form so that I could find out who on earth was my baby’s father.
Once my payment was accepted, I was able to access their instructions. I read them religiously. I had to provide a blood sample myself. That was easy enough to arrange through the site. Then I had to collect Harry’s DNA and since I couldn’t ask him for a swab, the only way I could do that was to collect some of his nail clippings. I guessed that Tom would have happily provided swabs for me, but I didn’t want to involve him. And then he’d want the results: What if they weren’t what I wanted?
* * *
? ? ?
So the next day I replaced the bin liner in the bathroom bin and scrubbed the nail clippers. When he had a shower before bedtime, I called through to him, “Harry, you scratched me in bed last night. Cut your nails!”
He came out of the bathroom looking all apologetic and I felt like such a bitch. When he was asleep I crept back into the bathroom and replaced the bag with a new one and hid the evidence in my study. The next morning, after he’d left for work, I put the nails into the bag provided.
The online clinic I’d chosen offered a blood sample collection service, thankfully, given that I hadn’t a clue how to find a phlebotomist. I arranged for someone to come to my workplace; it wasn’t something I could risk Harry discovering. I arranged an appointment early in the morning, before Annie arrived, and pulled the blinds down in our office so that nobody passing would see what was going on. When the nurse arrived, she was able to take a blood sample without anyone knowing about it.
I felt like a criminal, having it taken so secretly. She was very discreet, though, and was clearly used to this sort of thing. I’d arranged for a courier to pick up the tests immediately afterward and to take them to the clinic and the whole thing took only an hour or so, but the way I felt now, I knew it would be a long time before I could look at myself without shame.
Later that morning, when I was trying hard to focus on work, a message appeared from Tom:
Do you want me to be with you when you tell Harry? Happy to do it myself if that makes it easier.
I’d had enough. Before I could consider whether I should, I called him.
“Tom? Will you stop sending me messages? You’re driving me mad.”
“Hello, Emma,” he said, as calm as you like.
“I’m not going to tell Harry anything!”
“Then I will,” he said. “If you think I’m going to let that man sleep with my wife and bring up my child, then you need to think again.”
“You slept with me!” I shouted. I hurried to the office door to shut it tight. “You did the same thing.”
“It’s not the same at all.” The trouble was that I didn’t know whether it was or not. I didn’t know what I thought about that. “You realize he’s getting away scot-free? He’s had an affair and you’re trying to protect him from knowing about us.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know why I wasn’t confronting Harry about his affair. I couldn’t work out whether I was scared in case he left me for Ruby, or whether I wanted to appear the innocent as far as the baby was concerned. I was terrified the baby wasn’t his. It was all I could think about. “There is no us.”
“Of course there is. We’re having a baby. And he needs to know.”
“I’ll deny it,” I said. “I’ll tell him I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, that would be difficult. After all, you left something at my house, didn’t you?”
I breathed out. My bracelet. I’d tried to forget about it and luckily Harry hadn’t noticed it was missing. I flushed as I remembered him holding my wrists down that night. When I’d wriggled, it had rubbed against my wrist and he’d taken it off and put it on his bedside table. “You have my bracelet?”