AARON
London, October 2000
Aaron stared at the young doctor who’d come in to deliver the news. Although he understood what it was he’d said, the lawyer
in him fought back. ‘So, what you’re saying is … anything’s possible. How is
that
possible?’
The doctor was patronisingly patient. ‘Medicine’s not an exact science, contrary to popular belief, Mr Keeler. Now, I know
this may be hard to grasp, but in your case, we simply don’t know. Yes, you’ve been diagnosed with azoospermia – low sperm
count, that is – but, just to complicate matters further, we’ve also detected spermatozoa that are lethargic but not always
consistently so. In other words, yes, you are experiencing difficulty fertilising an egg, but there’s an outside chance that
you may succeed in doing so one day, and the bottom line is, we’ve no idea how or why.’
Aaron shook his head slowly. He was aware of his heart lifting in relief. So it
was
possible. The child
was
his – of course it was. Who else’s would it be? He picked up the envelope that contained the report and slid it into his
briefcase.
Ten minutes later, the bill settled and paid, he was out on Harley Street, walking towards Great Portland Street. His heart
slowed to its normal pace; his thoughts, which, for the past few weeks had been so jumbled, so confused, slowly began to right
themselves. He wouldn’t speak of it again, he knew, now that it was over. He’d sought a second opinion, just as Rafe had suggested,
and the result was what he wanted, wasn’t it? The
child was his. His and Julia’s. And yet … the tiniest, most fleeting doubt remained. For all his relief and outward assurance,
there was a part of him that didn’t believe it. He knew himself well enough; he knew he would push the doubt deep down into
himself, somewhere so buried he would not be able to get at it. But it would be there, waiting to unsettle him whenever the
opportunity arose. He would have to live with it, just as he’d lived with the questions that had tormented him for the past
few weeks. He had no other choice, no alternative. He could no more force the truth out of Julia than he could face it, whatever
it turned out to be. The medical uncertainty that had emerged over the past few hours had presented him with a stark choice:
accept the version of events that was on offer – or not. Accept that she was telling the truth – the child was his. Or not.
It wasn’t the sort of choice he’d ever dreamed he would have to make.
He walked into his office and sat down at his desk. His phone was beeping furiously; there were a dozen messages, three from
Julia, two from Rafe, one from Harvey. He listened to the last, a bolt of fear spreading through him as his father’s disembodied
voice faded away. He put down the receiver, all thoughts of Julia, the baby, the report, the truth, simply vanishing into
thin air. Diana. Diana was ill. He stood up, grabbed the jacket he’d just placed on the back of his chair and fled from the
room.
JOSH
London, October 2000
Niela wasn’t home. He pushed open the front door impatiently; it was just after eight o’clock in the morning. He went into
the bedroom – her coat was gone. He must have just missed her. He
tossed his duffel bag on to the bed, hurriedly stripped off his clothes and walked into the shower. He felt as though he’d
been travelling for weeks. He stood under the blast of hot water, feeling the tiredness and dislocation of stepping on to
a plane in the heat of Africa one moment and then off it into the cool damp of England the next sloughing off him. He stayed
under for longer than was necessary; by the time he finally emerged out of the steam and fug, the skin on his fingers was
wrinkled. He towel-dried his hair and pulled on clean clothes. The living room was quiet; he sat down with a mug of coffee,
enjoying the soft light and the scent of coolness. He glanced at the phone; he ought to give Diana a ring. He hadn’t spoken
to her since he’d left.
A few minutes later he put down the phone, a strange hackle of fear rising somewhere in him. Diana was not in chambers. She
hadn’t been in all week. She wasn’t well, her PA told him. She wasn’t sure what was wrong but she’d only been in sporadically
in the past couple of weeks. He hung up the phone and brought the receiver to his lips for a few moments before dialling.
Diana answered on the third ring. As soon as he heard her voice, he knew something was wrong.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Josh.’ Diana’s voice was weak with relief. ‘You’re back. When did you get back?’
‘This morning. What’s the matter? I rang chambers – they said you’re ill.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she began, brushing aside his concern, as always.
