Why dont you just set this bloody renovation on fire! Claire hurled the remote at the wall, right above Toms head. It barely skimmed his ear and shattered the cheap plastic shade of the old wall lamp, scattering pieces across the polished shelf unit theyd bought way back for their first wedding anniversary.
Tom acted as though nothing had happened. He slung his boots on in the hallway, muttering, Honestly, love, get your head checked. Bloody nut house is missing you.
Where do you think youre going, then? Claire stormed after him in her dressing gown, hair wild, face burning. Round to that tart in number forty-four? I saw you grinning at her outside!
Will you just leave it? Tom finally tamed his laces and loomed over her, tall and scornful. Im going to see Mark, help him with that engine. Maybe give me some peace for once.
He slammed the door behind him. Claire stood there, staring at the chipped paint, then turned and went to the kitchen. She perched on the windowsill and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out through the gap. The hurt was blunt nowa dull ache, like a rotten tooth. Five years married, and the past one the worst by a mile. How much more could she take?
She told herself hed come back that evening. He didnt. Not for days. She rang his mum, worried. The old bat just grunted, Hes not with me, why ask me?
Claire waited a week. Then a month.
At first she called Tom obsessively, but he would just hang up, or bark quick answers: What now? Leave off, Dont want to see you.
By the second month, she simply gave up. Blocked his number, binned his old trainers and jacket that still hung by the door. Divorce? She couldnt face the paperwork. You dont run to the solicitor on a whim, she told herself, Measure seven times, cut once. Seven months slipped by like that.
She adjusted, eventually. Learned to sleep in the middle of the bed, not clinging to her edge. Cooked just enough soup for two meals, so there were no leftovers to tip away. Finished the living room herselfhung the wallpaper Tom had always called ghastly. Life edged into a quiet, hollow routine.
So when the doorbell rang one wet October eveninglong and insistent, the kind that sent your blood coldClaire guessed it was Mrs. Foley from next door coming to borrow cash. But when she opened it, her heart thudded.
Tom stood there, thinner now, rough stubble patchy, rolling his beanie in his hands.
She stepped back automatically.
Well, fancy you showing up, her voice scratched.
Claire, please dont start. Tom crossed the threshold and rested, beaten, against the hallway wall. Give me five minutes. I need to talk.
Theres nothing for us to talk about. Claire folded her arms, blocking him from the lounge. You vanish half a year, then swan back. This isnt a doss house.
Im a bloody idiot, Claire, he mumbled, eyes fixed to the carpet. Gods own idiot. I panicked, did a runner to Marks, got pissed for a week then it just spiralled. Pride, you know? Didnt want to be the one to crawl back, beg. Then you blocked me and I thought, sod you all.
Sod who, exactly? You shacked up with someone, didnt you? Anger churned inside her.
Toms gaze flicked up, wretched and scared.
There wasnt anyone, honestly.
Claire snorted.
All rightfine. There was you know. The one in forty-four. Becky, the ginger one. Got smashed a couple months, messed about. But it wasnt right, Claire. Not being with you its like missing a limb.
Oh, save it. Off you go, back to your lovely Becky. Claire tried to shove him out, but he held firm.
Wait! I left her ages ago! Slept on Marks creaky sofa, drank, stewed Then autumn comes, the misery set in. Im sorry, Claire. Give me another go? Ill fix the flat up proper, Ill get a jobreal work, decent hoursplease
He babbled on, voice desperate, reaching for her. Claire looked at his gaunt features, those familiar hands, and something softened inside. Not loveno, not after all that. Familiarity. That gut-deep sense: he was hers, idiot and all. And the loneliness, gnawing at her all these months, that she tried to bury with evening yogurts in front of the telly.
All right, she said briefly, stepping aside. Want a tea?
He lit up, as if shed promised him a lottery win. Falling over his own feet, he scrambled out of his boots. In the kitchen, he clung to the mug and talkeda stream of nonsense about missing her stews, about nearly trashing an engine with Mark, about quitting a job he hated. Claire listened, barely, lost in her thoughts. There was no going back. He was here; he was still her husband. The rest, she just had to get through.
They muddled on. Tom triedhe washed up, even wielded the vacuum now and then. Claire thawed, little by little. They skirted talk of the past, and of Becky. It was like moving round a house blindfolded, never bumping an edge. Claire stopped checking his phone. Tom landed a steady job at a garage, came home knackered but happier, and brought every penny home. Things, to all appearances, were settling down.
It lasted just three weeks.
That Sunday in late October, as the first sleet rattled the window, Tom turned up from work early. Claire was frying potatoes with mushrooms, the kitchen bathed in the golden smell.
Tom dropped his coat in the hall and sat down stiffly.
Whats with the glum face? Claire asked, stirring the frying pan. Work rough?
