Page 30 of All Our Missing Pieces

It was only the household at Damask Square she needed to keep her secret from: Livvie and Luke and especially Orla. At least for now.

Right. I’m going in, she decided.

‘I know because I know all about babies being adopted,’ she said. ‘I know because I was. My mother – the lady who had me, in Ireland where I was born – couldn’t look after me, even though she loved me. And so my mom and dad, who couldn’t have a baby of their own, adopted me, and took me home to live with them, and when they moved back home to America I went with them, because I was their baby now. And they loved me just the same as your mom and dad love you and Parker, and just the same as Dylan’s parents love him.’

‘What happened to the lady who had you?’ Slate asked, his eyes growing sleepy.

‘I don’t know. She was very sad but she got over it, because she was young and beautiful like a princess.’

And then she got married and had lots of other babies and she kept all of them.

But Beatrice managed not to say that out loud. She never had – not to anyone.

‘So you see,’ she said, ‘I understand how it works. You can trust me. And any time you’re worried about this again, make sure you tell me or your teacher or Mommy or Daddy, right?’

‘Okay.’ Slate sniffed. His head was drooping now – he’d be asleep in a few minutes.

Beatrice sat up, pulled the covers up to his chin and smoothed his pillow. ‘Want me to stay with you for a bit?’

Slate nodded. Beatrice took his hand in hers – it felt warm and clammy. His eyes were closing, the dim glow of the lamp making his and Parker’s faces look peachy and luminous.

She waited, listening to the steady sound of her own breath. Then Slate made a noise that was half snore, half snuffle and turned over, his hand slipping out of hers.

Limp with relief, Beatrice stood up and crept out of the room, closing the door gingerly behind her just as she heard the soft chime of the elevator. She spent twenty minutes explaining to Frances what had happened, amazed at how calm and professional her words sounded.

Then she said goodnight and went home.

In her bed at Damask Square, the silent darkness of the house surrounding her, she finally let the tears come.

TWENTY-ONE

12 JULY 2005

I was woken at four this morning by an unfamiliar sound – unfamiliar for that hour of the morning, at least: the click of a bedroom door opening and a brief ripple of laughter. Realising I needed the loo, I got up and stepped out on to the landing.

I don’t know who was most startled – me or Livvie. She was just emerging from Luke’s bedroom, wearing only pants and a T-shirt, and she was horrified when she saw me – as embarrassed as if I’d caught her trying to steal the silver. Not that there’s any silver to steal.

Oh God, I’m so sorry, Orla. She blushed scarlet.

Not wanting to wake anyone else – although Luke was clearly already awake; I suppose it was Beatrice who I really didn’t want to rouse – I tried to smile and make some kind of reassuring hand signal to her. But in the moment I doubt it did any good.

Poor girl – there’s no need for her to feel embarrassed. If I hadn’t known that she and Luke were sleeping together, I’d at least suspected it – and why would I mind them having sex under my roof? Even if I did, I’d have no business minding. They’re grown adults and free to do as they please.

But don’t break her heart, Luke. Please don’t hurt her.

I couldn’t get back to sleep when I returned to bed. The sheet beneath me felt uncomfortably ridged, my pillow too hot, my mind racing back to the past despite my best efforts to stop it.

Declan. It was him I was thinking of – him and me. That first time, stumbling from his study, my body thrumming with equal parts shame and desire.

I was barely older than Livvie then. He was old enough to be my father. So handsome, so charming and charismatic. So talented, we all thought – although now of course I can see his art was mediocre at best, amateurish and derivative. But I didn’t think that then, and nor did my classmates – half of us were in love with him and not all that half were women. But it was me he singled out.

I couldn’t quite believe it the first time he asked me to wait after a tutorial group. I felt myself blushing when he praised my talent and commented on my beauty. I felt like the most important person in the world when he offered me a whiskey. He didn’t jump on me, or anything like that. Of course he didn’t; he’d played the game before and he knew how to win it – win me.

He took his time, progressing over the course of a term from flattery to a touch of my hand, from there to a chaste kiss on the cheek then on to protestations of desire.

You’re so beautiful, Orla. If only…

If only what? If only I wasn’t his student? If only he wasn’t married? If only I wanted him too?