Free The Bad Mother by Isabelle Grey Page B

seized on an ugly new suspicion – that she had been more blind than she dared admit, that perhaps Sam loving Nula had gone on for far longer than she’d assumed. What if they’d been seeing each other in London? Or even before?
    ‘But in a way, you’re right,’ Hugo continued. ‘Maybe it does make no difference.’ He cleared his throat again,straightening his shoulders the way he did when determined to say what had to be said, however difficult. ‘I love you,’ he uttered. ‘Nothing changes that.’
    ‘You don’t keep secrets from people you love!’ cried Tessa, thinking of how Sam had not loved her, and failing to notice how Hugo caved inwards, away from her scorching words. ‘It’s selfish. Cowardly.’
    ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘We lied to you. That was wrong. We didn’t think it through to the end.’
    ‘Well, that’s your problem!’ she replied. ‘You created this mess.’
    It seemed to take a big effort just for Hugo to remain there, staunch in his refusal to evade her bitterness. ‘I’m sorry. And I want you to know that, in my heart, I always have been and always will be your father.’
    He stood there waiting. Part of her longed to run to him: what kept her still was a little voice deep inside that feared his pity. Finally Hugo nodded, as if accepting her decision.
    ‘Try and be kind to your mother.’ His face, until then pale with worry, flushed. ‘To Pamela,’ he amended. ‘She’s not as strong as you think.’
    ‘Why is it up to me to make everyone feel better?’
    ‘It’s not. I’m not saying that. Please, Tessie.’
    She ignored his appeal. ‘I don’t care. It’s not my mess, and I don’t want to deal with it. I want to be left alone.’
    ‘Very well.’ Hugo headed for the door, pausing to touch her shoulder softly as he passed. Although Tessa understood that he was obeying her, that she would have protestedif he hadn’t, she also felt cheated. Part of her needed him to fight harder for her.
    She stood listening to his slow steps ascend the stairs, then noticed a dirty mug and cereal bowl on the table, left there no doubt by Lauren. It was a relief to sweep them up and clatter them into the sink, exclaiming aloud: ‘Do I have to do everything around here?’
    She turned on the tap and the pipes juddered before water spurted out, its force ricocheting off the bowl and spattering the front of her clothes. Tessa almost burst into tears. Hugo was right: the tap needed a new washer. Everything was so unfair.
    Realising she had to focus on something to calm herself down, Tessa tidied the kitchen and went up to the ground floor, where she plumped the cushions in the guests’ sitting room. She looked into the breakfast room, but Carol had already cleared and straightened the tables, so she continued to the office where there was always plenty of paperwork to catch up on. At the desk, her fingers hesitated over the keyboard, lured by the promise of a missing piece of puzzle. How could she be expected to be her best self, or to see what was really going on around her, when all her life she had not known who she was? She needed to transform this mess into something positive. Something important was lacking from her life, something that would make her feel whole again, and though she had no wish to upset Hugo of all people, she could not afford to let herself be ambushed again by ignorance. A half-formed decision took on the momentum of inevitability. Sheopened Google, typed the name Roy Weaver and pressed Enter. A random list appeared. She searched again, adding ‘architect’ after his name. The new list was equally random. She added ‘Manchester’, then ‘Manchester University’. Nothing gelled. It was too common a name. She would have to think around this, work out how to track him down.
    She disowned the unsettling ripple of recognition that possessing a secret of her own would be exciting.

ELEVEN
    School had broken up for the Easter holidays. Mitch sat in his