The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [73]
He looked surprised. ‘Well, four. I don't think… well, it wouldn't be appropriate, would it?’ His eyes were kind, gentle. It took me a moment.
‘You mean… for me to come?’
‘Well…’ He struggled. ‘Look at it from her point of view. She wants to meet her father, and yes, her sister. She needs her mother there. I don't think—’
‘No – no, of course… you're right. Doesn't want to meet me. Ha!’
‘At this stage, at least,’ he went on anxiously. ‘Later, sure, if there is a later, but there may not be. I don't know.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘This may well be it. But I don't think we should complicate things. Go mob-handed.’
‘No, no, quite right.’ I was the mob. I was the complication. Surplus to requirements. They were all blood relatives. And I was hyperventilating. The girl needed her mother. Anna needed her father. Two and two make four, not five. I was still holding on to the washing machine as it went into final spin. ‘Right,’ I said as I vibrated violently with it. I gave a small approximation of a smile, lips blurring, cheeks wobbling. ‘Good plan. Good luck, darling.’
He looked at me keenly to see if I meant this or was being sarcastic. I dug deep. For love. For courage. The washing machine was orgasmic now. I let go. Had to.
‘Really,’ I gasped. ‘I wish you all the luck in the world.’
‘You don't mind?’ he asked, worried. ‘That you won't be there?’
‘Noo, not in the slightest. Blessed relief, actually. Oops, too much coffee on a middle-aged bladder. S'cuse me, darling, need the loo.’
And off I slipped, down the corridor, shutting the lavatory door behind me. I didn't throw up, but I did need to sit down quickly. I hunched there on the seat, the heels of my hands pressed to my eye sockets. They didn't want me. I was to be excluded. Just the four of them. Ant, his ex-girlfriend and his two daughters. I took my head out of my hands; exhaled shakily. And let's face it, where would I fit into that little ménage? This was all about making Stacey feel comfortable. What would I bring to the party?
I sat up and stared blankly ahead. Banks of framed photographs faced me, one above the other, by the loo door. Anna at prep school with her reception class, Year One, Year Two, Year Three. Ant had made me stop at that stage, pointing out, quite sensibly, that we'd need to extend the loo to accommodate every single year, so I'd restrained myself, until this year, Year Nine. Then: Anna in the netball team, Anna in the hockey team, Anna in the lacrosse team. Ant at university. Ant in the cricket team. I either wasn't in any teams, or hadn't been to the sort of school that took photos and put them in frames. The latter, I think. Ant in the debating team, Ant as a fledgeling don with his first lecture group. His first lecture group. I frowned. Leaned forward. My heart began to beat fast. His first lecture group? I stood up, peering wildly, my eyes scanning the picture. I glanced at the names below. There were lots of them. Lots of tiny names. I'd never read them before – why would I? It took a few moments. But then I found her. Miss I. T. Edgeworth. Fourth name on the second row, so fourth face along… oh! That one. The one, in my idler moments, when I'd sat on the loo, mouth open, looking dreamily at all the pictures, I'd pick out. The doe-eyed blonde with the big smile. The beauty. The one I'd thought: that one; I'd like to be that one. Must be fun to be her: pretty, smiley, clever. The one, in my sillier moments, I'd sometimes dreamed of being. Never looked for her name, though. Not that silly. Miss I. T. Edgeworth, Isabella, who'd been in my loo for – ooh, years now. First when we'd lived at Balliol, and now in this slightly swankier Jericho latrine, flanked by smart green and gold striped wallpaper, and whom Ant probably looked at every day of his life and thought… what? What did he think?
My heart began to accelerate. He'd known and I hadn't. I felt it a terrible betrayal, somehow, but