Hard Choices (10 page)

He just hasn’t the faintest notion what to do about it. Or what fatherhood might mean—to him—on a wet Tuesday morning in Cumbria. To be fair most parents have a bit longer than three days to acclimatise and grow into their responsibilities, while Nick just has to get on and do it.

I know, because he talks to me in bed, about how his greatest fear is that Callum will simply slip off the rails again. He’s convinced the best way to avert that potential for disaster is to find him a job, some training, get him back into education. Anything but wandering the streets looking for trouble. I suspect he has a point. The atmosphere between Callum and Nick is often highly charged. Callum is defensive, surly, pushing at boundaries, whilst Nick is constantly pressuring him to decide what he wants to do and go out and get it. I can’t help thinking that if Nick would simply back off and lead by example Callum would get the message quicker. Nick Hardisty is one shit-hot role model, if he’d just let it happen. That’s generally my contribution to our bedtime conversations, though I often don’t get a word in as my hands are invariably tied to the bedhead now that Nick’s worked out how to do that without putting any strain on my left wrist.

I get on well with Callum—he’s quiet, always polite and generally more forthcoming around me so I’m often the go-between. It’s a system that seems to work for us all.

If the latest addition to our family entertains any curiosity about the locked room at the end of the hallway, that windowless extension at the back of the house, he doesn’t voice it. Nick and I have resumed our use of the fuck floor, but we restrict our activities to those times when Callum is out of the house applying disinfectant and furniture polish to my flat.

Callum is very impressed by both my apartment, and my car. He’s been with us for about a week now, and over our toast and marmalade one morning I explain briefly about having won the lottery a few years earlier and that this meant I could buy myself some luxuries I would never have been able to afford otherwise. Like his father, he doesn’t probe further. He does ask if he can use the communal gym in my apartment block, so I email the property management company to arrange a guest pass for him. Nick approves of this as well, not least I suspect because it keeps Callum out of the house and out of worse mischief.

Callum leaves for Kendal, intent on heaving a few weights around, but not before Nick extracts a promise from him to shampoo my living room carpet. So far Nick has drawn a blank on any prospect of a more permanent job or vocational training for his new-found son, and I know this bothers him more than anything else. It’s clear that Callum doesn’t lack intelligence—his determination and resourcefulness as he tracked down his father demonstrate that. He’s just missed out on motivation for the last few years. And probably needed some firm guidance somewhere along the line, which he didn’t get.

It’s not for me to criticise Astrid
—
I expect it’s not easy bringing up a son on your own, though why she didn’t let Nick in on the action I have no idea. From what I’ve seen, he wouldn’t have shirked his responsibilities. I think that question is exercising Nick too, and I daresay there’ll be other conversations with Astrid in the future, once the dust has settled.

I take advantage of Callum’s absence to quiz Nick about Astrid. I’m not prying—well, I don’t think I am—it just seems sort of relevant now. Nick doesn’t seem to mind talking about her.

“It was a long time ago. She was gorgeous, I remember that much. And sophisticated. Well, she seemed so to me.”

I pour him another coffee and sit down to listen.

Astrid was a lot older than him when they had their short-lived but momentous fling. He was just turned eighteen, and she was almost thirty. Astrid was doing a Master’s degree in Advanced Computer Studies and he saw her around the department regularly. Quite out of the blue she approached him in the bar one evening and invited him back to the flat she shared with four other postgraduates. Not long away from home himself and caught up in a tsunami of rampant testosterone—and he admits being flattered by the attentions of an older woman—Nick was happy enough to accept her invitation.

He smiles wryly at me as he recalls that she was pretty stunning too—curvy, statuesque even, almost six feet tall with legs that went on forever. She had vivid red hair, cropped stylishly short. And she was brilliant academically, or seemed to be as far as he could tell. He was smitten, at least for a few days.

They were together every night for a week, at it like rabbits according to Nick, then she just told him it was over. She explained that he was a nice boy, it had been fun, but it was definitely over. Nick was disappointed—but even back then he knew that was his hormones talking, not his heart. He just shrugged, chalked it up to experience, and moved on to some other pretty thing. By then he was also starting to be intensely aware of his preference for a dose of kink in his encounters, so he soon forgot the luscious but conservatively vanilla Astrid.

