Hide And Seek. Amy Bird

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’.

       Chapter Eleven

      -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 some sleep, OK?” And he kisses me on the forehead.

      So that’s it, fight over? I feel vaguely disappointed. Where do I go now with my theory on his father, if we’re not going to shout about it? Actually, screw ‘theory’ – I’m pretty damn sure I’m right about this. All the evidence is there. Plus it just feels right, you know? Otherwise, why would Will be so in love with that music? It’s in his blood.

      As Will brushes his teeth, I consider as I lie in bed going into the bathroom to continue the discussion. Because it’s for his benefit, not mine. What do I care who his father is? I just feel he has a right to know. But I don’t move, I just stay where I am in bed. Otherwise, I might end up telling him all I know about Max Reigate. What I learnt, when I Googled him. It would be too much for Will, at this stage. Better get him to accept the main fact, before I move onto the others. Other.

      Besides, it will all be all right in the morning, as Mum used to say, when she tucked me in. Any remaining tension will be gone. She had this almost pagan belief that the sun coming up for the start of a new day cleansed all the trouble that had gone before – whether that was mean girls at school or a fight with a boyfriend. I told myself that when I heard about their crash, that night. ‘It will all be all right in the morning.’ Except it wasn’t, of course. Because in the morning, they were no longer there. There’s an exception to every rule though. That was it. For all the other mornings, everything will be all right. By the power of my mother’s word.

      So I turn off the light, position myself on my left side (good for the baby) and drift away to sleep. When Will comes back to bed, I wake for a moment as he settles behind me, arms looped round me in our usual sleep-spooning. Not holding me quite as tight tonight, but maybe he’s just worried about hurting little Leo. Or maybe we haven’t quite made up yet. But I still feel myself drift off towards sleep. I don’t have any guilty conscience that would stop me. Why, after all, would I? I just want the best for Will, and the truth is always the best. For us, anyway.

      I awake in the night to the sounds of music. At first, I think I am imagining it, that it’s a fragment of dream that’s wafted over into my waking world. But no. I am fully awake. And it’s really there. And Will really isn’t; the bed next to me is empty and cold. The sound is coming from downstairs. I get out of bed and open the bedroom door. The music gets louder. I tiptoe downstairs to the living room. The door is shut. I push it open, as gently as I can. Will is curled up on the sofa in foetal position. His eyes are shut. In sleep or in contemplation, I don’t know. On the coffee table lies the Max Reigate CD case. His concerto is the music I heard. I look at the CD display indicator. Still on the first track, so he can’t have been listening long.

      “Will?” I say softly. No answer. I wait a moment. How that piano hammering away can act as a lullaby, I don’t know. But then, the pianist’s not my father. I tiptoe out of the room again. The music can offer more persuasion than I can.

      In the morning, I go downstairs to find Will already at the breakfast table. He looks up when I come in. There’s a smile. Small, but enough. The anger is gone.

      “Let’s find