Behaving Like Adults (35 page)

I was silent. This is a terrible thing to say about someone you love, but Nick never struck me as a person who felt deeply. Mrs Mortimer wasn't entirely right. He
was
distant from his parents, but only in the sense that even when he was twenty-nine they treated him like a child. But I'd never thought much of it. Very few of my peers had the warm and easy-going
friend
ship that I had with my mum and dad. I'd presumed that Nick's rather more formal attachment to Lavinia and Michael was linked to being an only child, and being raised in a more sophisticated household. The higher the class, the cooler the relationship, was what
I'd
presumed. I'd once asked Rachel if she enjoyed spending all her free time in this or that country house with a few friends and a great bunch of strangers. She'd replied, ‘I grew up in a house full of strangers, Nanny, the house-keeper – I'm used to it.'

This made absolute sense to me. There was a ruthlessness about Rachel, which seemed to be derived from a
rationing
of love, and the consequent realisation that one can only depend on oneself. How close to your parents
can you be if they pack you off to boarding school aged five?

Nick's upbringing wasn't quite as rarified as Rachel's but from what I could tell, it had similar elements, with similar results. Mr and Mrs Mortimer had visited Issy with Nick and myself four months after Eden was born, and could hardly contain their horror. Even when Eden fell asleep, Issy wouldn't put the baby down. She'd barely raised her eyes from her new heart's desire. Lavinia mentioned that Nick had been bottle-fed, and wasn't it super, because you could use the time to cook, make telephone calls and generally catch up with your chores. Issy had replied that she
always
maintained eye contact with Eden while breastfeeding – it was essential for healthy development of the Self – hadn't Mrs Mortimer heard of ‘mirroring'?

Plainly, Mrs Mortimer hadn't. In the car home, her only comment was that she had never ‘pandered' to Nick because she hadn't wanted him to be a ‘lap baby'.

Not that Nick was incapable of love. Throughout our time together, I never doubted he loved me. But I'd presumed that Nick loved on a different level to most people. That was why the vehemence of his emotion when I ended the engagement was such a shock. Certainly, there was an element of wanting what he couldn't have. But it seemed that he'd genuinely loved me more than I'd realised. He just hadn't shown it with the freedom that some people would. And now,
now
, perhaps I could understand why. His first experience was abandonment by the woman who should have adored and protected him the most. Why would you ever trust or dare to love openly after that?

Mrs Mortimer might say that this was nonsense, Nick hadn't known he was adopted until she'd told him. But – and I'd stake my life on it – Issy would say that, subconsciously or not, of course he'd known. After all, he'd
been
there, hadn't he?

I looked at Mrs Mortimer and said, ‘Lavinia, I'll go and see him now.'

‘Yes?' said Nick, when I rang the doorbell. Funny to say it, but for the first time since I'd known him, he looked like his mother's son. He was wearing a shirt and tie, smart trousers and a blazer, as if he were going to an interview. I preferred his Johnny Depp dress sense but I wasn't going to mention it. Even his hair was neat. No doubt Bo would think this was
her
work.

I smiled at him. ‘Sorry about the last time we spoke. I wanted to see how you were doing.'

He gazed at me, suspicious. ‘You've lost weight. It doesn't suit you.'

I nodded at him. ‘I fully intend to put it all back on again. Anyway, speak for yourself. If you're not careful you'll end up like Bo.'

I watched Nick trying not to smile. A source of great amusement to us both was the discovery – Manjit was useless at keeping secrets – that Bo's knees were so bony she had to sleep with a pillow between her legs. Nick had said, ‘Well, that's
her
excuse!'

‘I suppose we should discuss selling the house,' he said, finally. ‘Instruct a devious estate agent not like Claudia. Come in.'

He made me a non-instant coffee without being asked. And added milk and two sugars. I looked around Bo's kitchen and wondered how she afforded it. Her taste was chintzy, but expensive. Her home seemed to belong to an older person. Nick tiptoed around it like a much disciplined bull in a china shop. His blazer hung loose on his shoulders and I wanted to hug him.

‘How you doing, Nicky?'

