to Ginny, let alone find the resources for losing another friend.
‘No, no, nothing like that.’ He glanced from Patrick to me. I sensed his reluctance to speak and my heart started to beat faster, my excitement shifting into a brace position of dread. He looked down, took a deep breath and said, ‘I need to tell you both something about Ginny.’
‘Ginny?’
‘Yep. She gave me a letter before she died to open only in very specific circumstances.’
I had no idea what he was going to say but became aware of hurt filling my chest, that despite me visiting, listening, helping her work through those final months when she was coming to terms with leaving Victor behind, she’d chosen Cory to be the holder of the knowledge. Simultaneously I told myself off for even allowing myself to consider a confiding hierarchy when poor Ginny had the right to do whatever worked for her.
When Ginny was dying, Cory was the one to make sure her will was in order, to look at setting up a trust fund for Victor that he could access at twenty-five – ‘Hopefully he won’t blow it on birds and booze by then,’ she’d said.
But I still didn’t think he would be anyone’s choice for the full confessional. When my dad had died, he’d just about managed to look me in the eye when he said, ‘Sorry about, you know, your dad and that.’ And he never mentioned it again.
Patrick stuck his finger in the top of the beer bottle and twirled it around. ‘Go on then. Don’t keep us all guessing.’
Cory dipped his head down then looked directly at Patrick. ‘It’s about Victor. She told me to open it if it looked like either of you were having second thoughts about keeping him with you.’
Patrick pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes.
Cory paused as if he was reluctant to relinquish the last chance to change his mind about saying what he’d called us here for.
‘He’s your son, Patrick.’
Chapter Seventeen
For a fraction of a second, I waited for Cory to burst out laughing. He didn’t.
I looked at Patrick, who was sitting on the sofa, arms hanging limply at his sides. He kept screwing his eyes up, then blinking.
‘Is that true?’ I wished I didn’t have to ask a question to which the answer might send a bulldozer careering through everything I’d taken for granted.
Patrick was biting his lip and frowning. Fear coursed through me, making my limbs feel weak and wobbly.
‘How is that even possible?’ I said, fright and fury combining to give me strength. ‘Patrick? Presumably it wasn’t artificial insemination?’
He jumped to his feet, banging his bottle down on the glass table. ‘Cheers, mate, for not having a quiet word, you know, like giving me a moment to gather my thoughts about that.’
Cory flicked his hands in apology. ‘Ginny’s letter was very clear. She said it wasn’t fair for Jo not to hear it at the same time as you. She said I couldn’t refuse her dying wish.’
The man who had broken a million promises to women over the years. Who’d worn his unreliability as a badge of honour. Who’d actually promised to fly to New York to stay with a girlfriend and had texted her to say he wasn’t coming when she was waiting in the arrivals hall. However, on this occasion, he’d been as good as his word. I didn’t know whether I loved or hated him for that.
I tried to do the maths. Tried to work out when. When the man I married had slept with my best friend and got her pregnant. Before we were together? After? Confusion fuddled my brain, stopping me understanding whether Victor’s September birthday, two months premature, meant a mountain-sized betrayal or just a great hill-sized one.
The shock was giving way to a feeling that scared me. Something that dragged in resentment, betrayal and anger all wrapped up in a poisonous parcel of being made a fool of by the people who were supposed to love me the most.
‘When did you sleep with her, Patrick? Or were you having a relationship with her? An affair? Something you forgot to mention to me?’
‘No! Nothing like that!’ He was shaking his head, as though he couldn’t absorb the news.
I got up and looked out of the huge window. The cars below. The women hurrying along the pavement, with nothing more exciting to worry about than whether they could get away with tomato pasta for a second time this week. Their mundane,