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‘That I was adopted?’ He frowned. ‘I can’t remember not knowing. I don’t remember my parents sitting me down and telling me on a particular day. They were just always open about it—but in a good way. They made it seem that their adopting me wasn’t about solving some horrible mess. It was a way for us to build a family. I think that’s why I didn’t actually even think about my birth parents for a very long time.’
If only he had kept on feeling that way, then maybe he would never have hurt this beautiful, clear-eyed woman. She could have stayed safe and happy in her beautiful clean world, far away from the mess and turmoil in his head.
‘What changed?’
The steadiness in her voice pulled him back, and he felt some of the turmoil ease. He felt again the shock of her being there with him, caring enough to stay there. It was the same shock and gratitude and disbelief that he’d felt the first time she had turned and talked to him.
‘We found out that my brother, Tom, was a haemophiliac. It’s carried in the female line, and I suppose it made me think about my mother. My biological mother. And the more I thought, the more questions I had. What was she doing now? Did I look like her? Why did she give me up for adoption?’
And then, later, did she regret giving me up? Would she love me if she was given a second chance?
‘Did you ask your parents about her?’
The directness of Dove’s questions surprised him. But then again so much about her surprised him.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘They would have helped me...supported me...but I felt bad that I wanted to know. Like I was judging them.’ His throat felt scratchy. ‘And they don’t deserve that. They’re good people.’
Like you, he thought, glancing over at her, seeing the concern in her grey eyes.
‘I didn’t do anything about it for a long time, and then, about eighteen months before I met you, I went to an appointment at the hospital with my brother and there was a poster in the waiting room about finding your birth parents. I suppose it felt like fate.’
Her eyes held his. ‘So you decided to contact her?’
He nodded. ‘It took about six months after I decided to get in touch to do anything about it.
‘In the end I sent her a letter. I put my phone number in it.’ He paused, remembering how it had felt...the thrill, the fear, the guilt, the hope. ‘The agency told me that I needed to be positive, but realistic. Often birth mothers didn’t want to be contacted. But she texted me almost immediately, suggesting we meet at a hotel.’
His throat felt so tight it hurt when he swallowed.
‘I was nervous, but excited. I bought her flowers. Tulips. I was early, and she was late, but I thought she was probably nervous too.’
He glanced away, staring across the room, seeing again the hotel bar with its scratched dark wood tables and worn armchairs. It had been clean, but shabby, and a long way out of town. He should have known then what she had planned, but he hadn’t been thinking straight.
‘I was checking my phone when this man walked in. I remember thinking that he was way smarter than everyone else. Wearing a proper suit and polished leather shoes. He seemed to be looking for someone, and I thought he must be having an affair.’ He laughed roughly. ‘But then he saw me, and he came over and asked if I was James Balfour.’
His pulse jerked as he said the name, and he waited for his heart to steady itself...waited until it was easier to carry on.
‘That’s the name on my birth certificate,’ he said finally.
Dove nodded, which was more than he had managed to do at the time. He’d felt as if he was floating, looking down on himself. Except that he wasn’t Gabriel—he was James. A stranger talking to another stranger in an unfamiliar bar.
For weeks afterwards he hadn’t been able to look in the mirror in case he saw no reflection. Even the memory of it now was doing something strange to the air, making it hiss like an untuned radio.
‘Who was he?’
Dove’s voice cut across his thoughts.
‘His name was Charles Lambton. He was a lawyer. My mother’s lawyer. You see, I’d got it wrong.’ He couldn’t keep the shake out of his voice. ‘She wasn’t late. She wasn’t coming. In fact, she hadn’t even texted me. Lambton had.’
‘What did he say?’
This was one of the reasons he had never told anyone about what happened that day. The questions they would ask that he couldn’t answer. But it was different with Dove. Her quiet voice helped. Like a hand on his arm, guiding him through a treacherous landscape.
‘Not much. It was very civilised, very polite, but we didn’t make small talk. He apologised for “the subterfuge”, I think he called it, and told me his client had decided against meeting me in person. She thought it would be better to send a trusted third party.’
He had been stunned, unprepared. Around him, the colour had drained from the bar, so that the tulips on the seat beside him had looked overblown and obvious.
‘Better in what way?’
