Golden Boy (22 page)

Steve makes a clucking sound with his mouth and looks back at Max. ‘Do you want to keep it?’

‘Steve!’

‘What?’

I frown, pressing down on the accelerator again. ‘Don’t ask such bloody stupid questions.’

‘We have to ask,’ Steve murmurs.

‘Um, no,’ Max says in a tiny, clear voice from the back seat.

‘Thank god,’ I snap.

Whenever there is a problem in the lives of one of our children, my instinct is to run to Steve. I know this to be true and I am aware that in some ways this is very unhealthy, but I do it thinking of my mother, her inability to punish us without being too severe, her inability to depersonalise our actions. Everything that we did wrong she saw as an affront to her, and I never wanted to give that impression to Max or Danny, but I know that I take things too personally. I think back to Max’s birth, and know that my first notion of myself as a mother was as a bad mother, and I panic.

True to form, as soon as Max told me, I went to Steve. Shrugging Max off me and grabbing his arm in the same instant, I practically ran out of the living room, looking frantically for his father, bowling past the stunned intern and up the stairs. I heard Danny as we rushed past his bedroom door, playing
World of War
.

‘Max,’ he yelled, hearing us outside. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Not right now, he’s doing something with Mum,’ I snapped hastily.

I turned around and Max was standing there, looking at me uncertainly.

‘Come on.’ I ushered him in to my room.

‘I don’t want Dad to know!’ he said, panicked.

I shook my head at him, as if to say, ‘Not now’, opened the door, and nearly pushed him into the room, so strong was my need to get this off my chest, to not be the one adult solely responsible for my son.

Steve was shaving.

‘What is it?’ he said, seeing my face.

I gestured to him to follow me, and he washed off his chin with an anxious look. I picked up the phone from my nightstand and the three of us relocated to Max’s room.

Max sat on his bed.

I stared at him. He looked at me in horror. He shook his head.

‘Max, what is it?’ asked Steve.

He itched his hair and whispered in a small, high voice, ‘I’m pregnant.’

Steve sucked in a breath, rubbed his lips together, and blew the air out. I loved him for being so calm in that moment, but I was also jealous. I felt like falling to the floor and cracking up, sobbing, completely going to pieces.

But I had only had to bear the burden alone for all of three minutes. My limbs relaxed just a bit, and I brushed Max’s clothes off a chair and sat down.

‘Are you sure?’ Steve asked.

Max nodded.

‘OK,’ said Steve. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘I spoke to Dr Verma a few months ago. I took a morning-after pill.’

Why didn’t the doctor call us?
I think immediately, but then I realise: it’s all confidential, so I can’t help my son not make mistakes that might ruin his life.

‘But it didn’t work?’ Steve says softly, his forehead creased.

‘I think maybe I threw it up. I didn’t realise at the time. In the sink, remember?’ Max says quietly to me. I shake my head and look down at the floor.

‘This cannot be happening,’ I mutter.

Steve looks at me. He takes the phone out of my hand, gives my palm a squeeze, then turns back to Max. ‘Did you like Dr Verma?’

Max nods.

‘I’ll call her then, and we’ll go see her.’

‘Today,’ I say, raising my head. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Thankfully the clinic is open on weekends now. We booked an appointment for three o’clock with Dr Verma.

As Steve spoke on the phone, I watched Max sitting on the bed. He was curled into the corner of the room, cross-legged, head bent over, his face hidden by hair. He blinked and looked up slowly, straight at me. We held each other’s eyes, not saying anything, not letting our faces say anything.

‘Yes,’ Steve was saying on the phone. ‘Thank you, that’s so kind. Yes.’

Max’s mouth stretched into a small smile.

I tried to smile back, to let him know it was OK, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it without bursting into tears. I felt his head lower in my peripheral vision. His hand lifted to his cheek, brushed it and dropped again.

‘If you could be discreet, that would be very kind,’ said Steve. ‘Yes, there has been lots of attention with the campaign.’

Max and I both looked at him. I watched Max roll his eyes in exactly the way I do, and felt sick.

