrong impression.’

The words just tumbled out. He hadn’t known he was going to say them. Only that they were true.

‘You always intended to convert it?’

‘No!’ He shook his head. ‘No. I told myself I was buying it for her. The ultimate wedding present. But when I walked into the house, it was like walking into the dream I’d always had of what a family home should be like. There were old wax jackets hanging in the mud room. Wellington boots that looked as if somebody had just kicked them off. Every rug looked as if the dog had been sleeping there just a moment before.’

‘And all the furniture in “country house” condition. In other words, tatty,’ Sylvie said.

‘Comfortable. Homely. Lived in.’

‘It’s certainly that.’

‘Candy would have wanted to change everything, wouldn’t she? Get some fancy designer in from London to rip it all out and start from scratch.’

‘Probably. It scarcely matters now, does it?’ She lifted a brow but, when he didn’t respond, subsided back into the comfort of the chair. ‘This is total bliss,’ she said, nibbling on the biscuit. ‘Every winter Sunday afternoon of childhood rolled into one.’ Then, glancing at him, ‘Is it raining?’

‘Raining?’

‘Your hair seems to be dripping down your collar.’

‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. I missed the kettle and the water squirted up at me,’ he lied.

‘And only got your hair?’ That eyebrow was working overtime. ‘How did you get so lucky? When that happens to me, I always get it full in the face and chest.’

‘Well, as you’ve already noticed, I’ve got a damp collar, if that helps.’

‘You think I’m that heartless? Come closer to the fire or you’ll catch a chill.’

He didn’t need a second invitation but took another biscuit and settled on the rug with his back propped up against the chair on the far side of the fireplace.

‘Tell me about your winter Sundays, Sylvie.’

‘I’d much rather hear about yours.’

‘No, believe me, you wouldn’t. They are definitely nothing to get nostalgic over.’ Then, because he didn’t even want to think about them, ‘Come on. I want everything, from the brown bread and butter to three choices of cake.’

‘We never had three choices of cake!’ she declared in mock outrage. ‘According to my mother, only spoilt children had three kinds of cake.’

‘I’ll bet you had toasted teacakes. Or was it muffins?’

‘Crumpets. It was always crumpets,’ she said, still resisting him. ‘I will have your story.’

‘You’ll be sorry if you do.’ But for just a moment he was tempted by something in her eyes. Tempted to unburden himself, share every painful moment. But he knew that, once he’d done that, she’d own him, he’d be tied to her for ever, while she belonged to someone else.

‘Did you toast them on one of those long toasting forks in front of the fire?’ he asked.

And, finally, she let it go with a laugh.

‘Oh, right. I remember you, Tom McFarlane. You were the grubby urchin with your face pressed up against the window-pane.’

Her laughter was infectious. ‘I wish, but I was running wild, scavenging in Docklands while you were still on training wheels. But if I had been standing at the window, you’d have invited me in, wouldn’t you? Five or six years old, a little blonde angel, you’d have given me your bread and honey and your Marmite soldiers and a big slice of cherry cake.’

Then, unable to keep up the self-mocking pretence another minute, he reached for a log, using it to stir the fire into life before tossing it into the heart of the flames, giving himself a moment or two to recover. He added a second log, then, his smile firmly in place, he risked another glance.

‘You’d have defied your father, even when he threatened to chase me off with his shotgun.’

Charmed by this imagined image of a family gathered around the fire at teatime, he’d meant only to tease, but in an instant her smile faded to a look of such sadness that if he’d had a heart to break it would have shattered at her feet.

‘You’d have been quite safe from my father, Tom. He was never at home on Sunday afternoon. It was always tea for two.’

Beneath her calm delivery he sensed pain and, remembering how swiftly she’d cut her father out of his role at her wedding this morning, a world of betrayal. A little girl should be able to count on her father. Look up to him. That she hadn’t, she didn’t, could only mean one thing.

‘He was having an affair?’

‘My mother must have known, realised the truth very soon after the big society wedding, but she protected me. Protected him.’ She looked away, into the depths of the fire. ‘She loved him, you see.’

It took him a minute, but he got there. ‘Your father was gay?’

‘Still is,’ she said. ‘A fact that I only learned when his own father died, at which point he stopped pretending to be the perfect husband and father and went with his lover to live on one of the Greek islands, despite the fact that my mother had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. He didn’t care what anyone else thought. It was only his father whose feelings he cared about.’

