by Ros Carne
‘I’ll take the bus,’ she said and turned away. They made no plans to meet again.
Chapter Eighteen
Mel
The flat was empty when she let herself in at six p.m. Jacob had texted to say he would be back at seven for supper. She wondered why he was so late when all he had to do was pick up some information at college. But he was almost seventeen, he had friends, he had a life. Yet he seemed so innocent. No sign of drugs. And that wound on his arm was practically a badge of heroism. She thought of her afternoon with Paul, wondering if her son had inherited his mother’s instinct for secrecy and deviation.
She poured herself a red wine, sat on the sofa and pulled out the post from her bag. There were the usual uninteresting circulars, announcements from the Inn, appeals for money, an invitation to guest dining night. One intrigued her, a long thick cream-coloured letter stamped Crown Prosecution Service. She couldn’t imagine why they would be writing to her. There was a vague feeling she might have done something wrong, but she knew enough to be sure that any misdemeanour would not be addressed by a typed letter to her workplace.
It was a reference request for a Miss Natasha Baker who had applied for the post of Crown Prosecutor. The letter invited Ms Melanie Goddard to log onto the website where she could fill in the appropriate form. Natasha must have applied some weeks ago despite looking for a tenancy at Bridge Court. Anyone would do the same. Her pupil was just a young woman looking for work. But the thought of her as a prosecutor was even worse than the thought of her as defence barrister. She reached for her phone and called Natasha’s number.
‘Hi, Mel.’
‘Hello, Natasha. How are you?’
‘Fine. Busy. How can I help?’
‘It’s about the reference. For the CPS.’
‘Oh, that yes. Is it a terrible bore? It’s just they, well, they asked for my pupil supervisor.’
‘I thought you wanted to be a defence barrister.’
‘I do. But you know how it is. I need to find something, so I thought just in case. As it turned out, it’s lucky I applied. But if you don’t want to do it…’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Thanks, Mel. I hope it’s not too time-consuming. I know these reference things can be a pain.’
‘Not a problem. It’s part of my job as pupil supervisor. How are you feeling? It must have been a blow failing to get the tenancy. You should know you had a lot of support.’
Mel could imagine how Natasha might be feeling but she couldn’t help wondering what she would say. Would that shell of confidence eventually crack?
‘I’m sure you tried your best. So, is there anything you want to know? I mean for the reference?’
There was no getting out of the reference. Her colleagues already questioned her judgement about Natasha. Refusing to write a reference would beg more questions. And it would need to be a good reference. Candidates were entitled to see them, and a bad reference would only cause further trouble. Mel decided she would make it brief, fair on Natasha’s competences, of which there were many, but not overenthusiastic. Whether or not it would be good enough to get Natasha into the CPS was not her concern. It just needed to be good enough to get her out of Mel’s life. Yet Natasha intrigued her. She might as well admit she was fascinated by this elegant creature who moved like a cat and for whom other human beings were simply a means to an end. Why had she written to Paul? Mel needed to know her intentions.
‘How about meeting for a coffee?’
If Natasha was surprised she didn’t let on. ‘Next week?’
‘Well, I was thinking at the weekend. I’ll be in south London on Sunday. My mother lives in Dulwich. That’s not far from you, is it? We could meet at the Picture Gallery. Do you know it? It’s nice. There’s a cafe there. We could have a chat. More relaxed than chambers.’
‘OK. What time?’
‘About four thirty? Might be a bit crowded but I’m sure we’ll find a place. We could even take in the exhibition.’
There was a pause at the other end and for a moment Mel wondered if she had gone too far.
‘OK. Only I don’t want you to make a special trip. Is there anything I can tell you on the phone?’
‘I’ll be in Dulwich anyway. It’s been a few weeks since we last met up, and I’m still your supervisor. I’ll need to do a report.’
‘Sure.’
‘So, four p.m. at the cafe. Keep your phone handy in case.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Great. Bye, Natasha.’ As Mel shut down her phone, she realised she was trembling. What was happening? Why did this coffee feel like a step too far?
Chapter Nineteen
Natasha
Natasha hung up and opened Lola’s Facebook account. She’d been messaging Jacob when Mel rang and she wondered if he’d picked up on her latest picture, the one in the blue dress under the palm trees. It was ten years old, but he wouldn’t know that.
It was Friday evening. Just after six. Where would Jacob be at this hour? Did he have a girlfriend? Would she be keeping an eye on his messages? Teenage girls were smart, they had a nose for cheats. They wouldn’t be trusting like Luke.
And what if his mother checked his phone? But Jacob wouldn’t have picked up the chat thread if he sensed he was being watched. And if he was being watched, what could Mel do that she hadn’t already done? It was not like Natasha was doing anything criminal. She might even use the texts and photos to wangle a decent reference. She scrolled down the messages. Jacob had already replied.
You’re beautiful. I’d like to see more of that tan. Got a bikini shot?
She tapped in Sure.
Natasha had never learnt to swim or even worn a bikini. She didn’t want people commenting on the pump. But she had a picture ready, one of the fakes she’d used on Tinder. He replied immediately.
Hot
U? she typed.
