“Of course,” says the doctor. “But these bacteria are actually very common. Lots of people naturally carry them in their throats and noses without ever becoming ill. It’s just that the immune systems of babies and young children are more vulnerable. Has Aurelia had a cold recently? Any flu-like symptoms?”

The head cold. The sneezes and the sniffles, the headaches and the shivers. My baby’s head resting in my lap. Endless repeats of Peppa Pig and In the Night Garden. Pins and needles run up and down my arms.

“Did we do this?” my husband says, looking at me. “Could one of us have been a carrier?”

“Oh, well, I don’t think it’s helpful to—”

“Tell me. In theory?”

“Look, obviously we couldn’t confirm anything without tests, but yes, it’s possible,” says the doctor. “The bacteria are usually spread by close, prolonged contact with nose and throat secretions; so, sneezing and coughing. Kissing.”

My husband is looking at me. My throat is closing up.

“But let’s not forget that this is not a diagnosis. There are some anomalies here. I’m simply explaining the likeliest cause, as I see it.”

They are both looking at me. They are looking, and they are testing me.

“Perhaps your wife would like to sit down?”

No. I will not sit down. I will stay very still. I don’t trust myself to move. If I move, I will fail the test. I will stamp and spit and break things. I will charge at the doctor and rip her horrible blond hair out by the roots.

I remember running to the car while my husband did nothing. What did you do, I yelled, what did you give her? But what if it was me? What if I made her sick? What if, what if, what if …

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat.”

Stay still. Just stay … very … still.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SCOTT

SCOTT OPENED the glass doors and, as usual, the smell of mashed potatoes hit him almost palpably in the face. Why mashed potatoes? Scott wondered this at every visit. He was regularly assured that the residents of Lakeview Care Home were treated to a wide variety of meals. Some days there was even a theme—American, Italian, Moroccan. But all Scott ever smelled was mashed potatoes with a faint trace of bleach.

He stepped into the lobby and the door shut behind him, cutting off the distant rumble of trains on their way into the city. The hush rubbed up against him like a cat.

“Good morning, Scott.” A bottom-heavy woman lumbered out from the office, her wispy hair sprayed into a cloud around her face. “You’re early today.”

Signing his name in the visitor book, he greeted her with a nod. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be late now, would I?”

The woman chuckled. “No, Kathryn would certainly have something to say about that. Come on, I’ll take you through.”

They passed through a set of double doors, the locking system giving way with a clunk as the care worker swiped her card and walked down a long hallway lined with framed watercolors and mahogany side tables.

“You’ll be glad to hear she’s been doing really well. She’s even been playing the piano a little.”

“Really?” Scott raised his eyebrows, imagining a discordant plunk echoing through the corridors.

He passed a stinking bowl of potpourri. His stomach heaved, but there was nothing left to bring up. He hadn’t managed to keep even water down since the early hours of the morning, a disappointing end to what had, on the whole, been an enjoyable evening. Scott never usually had much of an appetite for award ceremonies, but last night he’d done himself proud, smashing through dozens of social exchanges without once wanting to stick a fork in his thigh. When the time came for the final award of the evening, he was riding high on a sea of nudges, winks, and crossed fingers held high in the air. The mistake he made was to look at his phone.

Right before the supermodel presenter pulled the card from its golden envelope, Scott patted his pockets to check he still had his speech. Feeling the outline of his phone, he took it out to switch it to silent mode—the last thing he needed was the thing ringing while he was onstage. As the model held up the card, Scott glanced at the screen and saw a notification: an email. Unable to help himself, he tapped it lightly and skim-read the message. When his name was announced—And the award goes to … Scott Denny and Proem Partners!—he looked up into the rapturous faces of his team and saw only flames and charcoal.

Aurelia had tried to set the playhouse on fire again.

He’d at least managed to finish his acceptance speech before bolting to the bar and drinking it dry.

They stopped at the end of a hallway, just shy of a wide archway through which Scott could hear the melancholy tinkle of teaspoons on saucers. The care worker turned to face him. “Her speech has been better lately, I must say,” she said, smiling brightly. “And her mood swings have been less erratic. She does keep asking for Terrence, though, which can set her off.”

Scott nodded, quelling a rising sting of bile.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Feel free to come and have a chat on your way out if you have any questions.” She patted Scott on the arm and waddled back down the hallway.

Scott passed through the archway into a café area set up to look like a traditional British tea shop, complete with red tablecloths, bunting, and a chalkboard menu. On a counter, underneath individual glass domes, stood an array of cakes, pieces of which sat untouched in front of a handful of silver-haired “customers.” He stepped into the room and approached a table by the window.

“Hello, Mum.”

Kathryn Denny turned to look at him. She did look better than she had the week before. She had a bit of color in her cheeks, and her milky blue eyes were somewhat more focused.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice wavering.

“No, Mum. It’s ten o’ clock. I’m early.”

“Don’t you play games with me.” Kathryn shook a curled finger at him. “I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.”

Scott pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “Fine. I’m late. I’m sorry.”

He ordered a coffee and sipped it gingerly as Kathryn pressed dry pieces of scone to her lips. Her fingers trembled as the crumbs fell off her tongue and into her lap.

Killing time, he made small talk. Kathryn mumbled her replies, her head wobbling gently on her puckered turtle’s neck, and Scott began to feel hopeful that they might avoid a scene today. But after several minutes, she stopped midsentence and looked up at him with her eyes narrowed.

“Who are you?” she said, clear as a bell.

Scott sighed and put down his coffee cup. “I’m Scott. I’m your son.”

“Son? I don’t have a son.”

“Yes, Mum, you do.”

“No. Terrence and I don’t have any children.”

“You do.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Kathryn’s gray curls danced at her temples.

Scott rolled his eyes. He hated it when she did this.

“Where is Terrence, anyway?” she asked, addressing the room. An elderly man sitting in the opposite corner flinched and mumbled something. “I’ve been waiting for him for over an hour.”

“Terrence isn’t coming,” Scott said sharply. Usually he played along, but he was in no mood today. “Terrence is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“He left us. Remember, Mum? He moved to Hong Kong with some other woman.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Kathryn was shaking, her papery hands quivering on the tablecloth.

Scott lowered his voice to a hiss and leaned in, reaching across the table and grabbing his mother’s scrawny wrist. “Terrence. Is. Gone. Understand?” He felt his lip curling into a sneer, but he was too far gone to control it. “Terrence lied to us. He pissed all our money away and lost our house, our car, our furniture. He made us live in a filthy shack on the edge of town. You lost all your friends; we had to leave school. And then, when the shame got too much for him, he took Eddie and fucked off to Asia.”

“Eddie?” Kathryn’s eyes seemed to vibrate. They moved from side to side, betraying the confusion within.

Scott moved his hand from her wrist to her chin. “Terrence”— he paused, holding her still to ensure she could see his face—“is a cunt.”

A tear rolled down the side of Kathryn’s nose, and her wobbly gaze came to rest on the table. Scott released her and sat back in his chair, looking out of the window. He waited.

After some time, he felt her eyes on him again.

“Scotty, darling,” she said cheerfully. “Have you chosen a piece of cake?”

Scott shook his head slowly. “Not yet.”

“Let’s see.” She looked over at the counter. “They have a Victoria sponge, a lemon drizzle, and an apple cake. If you’re a good boy, I’ll get you a milkshake, too.”

“Hmm. Tough choice.”