‘If she loved him, Sylvie, I’m sure your mother was glad that he was finally able to be himself.’

‘She said that, but she needed him. It was cruel to leave her.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t actually a relief for her too? When you’re sick you need all your energy just to survive.’

She swallowed. Just shook her head.

‘Do you ever see him?’ he persisted. And when silence answered that question, ‘Does he want to see you?’

She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘He sends birthday and Christmas cards through the family solicitor. I return them unopened.’

‘No…’

Touched on the raw, the word escaped him. She did that to him. Loosed emotions, stirred memories. Now she was looking at him, her beautiful forehead puckered in a tiny frown, waiting for him to continue, and he closed out the bleak memories-this was not about him.

‘He doesn’t know he’s going to be a grandfather in a few months?’ he asked. ‘Are you waiting for him to read an announcement in The Times? To Sylvie Duchamp Smith…’ he couldn’t bring himself to say Hillyer ‘…a son.’

Or had he, too, read about it in Celebrity? He remembered the shock of it. The unexpected pain…

There had been a moment then, when the idea of coming home had seemed so utterly pointless that he couldn’t move. An emptiness that he hadn’t experienced since the day he’d realised that his mother was never coming back and he was completely alone…

‘A daughter,’ she said, laying a protective hand over the curve of her abdomen. ‘The scan showed that it’s a girl.’

‘…a daughter,’ he said softly.

A little girl who’d have blonde curls and blue eyes and a smile to break a father’s heart.

‘I wonder how he’ll feel when he hears,’ he said, but only because he wanted her to think about it.

He already knew.

Cut out, shut off from something he could never be a part of.

‘You care?’ she demanded, astonished. Looking at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You’re actually concerned?’

‘Yes, Sylvie, I’m concerned. He’s your father. His heart will break.’

Under the flush of heat from the fire, she went white.

‘How dare you?’ she said, gathering herself, pushing herself out of the chair, swaying slightly.

‘Sylvie, I’m sorry…’ He scrambled to his feet, reaching out to steady her, aware that he’d strayed into a minefield but too late to do more than apologise. This was all strange to him. He’d wanted, just for a moment, to share her happy childhood memories, not drag up bad ones.

It had never occurred to him that she could have had anything but the perfect childhood.

‘Sorry? Is that it?’ she said, shaking him off. ‘You’ve got some kind of nerve, Tom McFarlane.’ And she was striding to the door while he was still trying to work out what he’d done that was so awful.

Abandoning him to his foolish fantasies of happy families.

‘Sylvie, please…’ He was at the door before she reached it, blocking her way.

She refused to look at him, to speak to him. Just waited for him to recall his manners and let her pass, but he couldn’t do that. Not until he’d said the words that were sitting like a lump in his throat.

He’d already apologised for the helpless, angry insult that had spilled from his lips earlier that morning-rare enough-but now he found himself apologising again, even though he didn’t know why. Would have said anything if only she’d look at him, talk to him, stay…

‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business…’

She looked up at the ceiling, determinedly ignoring him, but her eyes were suspiciously bright and he wanted to take her, sweep her into his arms, hold her, reassure her. Protect her from making what seemed to him to be the biggest mistake of her life.

Marrying Jeremy Hillyer had to be a mistake. He’d let her down once and he’d do it again.

She didn’t have to marry him just because she was having his baby.

Or was that it?

Was she so desperate to give her baby something that she felt she’d been denied? If so, she was wrong. Her father may not have been the ideal ‘daddy’; her childhood may not have been quite the picture book perfect life that he’d imagined. To go with this picture book house. But she did have a father and he knew exactly how the man must feel every time one of his letters or cards came back marked ‘Return to Sender’.

‘You lost your mother, Sylvie. You can’t bring her back, but you still have a father. Don’t let anger and pride keep you from him.’

‘Don’t!’ She turned on him, eyes blazing, and he took a step back in the face of an anger so palpable that it felt like a punch on the jaw.

For a moment he thought she was going to say more, but she just shook her head and he said, ‘What?’

‘Just don’t!’ And now the tears were threatening to spill over, but even as he reached for her, determined to take her back to the fire where he could hold her so that she could cry, get it out of her system, she took a step back and said, ‘Don’t be such a damn hypocrite.’

She didn’t wait for a response, but wrenched open the door and was gone from him, running up the stairs, leaving him to try and work out what he’d said that had made her so angry.

Hypocrite? Where had that come from?

