He changed the subject fast, veering onto the matter he’d been thinking of mentioning since Sunday when seeing it in the paper had given him such a shock. If he could have avoided it altogether he would have, but he dared not. Still, he must go carefully. “You remember that wedding in the paper on Sunday? Front page of the Mail?”
She never read the news, just the city pages. “Sorry, I was only interested in that merger. Why?”
“I feel a bit odd about telling you, though I don’t know why I should. It’s not as if I’ve done anything wrong.” He looked at her, into her eyes. “Hold my hand, Fiona. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.” His voice was solemn. “Fiona, listen to me. My ex-wife got married. It was in the paper. She married an MP.”
She took both his hands, pulled him toward her. “Oh, Jeff. Oh, darling. Why didn’t you tell me at once?”
“I don’t know. I should have. Somehow I couldn’t.”
“It’s made you unhappy, hasn’t it? I do understand. I know you love me, I know that, but you can still be desperately hurt by something like this. It’s absolutely natural. Kiss me.”
They kissed, gently at first, then more passionately. Jeff was the first to break away. “I’ll phone the restaurant.”
Fiona smiled to herself a little ruefully. It was, as she’d said, entirely natural that he should be a little unhappy. She thought of various men in her past, two of whom had subsequently married other women. Unreasonably, she’d been upset, though she hadn’t wanted them, wouldn’t have dreamt of remaining with them. When he came back she gave him a lovely warm smile, almost maternal. “D’you want to tell me about it?” She took his hand again. “You don’t have to. Only if you want to.”
“I rather think I do. Her name’s Zillah. Z-I-double-L-A-H. She’s a Gypsy or likes people to think she is, a Romany. We met at university. Of course we were both very young. It was the old story, we grew apart from each other. There wasn’t anyone else or anything like that. Well, there was always this chap she’s married, they knew each other as kids, but I used to think he was gay.”
“What about the children, Jeff?”
“I suppose they’re with her.” He was wondering how much to tell her. “That worries me too. Of course, she’s done her best to keep my children from me.”
“I’d like children,” said Fiona in a small voice.
“Of course you would. Aren’t I relying on that? Darling, by this time next year we may well have our first baby. I’ll be the perfect house husband, stay at home and look after it.”
“What’s her name?”
“Whose? Zillah’s?” He thought fast. “Her maiden name was Leach. The bloke she’s married, the ex-queer, is called Melcombe-Smith. He’s the MP for where she comes from down in Dorset.”
Fiona nodded. She didn’t say any more but went upstairs to change. Jeff decided to finish the bottle. They could have a cab to and from the restaurant. He’d been very shaken by the wedding picture and accompanying story, so disturbed that now he’d told her he couldn’t stay in the house with Fiona but had to go out and take himself for a walk up to Fortune Green and back. It was pretty obvious that the letter he’d written on Matthew Jarvey’s computer and sent to Zillah had been taken seriously. He’d expected Minty to take hers seriously, she was thick enough, that was the point of it, but not Zillah. The whole idea had been to give her a signal that he intended to disappear, she wouldn’t be troubled by him again. He hadn’t intended to give her carte blanche to remarry, just as if they’d been properly divorced or he’d really died. In a few years’ time, maybe, when she hadn’t seen him for ages, but not after six months. Still, in a way, he decided, after he turned in at Fiona’s gate once more, he had to hand it to her. She’d got a nerve marrying an upper-class rich git like that Melcombe-Smith and telling the paper she was childless Miss Leach. Or he supposed she had. They’d had to get it from somewhere and where else but her?
Drinking the last of the wine, he reflected briefly on his children and, as he did so, felt something quite alien to him, a pang of real sorrow. He’d never seen much of them, particularly Jordan, but when he’d been with them he’d loved them. It was just that he couldn’t stand that domestic scene, Mr. and Mrs., Mummy and Daddy sharing the household tasks, the weekly shop, the preparation of food, the kids always there, always hurting themselves and crying, making a mess. Being poor, never knowing where the next penny was coming from. Zillah was a good enough sort of mother, or he’d always thought she was, never going out in the evening and leaving them on their own, though he’d tried to persuade her. As if they weren’t safe as houses in a country village surrounded by kindly neighbors. He’d felt quite secure about going off and leaving them all for weeks on end because he could trust Zillah to look after his children. But now?
He’d kept the pages of the paper with her pictures but he’d read the story so many times he knew it by heart. She hadn’t told the reporter a word about being a Gypsy-he’d never believed that anyway-or about a previous marriage or Watling not Leach being her maiden name. Most troubling of all, she very obviously hadn’t mentioned the children’s existence. He knew enough about reporters-he’d once been involved with quite a well-known freelance journalist-to be aware that it’s useless for an interviewee to implore the interviewer “not to say anything about” a secret once disclosed. What you’ve said is what you get. Leaving out bits of what you’d said was another matter, taking things out of context to change the sense. This was different. In a story of this kind there was no chance that if Zillah had told the Mail she had two small children, whether born inside or outside marriage, its reporter would have meekly agreed to keep quiet. So she hadn’t told them. What had she done with his children?
Fiona came downstairs looking lovely in a white suit with a very short, tight skirt and high-heeled black patent shoes. He felt the stirrings of lust. An evening spent in bed would have done a lot to dispel his anxieties about Eugenie and Jordan, but it wasn’t to be. His fault; he’d suggested dinner.
A taxi appeared, coming down Fortune Green Road. Just as well, since Fiona couldn’t have walked another yard in those heels. He was going to have to meet Zillah and talk to her, see his kids, he’d a right to see his kids, they were his. Their paternity was something he’d never disputed. They both looked exactly like him, as reliable a guide, he’d always thought, as any DNA test.
“Try not to let it prey on your mind, Jeff.”
For a moment he was afraid she’d read his thoughts. Then he realized that, of course, she imagined he was brooding on his “ex-wife” remarrying.
“You’ve got me now and we’ve a new life ahead of us.”
It might not be a bad idea to let Fiona go on thinking he was unhappy about his final parting from Zillah. In the future, if he seemed preoccupied or absent-minded or just silent, she’d attribute it to this. “I know,” he said. “Don’t think I’m not absolutely content with that. I’m thinking of my son and my little girl. And it’s just that…well, she was my first love.” He took her hand. “And you’re my last. First in my heart and last in my life.” The taxi turned into Blenheim Terrace and he felt in his pockets. “Have you got any change, darling? I’ve only a twenty-pound note.”
Fiona paid the taxi driver. When they were at their table she asked him a bit more about Zillah. “If you wanted a meeting with her, talk it through, that sort of thing, I wouldn’t mind.”
In a way this was his opportunity. It would be wiser not to take it. She might want to come with him or meet Zillah herself. He nearly shuddered. Fiona, with her house, her money, her inheritance, her job, was (as he put it to himself) the best woman who had ever happened to him. “No, my darling. I want to put it all behind me.”