‘I don’t think so. It came from Emma. Her friend Jill corroborated it, as did Sheila. So please stop lying.’
He runs a hand over his face. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? You think I’ve had an affair with Emma. That Ruby’s my child.’
‘Listen to me,’ he says. He presses his hands on the kitchen island, which is still scattered with Janice’s things: lip salve, a Liberty print diary, a woman’s watch. ‘Emma couldn’t possibly have told you I am Ruby’s father, because I am not. And if Sheila corroborated that “fact”， she couldn’t have understood what she was being asked.’
‘And Jill? Her friend?’
Jeremy pauses. ‘I can’t speak for her.’
He picks up Janice’s watch. ‘Janice and I have been married twenty-five years,’ he says, curling the watch between his fingers. I realise that he, too, is close to tears. ‘Infidelity has never even crossed my mind.’ He takes an unsteady breath, then looks straight at me. ‘So. Just to be clear, if you wish to continue to accuse me of having had an affair with Emma, you can leave.’
We stand in silence for a moment, while I try to think.
The truth is, I don’t want to go. This man knows too much. And I think I believe him.
‘I invited you here because I need to stay in regular touch with Emma. At the moment, however, she’s ignoring me,’ he says. ‘And I thought if I were able to explain the current situation, you might be willing to persuade her to suspend hostilities. But I have my limits. What’s it to be?’
When I say nothing he turns and marches over to his sink. He splashes cold water over his face and dries it with kitchen towel, before turning back.
I look straight at Rothschild, searching for guilt, but I can’t see any.
‘You aren’t Ruby’s father?’
‘How many times do I need to tell you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just need to . . .’ I get out my phone and call Sheila, who answers after one ring.
‘Leo. Any news?’
‘Not yet. The police have taken the details but I don’t think they’re all that interested. Look, I’m at Jeremy Rothschild’s house.’
‘Oh. Oh right.’ She waits for me to expand.
‘Is he Ruby’s father?’ I ask, turning away from Rothschild, as if this will stop him hearing me.
There’s a pause. Then Sheila says, ‘I’m sorry?’
I repeat the question.
‘Leo, what on earth? Of course not. Unless I’ve missed . . . Christ, I mean – No, Leo, absolutely not.’
I think she’s telling the truth, but none of this makes sense.
‘So when I said to you that I knew about Emma and Jeremy, what did you think I was talking about?’
She doesn’t answer immediately.
‘I think you’ve probably only worked out half of the facts.’ Sheila’s voice is suddenly toneless. She’s in spymaster mode. ‘If you’re at Jeremy’s house I suggest you have a frank conversation. Although, let me be clear, you have got the wrong end of several sticks if you think he’s Ruby’s father.’
Ruby. Oh, thank God. I close my eyes and lean against Rothschild’s worktop.
I couldn’t have borne it. No matter what Emma has done, no matter who she really is – the loss of my daughter would have defeated me.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Sheila ends the call without comment, as is her fashion.