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By Root 1625 0

and I, about me going it alone in a bigger shop, with his backing – really making a name for myself – but I hadn’t wanted to. The fun, I’d told him, the whole raison d’être, was working with Maggie. The shop was our baby, our thing, and all right, we weren’t up there with the Helmut Bings of this world, but we did OK, and I didn’t want to change that. He’d smiled, and I think been pleased. (In fact I had to dispel the feeling I’d somehow ticked a box, shown myself to be a Good Person.) However, it has to be said, a fleeting glimpse of myself in swanky Holland Park premises – or Chelsea Green perhaps – tucked snugly between other expensive dealers, ‘Harriet Carrington’ in swirly gold lettering on the shop front, had flitted briefly to mind. But it was gone in a moment. What, no Maggie? No cradling coffee cups behind the counter on Munster Road, flicking through Heat and gossiping for hours?

‘No reason why you can’t still do it with Maggie? Still be partners?’ Hal had said later, and this had bought my eye. Maggie and I together, in tasteful grey cashmere, as opposed to our high-street takes, in terribly chic premises betwixt Theo Fennel and David Linley: nipping to Bibendum for lunch, instead of to the sandwich bar. Now you’re talking. I’d said I’d think about it. See what Maggie thought about Hal injecting shedloads of cash into our business, see if she’d mind. I could already hear her, though. ‘Mind?’ she’d squawk. ‘Mind? Of course I don’t bloody mind! How flipping marvellous, all our dreams come true! Don’t be a fool, Hattie, say yes instantly. Now. Chelsea Green or Pimlico?’

I smiled. No, Maggie was very tired of The Struggle. She wouldn’t say no to a leg-up. Something made me hesitate, though. We’ll see, I thought, walking on. I did need to contact her, though. I was feeling faintly guilty that recently, she was doing more than her fair share at the shop. I’d worked three days this week, but she’d done five the previous one, and the weekend. As I headed towards the tube I texted her: ‘Let’s work together tomorrow.’ Two minutes later she texted back: ‘Good idea, been missing your ugly mug.’

I smiled. Pocketed my phone. I’d missed hers. And her wit. I put my collar up against the stiff breeze that was whisking tissue paper from oranges around my feet and thrust my hands in my pockets.

As I walked, my mind turned to Seffy and I wondered what lines his thoughts were running on now he was back at school. We’d talked long and hard about how to handle our new – to the rest of the world – mother-and-son relationship, but of course, he’d already had months to consider it. Was way ahead of me.

‘No announcements, no big deal, no chats with housemasters, OK, Mum?’

‘OK,’ I’d said uncertainly ‘So… still a secret?’

‘No, not a secret. But I’d just like it to gradually seep out, on a need-to-know basis.’

I was frantically wondering how this would work when he gave me an example.

‘I mean, say, for instance, I meet a girl at a party, and she comes to lunch or something, you’re my mum. Not my adoptive mum.’

‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘And then she hears from a friend you’re adopted?’

‘And I say – oh yeah, Mum was protecting another family. Letty and Cassie. And I tell her the whole story. I just want to play it straight, OK? Tell it how it is. No more lies.’

‘Right.’ I instantly felt tiny.

‘No, I don’t mean lies,’ he’d said quickly, seeing my face, ‘that’s harsh. It’s just, the truth is so simple. I tell her I found out recently and I’m thrilled, which I am. End of story.’

My face was obviously one of worry and guilt.

‘Don’t forget, Mum, what seems huge to us, will only be huge for them for five minutes. People only really invest in themselves, they don’t spend too much time dissecting others. It’ll be fine.’

I nodded uncertainly again.

‘And how much better that it’s this way round? Rather than the kid who thinks he’s biological, then discovers he’s adopted? There’s got to be an element of celebration in our story, surely? And that’s how I’m going to play it. Low key, but pleased, OK?’

‘OK,’ I said, knowing better than to choke