‘It’s not nothing,’ Josh interrupted her quickly. ‘I can hear it in your voice. What is it?’
‘Oh, Josh.’
To his horror, he realised Diana was crying. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard her cry. He stood up, agitated. ‘I’m
coming over,’ he said, already walking towards the door. He picked up his lightweight jacket on the way. ‘I’ll see you in
half an hour.’ He put down the phone before she could say another word.
His first reaction was one of relief. Diana didn’t
look
terribly ill. She looked more or less the same; a little thinner, perhaps, but he was used to her dropping a few pounds every
now and then in response to a dress she wanted to buy or some photograph she’d seen of herself in which she always seemed
to claim she was actually much thinner. She was sitting on the chesterfield in the upstairs living room when he arrived, wrapped
in a light cashmere blanket although it wasn’t cold. Her face was drawn, he noticed, as he bent to kiss her. There was a chemical
smell to her that he’d never noticed before – it mingled with the perfume she always wore; his relief began to evaporate.
‘Mother,’ he said, straightening up. ‘What’s the matter? What’s going on?’
Diana patted the space next to her. She took one of her hands in his, turning it over, examining the dark, tanned skin in
silence for a few moments. He felt a tightening in his gut, as if someone had literally turned a screw. ‘Josh,’ she said slowly,
‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ She looked up at him. She was holding herself in. They sat for a moment like that, Josh all emotion,
Diana calmer now. ‘I wish I knew how to say this better, darling,’ she said, lifting her hands from his and bringing them
up to her own face.
‘Say what? What is it?’
‘I’m not well, Josh. It’s … well, there’s no other way of saying it. It’s cancer. It’s pretty far advanced, I’m afraid.’
The words slid into him like a knife. He’d been holding his breath, he realised. Cancer. He wanted to put up a hand as if
to ward the word off but Diana grabbed it, holding on to it tightly. ‘Cancer?’ The word spun out of control.
She nodded. ‘Breast cancer. I found out about a month ago, just after you left. I couldn’t tell you over the phone, especially
not when you’re so far away.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’ He slipped easily into the medical terminology that had been theirs around the dinner table.
She let go of his hand. ‘It’s not great,’ she said, turning her own hands over, examining her fingernails.
‘Just tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘It’s unusually aggressive. It’s spreading fast, and despite what everyone says, they’re not optimistic.’
‘What about Dad? What does he say?’
She spread her hands. ‘You know your father. He doesn’t give up easily. But he’s looking at it like a surgeon would.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Cut it out, clear everything in its path … that’s the way they’re trained to think. Geoffrey – you remember him … Dr Laing?
– he thinks it’s more complicated. Not just a matter of surgery. The statistics are pretty low … less than ten per cent, he
says.’
‘Just numbers,’ Josh said automatically. ‘Didn’t you always tell us that?’
Diana smiled. ‘I did. But this time … I don’t know, Josh. I just don’t know.’
‘You’ll get through this, Mother. Of course you will. You’ll have the best treatment available … Dad’ll see to that. You’ll
get through it.’
‘I wish I had your confidence, darling,’ Diana said, looking straight at him. ‘But I don’t. And it’s not that I don’t think
everyone won’t move heaven and earth on my behalf – it’s not that at all. There’s something else. I … I’ve been speaking to
Niela this past month … no, let me finish. She’s been a great comfort to me, I can’t tell you. Took me completely by surprise.
And it’s because of something she said that I feel I have to talk to you before I talk to anyone else. I haven’t told your
brothers yet. Only Dad knows. And Uncle Rufus.’
Slowly, as he watched, Diana’s face changed. Her eyes, dark like his own, were difficult to meet. The small, taut fold of
skin beneath each eye fell away as her face was drawn back over her high cheekbones. It was a feature of hers that he’d known
since childhood. Her face tightened, taking on a new urgency. Her mouth opened; words came tumbling out. He felt himself shrinking
as the true meaning of what she was telling him began to dawn on him. His whole body felt as though it were turning
itself inside out. He struggled to focus on her words.
