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I licked my lips. Tried to think straight. ‘When did it come?’

‘This morning. I met the postman.’

Yes. Yes, he did.

I looked down at it again. The words blurred before my eyes. A child. He had a child. By someone else. My head spun.

‘So this – this name – Edgeworth. Do you recognize it?’

He shrugged helplessly. ‘I'm not sure.’

‘You're not sure?’ My voice was shrill now.

‘Well, yes, vaguely, I suppose. I used to drink in the King's Head, and there was a barmaid there. Blonde. Quite attractive. One night we all ended up down by the river, pissed, and I walked her home. We… ended up in a field, somewhere.’

I stared at him. Pissed. In a field with a strange barmaid. This didn't sound like Ant. But then, as he said, he was young. He looked young now, blinking behind his spectacles, just about meeting my eye. Young and frightened.

‘Ant,’ I cleared my throat, ‘it's one thing to remember being pissed and falling around in a field, but did you make love to her?’

His eyes widened as if registering the enormity of this. ‘Yes, I did.’

I took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Right.

‘And so then,’ I was thinking aloud now, feverishly trying to assimilate facts, ‘then you didn't see her again, and she went back to Sheffield—’

‘And then, years later, I get a letter from someone who says she's my daughter!’ he blurted out, wide-eyed. ‘I mean, bloody hell!’

We stared at each other over the checked tablecloth. I was dimly aware that the elderly couple beside us were horribly gripped, risotto congealing on their plates, but I was beyond caring. The ramifications were slotting firmly into place – clunk, clunk, clunk. A child: a daughter: another daughter. This scrappy piece of paper, this slip of Basildon Bond… Suddenly I felt my blood rising. Oh, no. Over my dead body.

‘Oh, it's a nonsense,’ I said wildly. ‘An absolute nonsense. Some… some girl comes down from the north to work as a barmaid in Oxford, gets a summer job, gets laid – a lot, probably. Christ, probably shags no end of students – and then, years later, with a child to support, gets her to write to you, that's what this is all about. This is – oh!’ A light bulb went on in my head suddenly. ‘Oh, Ant,’ I gasped, ‘it's the books!’

‘What?’

I reached out. Seized his hand. Shook it.

‘The books. She's seen them in the shops! She looks at the name, reads the fly leaf, and then – yes – then sees you on telly, of course!’ Ant had been on a daytime television programme recently, much to Anna's and my amusement, promoting the latest book. I pressed my fingers to my temples to help the imaginative flow: shut my eyes tight. ‘Yes, there she is, doing her ironing in the front room, telly on, and there you are, chatting away to the interviewer, and all of a sudden, she thinks, hang on a minute. I remember him. That's the bloke that used to drink with his mates in the King's Head when I was pulling pints. Pulled me one night, if I remember rightly. Famous author, eh? Anthony Hamilton… Oi! Stacey!’ I cocked my head up some imaginary stairs. ‘Get down 'ere!’

‘Well, wait,’ said Ant nervously. ‘I'm not so sure. I mean, what if she's always known, and now that the child's grown up they've decided to—’

‘Quite a coincidence, don't you think?’ I squeaked. ‘You were only on the show last week!’

He gazed at me a minute, then inclined his head, admitting as much. ‘Yes, but still…’ He swallowed.

Fear was gripping me too. I was bloody scared, but I wouldn't have it. Wouldn't. Another daughter? Anna's sister? My husband with two children? My throat was tightening. Oh, no.

‘Look,’ I said fiercely, warming to my theme, ‘we don't know anything about these people. We just get a letter one day, it drops out of the clear blue sky and we're supposed to jump? This has opportunism written all over it, Ant. This is a scheming adventuress after—’

‘What?’ he blurted suddenly. ‘After what, Evie?’

‘Well…’ I flustered, ‘after money!’

He slumped back in his seat. Looked sick. ‘Come on. We're not that rich. And I'm not