Page 20 of Maybe (Mis-shapes #1)

The rows of fancy cakes had reminded my stomach we still hadn’t had our lunch.

A boy, a few years younger than me, sat in the café scoffing a brownie, chocolate crumbs smeared around his mouth like a horseshoe moustache.

His mum and dad had their backs to us; with one hand, his mum pushed a sleeping toddler to and fro in a pushchair.

Her other hand rested around the man’s shoulders; they were sitting very close and cuddling.

I remember thinking yuck. Thank God my mum and dad didn’t do that in public.

Nor in private, for that matter. A pair of sturdy feet belonging to another toddler, with patent red shoes and frilly white socks, dangled from the man’s lap.

The boy’s prep school uniform was even more hideous than mine: a ghastly light grey blazer with a pink velvet trim, the whole ensemble topped by a straw boater, as if he’d stepped out of the last century.

Although the cakes looked decent enough, any envy for the brownie immediately evaporated.

And, now my dentist trip was out of the way, as soon as we said hi to dad, Mum was treating me to pad thai at Wagamama’s.

Far superior to cakes in a crappy olde tea shoppe full of tourists.

As the kid swallowed down his last mouthful, his mum passed him a napkin. The boy’s dad pushed his chair back and stood, reaching for his suit jacket. His eyes drifted up to the window and met mine. Then he froze. We both did.

If I could have picked a moment when time stood still, with the sole objective of razing my world to the ground before merrily cantering forwards again, no way would I have chosen that one.

For a start, I wouldn’t have chosen to be dressed in my own shitty school uniform, my gums aching from too-tight braces.

Ideally, I’d have been stoned after successfully rolling my first-ever joint, hanging out with the cool sixth-form boys and wearing a retro punk T-shirt and worn DMs. Or I’d be in my bedroom, strumming some shit I’d thrown together in my head and be overheard by the guy running Warner Records (who happened to be passing by the open window) and he’d offer me a deal.

At least I could have gone out on a high.

With a bit of luck, I would have been so, so high, I wouldn’t have given a fuck discovering that my wanker of a part-time dad was dicking his pretty PA.

“I’ve found him,” I recall saying to my mum.

What else could I do? I couldn't hide it from her— Janice, gathering her things together, was only seconds from spilling out the door. My dad, his PA-lover, their kids, and us would come face to face. The trip to Wagamama’s would have to wait for another day.

I’d be hungry a while longer yet. “He’s in here. With Janice.”

My dad’s suit jacket hung, forgotten, on the back of his seat.

A boring navy-blue wool blend, no different to any other, really.

The same way my dad, Janice, the boy, and the toddlers were no different to any other family having a spot of tea and cake in a touristy tea shop.

At least to a casual observer from out here on the pavement, anyhow.

But I wasn’t a casual observer. I knew, for example, that the jacket had a deep pink satin lining with a stain over the left side of his chest where his fountain pen had leaked.

And, although Janice appeared to be his wife, she wasn’t, because his actual, lovely wife was next to me, peering through the window.

My mum turned deathly pale. Back then, I couldn’t say for sure who the kids belonged to, but from the familiar way my dad tucked one of the toddlers into the pushchair before taking the schoolboy’s hand in his, they were doing a decent impression of belonging to both.

“So he is.” My mum had that expression on her face that said now was not a good time to ask any difficult questions.

A shiver ran through her, and she hugged her trench coat tighter around.

“I’m not sure I feel like fighting the Tube home, do you, Ezra?

Let’s treat ourselves to a taxi. Your dad will pay. ”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Sure.”

Sure. Such a dull, inconsequential word.

One of those ordinary, throwaway, single syllables, the sort dribbling carelessly from your mouth, oozing apathy.

If I’d known it would be the last word I ever spoke to her, I’d have chosen something more prosaic, more enthusiastic even.

Like gladly , or cool , or fab , or I love you .

Or don’t step in front of that bus.

But it was too late.

In her haste to escape the horror, my lovely mum turned so quickly she didn’t notice the number 205 double-decker bearing down on us.

To be fair, neither did I. Not until after.

For sure, someone screamed. For sure the driver slammed on the brakes.

If I shut my eyes, I can still hear the anguished squeal of them now, fifteen years later as I escape Isaac and all the shitty memories and hurt his twenty-seven years dragged up.

The anguished squeal of someone or something, for sure .

Looking back to that day, all the holes in the Swiss cheese lined up beautifully.

An overdue dental appointment, rescheduled to suit my school timetable.

A heavy burst of rainfall, unusual for the time of year.

Not warning my father of our impromptu visit, then arriving at his consulting rooms early.

A busy section of road, due to temporary traffic lights further down.

Poor driving conditions as a consequence of the rain.

A bus driver’s sleepless night, his blood pressure sky high thanks to a heated exchange, moments before, with a fare-dodging passenger.

If I’d needed my tooth filling, we may never have known about Henry Fitz-Henry’s double life. My mother might still be alive. I might have become a well-adjusted teen, like Isaac.

But I’d never know—no one would ever know, because all the holes lined up. With me at one end, peering through, and my father at the other. I saw him clearly, that afternoon, for the first time.

And now, back in the present, I’d flounced off.

Again, like a dramatic spoiled child. And I shouldn’t have, because Isaac wasn’t to blame.

He couldn’t help being my replacement, our father’s natural child.

He was born that way, whereas I was some other bloke’s unwanted brat.

The important difference being that I always felt like I had permission to hate my genetic father because he’d made it very clear he didn’t want me, from the second my mum told him she was pregnant.

I’d never met him and never wanted to. But the guy who chose to adopt me?

Then cast me out when I wasn’t perfect? How should I feel about him?

Grateful he took me on? Angry at being rejected?

Both? The latter kicked the former out of bed the second I discovered Henry Fitz-Henry and his loyal secretary making nice in that fucking coffee shop.

And the second after that, my existence changed forever.