Khadija. Mohammed. Djemmorah
. None of it made any sense. His mouth opened a moment in unease but Diana took no notice. She was spinning a thread of a
story he’d known all along. He didn’t belong.
That
wasn’t the surprise. What he couldn’t have guessed at was the lengths to which she had gone.
DIANA
Mougins, June 1969
She lay down just as Rufus had instructed her. Her stomach was churning with fear and the brandy he’d forced her to drink.
The sun had come up, advancing its way across the pale gold flagstones of the patio. The blood-red geraniums that stood to
attention in the terracotta pots were slowly unfolding their petals towards it; everything coming alive again with the dawn
of a new day. Her teeth were still chattering, despite the warmth of the room. Where was Rufus? Her breath caught itself on
a sob. Where was Josh? What had he done with him … with the tiny body? She closed her eyes in anguish and brought her hands
up to her face. From outside came the familiar sounds of the properties around them slowly coming to life: the farting stutter
of old Cassoux’s motorcycle, the gear-whine of a tractor from the villa down the hill that still had land to till; music from
the pool house across the track … now and then something came tinkling clear – a woman’s voice, the gobbling bark of a dog.
She lay on the rug in front of the stone-cold fireplace, her whole body tense with panic, waiting for Rufus to return.
It seemed as though he’d been gone for hours when she finally heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel outside. She sat upright,
longing for the whole thing to have been a terrible dream. Her whole body was concentrated in that second when he would walk
through the doorway, a laughing, gurgling Josh in his arms. She was wide-eyed with tension
when he came in and he carried no child. She felt her own face crumple as though watching someone else. ‘Rufus … where did
you go?’
He didn’t answer but strode over to her, bending down so that his face was on a level with hers. He gripped her upper arms,
his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. ‘Diana … I’ve got an idea. I’ve just been to see Khadija. We’re going to sort
this out, all right? Everything’s going to be fine.’
‘Wh-what are you talking about?’ Diana’s voice rose uncomfortably in her own ears. ‘Josh is dead, Rufus … I killed him. I
killed him.’
‘Stop it. We’re going to sort this out. There’s no point blaming yourself, Diana. It was an accident. It could have happened
to anyone.’
‘But it didn’t! It happened to me! I made it happen!’
‘Shh.’ His grip relaxed and he drew her into his arms, stroking her hair. ‘Shh. It’s all going to be fine, you’ll see. I need
you to pull yourself together, Diana. Get a hold of yourself. This is what’s going to happen.’
She listened to him in growing disbelief. For a sum of money he didn’t disclose, Khadija would give up her child. His assurances
came flooding out. The child was the same age as Josh. They looked almost identical, hadn’t she said so herself ? He was even
genetically related. Khadija would go back to Algeria and finish her schooling without the burden of this child that she didn’t
even want. Diana would take the new baby back to London; all would be as it was. Everything would be smoothed over, forgotten
about. It would be as if nothing had happened. Mohammed had agreed – he had been as distraught over Khadija’s pregnancy as
she was. Rufus had taken care of everything – all that remained was for Diana to buy into it … and that would be that. It
all came down to her. ‘It won’t work,’ she said flatly, her mind racing ahead. ‘It won’t work. Harvey’ll never believe it.
It just won’t work.’
‘Diana, listen to me. Harvey will believe whatever you tell him. You know that. He’s always been a fool where you’re concerned.
You know that about him. If you say there’s nothing wrong, he’ll believe it. Christ, he wouldn’t believe it if he’d seen it
with his own eyes. It’s up to you, Diana. It’s up to you.’
She was silent. In her heart, she knew it was true. Harvey worshipped the ground she walked on. He would no more believe her
capable of deceit than he would himself. Rufus was right. It was up to her. If she decided to go along with it, everything
would be fine. All she had to do was say yes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. The shivering rose in her like a dog’s hair
along its back. ‘Yes,’ she gasped, as if there wasn’t enough breath in her to expel the word. ‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. Finish the rest of that,’ he pointed to the half-empty glass lying on the hearth beside her. ‘And then come upstairs.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, still shuddering. ‘I can’t. I can’t go up there again. Don’t make me, Rufus, please don’t make me.’