‘Fine,' he said. ‘Badly.'

He put the coffee on Bo's pine table, murmured a little ‘uh' to himself, and shoved a mat under the mug. It was like observing a tiger in captivity.

‘Nick. Why don't we get out of here? Go for a walk?'

His mouth twitched. ‘If you like.'

I drove us to Ally Pally. Alexandra Park, for those of you not familiar with it. Big. Green. Views across London. Not the
best
views, or the best parts of London, but exhilarating all the same. Nick and I sat on a bench and kicked our feet. I wanted to hold his hand but I wasn't sure I should, so I didn't. I waited, picking out far off chimneys and tower blocks, full of people going about their lives.

‘I want to find my birth mother.'

I started.
Birth
mother. Not a term I was even familiar with.

‘Really? How do you go about doing that?'

Oh God, I wanted to say, are you sure that's a good idea? I couldn't, of course, say anything of the sort – he would have taken it the wrong way. But this woman had already proved herself unreliable. Nick was not in a fit state to be rejected again.

‘You don't think I should.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Hol, I can tell.'

He drew up his knees, and circled them with his arms.

I tried to engage my brain before speaking. ‘I understand why you want to find her – not knowing who your mother is, it must be like part of your soul is missing – but just be careful, that's all. She might be desperate to see you again – she
should
be – but, well, it's best to have your guard up. Not to go in there, expecting a, a fairy-tale ending.'

Nick rested his head on his knees, and smiled grimly. ‘Why not?' he said. ‘Isn't that how most fairy-tales begin? With an abandoned baby? I might turn out to be a prince.'

I laughed. ‘That's not what you said the last time we spoke.'

I bent to pick a blade of grass and Nick said, ‘A dog's probably pissed on that.'

I retracted my hand.

‘Anyway, Hol, what have you got against happy endings
all of a sudden? I thought they were your life's work.'

I felt a black doom engulf me. I heard myself say in a voice of ice, ‘I don't believe in them any more.'

The two of us see-sawed off each other. If
he
was gloomy, I was cheerful. Now it was his turn. He looked at me and grinned his old sloppy smile. ‘But
you
ended our engagement, Holly.'

I ignored the teasing tone.

‘Nick, believe me. It wasn't that.'

He frowned. ‘What was it then?'

I told him. And as I did, I started to wonder why the hell I hadn't told him before.

I'VE NEVER SEEN
a person physically fine, yet in so much pain. One moment he'd rock in agony, the next, he'd moan like an animal. Then he'd spring from the bench, pace in no particular direction, dig his fists into his eyes and say, ‘Ah, Christ, Jesus Christ.' I found myself in the peculiar position of having to comfort
him
. Tears streamed as he gasped, ‘I'm so sorry Hol, I let you down, I'll kill him for you, I'll fucking do him, he'll die, the bastard, he'll pay for this, I swear it.'

I stroked his hair, and he cried in my lap, hugging my hips and muttering, ‘Oh Holly, Holly, how could he?'

‘Don't, Nick, you'll make me cry too,' I said. I wasn't going to say,
It's alright
, because it wasn't. ‘It's a nice idea in theory, but I don't really want you going to prison for killing Stuart.'

He sat up suddenly, white faced. ‘It's my fault. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have—'

‘Nick, don't be ridiculous.'

He shook his head. His face crumpled again, but he clenched his teeth and gained control. ‘I'm sorry,' he said in a strangulated voice. ‘
You
should be the one making a scene, not me. I don't mean to steal your grief. I – God, Holly – what you mean to me, I just' – he clutched the portion of shirt over his heart – ‘the pain, I wish I could take it from you, ah, God, I should have been there, to protect you, to think . . . I heard you with him, in the kitchen, and I thought, I'm so stupid, I thought, ah, Hol, I wish I could take your pain—' his voice cracked.

I felt a corresponding pang in my own chest. ‘Thank you. I know you do.'

