That First French Summer - Mandy Baggot Page 0,108
honest with her now? They would have gone on, building their second chance on a foundation of lies. She had never, ever planned to be honest with him about Dominic’s parentage. Didn’t that make her just as bad? Or worse?
She glanced across at her phone on the worktop. Nothing. No messages. No missed calls. What had she expected? Him begging her forgiveness? Did he really need to? He knew what he’d done was wrong and he’d spent his whole life paying for it. And what had she done? When he’d been honest she’d let him take all the blame. She’d let him think he was the only one with a terrible secret. She should have told him. She saw how much it pained him, telling the truth and knowing how she would react. She’d acted like Little Miss Perfect. Emma Barron, the book-loving teacher, the stand-up member of the community who could never do any wrong. She shivered, hugging herself as the panic rode over her. She should have finally told him about the day she left in 2005. She should have told him about her role in Luc’s death.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
They’d questioned him for four hours. They wanted details he barely remembered, names, dates, times, addresses. He should have expected nothing less, but when he’d made the call to the police he hadn’t considered anything apart from confessing. After all this time, even now, after he was sure he’d lost Emma, he had to put things right. He had to do what he should have done years before. He couldn’t go on with Keith’s threats hanging over him. He couldn’t have his whole career, his whole life under that man’s control.
The police were going to investigate. They would want to talk to him again. In his mind he saw raids on the homes of David, Keith and the other names he’d given them. He couldn’t care less about the ramifications for him now or in the future. He just wanted to go on with a clean slate, even if they decided to press charges against him. He would deal with it. He wouldn’t shirk it. He’d done that too much and look what had happened.
He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it from his shoulders. It was wet with perspiration and smelt of the interview room they’d kept him in. He needed to shower. He needed to finally unburden himself of everything he’d been holding in for so long.
The phone in his trouser pocket vibrated. He knew it would be France, the football club. He’d called them from the car on the way back. He’d told the player liaison everything. He couldn’t play that night and he fully expected to be dropped from the international team for good. As far as his career with Finnerham went, well, they’d react exactly the same and who could blame them? When this hit the newspapers, which it would, he would be labelled scum.
He took the phone out and looked at the message on the screen.
*
She’d written the text three times, deleting parts, adding punctuation. Adding punctuation! Who cared about full stops when you dealing with something so vital? Her thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button. Could she do this? Could she really tell him the truth? She really didn’t know. But what she did know was, she couldn’t be a hypocrite. She couldn’t berate him for keeping secrets when she was holding one so big. She pressed the button and clicked out of messages into her contacts. She pressed the key and put the phone to her ear.
‘Dad, hi, it’s me. Yes, I’m fine. I just… could I speak to Dominic?’
*
‘Good morning!’ Colette breezed into the house all rosy-cheeked French charm and honeysuckle perfume. He almost retched. He’d eaten nothing, drunk nothing since the mouthful of wine at the restaurant the night before. There had been water offered in the interview room but he hadn’t touched it. He was sleep-deprived, dehydrated and he barely had the strength to offer her a smile. The shower had made him feel better but he was still on edge, nervous. He was meeting Emma at the campsite in half an hour. She’d contacted him. A short text asking him to meet her. His heart had soared at the message. He knew it meant nothing. He knew it probably spelt the end, but there was that little chink of hope, the tiniest chance. And if that was there he was going to grab at it with both hands.