Playing Nice

Unable to speak, I nodded. Miles took a photograph from an inside pocket and handed it to me. It showed a small boy sitting in a high chair. He had a fine-featured face, fair hair, light-brown eyes. I could see instantly that he looked a lot like Maddie.

“You can keep that, if you like,” he added. “And if I could take one of—of Theo…”

“Of course,” I heard myself say. I looked around, but all my pictures were on my phone. The exception was one that someone had sent us after a birthday party, which I’d stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Theo dressed up as a pirate, complete with an eyepatch, a tricorn hat, and a cardboard cutlass that was raised toward the camera, his eyes alive with mischief. I took it down and handed it to Miles.

“Thanks.” He studied it for a moment, his eyes softening. “And this is me,” he added briskly, handing me a business card. “Mobile and email. Get in touch when you’ve had a chance for it all to sink in, yes? And discussed it with Madelyn, of course. Absolutely no pressure, but—I’m here. We both are.” He glanced at Don Maguire, then clarified, “Me and Lucy, I mean. Don’s part in this is over, I guess.”

I looked down at the card. Miles Lambert, Chief Executive Officer, Burton Investments. An office address in central London.

Miles reached down and plucked a foam football from the floor, squeezing it in his hand experimentally. “Sportsman, is he?” he asked conversationally. “Can he catch this yet?”

“Most of the time he can. He’s quite advanced, physically. A bit too advanced, in some ways.”

Miles raised his eyebrows, and I explained. “He sometimes gets a bit physical with the other kids at nursery. It’s something we’re working on.”

“Does he, now? Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you. I was the same at his age. It came in quite handy on the rugby pitch later. Didn’t hear anyone complaining then.” Something about the way he said it—fond, almost proprietary—made me realize that, despite the surreal calmness of this conversation, I wasn’t just making small talk with another dad at a party. I was talking to my son’s father. His real father. My world had just turned upside down, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

“We should get you around,” Miles was saying. “Make some proper introductions. When you’ve had a chance to digest it all.”

I tried to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. There was an awkward moment when I thought I was going to break down. Miles affected not to notice. He raised the picture I’d given him. “Anyway, thanks for this. Lucy will be thrilled. Something to be going on with.”

He tucked the photo inside his suit jacket, then held out his hand. His handshake was dry and decisive. “And try not to worry. We’re all reasonable people. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened, but it’s how we handle it that matters now. I really believe we’ll figure out the best way forward. But for the time being, we’ll get out of your hair.”

Don Maguire shook my hand, too, and suddenly they were gone. Miles Lambert hadn’t touched his coffee. I poured it down the sink. The washing machine beeped and I went to pull it open. Automatically I pulled the wet things out. It was as if I was in a kind of trance. On top of the pile was one of Theo’s T-shirts—mustard yellow, with I’M TWO, WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE? across the front. For a moment I could almost feel Theo’s hot little body in my hands, the familiar shrug and wriggle of his tiny ribs as I hoisted him over my shoulder, the kick of his legs. Tears pricked my eyes and my chest heaved, but I knew I couldn’t fall apart, not yet. I had to call Maddie.

5

Case no. 12675/PU78B65: AFFIDAVIT UNDER OATH by D. Maguire, cntd.

Together with my client, Miles Lambert, I visited Mr. Riley at home. There we served notice that the child he believed to be his son was in fact the son of my clients, and that, conversely, the child my clients were bringing up was believed to be Mr. Riley’s.

Mr. Riley was understandably distressed by this news. At several points during the subsequent discussion he broke down in tears.

While he recovered his composure, I took the opportunity to make some observations of my surroundings. This was facilitated by the fact that it was a small space, the sitting room, playroom, kitchen, and dining room all being combined in the area in which we were sitting.

There were several indications that Mr. Riley was struggling to cope with his domestic routine. The table bore a number of soiled dishes, plates, and other kitchen utensils. Unwashed laundry was strewn over the furniture, and there were two empty wine bottles on the floor in the kitchen area. When I glanced at Mr. Riley’s computer, I noticed the browser was open at a men-only internet forum on which he appeared to be making an appeal for help with his parenting. (Subsequent investigation confirmed that, under the pseudonym Homedad85, Mr. Riley had made over 1,200 posts of a similar nature.) Another tab was open at a videogame, which was paused. Although Mr. Riley’s LinkedIn profile states that he is a freelance journalist, there was no evidence of this, nor of any journalistic work in progress.

My client reiterated several times to Mr. Riley that he and his wife wished to try to resolve this situation by means of discussion and reasonable compromise. Mr. Riley did not respond to these assurances. When his manner started to turn hostile, we left.

6

MADDIE

I’M IN A MEETING, going through the casting tapes for a Doritos commercial with the clients, when my phone flashes. We’re in the middle of a heated discussion—the director wants edgy, independent, moody teenagers, the client wants wholesome and smiley, a debate I must have chaired at least a hundred times, and we’re just starting to get somewhere by focusing on the director’s third choice who’s also the client’s second when the call comes. I glance at the screen. Pete. Or rather, PETER RILEY. The first time we met, four years ago, I put his name and surname into my contacts at the end of the evening, and somehow I’ve never gotten around to changing it to something less formal.

The phone’s on silent, so it goes to voicemail. But he instantly disconnects and rings again. That’s our signal something’s urgent, so I make an excuse and slip out of the meeting to call him back.

“What’s up?”

“It’s all right, Theo’s fine. He’s at nursery. It’s—” There’s the sound of a couple of deep breaths. “There was a man here just now with a private detective. He claims our babies somehow got mixed up in the NICU. So he thinks the little boy he’s got at home is ours and Theo—Theo—”

It takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in. “It could be tested,” I say. “A DNA test.”

“They’ve done that. He left us a copy. Mads, this guy looked exactly like Theo.” There’s a pause. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

I don’t reply. Despite what Pete’s just said, I don’t really believe it. That sort of thing simply doesn’t happen. There must be some other explanation. But Pete’s clearly devastated, and he needs me to be there. I make a quick decision. “I’m coming home.”

I look through the glass wall into the meeting room. On the TV monitor, an impossibly rosy-cheeked fourteen-year-old is miming awed excitement at the contents of her packet of corn chips. Professional etiquette demands that I go back in and make my excuses, explain to the clients that there’s a family crisis; no, nothing life threatening, but I’d really better leave. But I don’t. Almost without being aware of it, I prioritize. I send a text to one of my colleagues, asking them to take over, and walk out of the building.

* * *

—

WHEN I WAS PREGNANT, I always assumed it would be me who’d be the primary carer. After all, the fact we were having a baby at all was ultimately down to me—the pregnancy was an accident, the timing bad in all sorts of ways. We even discussed termination, although I could tell Pete was uneasy about the idea, and eventually I admitted I was, too; I’m not always as hard-nosed and practical as my friends like to make out. But the international advertising agency that paid my relocation costs from Sydney to London included a year’s private health insurance in the package, and when I checked, it included maternity. Instead of having a baby on a crowded NHS ward, I could have it in the comparatively luxurious surroundings of a private hospital in Harley Street, complete with dedicated midwife, C-section on request, twenty-four-hour consultant care, and postbirth recovery program. Of course, the possibility of a pampered, luxurious birth would be a pretty terrible reason to have a baby—but as a reason to have a baby that already existed, why not?