Chapter Forty-Five
STUART, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
Daisy has given me permission to speak to her father, Harvey Moor. He has apparently retired and no longer works at the family business, but I am hoping that if I can’t talk to him directly, I can talk to his son Jason.
My call is answered within a couple of rings. “Hello, Jason Moor’s office.”
“Oh, hi, I was wondering if I might be able to have a word with Mr. Moor. If he’s there?”
“Yes, he’s right here. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Could you tell him it’s a friend of his father’s? My name is Stuart Tucker.”
I can hear the woman talking with her hand over the receiver of the phone in a hushed whisper, and then a man clearing his throat. “Jason Moor speaking.”
“Oh,” I say. “Hi, you don’t know me, but I know someone who is a close friend of your father’s and she’s desperate to talk to him. Her name is…”
The man sighs. “Don’t tell me. Jessamine Black.”
“Yes.” I swallow down my surprise. “Do you know her?”
“No, I don’t know her. But I know who she is.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. And…?” I peter off.
“And she’s a total nut and my father has made it very clear that he wants nothing more to do with her, so please, can you tell Ms. Black that—”
I cut in over him. “I’m not calling on Jessamine’s behalf. I’m calling on her daughter’s behalf.”
There’s a brief pause, then Jason says, “Her daughter? What has she got to do with anything?”
“Well, I assume you’re aware that Jessamine’s daughter is…” I stall. What am I doing? Am I about to launch a hand grenade into the heart of this family that I know nothing about?
But before I can form the end of my sentence, Jason resumes talking. “I know who Jessamine claims her daughter is, but I also know that my father had a DNA test carried out two years ago and established categorically that Daisy is not his daughter.”
“She’s…?” I trail off again. “She’s not?”
“No. If you want, I could email you the results certificate from the lab. Jessamine has been in receipt of a copy and there is a copy lodged with our lawyers too. My father has been told that there is a 0.01 percent chance that he is the child’s father.
That woman strung him along for years, took him for his money and took advantage of him in so many other ways.
She kept him from his family with emotional blackmail, threatened to kill herself, threatened to report him to the police, threatened to destroy his family.
And all the while it was a lie. The relief to my family since we found out that my father has no connection to that child has been overwhelming.
So please, I’m sure Daisy is a lovely girl, I know my father was fond of her, but she is no longer a part of our lives. And neither is her insane mother.”
I approach Jessamine as she returns from her daily walk to the local shop.
This is probably the best moment of the day to have a civil conversation with her, when her hangover has lifted and her urge to drink has kicked in but she has the wine in her hands so she knows that she is only moments away from her first drink.
It’s the sweet spot in her day, the only time I see a chink of light in her eyes.
I take a beer from the fridge and open it.
Showing nice. Showing sociable. Showing my intent to sit with her for a while, share her space instead of keeping my distance as I normally do.
I watch her lift a clean wineglass from the cupboard and turn it onto its base.
There’s the tinny click of the lid being screwed off the bottle, and the thin glug of the wine as it pours.
I look at her back, at the tense arch of her spine, the flattened hair at back of her head, her roots visible through a gap.
I notice a slight tremor in her hand. I know this woman is on a path to self-destruction.
I want to stop her, but I can’t. And what I’m about to do is likely only to make things worse.
“Listen,” I say as she comes to the table with her wine.
“I was talking to Daisy yesterday. She said…” I pause and lick my lips.
“She thought she might be adopted. She was only joking. But then I remembered what you said on Monday about Daisy being ‘nothing to do with you’ and my mind started”—I windmill my forefinger around my temples—“racing, y’know?
Started wondering, because she doesn’t look like you, and she doesn’t look like that photo you showed me of her dad.
And I did a bit of investigation, Jess, and, well, you know what I’m going to say, obviously you do… ”
Jessamine’s face is drawn and hard. She gulps her wine and bangs the glass back down on the table. “No, Stuart,” she says. “I don’t know what you’re going to say. Pray share.”
I turn my beer bottle around between my hands. “Daisy’s not his daughter. The old guy. Harvey. The guy you told me was her father. He had a DNA test done two years ago and it came back conclusively that he was not Daisy’s father.”
She sniffs. “Obviously that’s not true. Obviously he just sent the DNA of some random person in a test tube. Obviously he is Daisy’s father. He just didn’t want to be in her life anymore. Wanted to be swanning around with his stupid fat wife instead.”
“I would say that actually none of that is obvious. I would say that you knew that Harvey wasn’t Daisy’s dad and that you know who Daisy’s dad is and, Jessamine, if you want me here, in your life, if you want me looking after everything, taking care of Daisy, taking care of your mother, taking care of the dog, this house, all of this, if you want me to stay, Jessamine, I need you to be honest with me.
I need you tell me who Daisy’s dad really is. OK?”
There’s a strange smile twitching at the edges of Jessamine’s mouth. I’ve seen that smile before, many times. I catch my breath. Will I end up with wine in my face? A black eye? Or an emotional meltdown involving wrists and knives?
“You are such a fucking moron, Stuart. You are literally the stupidest man I’ve ever met. You would believe anything anyone told you, wouldn’t you? Mr. Nice Guy? Mr. Oh I’m So Fucking Lovely, And So Fucking Patient. But actually, you’re just a stupid, stupid moron.”
I sigh loudly and pick at the label on my beer bottle.
“Ah, Jessamine,” I say, “Jessamine, Jessamine. You know, I do not have to be here. I’m here because I choose to be here.
Every morning, I wake up in that stinking bed up there, next to you and your filthy dirty body, and I can smell your hair, you know, the stench of it.
I have to hold it all back down and get out of bed as quick as I can so I can breathe properly.
I look after this house for you; I buy you food, with my money; I cook you food; I am single-handedly keeping that daughter of yours sane and in one piece.
Then for my efforts I get to watch you drink yourself into putridity every single day, watch you alienate your daughter, humiliate your mother, blame everyone for everything, and yet here I am.
Still here. And I make that choice every morning, Jess.
Every single morning, because I care about you.
And that is what makes me stupid, Jess. That choice.
That’s what makes me a moron. The fact that I choose to stay.
Here. With you. When you do not deserve me.
And, in fact, you do not deserve anything.
Not Daisy, not this house, not that dog, none of it.
So don’t fucking push me, Jess, because I will go.
I will fucking go. And I will take your daughter and your dog with me. I fucking swear it.”
I stare at her. Her eyes gleam with a demon delight, but still she doesn’t yell, still she doesn’t move.
Her fingers caress the narrow stem of her wineglass, but she doesn’t lift it and throw it.
She just stares, and smiles. “I don’t know who Daisy’s dad is, OK?
I have no idea. As far as I’m concerned, Harvey is her dad.
And if he isn’t her dad, then who cares? It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant.”
I nod, amazed by her civilized response.
“But,” she says, leaning across the table toward me, her eyes flashing as she speaks, “if you ever tell Daisy about this, I will kill you in your fucking sleep, Stuart. OK? I will fucking end you.”