And then I sob into Jill’s tissue, and the poor boy is floored.
Stop crying, I think, and then I cry harder, even though I don’t want to do this to him.
I can’t stop. I cry and cry, while my son stands in the middle of Jill’s neat hallway, watching helplessly.
Jill’s face is blazing with anxiety. She didn’t plan for this.
I have to stop. With determination, I blow my nose, because they say that’s the best way to stop crying, and it actually works. The landslide slows, the fragile bowl of my body holds. After a moment Charlie sticks out his hand to take my sodden tissues. It is a kind gesture. His fingernails are grubby, the hairs on his arm bleached by the sun.
I have never had the chance to nag him about his fingernails. I have never had the chance to clip his tiny baby talons like I did Ruby’s, or to buy him toddler steps so he can reach the sink and wash his hands.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,’ he says.
‘No, no, it’s me who should be sorry.’
He smiles uneasily. ‘Well, I think I’ve probably given you quite a shock . . .’ He looks at Jill. ‘Did you not . . . I mean, did Emma not know I was . . .’
‘She didn’t know,’ Jill confirms, and although her voice is bright I can tell she’s doubting herself now.
‘I’m tougher than I look,’ I lie. I have longed for this moment my whole adult life, and I will not throw it away. ‘Ah – shall we sit down? If you’re staying? I could make you a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll do the tea,’ Jill says quickly, and I want to cry again, because I so desperately want to make Charlie a cup of tea myself. I want to make him a packed lunch, a birthday cake, a DIY pizza, a cheese sandwich. I want to give him water and juice and Calpol and his first ever beer.
Jill disappears into her orderly kitchen to shelve the hot chocolate and start the tea, while Charlie and I enter the foreign land of a shared room. He chooses an armchair; I take the sofa. He picks at the arm of the chair and I can see he’s scared of being trapped in here, with my huge emotions. But he stays. He stays, and from time to time he even looks at me.
‘So . . . How are you?’ he asks. ‘This must be quite a shock!’
From somewhere, I conjure a smile. ‘It’s the best shock I have ever had. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.’
He nods, and I see how overwhelmed he is; what courage has been required to walk into this flat. ‘Me too,’ he says, politely. ‘It’s strange, but very nice to meet you.’
It’s very nice to meet you.
Silence, which is interrupted only by Jill bringing our teas and some pastries, before excusing herself.
We both go for the same apricot Danish and then withdraw, laughing nervously. Charlie takes a swig of tea （very milky, one sugar, mug held by the handle） and I reflect guiltily on how ratty I was in Jill’s car. She’s doubtless found a way to cover for me with Leo, too, just as she did when I bumped into the Rothschilds in Northumberland four years ago. I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve her kindness, but Jill has always had my back.
‘So . . .’ I hesitate, afraid to ask Charlie anything that might frighten him away. ‘So – you said you’d tried to contact me on Facebook . . . ? Is that right?’
Charlie tries a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he says, fiddling with his teacup. ‘Yeah, I wrote to you a couple of times but you blocked me the second time.’
‘I – what? Of course I didn’t! I wouldn’t! I’d have been overjoyed to hear from you!’
He looks doubtful. ‘Oh, it’s OK, I mean, it must have taken you by surprise . . .’