Claire his voice came gruff, strangled. We need to talk.
She wiped her hands on her apron and sat opposite.
Go on. Whatve you done this time?
He kept his hands buried in his lap, looking anywhere but at her. When he finally met her eyes, she recognised that fear from the night hed first returnedonly now ten times worse.
Becky the ginger from forty-four came by my work today.
Claire stiffened.
What does that woman want?
He swallowed. Please, just please dont kill me for this. Shes well, shes pregnant.
A draft moaned through the window. The pan hissed as the oil burned.
What? Claires voice was flat.
She says shes having a baby that its mine.
Claire stood up, slow as a nightmare. She turned off the cooker, stared at the cooling potatoes. Suddenly, she whipped the salt shaker off the table and hurled it at the wall above Toms head. Salt rained over the wallpaper, the floor, over his shoulders.
You bastard! Her shriek was unrecognisable. You pretended this was some happy family?! Missed you, sorry, made a mistakeand all the while shacked up, knocking up some tart, and now you come crawling back here?!
Theres nothing between us! Tom leapt up, brushing salt from his jacket. It was three stupid months! We finished in the summer!
Then whose child is it, you idiot? The Holy Ghosts? She lunged for him, arm raised, but he seized her wrist.
Stop! Sit and listen to me! He bullied her onto the chair and slammed his own fists on the table, exhausted. She was taking the pill, she said, probably forgot most of the time. She kept shtum after we split. Now her bellys growing, shes causing scenes, turning up at work, yelling Im a bastard and demanding maintenance.
Serves you right! Claire spat, wriggling to break free. You are a bastard!
I told her Im having none of it! Tom bellowed, his voice matching hers. Told her to do what she wantsI want nothing to do with that baby!
And what did she say to that?
He slumped, letting her go. She just laughed. Said, Youll pay one way or another, love. DNA testll prove it. And everyone will know youve got your own kid running round the flats while you pretend you dont. Vile cow. Wont let go.
Claire sat, hollow. The little world shed glued together these months just crumbled away. Tom was not her remorseful husband nowbut a stranger, weak, whod just brought trouble smashing into her home.
So what are you going to do now? she asked quietly, staring at the peeling wallpaper. Move in with her?
Are you mad? Tom jerked, as if slapped. Why would I? I love you. I want to stay here. She can have the child if she wants, not my problem. Im not giving her a penny except what the court forces. They can garnish my wages. But Im staying here.
And the baby? Claire met his eyes. Think about that baby. Growing up without a dad, with a nutty mum. Knowing you disowned it.
I never wanted her to have it! Tom shot back. I told her not to. Shouldve used protection. Not my mess. Women always want to trap you.
Oh, so youre the mongrel who cant keep it zipped, and its all her fault? Claires smile was bitter. Did you, Saint Tom, always use protection?
He was silent, staring at the lino.
Exactly, Claire finished coldly. Hero.
They sat in that kitchen until the first birds sang. First yelling, then silent, then more yelling. Tom swore blind he needed no one else but her, that Becky meant nothing, that it had been a drunken mistake. Claire wept, then raged again. At dawn, spent, they collapsed into bed, still clothed, not speaking.
Next morning began the nightmare that lasted till Christmas.
BeckyRebecca Jane Field, age twenty-eight, worked the food van at the stationproved a stubborn sort. Not content to wait, she attacked. Called Tom from dozens of numbers, sent filthy texts and threats, showed up at the garage hurling insults in front of the customers: Take responsibility, you scumbag! Ill have you paying til youre in your grave!
Toms boss, old Mr. Simmons, called him aside.
Son, he grunted, sort your love life out or youre gone. I wont tolerate this circus in my business.
Tom took leave, skulking at home, growing more feral by the day. Claire passed him in silence, pity squeezed out by bitternessand by pity for the child that would soon be howling in another woman’s arms.
Claire went all in. One day, while Tom raged around the flat, she dressed smart, did her make-up.
Come on, she ordered.
Where? He looked panicked.
To forty-four. Ill do the talking.
Youll get slaughtered, he muttered. Shes mean as they come. Built like a prop forward.
Ill have you with me. Dont think about ducking out. Youll stand there and back me.
A few minutes later, Claire knocked sharply on the scuffed front door. Voices, a rattle of chains, then Becky appearedround face, lips loaded with scarlet, ginger curls everywhere. The bump was visible now, not huge.
Oh, look who it is, Becky grinned when she saw Tom behind. Hasnt he got his sidekick? You here to have a catfight?
I want a word. Claire steadied her voice, pushing the panic down. Are you going to let us in, or shall we do this on the landing?
Becky eyed her, then shrugged and let them into the cramped hallway, strewn with laundry and boxes. The living room stank of old smoke. A tin brimming with ends sat on the table.
