Hate to Love You (18 page)

I stared at her, hurt by her brutal honesty. “I’m Ryan’s mother.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Is that how you’ve been justifying your demands? No wonder James won’t let you see Ryan. I don’t blame him. Parenthood is twenty-four seven. It’s loving your child more than you love yourself and making sure you protect him. It’s preventing his heart from getting sliced and diced by a mother who’ll run off to Spain if she can’t cope. For seven years James has been there for Ryan when you haven’t, so I would cut the man a little slack.”

I wished she’d been shouting; then I could have got angry. Shouty Marcia was prone to exaggeration and divalike leaps from reality; quiet Marcia told it straight and to that there was no comeback.

For years I had shifted the blame onto James’s shoulders and now I had to face the truth, ugly as it was. It was my fault—and mine alone—that Ryan didn’t have a mother. No matter how much I had ranted about James’s actions or cried that Francesca had taken Ryan from me, after the sorrow and despair had turned to glum acceptance I had felt
relieved
.

Relieved I wouldn’t be a single parent and relieved that I could concentrate on getting clean and sober.

True
, my mind agreed sadly.

The theatre lights dimmed and the play started. The opening score had a low, drumming cadence that suited my mood perfectly. Gut-wrenching and painful, just like the days after Ryan was born. Like my childhood and adolescence, when I’d felt as much a prisoner as the people on stage, chained to my awful reality. Once I was free I had fled and not looked back, too much a coward to face my past.

As the play progressed, I tried to push the sorrow away, determined to enjoy my visit to the theatre. But it seems that misery really does love company because
Les Miserables
resonated with my sorrow and it refused to budge.

Forget the French Revolution and the obsessed policeman with too much time on his hands. For me the story was about Fantine, the prostitute, and the miraculous twist of fate that saved her daughter from a life like hers.

Marcia and I held hands, crying our eyes out at the utter desolation of her life. All I could think was that I could have been her. Of course, I didn’t live in France in the seventeen hundreds, but still. What would have happened had I been left to my own devices? Drugs and alcohol? A descent into the misery I was watching from the discomfort of my seat? What would have happened to Ryan?

If not for James.

Looking at the actor playing Valjean almost undid me. He was tall and dark haired, and his rich voice filled me with a poignant cocktail of pain and pleasure. Valjean loved Cosette and tried to protect her, and he wasn’t even her real father. Of course, James
thought
he was Ryan’s real father, but I was sure he would have loved my son anyway had my sister been the sort of woman I could have entrusted him to.

Marcia was right about a parent’s love for their child, no matter the blood link. My mind had known it but my heart hadn’t wanted to accept it.

How could I expect James to let Ryan into my care on my say-so alone? Ryan was precious to him, even more than he was to me. James was the parent and I was...well, I was nothing. Just a womb that had filled and then emptied.

After the play we sat in gloomy silence as the theatre emptied. There was no way I was going to risk bumping into James and Miss Universe again. My eyes were swollen and my nose felt sore from sniffling.

Marcia stood up and extended her hand. “Let’s go home, baby cheeks.”

“If you call me that again you’re not getting any tonight.”

We didn’t talk any more about James but what Marcia had said dogged me for the rest of the weekend. I resolved to treat him differently, less like an adversary and more like a...

Lover
, my mind whispered.

No!
Like a hot man who happened to be my son’s father and who I should get to know better for that reason alone. Nothing more.

Chapter Fifteen

“PUM”

I have the flakiest friends in the world: an A&E nurse who can’t keep time to save her soul and a Christian minister who can’t keep a date to save his life. It was the weekend following
Les Miserables
and Tarzan had texted me, cancelling our night out in the West End.

Salsa dancing had replaced my craving for drugs. Well, not really. Who was I kidding? But I figured if I said it often enough then one day it would be true. Unfortunately, one of Tarzan’s young addict parishioners had OD’d and he’d be spending the night at the hospital, praying and comforting the family. I shuddered and sent the poor kid my best wishes.