This is my child.
This is my child
, I thought. I briefly, horrifically, imagined him having sex. ‘Oh my god,’ I murmured.

Max leant his head on the wall and started to bite his nails. Steve hung up.

‘It was an accident,’ Max said quietly.

Steve sat down on the end of the bed. ‘It’s OK, Max, these things happen.’

‘What?’ I turned to Steve incredulously.

‘Teenagers get pregnant. It happens.’

‘No,’ I said coldly. ‘It doesn’t just happen.’ I turned to Max. ‘Who did you have sex with?’

Steve looked over at Max.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Max muttered quickly.

Before I could say anything, Steve nodded. ‘OK, we’re in at three with Dr Verma. Change your clothes and let’s all get something to eat before we go.’

I stood up and headed for the door. I wanted to ask him more questions, but more than anything I wanted to get out of Max’s bedroom. I couldn’t get out of there quick enough.

‘Max?’ I heard Steve say. ‘Do you want to come down for lunch? Can I bring you some toast?’

I shut the door behind me.

Steve sent the intern and Lawrence home, and we had a quiet conversation in the living room, about the campaign, about privacy, about what we would do if this got out to the press, if the situation somehow became worse.

‘Do you think I should tell Lawrence about Max?’ asked Steve.

‘No!’ I whispered. ‘Why?’

‘Crisis management, keeping it contained if it does come out?’

We sat in silence for a minute or so.

‘How the fuck can you think of it like that?’

Steve looked up at me from his tea, surprised. I could feel myself shaking with anger.

‘Like what?’

‘He’s our baby. We have to protect him, no matter what,’ I hissed.

‘Karen, he’s an adult. He’s not going to live the rest of his life under our protection. He’s going to go out in the world, and he’ll have to learn to not only live with this and be happy, but to cope if somehow people found out about him, if it became an issue. Avoiding discussing this with him now will only make things worse. I’m passionate about the campaign, about better government. We can’t change who we are because of Max. It will only make him feel more different.’

‘So we just let him make these mistakes, deal with the scrutiny of a public political campaign? We made his bed, now he has to lie in it?’

‘This isn’t our fault. These things happen.’

‘They don’t just happen.’

‘This isn’t your fault.’

I sat miserably, holding my cup in my hand, feeling the warmth leave it.

‘He’s too young to make his own choices. He’s shown that today. We have to protect him better.’

‘We can’t protect him from everything. The campaign might not even—’

‘
Fuck
your campaign,’ I hissed. ‘Stop talking about your campaign. I don’t want to hear about it. I told you this was a bad idea. I told you.’

I started to sob, thinking about Max when he was born, so tiny and innocent of everything. Now he goes out into the world alone and I’m powerless. He doesn’t know what it’s like, how much the choices you make count, how much things will change if people know, if people find out.

What have I done?
I thought.
What has Max done?

I locked myself in the living room, unable to look at Steve, his calm strength transformed into a blasé attitude that made me want to lash out at him.

A few hours later Steve, Max and I slipped out. Max was sitting in the corner of his bed when I went to get him. He was ready. He had changed into his green jumper, jeans, trainers and a green coat.

‘Are we going?’ he said, as if he was asking what I was cooking for dinner.

‘Yes, we’re going,’ I said sternly, and he followed me out.

On the way to the clinic, we dropped Daniel at Leah and Edward’s house.

‘Karen!’ Steve warns, in the car. ‘Stay at thirty, love.’

I nod absent-mindedly. I glance again at Max in the mirror.

‘Max, don’t chew the sleeves off that jumper.’

He looks back at my reflection angrily, takes his sleeve away from his mouth and slumps further down in the seat.

We pull in to the clinic car park and I turn the engine off.

We sit in silence for a minute.

‘This cannot be happening,’ I whisper.

Steve looks over at me, and I look back at him. For a moment, we both forget Max is in the car. ‘He’s only sixteen,’ I whisper, tearing up. Steve reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Who has he been sleeping with?’

