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myself I was protecting her, but what I was really doing was protecting myself. I hated keeping secrets. In fact, as a couple, I’d thought we were done with all that. The past had already taught me one thing: secrets will out, and by keeping them, there are always repercussions, but I had ignored my ownhard-learned lesson. Right then, not telling Caroline seemed like a big mistake.
    ‘I haven’t told her about you, no,’ I admitted. ‘Not yet. Not until I’m sure …’
    ‘Until you’re sure?’ she queried. ‘That I’m not making the whole thing up?’
    ‘You can’t blame me. It’s a shock, and I still have to establish the veracity.’
    ‘ “Establish the veracity”,’ she said, under her breath, reaching for her bag. For an instant I thought she was going to leave. Instead, she rooted in the tartan canvas satchel until she found a tatty envelope. She reached into it and placed a document on the table in front of us. ‘My birth certificate.’
    I ran my fingers over it. The date read ‘3 March 1995’. My eyes sought the details of paternity, but there was nothing conclusive: ‘Father Unknown’.
    Before I could say that the document didn’t prove anything, she said: ‘You might recognize these.’ She placed a strip of photographs on the certificate. ‘They were taken in May 1994. If you look at the back, you’ll see Linda’s handwriting.’
    Four square photographs from a booth in a railway station. My youthful face beaming back at me. A set of different poses – two students larking around. I’d sported a beard that year – strange to see it now. It wasn’t just the beard that was different: my eyes seemed wider, my face more open. There was humour and fun in it, and for a second I was back in that booth, Linda on my knee, my arms feeling her tremble with laughter as she half turned to me, her face against mine, telling me to be serious now.I remembered how she had held me close, our smiles captured as the flash startled us, hanging on to each other, it seemed, for dear life.
    ‘I do remember … It’s just that it’s difficult for me,’ I said, hardly daring to touch the photographs. I wanted to say something else. I wanted to tell her that, if she really was my daughter, everything would be all right. We would sort it all out. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead I ended up sounding like the uptight academic I didn’t want to be, a supercilious father-figure. My phone rang. It was Caroline. I hadn’t told her I was going out. I’d have to say I was working late, or taking the external examiner out for a drink.
    Zoë said: ‘Answer it if you need to. I have to run to the loo.’
    I didn’t relish the prospect of having to lie to Caroline. Extenuating circumstances, I reasoned, letting the phone ring out before putting it back into my pocket.
    In the dusty half-light, I saw the glint of golden hair on Zoë’s jacket. Without thinking I reached out for it. I ran my hand down its back and sleeves, my fingers reaching for the golden strands below the collar, and just like that, without any forethought or premeditation, I wound the hairs around my fingers and put them into my pocket.
    I felt a rush of adrenalin, the excitement of doing something illicit, and then Zoë reappeared, smiling quizzically, asking me why I was holding her coat.
    ‘I thought I could walk you to the bus or whatever …’ I said, going to help her on with her jacket.
    ‘We’re leaving?’
    ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry … There’s a minor emergency at home.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. ‘I hope it’s not too serious?’
    ‘It’s unfortunate, but I do have to go …’ I said, glancing at the photos again.
    I put on my coat and held out my hand. Zoë ignored the gesture and embraced me, her arms wrapped around my neck with a kind of desperation. I stood awkwardly, willing her to step away.
    People could see: a woman from the next table glanced in our direction, the barman caught