sleep. Plagued by the stomach cramps that tend to precede my period, I cuddled a hot-water bottle to my abdomen and tried to process the evening’s events. The exhilaration I’d felt at figuring it all out had gradually given way to calm determination. I had a theory; now all I needed to do was prove it.
At the end of the fireworks display I’d given Tommy a chaste kiss on the cheek and, at his behest, promised to meet him for dinner a few days later (a promise, now I had a sample of the boy’s DNA, I had no intention of keeping).
Soon I would know for certain whether I was right or wrong. Soon I might be able to give Jason back his son.
I pretended to leave for work at the usual time. In my bag was the boy’s hair. After yanking it from his head last night I’d stored it in the only vaguely sterile place I had to hand: Lauren’s compass. This morning I planned to drive to the local shopping mall and buy one of those over-the-counter paternity kits.
Inside the car, I got out the silver disc and held it in my palm. A few minutes later, I watched as Jason left the house and locked the door. Oblivious to my presence on the other side of the street, he threw his work bag in the back of his car and drove away.
I watched him go, trying to imagine what life would be like if Barney were to be returned to Jason and Vicky. After last night’s revelation, that reunion now felt within touching distance. Vicky had kept his room in such pristine condition – the freshly made bed, the recently hoovered carpet – an act of defiance as much as hope. Now it seemed that hope was going to be rewarded.
Lauren’s room had always been such a mess. It didn’t matter how much I tidied it. Within hours it would be maelstrom of abandoned plastic ponies, scattered felt-tips and Lego. I’d pick her dirty clothes up off the floor and find myself showered with Moshi Monsters, their tiny plastic bodies hail-stoning off my hips and onto the carpet. I’d go in to wake her up for school and find myself waylaid by an assault course of loom bands, Mr Men books and tennis racquets. After one particularly nasty ankle-twist involving a forgotten game of Hungry Hungry Hippos left by her bedroom door, I’d tried to have a serious chat with her about the importance of putting things away once she’d finished with them. She’d been eating breakfast at the time, her face screwed up in concentration as she used her spoon to hunt down the bowl’s three remaining Cheerios. It was early summer and she was wearing her school uniform, a blue-and-white-checked gingham dress. I’d yet to braid her hair and it hung in loose curls around her shoulders, the brown lightening to downy blonde around her temples.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ she’d said after dispensing with the Cheerios. She put down her spoon and used both hands to lift the bowl to her mouth. She drained the milk in two gulps and set the bowl back on the table. ‘I’ll try to remember.’ A white moustache now decorated her top lip. ‘It’s just so boring.’
At this I’d tried to remain stern, to expound on how some things in life were boring but necessary, but her honesty had disarmed me. She was right: tidying up was boring. I’d held it together for all of two seconds before I burst out laughing. And then she was laughing, too. Our giggles continuing all the way through the school run, right up until she kissed me and dashed in through the gates for registration.
I thought of Vicky going up to Barney’s room every week with her dusters and polish. The way Jason spent his time scouring the internet forums for potential sightings. I envied their defiance, their right to keep everything ready, just in case. I envied their right to hope.
Chapter Forty-Four
I parked in the shopping mall’s multi-storey and made my way over to the lift. Three floors later the doors pinged open, and I headed right, towards the ground level concourse and the large Boots.
I crossed the shop’s brightly lit threshold and felt another menstrual cramp slice at the side of my belly. Trying not to wince, I asked a member of staff to point me in the right direction and made my way over to the aisle nearest the