‘Karen . . .’ Steve says admonishingly. I remember Max, and I know Steve is right. It’s not something we need to know. We shouldn’t push him. But then I think:
no
. This is my life too. This is our life, as a family, and Max has done something that has shaken us, shaken me to the core. We deserve to know how this happened to us, to our team. I turn to Max tearfully.

‘Who have you been sleeping with?’

He rolls his eyes and looks out the window, biting his sleeve again.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

He puts his hands over his eyes and doesn’t reply.

‘Why won’t you tell us?’

‘No reason, it’s fine, let’s just get it over with,’ Max says quietly. ‘No, I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Did you?’

‘No! Can you stop firing off questions?’ Max shouts.

‘Don’t shout at your mother, Max,’ Steve says. ‘Accidents happen, but you don’t get away with being irresponsible and then yelling at your mother when she is upset. We are understandably upset, as much for you as with you, and she’s dealing with it as best as she can.’

I shake my head, turn to my side of the car and lean against the window.

‘So let’s just stay calm, and see Dr Verma,’ Steve is saying.

In the wing mirror, Max’s eyes open and look at me. We stare at each other, as if we don’t know each other. As if we are strangers. His bottom lip juts out like he’s going to cry. I shake my head and I let a tear slip down my cheek.

‘I’m so disappointed in you.’

I
t’s been three months since I last saw Max Walker, so when I arrive in reception, I am already concerned. There is a lot of pointing and mouthing from the receptionist, before two heads rise to observe me from the waiting room. A third head, between the two raised, is still lowered, Max’s blond hair hanging long in the front. I raise a hand in response and wait at the counter for the file.

Stephen Walker seems even more stolid and broad-shouldered than he looks on television. I remember when I first saw him on the BBC, talking about a case concerning media and privacy, where he had been the prosecutor. On television, he seemed very much like one might expect a barrister to look – a little self-righteous, and without much personality. Unexpectedly, in real life he has a likeable, attractive face, with a concerned but warm expression. He takes up much more room than Max, his legs longer, his body fit but larger. His coat is thick and expensive-looking, the coat of someone who is aware of his appearance on a daily basis. His hands are large. His hair is already grey, but handsomely so. His eyes seem grey too. In fact, it is hard to see any resemblance to Max, save that permanently affable half-smile, something warm in his eyes. They do both have charisma.

Stephen puts a protective hand on Max’s neck to awaken him to my arrival. It’s strange to see a different persona in a public person. This is Stephen Walker, the father.

Presuming Stephen called because Max wants to know more about his condition, I drove quickly back to my house to fetch all my research on intersexuality.

I gesture to my handbag, although the Walkers will not understand why, and they rise together.

Stephen is almost a head taller than Max, but when Karen Walker stands, I notice she is tall too, the same height as her son. Max lifts himself off the chair slowly, then touches his stomach gently.

I watch through the glass as Stephen strides towards the door of the waiting room, opening it for his family. He takes my hand and shakes it.

‘Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,’ he says quietly, with a grateful and somewhat relieved smile.

‘Of course, Mr Walker.’

‘Call me Steve,’ he says.

I nod, indicating the badge on my chest. ‘Archie. Follow me.’

When we enter my office, Karen and Steve sit on the plastic chairs, moving them to be either side of Max, who perches on the bed where I cleaned him up almost three months ago.

The resemblance is much stronger between mother and son. Karen Walker crosses her legs at the ankles, her back straight, hair smoothed, make-up impeccable, cream shirt pressed, a dark green skirt revealing long, lean legs that look toned from possibly track or yoga. She wears low, elegant heels. Her hair is a tasteful, dark honey-blonde. Her nails are neat and painted nude, and her earrings are small diamond studs. The resemblance to Max begins with her long, lean legs, and continues up to her face. Her eyes are green, exactly the same as Max’s, but they are surrounded by neat eyeliner, mascara, and a wisp of light brown eyeshadow. The lower half of her face is heart-shaped, like Max’s, with a defined jaw and full lips. When she flicks her hair slowly off her face and settles it over her ears, she looks exactly like Max did in September. She casts a look down at herself as we sit, smoothing her shirt, skirt, crossing her feet, the ankles slim and coated in sheer tights. Her face is still, giving nothing away.