when I tell Jake. Our circumstances are extreme and peculiar, but this news is age-old and no father ever shakes the hand of the fifteen-year-old who impregnated his daughter.
I have nursed one cup of coffee after another all night. Making it, if not drinking it, is at least something to do and once we admitted to ourselves that we were awake and never going to find sleep, we needed things to do. I made coffee; Jake has been on his phone all night. When I asked him who he was messaging, he said he is sending texts to friends and family. Holding the pretence that the big news in our life was how the party went. He shouldn’t be wasting his time disseminating false news. He should be doing something real, although I’m not sure what. Certainly not comforting me, I don’t think he can do that. I imagine calling Gillian or Toma; I crave their sensibleness, their steadfast sympathy, but I know they’d both insist we call the police, so it’s impossible.
I suppose I could have told Jake about the pregnancy when the light first eked into the kitchen, when it was just the two of us. I could have made it our thing, about our daughter, but I know that’s not how he sees us anymore, otherwise the Heathcotes wouldn’t be here. Jennifer means a lot to him. She’s not just a fling, a dalliance. I see that now. I’m going to tell them about the pregnancy at the same time, not because I respect her position in his life but because I couldn’t bear the pain and humiliation of watching his first response be to look for her, hunting her out, wanting to share the news with her. This way I keep things on a more even keel. Anyway, this pregnancy is technically as much to do with her as it is to do with him.
The Heathcotes and Jake shower and dress. After being asked multiple times to do the same – ‘For God’s sake, Lexi, you are still in your fancy dress!’ – I haul myself upstairs. I don’t shower, I don’t want to waste time in case the kidnappers call again. I pull on the first thing that comes to hand, something I was wearing before the party that never made it into the wash basket. It’s not quite clean. I possibly smell. I haven’t the energy to care.
Jennifer, Fred and Jake eat breakfast. It’s all I can do to swallow down more strong black coffee, which I force myself to in order to sharpen my day. I need to push through this fog of fear. I watch Jake chew, his strong, confident jaw moving with purpose. I only just resist hurling my scalding coffee in his face. I’m enraged at his ability to carry on. Watching him bite into his toast used to turn me on, I thought his appetites were sexy; now they disgust me. I loathe his greed, his hunger. The man who wanted it all.
I wait until we are all sat around the table. There has been a surprising amount of normality this morning, I find it irritating, offensive. There is a lot of ‘Pass the butter please’ and ‘How would you like your eggs?’. It’s unbelievable to me. There should be no semblance of normality. We are waiting to hear from kidnappers who want us to deposit ten million pounds in an offshore account. Why are they pretending a choice between marmalade or jam matters? I take a strange, secret pleasure in knowing that I have the information and power to destroy this facade of ordinariness they have created. I won’t be comforted and they shouldn’t be either. This situation is dire, why would they try to minimise it? I’d respect everyone more if they were wailing and panicking.
I take a deep breath. ‘So, we have even more in common than ever now.’ I throw this comment on the table, landing where they can all make of it what they will, but I keep my eyes on Jennifer. I’ve always thought she’s been a little overprotective of Ridley. Let’s see how this bombshell blows up her perception of her precious innocent son. I know I am behaving like a basic bitch, fear can do that. My child is gone. No one seems to be doing anything to get her back and they are stopping me doing what I want to, they are just munching whole wheat toast. My child has