12. Valentina
VALENTINA
It starts as a normal Wednesday.
Well, normal for me these days, which means I’m in leggings on the sofa eating crackers at three in the afternoon because the baby has decided that anything more adventurous than crackers is horrid. My back aches.
My hair is in a clip I put in this morning without checking a mirror.
I have a half-finished cup of ginger tea going cold on the side table and a gallery report open on my laptop that I have been staring at for forty minutes without reading.
Cillian left an hour ago.
Connor’s, he said. Fucking liar. And he had the balls to look me straight in the eyes as he said it. We’ve barely spoken since our fight.
I said okay and he left. I’ve been doing a very bad job of not thinking about it.
So. Normal Wednesday.
Then someone knocks on the door.
My first thought is Emma.
She likes to do this randomly whenever Mamma offers to babysit Seraphina, which is often, so she can have adult conversations.
I actually feel relief at the thought of it. Being alone with my own thoughts sucks.
I push myself off the sofa and pad to the door in my socks. I open it.
It’s…not Emma.
There’s a woman in my hallway.
Mid-thirties, I’d guess.
She has brown hair, the kind that sits flat no matter what you do with it, pulled back in a ponytail with bits coming loose at the sides.
She’s average height, maybe two inches shorter than me.
She wears a green hooded coat with jeans and sensible, sturdy boots.
She has brown eyes with deep purple bags under her eyes. She’s clearly been tired for a long time.
She’s holding a child’s hand.
The boy is standing half behind her, peeking around her hip at me. He’s about seven or eight years old.
He has short brown hair but is also in desperate need of a haircut.
His brown eyes are watchful.
He’s wearing a blue coat, with muddy sneakers, and a small backpack with a plastic dinosaur keyring clipped to the zip.
I look at the woman.
I look at the boy.
A feeling of dread courses through me.
“May I help you?” I ask politely. Are they selling Boy Scout cookies or something? Oh god, are these fucking religious freaks? I will need to have a word with the front office about them allowing anyone in this building.
“You must be Valentina,” the woman says with an accent. I can’t exactly place it. Irish? Scottish? “I’m Claire Murphy. Is Cillian home?” She pauses. “He’s not returning my calls.”
Claire Murphy.
Nope. Nada. That name is a completely blank space in everything I know about my husband, which admittedly isn’t a whole bunch.
But this woman is standing in my hallway and knows my name. That means Cillian has talked about me.
But why is she asking for him? And who is this child? There’s a weird ringing in my ears, but I try to shove it aside. I need information first.
“What business do you have with my husband?” I make sure to stress the word “husband.” I don’t care if it makes me sound petty or spiteful. I’m staking my fucking claim.
She looks at the boy.
The boy looks at the floor.
Then she glances back at me and a strange expression crosses her face. It’s not guilt, per se, but a look of someone who is finding out that I know apparently nothing.
“I, uh, I knew Cillian a long time ago,” she says awkwardly. “We knew each other almost a decade ago in Belfast.”
That still doesn’t answer my question. “That’s lovely, but what business do you have with my husband?” I ask again, more firmly.
The woman’s cheeks darken. “Finn has been asking to meet his father,” she says, tugging the boy closer to her as if she’s afraid I’ll detonate.
Okay.
Okay okay okay okay.
The hallway does not tilt. I will not let the hallway tilt.
I can hear my mother’s voice clear as a bell, like a recording she planted in my head at age six: you never show them any emotion. Not one thing. You put it away and you deal with it later, but not here, not in front of them.
I have never been more grateful for Gianna Santoro’s parenting in my entire life.
I focus my gaze back on Claire.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice is light and even. “Who did you say you were?”
She blinks. She was expecting a reaction, and she doesn’t know what to do now that I haven’t done what she expected. Good.
“Claire Murphy,” she explains again, her eyes darting around.
“Cillian and I knew each other in Belfast about nine years ago.” She straightens slightly, committing to it.
“Finn is his son. I’ve been trying to reach Cillian for the past few days but he hasn’t—I thought if I came in person—” She stops and shifts her weight, as if realizing what a terrible mistake that was.
“I’m sorry to come without warning. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought Cillian told you about us.”
Belfast. Nine years ago.
This has nothing to do with me. This is not the thing I was lying awake at three in the morning afraid of. This is an entirely different catastrophe, which is not comforting. That is not comforting at all.
I have no beef with Claire right now. She’s not my issue. No, my issue is with my husband.
Cillian has known about this woman for however long and has not said one word to me.
The balcony calls.
The hours he’s gone. The Connor excuse he rolls out every time, like he thinks I’m a fucking idiot.
He has known about Claire Murphy and her son all this time.
He has stood in our kitchen, looked me in the eye and said nothing, and I have been losing my mind making up stories in my head, building every possible worst version, and the real version was this. This woman in my hallway with a child.
My eyes cut to Finn.
He looks up at the same moment, meeting mine.
His gaze is watchful, taking me in, trying to figure out what he’s walked into. He has a serious face for a kid his age. Something in the set of it —
I look away.
I’m going to look at that later too, along with everything else I’m putting away for later.
Right now I have a very specific job.
I step back from the door.
“Come in,” I say. “We should talk.”
It pains me to say this, to invite this woman into my house, but I say it anyway. I hold the door and I wait.
Claire Murphy looks at me for a moment—still trying to read me and still finding nothing—then she moves forward into my apartment with her son.
I close the door behind them.
I stand with my hand on the door for two seconds.
My back is to the room.
He fucking knew. He has known all this time. He knew about this woman. He knew about this child. He said nothing.
I take my hand off the door and turn around.
Claire is in the middle of the living room, trying and failing to hide her shock at the size of the penthouse.
Clearly, this woman is solidly middle class. Finn is standing next to her with his backpack still on, studying the television. I notice that his coat has a small tear at the left elbow that’s been stitched back with dark blue thread that doesn’t match the fabric.
Someone cared enough to fix it but didn’t have the right thread or didn’t care about the thread.
Claire and Finn must not come from much if so much care was taken to fix the coat.
His sneakers are so muddy I genuinely wonder if he walked here through a field. I wince at the mud tracking through my house.
Claire notices my expression. “Should I…?” she gestures to Finn’s shoes.
The polite thing to do is to tell her no, absolutely not. But I nod. “That would be best.”
Claire flushes and pulls Finn to her, whispering something in his ear.
Finn’s brown eyes cut to mine quickly before he nods and toes off his shoes, carrying them over to the front door.
“Sit down,” I tell Claire, and I go to the kitchen.
I fill the kettle with steady hands and I get two mugs. I find the teabags. I stand at the counter waiting for the water to boil, staring at nothing.
All I can think about his face every time I asked him what was going on.
It’s handled. You don’t need to worry.
He knew.
I’m protecting you.
He knew the whole time and he looked at me and he—
The kettle clicks off.
I pour the water and carry the mugs through to the living room. I sit down in my chair and I set one mug in front of Claire.
I keep mine, letting the steam waft up to my face and I look at her across the coffee table.
Finn has sat down next to his mother on the sofa, his backpack still on his shoulders. He looks at me, then at the room, then at his hands.
My gaze is steady on Claire.
“Tell me everything,” I say firmly.