You smoke? Claire nodded at it.
Whats it to you? Becky bristled but instinctively shielded her belly. My body, my choice. What do you want?
Lets be honest, Claire sat on the shaky chair, ignoring the dirt. Do you really want a baby?
I do, Becky shot back. Ill have it, Ill raise it, dont need your helpbut hell pay up, by law.
So youre condemning the kid to a father who wants nothing to do with them? Claire asked, calm now, eyes only for Becky. He wont take them to the park, cant face visiting days. Is that what you want for your child?
Becky sneered. Dont preach to me. All dads say that till the first birthday rolls roundthen theyre buying cuddly bunnies. Model fathers overnight.
I wont be, Tom croaked behind Claire. Dont count on it.
Shut it, mongrel, Becky shot, eyes still on Claire. Your issue now is to pay up. And you she gestured at Claire, youve no place in this. Your husbands a cheat, so deal with it. Ill have this baby for myself. And I need his cash. Understand? End of.
So its about money. Claire rose.
Of course its money, Becky retorted, hauling herself up too. Theres no love in it, dont be daft. Off you trot, both of you, before I really lose my rag and give you a scene to remember.
It ended in nothing but exhaustion. In the lift, Tom muttered, Told you. She wont budge.
Just shut up, Claire sighed. You made this mess.
Time passed. Becky had the baby and took Tom to court. He got a summons. Claire was a ghost, rarely sleeping. Tom drank bitter every night and turned sour.
At court Becky was in her elementflanked by a bargain-bin lawyer and two mates swearing theyd seen Tom with her the summer of conception. Tom told the judge:
I cant say Im not the father. But I dont want the child. Let them do the DNA.
The judgepale, middle-aged womannodded. Said theyd wait a month for results.
Those thirty days were the worst yet. Claire and Tom spoke little, living like strangers in a downmarket flatshare. Claire caught herself thinking she didnt care anymore if he left. He was just a magnet for trouble. And Tom? He watched her like a kicked dog, waiting for the boot.
The DNA came back a week before New Year: 99.9% match.
That night, Claire drank alone. Tom vanished off to Marks, came crawling in at sunrise, sour and reeling. Claire met him, puffy-eyed.
Well, Dad, she said, hollow. Congratulations.
Sod off. He shuffled by and flopped on the sofa.
New Years came. In silence, Tom clinked her glass with his own, her with the cheap supermarket prosecco. No Happy New Year. Nothing.
Claire. Tom finally spoke, as the fireworks faded beyond the estate. Why dont we just go? Northumberland, Blackpool, I dont care. Start over, away from all this. Shell pester us forever here. That kid running up and down our stairs, like she threatened. Dyou want to see that?
Claire stared at him long and hard.
Can you leave yourself behind, Tom? Youll still be her dad a hundred miles away. Theyll garnish your wages anywhere, and your consciencehave you thought of that?
Conscience is for people who wanted children, Claire. I never did.
Becky named the girl Emily. Tom got a photo sent from a strange number: a red, scrunched newborn swaddled in a hospital blanket, Beckys chipped manicure in the corner. Caption: Congrats, Daddy.
He showed Claire. She peered for a long time, handed it back, and walked to the kitchen.
What am I supposed to do? Tom called after her.
She stood at the window, February frost beyond the glass. Youve got to live with it, thats all.
Becky was relentless. Not just child support now docked from Toms pay, but extraspram, cot, milk, nappies. Tom hurled curses at her, Becky replied with endless photos: Your daughter smiled today, Emily had her first bath, you missed it. That cut deeper than any threat.
Claire started noticing Tom would linger on those messages. Before, he deleted them straight away. Nowtheyd stay on the screen a minute or two.
Whats tickling you? she said one evening.
Nothing. He jumped. Just looking Wondering if she looks like me. Got my nose, I think He caught himself. But I dont care, Claire. Really, I dont.
But Claire wasnt fooled. There was something shifting in Tom: anger at Becky, sure, but now this little beinghis nose, his eyeswas creeping into his mind. Hed never say it, but she felt it.
Then, late March, Claire was heading home and spotted them outsideBecky with a new, top-range buggy (no way she bought that with just support money), Tom bent down, making faces at the pram, shaking a rattle. Becky folded her arms, smiling like the cat whose got the cream.
Claire stopped dead, hidden around the flats corner. Her heart plummeted as she watched Tom fuss with the toy, face soft and utterly lost. Hed never looked at her that way.
She emerged into the open, walking towards them. Tom straightened, rabbit-caught, the rattle slipping into the slush.
I was just passing he stammered.
Doesnt look like it, Claire said calmly, every muscle in turmoil. Afternoon, Rebecca.