I already sent one.
Take off the towel?
I’m not sending U a naked pic. U could be a bot.
I’m not a bot she typed.
Prove it.
Ask me a question. Any question.
No reply. Was he thinking? Or had he just given up?
He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t recall who. She was struggling to find a name, a place, when she realised her lips were tingling, she was starting to sweat, and the familiar black spots were floating across her vision. She swiped the reader in her arm. The new kit was a massive improvement but even a Flash Monitoring System wasn’t proof against a hypo. The reading was too low, and she needed to act fast. The spots were swelling into blobs, some of them merging to form snakes. She minimised the page, picked up her reader and went to the kitchen for a Coke.
She drank half the can, hating the way it repeated on her, rushing up her throat and nose, but she was out of glucose tablets and she knew this worked. The symptoms were subsiding but now she was feeling nauseous, so she sat on a stool and waited. One thing type 1 had taught her was patience. She looked about her. The work surfaces were wiped down and the plain white breakfast plates had been washed, dried and returned to the cupboard. She appreciated that. Often, she had to leave earlier than Luke to get to suburban courts and his fastidiousness made it easier to come home to their small flat. But however clean and neat, however modern the lines and freshly painted the walls, the flat was still pokey. Natasha had already decided that when she got the CPS job they would look for somewhere better. One of those Edwardian semis on the edge of Dulwich would be ideal, close to where she was meeting Mel on Sunday.
She knew the Picture Gallery well, though she had pretended she didn’t, unable to resist the minor deception of feeding into the other woman’s prejudices. If Mel was too stupid to realise that someone who went to the wrong university might like beautiful things, why bother to explain?
Once again, she swiped the sensor. Her blood glucose was up but she was still feeling sick, so she sat on a bit, waiting for her body to settle. Yes, Dulwich wo
uld be perfect. A step up from Brixton. She imagined the house they would buy. They would get builders in to gut the place, make a decent kitchen extension, French windows onto the garden, silent gliding doors, wooden floors, new rugs. They’d go shopping, real shopping, buy glass and china with money she earned. They would have dinner parties like the people she worked with. She hadn’t said anything to Luke yet. He didn’t like change and novelty.
The nausea was still there. It was unusual for her. She’d felt sick once before when her sugar levels were sky-high but unless there was something wrong with her monitor this was not the case now. She was probably just dehydrated. It was a hot day. She had opened all the windows on arriving home but there was no breeze and the air was heavy in the sun-baked galley kitchen.
Moving was not an unrealisable dream, though she’d need the CPS job. The money from her adoptive father, Ed, would help towards a deposit. But it was nowhere near enough. Still, it was lucky she’d visited him after all before it had been too late. He might have cut her out completely.
She looked at the wall clock. Six twenty. Luke would be in the pub with his workmates for at least another hour. He rarely went out without her and she was usually too busy with work, but this was a Friday ritual: two or three rounds and a visit to the Thai to bring back a curry supper.
Back in the sitting room, she went straight to Jacob’s profile page. Just as she hoped, there was another message.
OK. When we meeting?
Next week? she typed.
Cool.
U old enough to get a drink? She knew he wasn’t, but it would be interesting to see if he lied.
I’m sixteen. Pub’s fine.
His honesty was so sweet. She typed Waxy O’Connor’s? It’s in Soho.
Where in Soho?
She typed the address. She hadn’t been there since Ricky. It was her favourite meeting place, big enough for her to see Jacob without him seeing her. She carried on typing You look FANTASTIC in that photo.
Tease.
Take off the towel. I’d like to see a bit more of you.
How about we Facetime?
I’d rather meet first. I don’t like talking to a screen.
You’re a bot.
Come to Waxy’s. See for yourself. A public place. If we like each other – fine. If not, you walk away. Nothing to lose.
There was a pause. He would be typing.
Take your top off.
Not online she typed.
His reply came immediately. What time at Waxy’s?
Two p.m. Thursday next week?
U not working?
Freelance. Main bar at Waxy’s
C U then she read.
How wrong he was. She might pop in to get a look at him if she was out of court in the afternoon. But there was no way he would see her.
She took down Lola’s Facebook page, logged onto Rightmove and browsed half a dozen two- and three-bedroom properties in Dulwich. They were ridiculously expensive but she wasn’t going to live in a housing association flat forever.
A cloud cut across the afternoon sun, the light dimmed and the air through the open window felt suddenly chilly. The windows were double-glazed metal sashes. To open them you needed to unclip the latch and slide the inner and outer panes a few inches to the left. They acted as efficient insulation, blocking the sound of the trains and traffic, keeping out the cold in winter. They were safe, Luke explained. Children couldn’t fall out; adults couldn’t jump. He didn’t mention fire risk. Natasha thought about Grenfell Tower. But you didn’t need to be in a tower block to die in a fire. You just needed to be trapped.
When she was seven years old, her foster mother had locked her in a cupboard. Natasha couldn’t now remember what minor misdemeanour had led to this imprisonment, but she knew she was at an age when she hadn’t yet learnt to be devious, when childish frustration emerged as burning fury. She remembered kicking the other foster children, biting them till she drew blood, pulling their hair. Her earliest memories were memories of anger, her own and that of the red-faced adults who sought to control her.
