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‘So,’ he says into the silence, ‘maybe I could have him on alternate weekends?’
She startles, as if what he has said is outrageous. Immediately he feels himself fill with a kind of panic. He has done what he promised himself he would not do. He has ploughed in like an idiot.
‘Not if you don’t want to,’ he adds quickly. ‘I just thought I’d start the ball rolling.’
‘We really are here on business, aren’t we?’ She smiles, but the smile is sad. ‘And here’s me looking my best.’ She laughs, but again her laughter does not match her sad expression.
‘You look great,’ he says too quickly. ‘You always look great. Really. You look lovely.’ He reaches for her. This time his fingers land on her forearm. It is only a moment, but he feels that familiar electrical surge. He lifts his hand away, feels for the edges of the chair seat.
‘I can’t let you have him at weekends,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I just can’t. Maybe one day, but right now I have to think of him. You left, you see, and it really was without warning. I can’t put Tommy through that.’
‘I get it. I probably told you my mum never let my dad do anything other than visit.’
‘Was that for the same reason? That she worried he’d leave?’
He nods. ‘And she was right; he left London before I was a year old. I don’t remember him. I did think about trying to find him once I turned eighteen, but I never did. But I’m not like that. I won’t leave Tommy. I want him to have a father, and I want that father to be me. A hundred per cent. A million.’
She blinks rapidly, appears to be composing herself. When she speaks, her words are shaky. ‘You have to understand… I can’t just give him up like a Pilates class and suddenly be on my own from Friday night to Sunday night. That wouldn’t be fair. It would be traumatic. So for now, if you want to see him, it’ll have to be in the week. Maybe Wednesdays or Thursdays?’
‘Sure. I’ll ask Miranda if I can work four days, at least for a bit. She’s got a kid herself, so she’ll understand. Hopefully.’
‘I can drop him off on the way to work. And we’ll have to call you my friend for now, OK? You’ll have to be Sam. I know I’m being a bit overkill and I take what you say about not leaving him, but I don’t know that, do I? I just need this to be on my terms.’
She is fragile, so much more than he thought.
‘That’s wise,’ he says – slowly, carefully. ‘Whatever you need. I’ll ask about getting time off and let you know tomorrow.’
‘Cool.’ Her eyes meet his over the top of her drink. Her fingerprints on the frosted glass look like pawprints in snow. How beautiful she is; it makes his heart hurt.
The heater dies and he presses it again, its glow casting a warm light, making a kind of aura around her. They smile at one another, and he feels like they’ve reached a new understanding. In front of the little balcony, an older couple walk by. Arms linked, they move in a kind of harmony, as if they are one, or as if one has grown into the other as mistletoe grows into a tree.
Mistletoe, he thinks. The most romantic plant there is.
CHAPTER 17
I was wary when Sam asked me for a day off a week. It was all going so fast, and although he didn’t know it, Joyce had told me in confidence about the viaduct. As far as she was concerned, if Naomi could drive him to do something like that once, she could do it again. And yes, maybe part of me felt jealous that he was falling for her. For her and not me. When he told me about the couple who had walked past their table and used the mistletoe analogy, I knew he’d projected himself and Naomi onto them: the future he was already envisioning despite himself. I just nodded and smiled. What else could I do? I was his friend; it wasn’t my job to pee on his bonfire. Except I remember thinking afterwards: mistletoe isn’t romantic at all. It’s a parasite that sucks all the nutrients from its host tree, weakening it slowly over time.
He reassured me that nothing would change. Darren could supervise on Wednesdays – he’d been keen to take more responsibility for a while. Sam argued that there’d be a saving if I only had to pay him for four days, which of course meant less money for him. He said he’d bring Tommy with him sometime and introduce him to the guys when things got more settled. Reluctantly, I agreed.
He never did call in with the baby. Never even told the guys what was going on. It was as if, from that moment on, he was elsewhere.
Joyce too is tense when he tells her the plan. There’ll be a loss of earnings – she says this out loud. She tells him he has no experience of babies, asks him how he will cope. Is he sure this is what he wants?
‘Yes,’ he tells her. ‘It’s what I want.’
The following Wednesday, Naomi takes the day off to show him the ropes. A little after nine, the doorbell chimes low in the kitchen and he and Joyce almost leap from their chairs.
‘Crikey,’ Joyce says with a chuckle. ‘We’re on pins, aren’t we?’
He walks into the hallway, aware of his gran following at a distance like a bad sleuth. He opens the heavy wooden front door and there she is: sky-blue kitbag over one shoulder and baby Tommy in his primary-coloured car seat in the other hand. She looks small, smaller for standing on the gravel drive, himself on the porch step. He is infused with the feeling that she belongs to him in some way, that she is somehow part of his DNA.
‘Hey,’ he says, as casually as he can. ‘Come on in.’
‘Thanks.’ She steps inside, her head bowed a little. When she looks up, he sees her glance at Joyce, a flicker of something he can’t name crossing her face. Caution perhaps. A kind of fear.
‘Hello, Naomi, nice to see you again.’ Joyce’s tone is a little crisp. She approaches slowly, her hands out in welcome or a gesture of defence, it’s hard to tell. ‘So this is the little fella, is it?’ She leans over the baby, unable to stop a smile from spreading across her face. Tommy’s eyes are almost violet, Sam thinks, here in the shadowy hall, but he gets no further with the thought, because quite unprompted, the baby smiles gummily at his great-grandmother, causing all three adults to exclaim in delight.
‘Did you recognise your Granny Joyce, Tommy?’ Naomi says. She is tentative, appears to be fighting to make herself look directly at Joyce. ‘Or maybe Great-Granny? Or Great-Grandma? Sorry, I don’t know what you prefer.’