I understood what he meant because sometimes I felt
his
misery as if it were my own. Although that means something wonderful, it's not entirely practical. You feel twice as much love but you end up feeling twice as much hurt, and it can bounce back, to and fro, forever. I was well aware of this as we sat there – that while baring my soul to Nick gave me some sort of peace, it had equal potential to give me some sort of hell. I didn't want to sit here for the rest of the day regurgitating. I felt I'd rather get Caroline to fax him my statement.

Anyhow, Issy says that, despite Oprah and Jerry Springer, merely talking about a trauma is not always healthy. Talking is only worthwhile if, at the same time, you're
processing
the horror, coming to terms with it. If not you merely nurture it until it becomes larger like a tumour in your head and lodges there, no longer your past but your hideous present. I certainly hadn't ‘come to terms' with it, a phrase surely conceived by an idiot. I'd made some mental progress through talking to Caroline (about three inches). But now, thanks to the CPS I was back to – not square one – square two, maybe.

And it wasn't as if I was short of new problems. I was wondering if I should tell Nick about Claudia and Camille's suspicions of Stuart and their little plan, when he grasped my hands.

‘Hol,' he said. ‘I'm being selfish. Tell me, tell me what
you
want. What can I do to help you?'

I smiled into his eyes. It's rare that you hear a man admit to being selfish – I felt I should reward him for good behaviour. ‘There is one tiny thing.' I explained about Stuart threatening to sue me.

Nick didn't have the sort of face that turns purple, but if he'd been a puce sort of guy, at that moment he'd have gone blueberry. ‘
What?
' he roared. He quickly lowered his voice. ‘You should tell Caroline immediately,' he said. ‘But you
know what? Like he'd
dare
. This is bullshit, Holly. He's trying to terrorise you. If he sues, he draws attention to himself and what he's done. I really don't think you have to worry about this, it would be an insane move on his part. If he persists, tell him you
welcome
the action. Tell him you can't wait to tell everyone what he did, that you'll enjoy it. If you want, I'll ring him – or better still, I'll consult Dad.'

Michael Mortimer was a senior partner at a blue chip London law firm, Mortimer Valancourt. They even sounded like avenging knights. Stuart's little outfit was a joke by comparison.

I blinked. ‘I thought you were barely speaking to him.'

Nick's face was a scowl. ‘I think this is slightly more important than my little strop, don't you?'

I struggled to speak. Unless I was hallucinating, here was a new Nick rising from the ashes – strong, supportive, selfless. A smart woman would have given him encouragement for good behaviour. I was about to fling his kindness back in his face.

‘Actually, Nick. Don't ask Michael. It's very . . . big of you, but right now, I don't feel comfortable with the idea of him knowing. I haven't even told Em and Dee. But don't worry. I
will
ring Caroline. And anyway, you're right. Of course Stuart doesn't want to sue me. He'd be mad.'

Despite these brave/stupid (is there a difference?) words, I had a fantasy vision of Stuart facing the might of Michael Mortimer in court and being crushed to a dust. The fear of what Stuart was capable of still pricked but at least now I had the mental ammunition to fight it.

This realisation made my stomach rumble.

Nick looked like he might argue, then didn't. ‘Food?' he said, instead.

I smiled my gratitude. ‘Good idea. Where shall we go?'

Except for spinach soup, my cupboard was bare, and as I knew that Bo was given to such pronouncements as ‘We don't eat butter in this house', there was no point going to her place.

As it was Nick, I didn't bother garnishing the first thought that came into my head. ‘Somewhere where people are kind to us.'

This ruled out about half the restaurants in London. The last time I'd booked a table for 7 p.m. on a Thursday, at a former favourite of mine in Wardour Street, they'd demanded back the table at 8.30.
And
– after the waiters had hung about like a brood of vampires, snatching our plates while we were still chewing – service charge had been added to the bill, which was dumped on the table, unrequested. This was BS – Before Stuart – so I'd paid up, sighed, ‘Well, it
is
Thursday night,' and dissuaded Claudia from making a scene. (She managed to dawdle spitefully over her cappuccino until 9.20 and had to be satisfied with that.)

‘
I
know a place,' said Nick. ‘Cantina Italia. It's a little place in Islington. Smokey. Hard chairs. But
so
friendly. And the food is likketyspishous.'