One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [140]
I tried to make sense of what he was saying. My head was still shrieking – what? What? This couldn’t be happening. Seffy knew?
He asked if I’d take a DNA test to see if it matched his, or was close. As his uncle and nearest relative on that side of the family. Not strictly true: Cassie is, of course. But he didn’t want to alarm her until he knew for sure.’
‘When?’ I managed at length, mouth very dry now. ‘When was this?’
‘About a year ago.’
A year ago. I couldn’t speak. Stared at him.
His eyes held me. I was having difficulty breathing. Shock had sucked the air from my lungs. What I could muster was coming in shallow bursts. A year ago.
‘Why didn’t he say anything?’ My mouth formed the words but my mind was racing frantically ahead. My son knew. Knew he was mine. I was struggling to catch up. Having to stumble to my feet with each well-aimed kick to the head.
‘He figured if you didn’t want him to know, he wasn’t going to rush to tell you. Initially, of course, he didn’t think that. Initially, when we first found out, he was very angry. And extremely distressed.’
Suddenly I dropped my head into my hands. Of course he was. Because what I’d done was the most wicked thing a mother could ever do. Disown her child. But I’d had to do it. Couldn’t tell the world he was Dominic’s: had had to protect Dom, his career, his reputation. Back then, years ago, he was constantly in the papers. Constantly jetting off, Kissinger-style to the Middle East, Sierra Leone Kosovo, even… There he’d be on the six o’clock news, our man in some war-torn territory. My man. Young, clever, handsome. A man to be trusted. Trusted with our country’s safety. And there I’d sit watching him, with Seffy in my arms, or later, toddling about the tiny sitting room. Dom would sweep back his mane of blond hair and talk to camera, troops in battledress ranged behind him, talk to me, look me in the eyes, his voice deep and sincere, telling me a peace treaty was imminent. ‘We’re working hard: trust me.’ How could I wreck all that? Throw in a grenade, a lovechild, watch his life implode? Tarnish his name? Oh, no, I’d had to protect him. I’d loved him so much I would do that, at all costs. But what a cost.
And then later, when I thought I could tell Seffy, when Dom died, thought I could tell the world, it was almost worse. He became a martyr, a hero. Our own Foreign Secretary, victim of a heinous terrorist attack. The funeral all over the papers. His memorial service televized, dignitaries, heads of state attending, the Duke of Edinburgh on behalf of the Queen. All that sorrow and reverence. How could I? I just couldn’t. But… maybe a couple of years down the line? When it had all blown over? But then his diaries had come out, posthumously, to great acclaim. A huge publishing phenomenon, a forward by Letty, his widow; a picture of her and Cassie. So I couldn’t. And then… well, then it had been too late.
‘I must go to him,’ I whispered, stumbling to my feet, but my knees were like a rag-doll’s. Hal came across and pulled up a stool beside me.
‘Wait. Wait a bit, until you’re composed. He’s known for over a year. A bit longer won’t make any difference.’
Over a year my son had been living with the knowledge. Why hadn’t he said? Railed at me, accused me of treachery, yelled in my face about betrayal – left me, even? Suddenly I went cold. A year ago he’d been expelled from his London day school for smoking and drinking, and eventually, albeit unintentionally, setting fire to his common room. A