I pouted at my phone, trying to decide whether to finish reading
Wild West Succubus
or head to the salsa club anyway. No matter how much I tried not to think about James wining and dining Vanessa, kissing her and taking her to bed, the image of them together kept intruding on my thoughts. As did the memory of his arms around me as we danced, his teasing voice as he wiped the chocolate from my face and his aloofness since then.

I’d been doing a lot of thinking since that night at the theatre. Instead of concentrating on my pain or my desires, I thought about Ryan’s needs. I wanted to be in his life for
his
sake now, more than my own. That his heart could be damaged by not knowing me gave me a new sense of purpose—a selfless one.

James continued to observe me with the same intensity. His sharp looks seeped into my body like a fever and I needed to break it, shake it and fling it loose.
Salsa dancing would have done the trick
, I thought sourly.

I couldn’t muster my
joie de dance
so I settled down to read whether Paprika was going to add another stud to her corral. A few minutes later Marcia came home from a birthday party with Fleur Anise and stood in my doorway. Frowning, she held out a yellow sticky note as if it was her last pound coin and she was being forced to drop it into the collection plate.

“L’Amuse Bouche called while you were out shopping this morning,” she said. “One of their waitresses came down with a bug and they want to know if you can silver service tonight.”

Extra money is always welcome so I tugged the sticky note from her grasp and tried to read it. Jesus, they say doctors’ handwriting is bad but a nurse’s isn’t much better. I deciphered Marcia’s spiderlike scrawl and my restless mood disappeared.
60th birthday bash
,
Matham Manor
,
Hampstead
.

“Brilliant.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Francesca’s had my drug test results for ages,” I said, opening my top drawer. “I’ve kept to my end of the bargain and she’s done nothing to help me. It’s time to remind Franny dearest of her promise.”

“Be patient, hon.”

I snorted. Patience has passed me by and I’ve learned to live without it. It’s not as though I can pick some up on eBay or add it to my Christmas wish list. I rooted around for a pair of black tights with no ladders in them.

“Tarzan is always saying things happen for a reason and this is the perfect example. The next time I see him I’m going to thank him because—Hey, I need to borrow your black dress—the boring one with the long zipper down the front.”

Marcia stopped pacing. “Have you forgotten your little restraining order problem?”

Oh, yeah. “Where’s my wig?”

Marcia glared at me. “Francesca’s sixtieth is hardly the right time to approach her about Ryan.”

I slammed my drawer shut. “There’ll never be a right time, not at this rate. Seeing as Francesca won’t come to Paisley, it’s time for Paisley to go to the manor.”

“If you get caught you’ll be sorry.”

“I won’t get caught.”

I
hope
, I added mentally. If James saw me it would mean handcuffs, and not the pink fluffy kind. He might have danced and chatted with me at Mr Lemane’s party, but I was under no illusions about what he’d do if he caught me trespassing.

* * *

Two hours later I was being ushered through the gates of Matham Manor with the other silver servers, Marcia’s black dress on my frame and a short black pageboy wig covering my hair. We entered through the service door and studied the floor plan so we wouldn’t get lost. The party was being held in the ballroom and the necessary route wove through several corridors.

I volunteered for kitchen duty, arranging the hors d’oeuvres on the plates like a good worker bee. When one of the other waiters commented on the number of people in the ballroom I knew it was time to hit the party. I straightened my dress, checked my wig, consulted the map and picked up a tray of pastry rolls stuffed with crabmeat.

As I walked through the spacious corridors and formal, stilted rooms I couldn’t help picturing James, sitting in the overstuffed armchair I’d passed or looking out at the park through the elegant Georgian windows.

I paused to peek into the dining room. How did James manage to speak to Francesca if they sat at either end of a thirty-foot table? Maybe the butler passed their notes to each other between serving courses. I imagined Ryan relaying messages so they could play Chinese whispers and chuckled.

