Page 109 of The Way We Are Now

FEBRUARY 2026

It’s 7 a.m. on Sunday morning and I’m towelling my hair dry, deciding what to wear for my date in Oxford. I’ve a mass of work to do, including planning a trip up to Rothersley to my constituency in the coming week. With my new promotion, and everything that goes with that, I know I’ve been guilty of not heading north to hold surgeries as often as I should and I need to be around for the people who voted me in eight years ago.

But this afternoon, I’m driving the fifty miles to have a late lunch with my son and to meet Immi for the first time. There’ll be four of us: Theo – who has just left to help his daughter with a flatpack wardrobe – Noah, Immi and myself. We’ve left it a couple of months following another round of DNA testing – this time to confirm Angus’s belief that Theo is not Immi’s biological father – and now I can’t wait to meet her.

I’m settled at my desk in my study with a strong black coffee, missing both Theo and Noah, but relishing having the house to myself for a few hours.

By 10 a.m., I’ve caught up with the papers the PM has asked me to look at, have put some washing on, looked at the Sunday papers on my iPad, picked up and tidied a couple of Theo’s sweaters, sniffing each one just to remind myself that he’s here with me in Wandsworth. I’m heading for my bedroom, hot brush and make-up, when my personal phone rings. I don’t recognise the number and, always wary, especially of the press now that Theo Mandeville and I appear to be an item, I don’t answer. It rings a couple more times before a message is left on voicemail.

‘Ms Piasecki? My name is Cynthia Parker. I’m calling from the Summer Wood Hospital in Readenhead. I’d be really grateful if you could ring me back on this number.’

Hospital? And Readenhead, a town on the road to Oxford? My heart pounds and I know, I just know that something has happened to Theo. This is just too much! After forty years, I can finally call Theo Mandeville my own, only to have him in a car accident on the way to building a fucking Ikea flatpack?

I press call back with trembling fingers.

‘Cynthia Parker? It’s Anna Piasecki. Is he all right? Is he all right…?’

‘Well, no, dear, that’s why I’m ringing. He says he has to speak to you. Says he can’t… you know… can’t pass over… without telling you…’

‘Telling me? Pass over?’ I shout down the phone. ‘What’s happened? Is he hurt?’ I’m still in my dressing gown but grab my car keys. ‘Just tell me where he is.’

‘You should be able to get here in time, dear,’ Cynthia says kindly, speaking slowly as if to a child. ‘Now, we’re on the Oxford road, just out of the town centre. You can’t miss the hospice – it’s a big red-bricked building with a great big sign that says Summer Wood Hospice in bright yellow. As I say, you can’t miss it and…’

‘Hospice?’ I know I’m shouting, need to calm down. ‘Not a hospital?’

‘Hospital? No, no, dear.’ She gives a little chuckle. ‘We’re the town’s hospice. I’m a volunteer here. I hold hands… you know…?’

‘And Theo’s there? In a hospice? Not the hospital?’

‘Theo?’ Cynthia is momentarily silenced. ‘I’m sorry, dear, who’s Theo?’

Thank you, God, thank you, God.

Cynthia explains further, I spend half an hour getting ready, grab my coat and car keys once more and leave.

I’ve not seen him for such a long time; over twenty years at least, I reckon. In fact, I was almost full term with Noah when he turned up one day, unannounced at my office. I was delighted to see him, suggested we go out for lunch and catch up, but he was edgy, anxious, and it was obviously a shock for him to see I was about to become a mother. I put his nervousness and his refusal to accompany me to lunch down to his fear that I might go in to labour any minute, and he’d have to grab towels and hot water and act as midwife.

‘Frank,’ I say, walking over to the bed, sitting down on the chair beside it and reaching for his hand. ‘I’m so sorry. I’d no idea.’

‘No, well, you never did keep in touch, did you?’ He has various tubes in his hands, and I see he’s connected to all sorts of paraphernalia and is finding it difficult to get the words out.

‘You moved around the country a lot,’ I apologise. ‘I knew you’d ended up in the south somewhere. I’ve sent Christmas cards when I’ve known your address… and birthday cards…’ I trail off, knowing I’ve not been the best friend, know that Frank has always had a bit of a thing for me.

‘You still have the same mobile number,’ he manages to get out and I nod.

Frank stares at me. His sunken eyes are lifeless, his face yellow and papery like ancient parchment. ‘You need to know, Anna,’ he whispers.

I move nearer. ‘What, Frank? What is it?’ I take his hand.

‘I… I killed Fliss.’

I recoil, my pulse racing.

‘Didn’t mean to. Need you to know that…’ He starts coughing, closes his eyes.

‘Tell me,’ I say. ‘Tell me, Frank.’

‘Out for a run. Training for some marathon… can’t remember. Still dark… you know? Wanted to get 20K in before…’ He breaks off, unable to catch his breath and I pass a glass of water, but he shakes it off impatiently.