All he’d done was encourage her to get in touch with her father. The birth of a baby was a time for new beginnings, a good time to bury old quarrels. She might not want to hear that, but how did saying it make him a hypocrite?

He was halfway up the stairs, determined to demand an answer, before reality brought him crashing to a halt.

She might have responded to his kiss, be anything but immune to the hot wire that seemed to run between them, but she was still pregnant with Jeremy Hillyer’s child.

Was still going to marry the boy next door.

Sylvie gained the sanctuary of her bedroom and leaned against the door, breathing heavily, tears stinging against lids blocking out the fast fading light.

How could a man with such fire in his eyes, whose simplest kiss could dissolve her bones and who, with a touch could sear her to the soul, be so cold?

How dared he disapprove of the way she’d shut her father out of her life when he was refusing to acknowledge his own child?

Not by one word, one gesture, had he indicated that he was in any way interested. She could live with that for herself, but what had an innocent, unborn child done to merit such treatment?

She’d accepted, completely and sincerely, that the decision to have his baby had been entirely hers. She could have taken the morning-after pill. Had a termination. She had not consulted him but had taken the responsibility on herself and because of that she’d given him the chance to walk away. Forget it had ever happened.

No blame, no foul.

It was only now, confronted with the reality of what that really meant, did she fully understand how much she’d hoped for a different outcome.

She’d hoped, believed, that by removing everything from the equation but the fact that he was about to become a father, he’d be able to love his little girl as an unexpected gift.

How dumb could she be? At least if she’d sent in the lawyers, gone after him for maintenance, he’d have been forced to confront reality, would have become engaged with his daughter if only on a financial level. He’d demand contact fast enough then.

The billionaire entrepreneur who’d checked every item on the account would want value for money.

‘Damn him,’ she said, angrily swiping away the dampness that clung to her lashes with the heels of her hands. Then laid them gently over her baby and whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I messed up. Got it wrong.’

A bit of a family failing, that. But her mother hadn’t fallen apart when life had dealt her a tricky hand. She’d handled it all with dignity, courage, humour.

Her marriage. Cancer. Even the loss of everything she’d held dear.

All that and with love and understanding too. Always with love. Especially for the unhappy man she’d fallen in love with and married. A man who’d loved his own father so much he’d lived a lie rather than ‘come out’ and bring the old reactionary’s world crashing down. Who had loved her too.

How could Tom McFarlane be so right about that and so wrong about everything else?

‘What’ll I do, Mum?’ she whispered. ‘What would you do?’

Work had always been the answer. Fingers might get burned when a deal went wrong, but the heart remained unscathed, so Tom did what he always did when nothing else made sense. He returned to the library; not to the warmth of the fire but to the huge antique desk and the package of documents and personal stuff that had piled up while he’d been away and which Pam had couriered back from the office so that he could catch up with ongoing projects and set to work.

She’d even included the ‘Coming Next Month’ page from the latest edition of Celebrity, where a photograph of Longbourne Court promoted the ‘world’s favourite wedding planner’s personal fantasy wedding’ from The Pink Ribbon Club’s Wedding Fayre.

He bit down hard, pushed it away so hard that it slid on to the floor along with a load of other stuff. He left it, intent on tossing away out of date invitations, letters from organisations asking him to speak, donate, join their boards. Clearing out the debris so that he could get back to what he knew. Making money.

That had been the centre of his world, the driving force that had kept him going for as long as he could remember.

But for what? What was the point of it all?

Losing patience, he dumped the lot in the bin. Anything to do with business would have been dealt with by his PA. Anything else and they’d no doubt write again.

He scooped up everything that had fallen on the floor and pitched that in too. About to crush the sheet from Celebrity, however, something stopped him.

Sylvie didn’t dare linger too long in the bath in case she went to sleep. Having given herself no longer than it took for the lavender oil to do its soothing job, she climbed out, applied oil to her stomach and thighs to help stave off the dreaded stretch marks, then, wearing nothing but a towelling robe, she opened the bathroom door.

Tom McFarlane was propped up on one side of her bed.

All the warm, soothing effects of the lavender dissipated in an instant.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she said icily. ‘The Duchamp ghosts are after your blood.’

‘Not that I’ve noticed,’ he said. Then, ‘I did knock.’

‘And when did I say “come in”?’ she demanded. ‘I could have been naked!’

‘In an English country house in April? How likely is that?’

‘What do you want, Tom?’

‘Nothing. I’ve had an idea.’ And he patted the bed beside him, encouraging her to join him.

