enough to hide those initials!” says Ellie. I turn to her and shake my head.
“It’s a lovely crib,” I say. “Thank you.” I give Mum a squeeze on the shoulder. She lays her chin against my hand. We stay a moment like that.
Then Ellie breaks the peace.
“Now, time to look at these photo albums!” she says. She is still clutching the third, unfamiliar album.
“I’ll get the others from the dining room,” I say. I don’t know what is in her mystery album, but I don’t trust it, or her. If she has some idea of a family showdown to end the evening, assembled round her ‘proof’, I don’t want any part of it.
“No need,” says Ellie, waving the album.
“Where did you get that?” demands Mum.
“From the loft, with the others,” says Ellie, all innocence.
“It’s a personal album,” Mum says. “There’s nothing of Will in there.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ellie says. “I had a quick look, and I thought there’d be some stuff he’d like to see. You in the 70s, the old Dartington family home. Your friends.”
Ellie’s eyes are shining. She is working up to a Poirot moment, I can tell. The right timing as well – Sunday evening, prime ITV3 crime viewing. And à la the famous sleuth she assembled us all here, in what could pass for a drawing room. She’ll show us whatever photo she’s found, list a stream of mad conjectures, probably produce a murder from somewhere, and then she’ll never be welcome in the house again. At least Poirot’s ‘little grey cells’ functioned properly, unaddled by whatever pregnancy hormones are taking hold of Ellie’s brain.
Ellie is starting to open up the pages.
“You know,” I say, “I’d much rather just see the pictures of when I was little. Not sure I need to study Dad’s kipper ties.”
“No, Will. I think you really need to see your father’s kipper ties.”
Mum is advancing towards the album. “Ellie, darling, Will’s right. And it’s getting late; some of us have to work tomorrow, remember?”
Oh – Mum shouldn’t have done that. Play the ‘job’ card. Guaranteed to piss Ellie off.
“OK, Mrs S,” says Ellie sweetly. “To speed things up, how about I just show Will the particular photos I found that I think would be of special interest to him?”
She begins flicking through the album.
Mum leans in and snaps the album shut. “No. Borrow the other ones. It’s late, and we need to get the crib in the car. John will drive you home.”
She pulls the album away from Ellie. As she does so, the pages open slightly, and something flutters out to the floor.
It’s not a photo. It’s a letter, with a little red ribbon tied through the top of it. A love letter. I reach down to retrieve it for Mum, but Mum is quicker than me. The letter is in her hands before I can touch it. But not before I can make out the signature.
It is from Max. Max Reigate.
And it’s signed ‘fondest love’.
-Ellie-
Will is still in denial, even after he sees the letter.
All the car journey home, he prattles on to his ‘Dad’ about how excited he must be to be a grandfather. If fake dad is excited, he hides it pretty well. Most people I know don’t display excitement by biting their fingernails and giving monosyllabic answers to questions.
Fake dad and Will install the crib in the nursery. There’s a hammer nestling in the crib too, now, retrieved from Will’s ‘parental’ home. Didn’t hear fake dad ask Will’s cheat of a mum about it; he must just have found it himself. Maybe he figured Will’s mum couldn’t take any more accusations in one night. Its easy-grip handle shines out in the dark, like a little metal baby with an orange muffler. Finally, fake dad leaves.
“Well?” I say to Will.
“Never put me through an evening like that again!” he says.
Oh. I see. We are having a testosterone reaction. This happens sometimes. Apparently his mum’s sleeping around is now my fault. We’ll go for calm, docile – not the usual shouting back approach. Calm it down.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry if I upset you. It’s just there are certain signs – ”
“The way you were doing all that manoeuvring, that manipulating, it was – ”
“How I got you in my clutches in the first place,” I say, aiming for coquettish.
I see from the shocked look on his face that I have missed the mark.
“OK, forget I said that.” Moving on. “Look, I know it’s a bit disorientating, a bit – ”
“Disorientating? Listen to yourself! You are trying to say that my dad isn’t my dad at all, I’m some, some bastard child, from a sex romp between my mum and a random composer!”
“Not a sex romp. You saw how that letter was signed off. And there was a photo, in the album, of them, together.” If only he’d listen. If only I didn’t have to cope with this male reaction. Anger is not an appropriate response to logic.
“What, on a date?”
“No, a group of them, your mum, your fake dad – ”
“Cut that out!”
“OK, Gillian and John, if you prefer, in a group shot, at a picnic, including Max Reigate.”
“Which proves nothing. Absolutely nothing. Jesus, Ellie – why are you so determined this should be right?”
“It’s not a case of me being determined. It’s just right. It stacks up.”
Will leaves the nursery and moves into the bedroom.
“Look, I have to go to work tomorrow, this talk and die lecture is coming up, I need to put some good hours in…” he says.
“I just wish we could see that letter,” I say. “That would prove it.”
“Ellie, leave it, OK? I’m tired,” he says, doing a fake yawn.
“I bet she’s locked it away on one of those study drawers,” I tell him. “All we need to do is break in, prise them open, and – ”
“‘All we need to do is break in’!” Will repeats back at me. “Do you know what?” He glares at me. But then I never do know what. Because he leaves this long pause and it’s like he’s making himself be calm. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, softer. “We’re both tired. Let’s just get
