“My mum passed away. Well. I mean …”

“I know what you mean. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

Cathy nodded briefly, trying to gather herself. The cold tone from the other woman was throwing her.

“Before she died, she told me I was adopted. It was a bit of a shock, to put it lightly. I never had the slightest inkling.” She paused and took a gulp of her wine. “She also told me it was a private adoption, no official records or anything, which was partly why they never told me. It all seemed mad to me. Still does.”

“It goes on more than you think.” Jane Bailey had crossed her legs, and was leaning forward over her knee, although she was looking at some point beyond Cathy. “Especially then.”

“She gave me the name of the woman who had arranged it, and … well, she took a lot of finding, is the short version of the story. When I found her, she did not want to talk to me at all. Like, at all. It was only when I threatened to get the police involved … and I’m not proud of that.”

Jane Bailey sat up, the color dropping from her face.

“You did what?”

“Nothing! Nothing came of that at all, I was just desperate. I wanted to know who you were. And she did tell me. So, I thought …”

“Look. Cathy. What do you want from me?” Her mother put her wine glass down on the table, and Cathy couldn’t help noticing her fingers were trembling.

“What do I want? What do you think I want?” Cathy gritted her teeth, forced herself to slow down. None of this was going how she’d expected. “I want some idea why. I wanted to know who you were, and why you didn’t want me. I guess that’s the heart of it.”

For a minute or so there was a silence between them. The television in the corner of the pub was playing a news report, black bars of subtitles flicking up and away before it was possible to make sense of them. The radio was playing some old ’80s song that Cathy couldn’t quite place.

“Cathy …” Her mother took a deep, slightly shaky breath. “I don’t have the answers for you, I’m afraid. When I had you, I was young. Too young. And I was … unwell. I barely knew what I was doing back then, and it’s not a time in my life I like to even think about, let alone talk about. And especially to a stranger. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but that’s who you are to me.”

“What about my real father? Are you still with him? Can you tell me who that is?”

Jane Bailey looked down at her hands, her sallow cheeks suddenly flushed with color.

“No, I can’t tell you that. I don’t know. Listen, this isn’t a good idea for either of us, all right? I think it’s best if —”