‘And it couldn’t keep until morning?’ she protested, but sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What kind of idea?’

‘For your wedding.’ He held up a page from Celebrity and she leaned forward to take a closer look.

‘It’s Longbourne Court. So?’

‘Turn it over.’

She scanned the page. Could see nothing. ‘Do you mean this advertisement for the Steam Museum in Lower Longbourne?’ she said, easing her back. Wishing he’d get to the point so that she could lie down. ‘It’s just across the park. Big local attraction. So what?’

‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while you think about it?’ he said, piling up her pillows and, when she hesitated, ‘It’s just like a sofa, only longer,’ he said, clearly reading her mind.

She wasn’t sure she’d feel safe on a sofa with him but it was clear he wasn’t saying another word until she was sitting comfortably so she tugged the robe around her and sat back, primly, against the pillows.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘The Steam Museum. At Hillyer House. Jeremy’s grandfather was mad about steam engines and gathered them up as they went out of use. He worked on them himself, restoring them, had open days so that the public could enjoy them. I loved the carousels-’

‘They’re not carousels, they’re gallopers,’ Tom said. ‘They’re called carousels on the Continent.’ He made a circling motion with his hand. ‘And they go round the other way.’

‘Do they? Why?’

‘It’s to do with the fact that we drive on the left.’ She stared at him. ‘Honestly!’

‘Don’t tell me, you worked in a fairground.’

‘I worked in a fairground,’ he said.

‘I told you not to tell me that…’ she said, then looked hurriedly away. That was one of those silly things her father used to say to make her laugh.

‘Okay, gallopers, rides, swings. It’s set up just like a real old-fashioned steam fair…’ She clapped her hands to her mouth. Then grinned. ‘Ohmigod. Wedding Fayre…Steam fair…’

Sylvie laughed as the sheer brilliance of the idea hit her. ‘It’s the perfect theme, Tom,’ she said as the ideas flooded in. ‘You’re a genius!’

‘I know, but hadn’t you better clear it with Jeremy first?’

‘Jeremy? No. There’s no need for that…’ Steam engines had been the old Earl’s pet obsession; Jeremy had never been interested-much too slow for him and it was run by a Trust these days. ‘It even fits in with the idea of promoting local businesses.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ he said.

She glanced at him. ‘What?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing. As you say, it all fits beautifully.’

‘They’ve got everything. Test your strength. Bowl for the pig-just pottery ones, but they’re lovely. And made locally too. There are even hay-cart rides to take visitors around the place.’

‘I guess the big question is-does it beat the elephant?’

‘Too right!’ She drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around them. ‘The photographer could use one of those things where you stick your head through the hole-’

‘A bride and groom one.’

‘-for all the guests to have their photographs taken.’

She couldn’t stop grinning. ‘We’ll decorate the marquee with ribbons and coloured lights instead of flowers. And set up sideshow stalls for the food.’ She looked at him. ‘Bangers and mash?’

He grinned back. ‘Fish and chips. Hot dogs.’

‘Candyfloss! And little individual cakes.’ She’d intended to go for something incredibly tasteful, but nothing about this fantasy was going to be tasteful. It was going to be fun. With a capital F. ‘I’ll talk to the confectioner first thing. I want each one decorated with a fairground motif.’

Tom watched as, swept up in the sheer fun of it, she clapped her hands over her mouth like a child wanting to hold it in, savour every minute of it.

‘You like it?’ he asked.

‘Like it!’ She turned and, anger forgotten, she flung her arms around him, hugging him in her excitement. ‘You’re brilliant. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job?’ Then, before he could answer, ‘Sorry, sorry…Genius billionaire. Why would you want to work for me? Damn, I wish it wasn’t all such a rush.’

‘Is it even possible in the time?’

‘Oh, yes.’

He must have looked doubtful because she said, ‘Piece of cake. Honestly.’

Of course it was. The Steam Museum had been created by Lord Hillyer. All she had to do was ask and it would be hers for the day.

‘Now I know what I want it’ll all just fall into place, although I could have done with Josie to sort out the marquee. That’s going to be the biggest job.’

‘If it helps, you’ve got me.’

They were on her bed and she had her arms around him and he was telling her what was in his heart, but only he knew that. Only he would ever know that she’d got him-totally, completely, in ways that had nothing to do with sex but everything to do with a word that he didn’t even begin to understand, but knew with every fibre of his being that this was it. The real deal.

Giving without hope of ever receiving back.

