3. Three

Three

W hile Barbara busies herself with making tea in the kitchen, I wander round the living room and finish straightening the place up – wiping up the trail of blood, clearing up the broken glass from the counter, heaving the armchair back onto its feet, and propping the lamp upright. I collect the cushions from the floor and put them back on the sofa, and then I push open the French windows to let the fresh air circulate and hopefully get rid of the smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol.

Barbara places two cups of tea on the glass dining table and sits down. I take my cue and settle into a chair opposite, acutely aware of her eyes watching me intently. I pull one of the mugs towards me and chew my lip, anxious at what's about to come. This could be awkward.

"It's lovely to meet you." She beams.

First things first. "How do you know who I am?" I ask, taking a sip of hot, strong tea.

Barbara's pale pink lips pull into a firm line. "I received an extremely odd call from Art this morning. He called me by accident; I could tell he was drunk. He probably had no idea what he was doing. Of course, I was worried because, as I'm sure you know, he doesn't drink anymore. He called me Sophie when I answered the phone, so I told him it was me and asked who you were. He said, "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

My heart turns over, and I stare down at my tea.

Why can't he say that to me?

"I thought I'd better pop by and check everything was okay." Barbara watches me from over the top of her mug. "I presume you two had a falling-out?"

I nod, suddenly feeling awkward again. I've got to tell her something, explain why her son made an odd call to her. "I found out he hadn't told me something about one of his businesses. Like the fact that it exists."

Barbara studies me for a long moment, as if fathoming something out. "You mean, he didn't tell you about the club?"

My eyes widen in surprise.

She knows?

Her mouth curls into a smile at my shocked reaction. "He bought it several years ago. It was the right price, and he saw it as a good investment. He's always had a keen eye for business, like my late husband in fact." Her eyes twinkle with fondness. "He called me up beforehand to check I didn't have any objections. To get my blessing, I suppose."

I'm gobsmacked at her pragmatic attitude. "And you didn't have a problem with it?"

"Not at all." Her smile fades slightly. "It's something I think he needed to do."

My curiosity is piqued, but before I can ask any further questions, Barbara asks, "I presume he told you he's adopted?"

"Yes."

She takes another sip of tea. "Everything … it's all to do with his past, you know."

I put down my mug, intrigued as to how Art buying a strip club could have any link to his past. "But he told me he doesn't remember much about his past or his biological mother."

Barbara's pale eyebrows twitch into a frown, which tells me that she doesn't agree. "I find that difficult to believe, given that he wasn't taken into care until he was five. I would say any memories he does have, he's blocked out over the years. His mother was a beautiful Italian woman by all accounts, whose family disowned her when she fell pregnant. She struggled after he was born with no help from her family or support from Art's biological father. She worked as a prostitute and turned to drugs and alcohol, sadly neglecting him in the process."

A shiver runs down my spine. My heart hangs heavy in my chest at the thought of Art's childhood. I can't bear the idea of him being neglected and unloved. I've got no idea what he's been through, but I know if I could make it right, I would. I have to know more.

"He was ten when he came to live with you and your husband, wasn't he?" I ask.

Barbara gives a sad smile. "Unfortunately, he bounced around different foster homes for five years first. When he came to us, he was a very angry boy. Although he was ten, he was more like a seven-year-old because of the neglect he'd experienced and the treatment he'd received at the hands of his previous foster carer."

My stomach turns over, and I don't want to ask but have to know. "What do you mean … treatment?"

Barbara chooses her words carefully. "Maybe that's something he should tell you when he's ready."

"… after a particularly fierce beating, I decided that when I grew up, no one would ever beat me up again."

Nausea swirls in my gut as his words come back to me. I thought he'd been referring to other children, not adults who should have been protecting him.

I frown at the injustice of it all. "You're right; he doesn't like talking about the past. Given what you've just told me, I'm not surprised."

"By the time he came to us, he was incredibly aggressive, played truant from school because he was bullied by the other children, and didn't know how to give or receive affection. It was hard work, but little by little, he settled down. Arthur would take him fishing and to play football; he was the first proper father figure Art had ever known. We worked hard to help him catch up with the schooling he'd missed, and he settled into school and got good grades. He was a very clever child. We were over the moon when he was accepted at Oxford. My husband and I adopted him when he was thirteen, and he asked to change his name to Art, after my husband. That was so touching." Barbara gives a rueful smile.

"Not long after he graduated from university, my husband fell ill, and Art struggled to cope with it all. When he died, Art went off the rails, and those aggressive, reckless behaviour traits of his unfortunately reared their ugly heads. He went into self-destruct mode." She hesitates and casts me an uncertain look, as if deciding whether to carry on. "He struggled for a time, but eventually, he turned it all around and launched his gym chain. I'm so proud, and I know my husband would have been too."

Barbara's love for her son radiates from her, and I can't help but smile. After his terrible childhood, I'm so glad Art found parents who loved him.

There's something that I still don't quite understand. "You said everything is to do with his past, but how?"

Barbara interlaces her fingers on the glass tabletop. "When he was a baby, he didn't have unconditional love. He didn't have that one person who should be there for you always. He lost his mother and then spent five years being rejected by goodness knows how many new mummies and daddies. Before he came to us, all he'd ever known was loss and rejection, and he can't deal with it."

"Everyone I give a shit about fucks off and leaves me."

His words from last night bounce around my head. He thinks I've done the same.

Barbara reaches across the table and pats my arm with a smile. "Deep, deep down inside him is that little boy, who arrived to live with us twenty years ago, and now, he scared he's going to lose somebody else he cares about."

My throat aches with unshed tears, and I take a long drink of tea to dislodge the feeling.

"You're the first woman I've ever really known him to be with." Barbara's eyes swim with sadness. "All I want is to see him happy. That's all my husband wanted too."

The sound of shuffling makes us look up from the table. Art's in the doorway with a hand pressed against the wooden frame to steady himself. His brow creases in confusion as he takes us in.

"Mum?" he rasps, his voice hoarse from dehydration. "What are you doing here?"

Barbara breaks into a smile and gets to her feet. "You called me, dear, by accident, I think." She picks up her black leather Mulberry handbag from off the kitchen counter and slings it over her shoulder. "I came to check you were okay. But I can see that you're all right now and in capable hands. I'll be off."

Barbara pecks him on the cheek and gives me a warm smile. "It's been lovely to meet you, Sophie."