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‘Great tree-eating. Sorry, broccoli-eating.’
‘And pasta.’
‘And pasta, yes.’
‘And pesto.’
‘And pesto. Of course. Silly me.’
Miranda’s kitchen is tiny but cosy. There are fairy lights pinned around the back door to the yard, and Betsy’s paintings and drawings are Blu-tacked all over the walls.
Miranda offers him a beer.
‘Actually, no,’ he says. ‘I’m meeting Naomi later, so…’
Miranda’s eyebrows rise; her face pinks. ‘Right. Listen, you could have FaceTimed if you’re going out. Or called even. You didn’t need to—’
‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m not meeting her till later, and I was passing, so…’
‘So you’re… are you two—’
‘Turns out I have a son.’ The words rush out. He feels the heat they make in his face.
‘What?’ Miranda’s mouth falls open. She stands up, makes to open the fridge but misses the handle and swipes at fresh air. ‘You have ason?’
He grins. He can’t stop grinning. ‘Remember I said she had a baby with her the other day? Did I say that?’ He meets her eye, but she shakes her head and looks away, deeper pink now climbing her neck. ‘Maybe I didn’t, but anyway, she did, and he looked like me – well, my colouring – and I just got this feeling, you know? Anyway, yeah, so at the weekend I asked her if he was mine, and at first she said no, but… yeah. I’m a father.’
‘You’re afather? And she didn’ttellyou?’
‘No, but with lockdown and everything… and it didn’t exactly end well, you know? And I suppose I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t contact herat allafter I left.’ He studies the tabletop, brushes a small cluster of crumbs into a pile, makes himself look up.
Miranda gives a slow nod, as if she’s a bit shocked. He worries he’s disappointed her. She’s always telling him he’s a good bloke:you’re too nice for your own good, Sam Moore, is how she says it. He likes it when she says that, worries now that she won’t think it anymore.
‘Joyce reckoned it was kinder to let her rely on her friends and get over it in her own way,’ he says. ‘Obviously I would’ve called if I’d known she was pregnant, but I didn’t. I had no idea.’
‘Sure. Sure, I’m not… I mean I’m not… not at all.’ Miranda has opened the fridge successfully now and is pulling a bottle of Peroni from inside. She holds it up and raises her eyebrows –sure you won’t?– but he shakes his head.
‘But don’t let me stop you.’
‘I won’t, don’t worry.’ She flips off the top with the bottle opener that’s screwed to the wall. ‘So is tonight, like, a date?’
‘Ah, no. It’s not like that. No. No way. And listen, don’t tell anyone, OK? I’m only telling you. Joyce knows about the baby, but I told her I was meeting the boys for a few beers. She’ll just worry otherwise.’
‘Maisie’s got Thomas the Tank Engine,’ Betsy says.
Sam switches his attention to her and widens his eyes. ‘Has she? Who’s Maisie?’
‘She’s my friend from nursry.’
‘OK. And doyoulike Thomas the Tank Engine?’
She nods fast. ‘Mummy says I can have Thomas for my birfday when I’m four.’ She holds up four fingers, for clarity.
Again Sam widens his eyes to show how impressed he is. ‘Well, aren’t you lucky? And do you have a train track?’
She nods more violently this time. ‘Mummy makes my fig of eight.’
‘Figureof eight,’ Miranda says, peeling the lid from a tiny yoghurt and putting it in front of Betsy along with a teaspoon. ‘So the trains can go round and under the bridge and over the bridge. Good girl eating all your pasta. Lots of lovely vitamins.’ She strikes a muscle-man pose.