Sylvie’s mother would have understood. Would know how he was feeling.

Sylvie…Sylvie was nearly there. Maybe his true gift to her would be to help her make that final leap…

‘You’d be willing to help?’ she asked, leaning back, a tiny frown puckering her brow.

He shrugged, pulled a face. ‘You said it. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you’re out of here.’

‘That’s it?’ She drew back as if his answer shocked her. As if she’d expected something more.

But that was it.

More was beyond him.

‘I want my house back and, to get it, I’m prepared to put all my resources at your disposal,’ he said with all the carelessness he could muster.

Maybe just one thing more…

‘There’s just one condition.’ Then, as the colour flooded into her cheeks, he said, ‘No!’

Yes…

‘No,’ he repeated. ‘All I want from you is that you write to your father.’

‘No…’ The word came out as a whisper.

‘Yes! Ask him to share the day with you. Let him into your little girl’s life.’

‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you care about him?’

More and more and more…

‘Because…Because I know what it’s like to have letters returned unopened. Because one day when I was four years old people came and took my mother away. I hung on to her and that was the only time I saw her cry. As she pulled away, leaving me to the waiting social workers. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I have to go. These people will look after you until I come home…”’ Then, helplessly, ‘You said you’d have my story.’

‘Where was your father, Tom?’

‘Dead. She’d killed him. A battered woman who’d finally struck back, using the first thing that came to hand. A kitchen knife.’ Then, more urgently, because this was what he had to do to make sure she understood, ‘They took her away, put me in care. I didn’t understand. I wrote to her, begging her to come and get me. Week after week. And week after week the letters just came back…’

She said nothing, just held him, as if she could make it all better. And maybe she had. Her need had dragged the story out of him. Had made him say the words. Had made him see that it wasn’t his fault that his mother had died too.

‘I’m sure she thought it was for the best that I forgot her, moved on, found a new family.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘She was my mother, Sylvie. She might not have been the greatest mother in the world, but she was the only one I ever wanted.’

Sylvie thought her heart might break at the thought of a little boy writing his desperate letters, having them returned unopened. Understood his empathy for her own father.

‘What happened to her, Tom?’

‘She never stood trial. By the time her case eventually came up she was beyond the law, in some dark place in her mind. She should have been in hospital, not prison. Maybe there she’d have got help instead of taking her own life.’

She reached out a hand to him. Almost, but not quite, touched his cheek. Then said, ‘Are you sure you haven’t been visiting with the Duchamp ghosts?’

He’d had no way of knowing how she’d react to the fact that he was the son of a wife-batterer, a husband-killer. A suggestion that he’d been communing with her ancestors hadn’t even made the list and, at something of a loss, he said, ‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because I asked my mother what she’d do. I already knew the answer. Have always known it. Maybe she thought it was time to get someone else on my case…’

And finally her fingers came into contact with his cheek, as if by touching him she was reaching through him to her mother. And, just as they had on the evening when the connection between them had become physical, silent tears were pouring down her cheeks, but this time there was no one to interrupt them and she didn’t push him away, but let him draw her close, hold her while he said, over and over, ‘Don’t cry, Sylvie,’ even as his own tears soaked into her hair. ‘Please don’t cry.’

And eventually, when she quieted, drew back, it was she who wiped his cheeks with her fingers.

Comforted him.

‘It’ll be all right,’ she said, holding his face between her hands. Kissing his cheek. ‘I promise you, it’ll be all right.’

‘You’ll write to him? Now?’

‘It won’t wait until morning?’

‘What would your mother say?’

She sniffed and, laughing, swung herself from the bed to grab a tissue. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it.’ Then, ‘I’ll have to fetch my bag; I left it downstairs.’

She crossed to the door, then, halfway through it, she paused and looked back. ‘Tom?’

He waited.

‘Don’t make the same mistake your mother did.’ She was cradling the life growing within her in a protective gesture. It was the most powerful instinct on earth. The drive of the mother to protect her young. His mother had done that. Had protected him from his father. Had protected him from herself…

‘You’re more than your genes,’ she said when he didn’t respond. ‘You’ve forged your own character. It’s strong and true and, I promise you, you’re the kind of father any little girl would want.’

There was an urgency in her voice. A touch of desperation. As if she knew that her own baby wouldn’t be that lucky…

He couldn’t help her. If it had been in his power he would have stopped the world and spun it back to give them both a second chance to get things right. But he couldn’t help either of them.