Page 61 of Days You Were Mine

‘I think it could. But I don’t wear aftershave, so it’s nothing I recognise.’

She picks up a sheet of cardboard and begins spraying its corners – Dior Homme, Eau Sauvage, Gucci, Prada. It’s none of these.

‘Sharper,’ I say. ‘Fresher.’

She points to a bottle. ‘Long shot,’ she says, ‘but this is Acqua di Parma, an Italian cologne that’s been around for decades. A lot of women wear it.’

She uncaps the bottle and holds it out for me to sniff. And there it is, the scent of woodlands and lavender and cedar and lime; it is all of these things, but, critically, it is also the smell of my past.

‘That’s it!’

I’m not sure which of us is the more jubilant.

‘I’ll take it,’ I say, and while she wraps the bottle, I pick upthe tester and dab it on my neck, my throat, my cheeks.

Of course, when I get to The Coach and Horses and find Ben at the bar, he steps back from me in surprise.

‘What the fuck? You’re wearing perfume.’

He looks so shocked, I can’t help laughing.

‘I’ve been buying presents for Hannah in Liberty.’

He hands me a pint.

‘Drink up. And man up while you’re at it.’

Oh it’s good to be here in the company of my oldest friend, the two of us quietly celebrating. Him the fact that he has just finished a couple of commissions – ‘Jude Law’s kids. Bit too pastel and cherubic for my liking, but it paid well.’ Me because Michael is away and I can take a longer lunch than usual. I’ve been working flat out these past weeks, desperate to clinch the deal with Reborn and keep Spirit safe. At night I dream about it; I dream of Michael appearing in my office, twisted and vindictive as he fires me. ‘You’re utterly hopeless,’ he tells me, ‘a complete waste of space.’ This happens night after night after night. Yet when I wake, I understand that the dreams are not about work, not really; on a deep level they connect to my concerns and fears about Alice.

Two pints turns to three in less than an hour. Lunch is two bags of cheese and onion crisps and a shared packet of KP nuts.

‘I’ve missed this,’ I say, raising my pint. ‘We never get a chance to go to the pub any more.’

Ben is silent, sipping his ale, watching. I don’t need to tell him I’m close to the edge; he’s been right here on the brink with me many times. At school, he was the only one I ever cried in front of when my acute homesickness cut deep. We were eight, if that sounds lame, incarcerated for weeks at a time. I’ve come to understand, as an adult with my own child, that boarding school is little more than abandonment on repeat.

‘It’s Alice, isn’t it?’ he says eventually. ‘Ever since she came into your life you’ve seemed … messed up.’

‘Hold it there,’ I say. ‘We need something stronger for this conversation.’

I return to the table with doubles of Jameson’s and more beer.

‘I don’t think Alice is in the slightest bit interested in me,’ I say. ‘All she really cares about is Samuel. Hannah can’t see it – or won’t see it; she needs it to work with Alice so she can carry on with her job. The one thing we know is that we are leaving Samuel in good hands each day.’

‘But what is it you want from her? She can’t be your mother again, not after twenty-seven years apart.’

‘It’s more that there’s no real connection between us. And that seems strange to me. She never talks about the weeks when we were together. Why not? It’s the one thing we have in common.’

‘What about Rick?’

‘What about him? We’ve had a couple of lunches. He’s great, but I haven’t got to know him. He doesn’t feel in the least bit like my real father.’

I see Ben’s hesitation. I know him well enough to understand that he is weighing up whether he should tell me something.

‘What?’ I say, impatient.

‘Elizabeth doesn’t think Rickisyour father. You know what she’s like, she never minces her words. For a start, you look nothing like each other. Rick has blonde hair and blue eyes. Also he’s gay. It doesn’t make sense. Elizabeth doesn’t believe he was Alice’s lover.’

‘Why would Rick say he was my father if he wasn’t? Why would he be on my birth certificate?’

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