William sat studying me as I added a dash of milk from the bone china milk jug and stirred three full teaspoons of sugar into my cup. As I stirred the tea, the rich, leafy aroma assaulted my senses. The cup was decorated with small, delicate roses and reminded me of a set my mother kept in a glass display cupboard in the dining room of our Ashton Street home.
I slurped the brew noisily and wiped my thin lips with a white napkin. William looked at me expectantly and I felt his mild annoyance as he waited for me to begin. I had something important to tell him, something about his father that I should have told him years ago. I was ashamed of myself and of the lies I had told to protect my reputation; my mind raced and I wondered where I should begin. How was I going to untangle the lies and secrets which had begun the day I walked into Foyle’s bookstore and found Douglas Phillips sitting in a dusty corner?
As we sat at a table by the window of the fancy tea shop in George Street, nestled between two high rise office buildings and the wide open space of Martin Place, I stared out onto the street and watched the passersby. I took another sip of the sweet, milky tea, and began my story.