Hello, wife, Becky smirked. Daddys just meeting his little girl, finally. Cant have the man neglecting his own flesh and blood, can we?
Tom, were going home, Claire commanded, ignoring Becky.
One minute Tom pleaded. Let me just
Just what? Claire snapped. Youve seen, now leave.
Why are you bossing him? Becky butted in. Hes the fatherhas a right. And youre what? You never gave him a child!
Claires cheeks blazed. She peeped into the buggy. The baby girl, cheeks rosy and hair a feathery tuft, slept with her lips pursed in a pout. Claires heart wobbled.
Shes lovely, she whispered, despite herself.
Takes after me. And him. That nose, Becky preened.
Right. Claire straightened, turning to Tom. Home. We need to talk.
Back in the flat, Claire erupted.
You see her, visit them? she shouted. You lied! Said you couldnt stand her, didnt want the babyyet youre out cooing over rattles?
I havent been visiting! Tom protested. I walked by, saw them shes so tiny, Claire. Shes mine
Oh yours now, is she? Claire smashed a mug on the floor. So go on, off you pop. Live with them if thats how you feel. But leave me out!
Claire, please
Love? Dont talk to me about love. You only love an easy life. Well, you wont have one now. And Im not being the third wheel in this circus.
She locked herself away in the bedroom. Tom crashed on the sofa.
After that, everything unravelled. Tom started staying outwork late, or at Marks, he claimed.
One sunny evening, fed up, Claire went to forty-four herself. Becky answered, calm and even smiling.
Come in. Want a cup of tea?
Wheres Tom? Claire demanded.
Howd I know? Becky shrugged. Hes probably at yours. Though he popped in yesterday. To see Emily.
Why do you do this? Claire asked, perching on the edge of the dirty armchair. What do you get from it? Isnt money enough?
Becky sobered. Kids need a dad. Not just for the cash, but for real. He loves her. He comes by, brings toys, pushes the buggy. Why do you hang onto him?
I dont! Claire retorted. He came back to me. Asked for forgiveness!
Now youre holding him. You know it. Hes got a kid and me; he doesnt love me, Im not blind. But he adores Emily. And you see ityou just wont admit it. Its habit with you, not love. Emily and I need him here, really here. Im not saying Ill marry him, but the baby needs her dad.
The brutal honesty burrowed its way in.
Back at home, Claire found Tom smiling to himself at a photo on his phone. As soon as he saw her, he snapped to seriousness.
Whore you texting? she asked, knowing the answer.
Just Mark, he muttered.
Dont lieI saw Becky. She told me everything. How often you go. How you love that kid. That youre practically living there.
He blanched. Im not living there. I just visit sometimes. Shes so little, Claire. She smiles at me. I cant just walk away. At first I thought I could, but now I cant. Shes my daughter.
Claire sat, staring at him for a long, aching moment.
Choose, Tom. Me or them. I wont share my husband with the woman from number forty-four and her child. Even if shes your own.
A minute ticked bythen another. Tom finally lifted his gaze. Claire saw it in his eyes. The decision.
Im sorry, Claire, his voice was like gravel. I didnt expect this. But when I see Emily I cant turn my back. I dont know what Becky and Ill bemaybe nothing. But I cant walk out on my kid. Id be filth if I did.
She nodded, stood, fetched her sports bag, and began to pack.
What are you doing? he panicked.
Leaving, for now. Staying with Mum until I find somewhere. Go to them, Tom. Thats your family now.
Claire, dont he tried to grab her arm.
She pulled away. Dont, Tom. You were gone seven months before and I forgave you. Now you have your real family. I cant do this. I wont.
She walked out. Tom didnt follow; he sat, phone pressed to his chest, a picture of Emily beneath the glass, silent.
A week later, Claire filed for divorce and for half the flat. Tom didnt contest. By June, they were legally strangers. The flat was sold, the money split.
Becky seemed unsurprised by the news Tom was free. She let him move in but made no fuss. He got the camp bed by the cot. Tom worked, handed over his wages, did the midnight feeds and learned to bathe and swaddle. Beckys love faded fastshe took loversbut Tom stuck it for Emily.
Through friends, Claire let word slip that she was fine, had met a normal manmaybe a lie, maybe not.
Tom stayed at number forty-four. Every morning, roused by his daughters cry, hed stare at the ceiling and wonder: how had one slip unravelled his whole life? And for all the humiliation, all the pain, how had the one thing that now mattered mosta little girl with his nosecome to him in such a crooked way?
Emily grew. She never had to run across the block to see her fatherhe was always there. People gossiped at first, of course, but got used to it. And watching her run to him, her tiny arms outstretched, Tom learned a brutal truth: some things you can never run from. Not luck, not fate, and certainly not your own blood.