Looking back, she had no idea how long she had been held in that cupboard. An hour, two hours, more? She had never forgotten the stench. Was it filthy water lingering at the bottom of a bucket? Maybe a dead rat under floorboards? It had been so dark that she had to identify her surroundings by touch, the only light a crack around the edge of the door. When her foster mother unlocked it and pulled her into the electric dazzle of the hall, she knew it must never happen again. She would do everything in her power to be good. And if she couldn’t be good, she would do everything in her power not to be caught. And if she was caught, she would apologise. Being good was not within her power and she was caught on numerous occasions. She was never confined again, but confinement remained her greatest fear.
Was it the memory of that vile smell that was making her feel queasy now? She closed down Rightmove and brought up Jacob’s Facebook page. There was a new message.
Out and about now. Send you another pic soon.
Out and about? What did that mean for a sixteen-year-old boy? She remembered herself at sixteen and hoped he would take care. There were dangerous people out there. She was about to reply with a friendly warning, but she was still feeling strange and as she looked down to the keyboard, the room seemed to be swirling around her. She dropped her head into her hands and waited for the dizziness to pass. But it was getting worse. And now her stomach was heaving. She needed to get to the bathroom. Fast.
Dazed, she pushed herself up, supporting herself on the edge of the table. Her whole body was trembling, and she could feel the sweat dripping between her breasts as she stumbled across the sitting room to the hall and the bathroom. She sank to the floor. Head over the toilet bowl, she waited for the inevitable. Vomit, foul-smelling, bitter-tasting. It was evening, not morning, but as she threw up her sandwich lunch it crossed her mind for the second time that evening that this sickness might have nothing to do with her diabetes.
Afterwards she felt better, though she was still unsteady as she stood up to brush her teeth, then flush and clean the toilet bowl. Her clothing was unmarked, but she felt dirty and was on her way to the bedroom to change her shirt when she heard Luke’s voice.
‘Tash?’ It was obvious from its direction that he was already in the sitting room. And Jacob’s profile was still on Lola’s Facebook page.
Chapter Twenty
Natasha
He was standing by the sofa staring at her open laptop.
‘Who’s Jacob Villiers?’ His voice was dull and flat, as if he didn’t care, but Natasha knew him too well to miss the smothered anger. In the past she had always managed to placate him. Now she could not find the words. She was aware that silence might sound like contrition, but she was far from contrite, merely thinking fast. Before she could speak he continued. ‘And who is Lola?’
From where she stood she could see Jacob’s profile, his smiling handsome face, his name in the search bar and next to it, the tiny circular picture of herself as Lola. His most recent message was visible in the bottom right-hand corner. ‘Out and about now. Send you another pic soon.’ The text was small, and Luke was quite short-sighted. It was possible he hadn’t read it. The crucial thing was to prevent him reading more. She walked across the room, passed in front of him without meeting his cold stare, closed the Facebook page and shut down the laptop.
‘It’s not important,’ she said, turning to face him.
‘I disagree, Tash. I think it’s very important. This Lola, she looks like you. Is she you?’ He sounded energised, piqued by her dismissal.
She mustn’t waver. Her normally placid Luke had scented blood. She would fudge it. He hadn’t seen the pictures or the rest of the messages. He might not have read that last one. And he wouldn’t be able to restart the laptop without her password, which she changed regularly.
Luke was talking again, sounding increasingly angry. ‘What’s going on, Tash?’
‘Wh
y are you nosing around my stuff? I never look at yours.’
‘You don’t need to look at mine; I don’t lie to you.’
‘And I don’t lie to you. Lola is just a name I use online.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘It’s something I used to do before I met you. I haven’t used Lola for years, but I’ve been stressed recently. You know that. Losing the tenancy, worrying about getting another, about getting any kind of job. I come back to an empty flat. I need something to take my mind off things.’
It was all true. Though he was staring at her, shaking his head slowly, like he didn’t believe her. She carried on.
‘OK, it’s not your style. Maybe you didn’t do dumb things when you were young. Lola started when I was still at school. You know what it’s like when you’re a teenager.’
‘You’re not a teenager. You’re a grown woman.’
Something about the way he said it, the way he was looking at her took her back to the nausea, the puking in the bathroom. She could still taste the vomit. What if she was pregnant? It was possible. She had stopped taking the pill when she thought it might be affecting her mood swings. The cap was never 100 per cent reliable. Somehow she’d never believed it would happen to her. She’d taken much bigger risks in the past.
‘What’s your password?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t give out my password. I don’t ask for yours.’
He turned towards her, with a face she had never seen before, a cold stone mask.
‘Tell me the truth, Tash. Who is this boy?’
‘I already told you. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘So, you’re doing it to wind him up?’
‘Of course not.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘A kid.’
‘Nineteen is adult.’
‘You’re fucked up.’
Something locked in her throat. She would not let him judge her.
‘So, how do you know this guy?’ he asked.
‘I met him online. He’s a Facebook friend. That’s all.’