Playing Nice

I realized both Miles Lambert and Don Maguire were looking at me, waiting for me to react, and I still hadn’t said anything. “What are you trying to tell me?” I said numbly.

Miles Lambert simply repeated, “Theo isn’t your son. He’s mine.” His blue eyes held mine, concerned. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a shock. Please, take your time.”

It was Don Maguire who coughed and added, “You both have sons who were born prematurely, I understand, who were both separated from their mothers briefly when they were transferred to the neonatal intensive care unit at St. Alexander’s. It’s conceivable that, at some point during that process, the wrong tags were put on the wrong babies. That’s our working theory, anyway.”

Double negative, the editor shouted at me. The wrong tags got put on the right babies, you cretin. Which only goes to show that, at moments of crisis, you think the most bizarre things.

4



   PETE



   “SO YOU THINK YOU have our son. Our birth son, that is.” In all this chaos, it was the one thing I could grasp.

Miles Lambert nodded. “David. We called him David.”

“And what…” What happens now, I wanted to ask, but my brain just wouldn’t go there. “How do you know? That the babies got switched, I mean?”

Miles indicated Don Maguire. “This man’s a private investigator. He finds missing people.”

“But how do you know?” I insisted.

“I took the liberty of removing an item with Theo’s DNA on it from his nursery,” Don Maguire said apologetically. “I very much regret having to do that, but we didn’t want to put you through the strain of this approach if there was any chance we could be wrong.” As he spoke he was removing something from a padded envelope. It was Theo’s sippy cup, the one the nursery told me had gotten lost.

   “The tests came back yesterday,” Miles added. “There’s absolutely no doubt.”

Don Maguire placed the sippy cup on my desk carefully, as if it were fragile bone china. “We’d like to return this to you now, of course.”

“Jesus. Jesus. You tested my son’s DNA without my permission—”

“Well, technically my son. But yes, we apologize that was necessary,” Miles said.

My son. The words thudded in my head.

“This is a copy of the test results for you,” Don Maguire added, taking an envelope from his folder and placing it next to the cup. “As Mr. Lambert says, there really is no doubt. Theo is his biological son.”

Theo. I couldn’t comprehend what this might mean for him. I put my head in my hands.

“What are you suggesting we do about this?” I managed to ask. “What do you want to happen now?”

Again, it was Maguire who answered. “Please understand, Mr. Riley. Nothing specific is being suggested here. Cases like this are so rare, there’s very little precedent—legal precedent, I mean. There’s certainly no automatic requirement for the family courts to get involved. It’s best for the parents to work out a solution between themselves.”

“A solution?”

“Whether to swap back, or stay as you are.”

The words, so stark and binary, hung in the air.

“Like I said, it’s a shock,” Miles added apologetically. “It was for me and Lucy, too, but obviously we’ve had longer to absorb it. You don’t need to say anything right now. And of course, you should get your own advice.”

I stared at him. The way he said it made it clear he’d already consulted lawyers.

   “We’re suing the hospital,” he added. “Not St. Alexander’s—the private one where Lucy gave birth. You may want to join our action, but…like I said, that’s all TBD. To Be Discussed. There’s no rush.”

My eye fell on some pieces of red Duplo by his foot. Only that morning, Theo had assembled them into a tommy gun that promptly fell apart under the force of his overenthusiastic shooting-down of my attempts to get him to clean his teeth. A wave of love for him washed over me. And terror, at the abyss that had just opened up beneath us.

“Would you like to see a picture of David?” Miles asked.

Unable to speak, I nodded. Miles took a photograph from an inside pocket and handed it to me. It showed a small boy sitting in a high chair. He had a fine-featured face, fair hair, light-brown eyes. I could see instantly that he looked a lot like Maddie.

“You can keep that, if you like,” he added. “And if I could take one of—of Theo…”

“Of course,” I heard myself say. I looked around, but all my pictures were on my phone. The exception was one that someone had sent us after a birthday party, which I’d stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Theo dressed up as a pirate, complete with an eyepatch, a tricorn hat, and a cardboard cutlass that was raised toward the camera, his eyes alive with mischief. I took it down and handed it to Miles.

“Thanks.” He studied it for a moment, his eyes softening. “And this is me,” he added briskly, handing me a business card. “Mobile and email. Get in touch when you’ve had a chance for it all to sink in, yes? And discussed it with Madelyn, of course. Absolutely no pressure, but—I’m here. We both are.” He glanced at Don Maguire, then clarified, “Me and Lucy, I mean. Don’s part in this is over, I guess.”

I looked down at the card. Miles Lambert, Chief Executive Officer, Burton Investments. An office address in central London.

   Miles reached down and plucked a foam football from the floor, squeezing it in his hand experimentally. “Sportsman, is he?” he asked conversationally. “Can he catch this yet?”

“Most of the time he can. He’s quite advanced, physically. A bit too advanced, in some ways.”

Miles raised his eyebrows, and I explained. “He sometimes gets a bit physical with the other kids at nursery. It’s something we’re working on.”

“Does he, now? Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you. I was the same at his age. It came in quite handy on the rugby pitch later. Didn’t hear anyone complaining then.” Something about the way he said it—fond, almost proprietary—made me realize that, despite the surreal calmness of this conversation, I wasn’t just making small talk with another dad at a party. I was talking to my son’s father. His real father. My world had just turned upside down, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

“We should get you around,” Miles was saying. “Make some proper introductions. When you’ve had a chance to digest it all.”