Page 13 of Single Daddy Scot
‘As I’ve said, DNA can—’
‘Just tell me more about the wee lad’s mother.’ That I can’t even remember his creation, what kind of father would I be?
‘Louis. His name is Louis.’
‘Louis, then. Tell me about Louis’s mum.’
‘She’s not known to us. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Her hands tighten in her lap, fingers stark against her grey skirt. ‘It means she wasn’t on drugs, wasn’t struggling to survive. This is very obvious when entering the family home. Your child was well cared for. She loved him very much.’
‘And now she’s dead?’
‘Yes,’ she answers simply.
‘But I don’t knowwhoshe is. If he’s mine, why didn’t she seek me out?’ I swallow my frustration. ‘How can it be that I have a son with a woman I don’t even recall? If I could just... if you could help me jog my brain, somehow. I realise how pathetic this sounds. What a bastard this makes me look.’ I clamp my lips closed. I hadn’t meant to sound so disrespectful. So harsh.
‘Her name was Annelise Bernard. I understand she was a dancer. And French.’ I blow out a rush of air. Annelise. Do I know an Annelise? ‘I believe she may have been modelling when you met. And I understand you spent a weekend together four years ago after meeting at a wedding.’
‘A wedding?’ I sound like a fucking parrot.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anymore. Perhaps I could pass on your number to Annelise’s flatmate. With your permission, of course.’
‘Does it not seem weird that her flatmate knows about me, knows about my son, yet I can’t even remember...’Annelise. A wedding. I spent a weekend holed up in a hotel with a model—a European model following the wedding of one of the friend of a friend. Was she French?And how long ago was that?I remember we survived on room service for two full days, fucking like bunnies between food and naps. We’d squabbled when I’d insisted on paying the bill for her room as well as my own but had parted amicably. I’d walked her to her Mini Cooper, kissing her on the cheek. I’d never seen her again.
‘And my... Louis. He’s with the flatmate now?’
She tilts her head to the side as though weighing her brain rather than her words. ‘No. I’m afraid not. Louis is with foster parents at the moment. Emergency provisions had to be made.’
‘He’s living with strangers?’ Every muscle in my body draws tight. Is this what it feels like to have a heart attack? My body reacting like this—is it trying to tell me something?
‘His mother died quite suddenly.’
‘A car crash, you said?’
‘Yes. In these difficult circumstances, we would look to extended family or even friends willing to take parental guardianship. But Annelise and Louis had none.’
‘But the flatmate, he couldn’t stay with her?’ She shakes her head, a million of my own thoughts flittering away. He’s in a stranger’s home, maybe wearing a stranger’s pyjamas right now. Eating a brand of cereal that is strange to him. ‘He has no one?’
‘He has foster parents, for now. For later, I’m hoping he has you.’
