The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [19]
‘Might make for more interesting reading. Would also give Lucian Bannister the final nail he needed to bang in my coffin, though. Convince him my lectures are way off beam.’
Lucian Bannister was the faculty head, a dinosaur with conformist views, who regarded Ant as something of an upstart. They didn't necessarily always see eye to eye. Ant took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and I thought how tired he looked. Not for the first time I decided the end of term couldn't come quick enough. I folded my arms on the table and leaned across.
‘Just another few weeks to push and then you can tell Lucian Bannister to shove it. We'll head off to the sun. Tuscany again, perhaps?’ I looked up at him under my eyelashes, fluttering wantonly.
He gave me an odd, tight little smile and replaced his spectacles, and I experienced a mild inner panic, rather as I had done when I'd shown him the house off the Banbury Road.
‘Or Devon,’ I said quickly, sitting up. ‘Only joking. I just thought we'd agreed Anna might like San Gimignano, the churches, that sort of thing. Decided she was old enough to appreciate a bit of—’
‘No, it's not that. I think it's a good idea, she would. No, it's…’ he licked his lips, ‘something else.’
My stomach lurched. Suddenly I realized he didn't just look tired, he looked white. White and stricken. Oh God, was he ill?
I reached across the table and took his hand. I was vaguely aware that the elderly couple beside us had paused in their conversation; lowered their knives and forks tremulously.
‘Ant?’ I could hear the fear in my voice. ‘Ant, what is it, darling? Tell me.’
I saw him swallow. Then his eyes met mine, which I realized they hadn't done, not properly, up until now. Those kind blue eyes. They looked scared.
‘I had a letter this morning.’ He reached inside his jacket. Took out the piece of white paper I'd just seen him tuck away. ‘You'd better read it.’
I took it from him, mutely. Sat back in my seat and opened it out. It was handwritten in an immature hand on plain A4 paper with no address at the top; just an email address.
Dear Professor Hamilton,
There is no easy way to tell you this and I don't mind telling you I've written and rewritten this letter loads of times. Each time, though, it always seems to say the same thing, so I've decided to keep it short. OK, here goes.
Many years ago, you knew my mother. You met her in Oxford and had a relationship with her. She didn't live in Oxford, she lived here, in Sheffield and after a while, she came back. I was born in September 1990.
As I said, this is not an easy letter either for you to read, or for me to
I looked up. Felt my mouth open, the blood desert my face. I stared at Ant's face, also bloodless, his eyes lowered to the table. For a moment my thoughts were scrambled then – no. My head screamed no. But I couldn't speak. I glanced back down. Dumbly, found my place.
… for you to read or for me to write. But I knew one day I would, when I was seventeen, which I'm about to be.
If you would rather not reply to me, I understand. I know you have a family. But if you would like to meet me, I would really like to meet you. I could come to Oxford, if you like. I have enclosed my email address, but not my home address, because I still live with my mum and it wouldn't be fair on her. She does know I've written, though.
Yours sincerely,
Stacey Edgeworth
I looked up aghast. Found myself staring at the crown of Ant's head. It was in his hands.
5
It was some moments before I found my voice. When I did, it sounded strange; unnatural.
‘A child? You have a child?’
I stared at him, stupefied. He was still cradling his head, but he raised it now to look at me, his fingers dragging down his face as it emerged. His blue eyes looked pale. Washed out. He shrugged hopelessly.
‘I don't know. No, I didn't think so. But you've read the letter.’
I stared at him. Couldn't speak.
‘And – you know, I was young. One had relationships. Sometimes brief. I just don't know