Blue bloods
.

The ballroom was akin to something out of a Cinderella film. It had a high ceiling with intricate cornices and a shiny parquet floor. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and the windows were lavishly draped in midnight-blue silk curtains. The guests wore long gowns and tuxedos, chatting to the subtle sounds of bossa nova, played by a live band.

I hated to admit it but Marcia was right. There were so many people it was hard to find Francesca. My plan was to offer her my canapés and then convince her to slip away somewhere and talk. Failing that I would resort to “fling the food,” a method suggested by Fleur Anise, whereby the contents of my tray would end up on Francesca’s clothing, forcing her to leave the party and clean up.

When I saw James my hands jolted so hard I almost flung the food on the elderly lady who’d accepted a crab roll.
Stunning
was the word that came to mind.
Edible
was another. The black tuxedo set off his Mediterranean skin tone, black hair and green eyes to perfection.

James chatted to a middle-aged couple, a glass of red wine in his hand and a smile on his face. A man relaxed and totally at ease. A novel look for him. I forgot my mission entirely, mesmerised by the air of sensuality he exuded.

James turned his head and—
Crap!
I hid my face, headed straight to a cluster of guests opposite and practically forced my canapés on them. After that I made sure to circulate in the opposite direction, keeping James in my peripheral vision at all times. By the time my tray was empty I hadn’t managed to speak to Francesca, but I told myself not to worry. There was plenty of time to find her.

I’d gone to get another tray and was heading back to the party when I saw Ryan. We were alone in the corridor and he was in SpongeBob SquarePants pyjamas, hiding behind a grandfather clock. He must have been peeking at us silver servers, unobserved, as we passed with our trays. When he saw that I’d spotted him he ran off.

“Wait,” I cried, then clamped a hand over my mouth.

He stopped and looked back at me, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

<<
You can’t catch me.
>>

My response was instinctive
.
<<
You wanna bet?
>>

His eyes widened and then he giggled and sped off. As for me, well, I was shell—shocked. Seeing my son not five feet away from me after seven years was stupefying, but mental chit-chat? I glanced towards the party, unsure of my next move. I had insinuated myself into James’s workplace, made and kept promises, tried to talk to Francesca, and become a stalker in order to see Ryan. All for nothing.

I should seize my chance and run after my son, but I hesitated because...because...

You’re afraid
, my mind supplied.

Ballroom or my son
?

I put the tray on the windowsill and chased after Ryan. We ran in and out of rooms, with me “almost” catching him a few times. Then he led me down a corridor and disappeared behind a large oak door. I followed him and stepped into a light and airy self-contained flat, a spacious sitting room furnished with brown leather sofas straight in front. To the left, an open-plan kitchen and marble top breakfast bar and to the right, two shut doors.

Ryan jumped out from behind a sofa and I rushed forward, then put the brakes on hard, stopping myself from squeezing, kissing and holding him in my arms. Inhaling his little boy scent.

Ryan cocked his head. “Why can you talk to me with your eyes? Nobody else can.”

Direct, just like James. “Not your dad?”

He shook his head.

“It’s not a common talent,” I said. “Best not tell people—they don’t understand.”

“Granny doesn’t.”

“Granny?” It was hard to imagine Francesca being given such a warm, loving title. A knot of jealousy formed in my stomach. No doubt she was the one who’d taught him to extend his hand politely.

“I’m Ryan.”

I shook his hand and a tingle went through my palm and straight to my heart. How should I introduce myself? “I’m P...uhm...”

“Pum?” he asked, delighted. “Your name is
Pum?
”

So Pum I was.

I forced myself to let go of his hand and looked at the classic seascapes on the walls. My mind sang
my son
, over and over, for once not giving me orders or trying to keep me on the straight and narrow.

“Is this where you live?” I asked, relieved my voice didn’t wobble.