She may have been memorable, but apparently the sex was not.

Nick was surprised when she packed in her course soon after they’d split up, but he assumed she’d just decided to transfer to another university. Maybe she did. That was the last he had heard of her until the night Callum turned up on his doorstep, a permanent reminder of a slightly misspent youth.

Theirs had been a purely physical relationship that Nick could now readily accept had run its brief course. Despite recent events, and the unexpected legacy of that passionate fling, Nick retained fond memories of Callum’s mother.

One thing Nick did not realise back then, in the bright glare of unrestrained lust, was that Astrid was a lesbian, or more accurately bisexual. In his conversations with me, Callum has mentioned that his mother has had lovers of both sexes over the years. Mostly she seems to have preferred women, though.

I’m more than a little baffled by Astrid’s motives. “But why you? If she preferred other women, what did she see in you?” I daresay Nick was attractive enough even back then, especially if Callum now is any indication. But even so, what use would the most definitely gay Astrid have had for a pretty boy?

“I’ve been thinking that over. I reckon I was a sperm donor.”

I gape at him, but I can see that the explanation does make some sort of sense. Astrid was old enough, experienced enough to know what she was doing. She did all the running and although Nick took very little persuading, Astrid called the shots.

He goes on, “I reckon she’d worked out what she wanted when she needed it, and how to go about it. I was cheaper and a lot less bother than a sperm bank. No form filling, no messy medicals. That particular week she needed to get laid and fast if she was to conceive, so she just wandered into the university main bar, and there I was. Young, gullible and willing. And with a dick that worked well enough. She told me she was on the pill, and had regular health checks. Nowadays I’d check, or use condoms anyway, but back then…”

“You need to ask her, find out if it really was like that.”

“I will. Eventually. I’d like to know for sure. And I definitely want to know why she never let me know about Callum, especially as she seemed to have an idea where I was living.”

“If you turn out to be right, about why she slept with you, I mean, how would you feel about that?”

He looks at me searchingly. “Do you mean would I feel used?”

I nod. That was what I was wondering.

“Not so much used, more pissed off that she wasn’t honest with me. I can’t stand manipulative, deceitful women. If she’d told me what she wanted, I’d have happily obliged her.”

Yes, I’m sure he would. But he wouldn’t have just walked away afterwards. If he’d known the full score she’d have had no option but to accept a continuing relationship with her baby’s father, and that was one thing she clearly hadn’t wanted. Nick does need to talk to Astrid, but it all sounds very plausible. And the living proof is even as we speak shampooing my living room carpet, testimony to the foolishness and irrepressible optimism of youth.

And what’s more, it seems that Nick has managed to saddle himself yet again with a manipulative, deceitful woman. The problem is, the longer I keep my secret, the harder it becomes to even contemplate coming clean. And the really stupid thing is, I can hardly even recall now why I ever wanted to keep my wealth hidden from Nick.

* * * *

Callum has been with us for around a fortnight when Dan drops in one afternoon to scrounge a coffee and the use of our loo. Apparently he was at the racecourse again for a meeting, and decided he fancied a drink afterwards and some convivial conversation. For some reason he imagined that Nick might supply it. He’s pleasantly surprised, I think, to find me here. And completely bloody astounded to find Callum. He listens to the tale of the lad’s unexpected arrival on our doorstep, pronounces himself delighted to meet the long-lost offspring and asks Nick if congratulations might be in order. Nick’s response is somewhat mumbled, but sounded very much like “Fuck off” to me.

“So, Freya, what happened to your arm?” Dan waits until Callum goes to the loo before asking. And he gives Nick a narrow look, not unlike the expression plastered across the casualty staff nurse’s face until she managed to convince herself that he hadn’t somehow managed to snap my wrist.

Nick is not amused by the continuing suspicions that all around seem to harbour regarding his alleged brutality. I do sympathise. You could hardly describe his approach to my training as gentle in all respects, but he is not a violent man. Nor is he careless.

“You can stop looking at me as though I eat fucking hamsters. She fell off a chair, at her apartment. About three weeks ago now.” His growled response to Dan’s enquiry is typically ill-tempered, his usual mood since Callum descended upon us to disrupt his life. He turns to me, exasperated. “Tell him, Freya.”

I nod my confirmation.

Dan shrugs, his amusement at Nick’s surliness undisguised. He turns to me, his smile now friendly and warm. “Right. So, you’re back here now. Does that mean you’re back in training? Or are you two…?”

“Training for what?” Callum’s voice interrupts us, and we all turn guiltily.

Nick is first to make an attempt at covering our tracks, “Freya’s going to be managing a club I own in Manchester. She’ll be training for that.”

“What sort of club? I could work there too.”

Nick’s coffee goes down the wrong way at that cheery suggestion, and I can’t help thinking that he’s standing in a perfectly deep enough hole so it’s probably best to stop digging. I’m not entirely convinced that it’s useful in the long run to be unduly coy about our lifestyle. Callum will be eighteen in just a matter of weeks, he hasn’t exactly led a sheltered existence up to now, and I somehow don’t think he’ll be scarred for life to learn that his father owns three very lucrative fetish clubs. Still, both Dan and I are quick to pat Nick’s back. Apart from anything else, I think we’re both intrigued to hear how he gets out of this.

At last, his breathing more or less restored, he wheezes out his next excuse, “It’s a drinking club, and there’s gambling. Minimum age limit for staff is twenty-five.”

Callum looks unconvinced, but for now wisely lets it drop.

“So, you’re looking for a job then?” Dan helps himself to a second cup of coffee and looks at Callum with interest. “What sort of thing would you like to do?”

Callum shrugs. “I like driving.”

Nick, of course, rises to the bait. “Yeah, pity that up to now it’s always been someone else’s car you’ve driven and they haven’t given you permission. And you don’t have a licence.”

Nick’s mood is distinctly cantankerous today and I do think Callum could at least attempt to be a little more cautious. I’ve learned the wisdom of treading carefully around Nick in a crabby mood, but then I’m not an insecure teenager hell-bent on testing the boundaries.

Dan watches and listens to the two of them. They appear to have his complete attention.

“So, no driving licence then? What qualifications
do
you have, Callum?” It seems Dan intends to press the matter further.

Deliberately blasé, Callum’s eyes are on his exasperated father as he helps himself to a can of Coke from the fridge. “None. I got chucked out of school. My dad keeps on at me to go to college but I can’t see that somehow.” He glares at Nick belligerently as he pops the top of the can.

Nick does not disappoint. I fully expect steam to start to emerge from his ears any time now. Callum is so good at pushing his buttons, and Nick has no idea how to deal with him. It might be funny if the likely outcome were not so serious. These two need each other, and whether he likes it or not, Nick’s the adult in this relationship so it’s ultimately down to him to make it work. “I don’t mind what you study, but you’re going to have to do something. Or end up in a dead-end job somewhere.” For now, he settles for more growling.

“Maybe I could work for myself.”

Ah, yes, optimism is a fine thing. Nick clearly thinks so too, but it’s in short supply as far as his son’s future is concerned.

“Maybe you’ll bloody well have to. But you’ll need to start somewhere and there aren’t that many firms willing to take on cocky young offenders with no GCSEs and a lousy attitude.”

Callum crumples his empty can. “What’s wrong with my attitude? I’m a hard worker. Ask Freya.”

I have to agree. From what I’ve seen he’d be perfectly employable. I sign that to Nick, and by now Callum’s picked up enough BSL to follow me.

“See? Freya’d give me a job.”

Well, that’s not exactly what I said…

“Yeah? Pity no bugger else will.”

“I know someone who might.” This comment comes from Dan. He must believe the entertainment is drawing to a close as he’s just finished his coffee and is reaching for his jacket. He was about to leave us to our scene of domestic harmony but pauses to glance round the room.

“What? Who?” I’m not sure which of them replied, but both Nick and Callum seem equally astonished.

Dan continues, unperturbed by their reaction, “Friend of my brother’s. Business partner, really. He has a farm, in Yorkshire.”