“Me and Dad.” Ryan peered at me, blue eyes wide. “Are you crying?”

I made eye contact. <<
It’s hay fever
.>>

He shrugged and, in the way that children have, flitted from one topic to the next while, in the way that adults have, I only half listened. I was too busy drinking him in, listening to his voice and memorising it for later. Why hadn’t I kept my mobile in my apron pocket? That way I could have videoed him for a frame by frame replay later.

I followed Ryan as he showed me the flat, pointing to the large plasma television and pulling me to his other favourite object: the freezer side of the silver American-style fridge.

Wow
.

James and Ryan weren’t just fans of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream, they had shares in the company by the looks of it. I didn’t let Ryan have any though, much as he begged. It was hard to resist his pleas but I distracted him by asking to see his room. It was behind the first shut door. A typical boy’s haven, it was decorated in greens and blues and plastered in posters of sporting heroes. Surprisingly neat.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Dad makes me tidy up before breakfast and if it’s not done properly I have to do it all over again.”

“It’s neater than my room,” I confessed, peeking into the large en-suite bathroom.

Ryan smiled conspiratorially and opened his top drawer, revealing a stash of London bus sweets. A few empty wrappers stuck out between socks and pants. “If Dad saw this he’d go nuts.”

“He’s a neat freak,” I agreed.

“You know my dad?”

I bit my lip.

“Come see his new Jacuzzi,” Ryan said excitedly. He sped out of his room and into James’s and I followed, shutting the bedroom door behind me.

“Ryan,” I called. “I’ve got to get back.”

“It’ll only take two seconds and then you can go, okay?”

How was I supposed to resist his bright blues a second time? I hesitated just inside the threshold of James’s bedroom and looked around, feeling awkward. The room was masculine and functional, decorated in muted greys and black. He had a king-sized bed with built-in wardrobes to either side and a chest of drawers with a large mirror on top against the opposite wall.

I made a face. From my memory of the bridal suite I knew James liked black, but was this boring or what? Why not add pale blue and bright orange cushions on the bed, or on that leather sofa under the window? Or better yet, a potpourri of vivid greens and scarlet to liven things up? And I would add sumptuous curtains instead of those drab office-style blinds and...

And yourself
,
naked and waiting in the middle of the bed?
my mind taunted.

Oh God, it was time to leave, Jacuzzi or no Jacuzzi. I opened my mouth to call to Ryan and heard muffled voices outside the flat’s door.

“Shinto!”

That was my new substitute swear word and I whispered it frantically under my breath. I killed the bedroom light but I didn’t have time to shut the door all the way, leaving a gap of about two inches. Ryan’s eyes went wide at the sound of James’s voice. He put a finger to his lips and I did the same, as good as a signed contract. We were co-conspirators in the game of hide and hide.

I pointed at the bathroom, signalling for him to turn off the light and stay hidden. He saluted like a soldier and scampered inside. My back hit the nearest wall and I stared into the dark. This was where I kissed my chances with Ryan goodbye forever. They don’t let minors into jail for visits, do they? If James caught me violating the restraining order, and in his bedroom no less...

Panicked sweat pooled under my wig as I listened to the voices in the sitting room.

What the hell?

I would recognise that snobbish, falsely cultured voice anywhere. It was Caroline. I was nonplussed until I remembered she was married to James’s cousin. It was Francesca’s sixtieth birthday party so it made sense she be invited along with the rest of the family.

But why was she here with James?

This warranted risking a peek. I peeled myself off the wall and edged closer to the door, peering through the gap. Caroline and James faced each other in front of the three-seater sofa. James’s expression was wary and Caroline’s looked as coldly beautiful as I remembered, harder, but still poised and classy. Her hairstyle was different though; it was cut man-short, making her look like Annie Lennox. In one hand she held a glass of red wine and she clutched something in the other, but I couldn’t make out what it was.