by Ros Carne
She lay in bed staring at the crack of grey between the curtains. Her head swirled. Natasha on the floor, limp as a rag doll, Isabel, frightened and stunned to silence, the breakneck drive to the hospital, the clatter of trolleys, the scent of bodies and disinfectant in the waiting area.
Then in her mind it was morning and she was in one of the courts at Wood Green, the high-ceilinged Victorian space she had stood in so many times to represent feckless clients. Tomorrow it would be Vicky Brightman, but as Mel imagined the scene it wasn’t Vicky in the dock, but herself, alone, friendless, and pleading for her life.
Chapter Thirty-four
Mel
Vicky Brightman was acquitted. For the four days of the trial the details of another person’s struggle had blanked out Mel’s own concerns. But as she packed up her wig and gown in the robing room, sounds and pictures looped through her head: angry words, jumbled objects on the floor, the glass edge of the dressing table, a pool of blood. She pulled out her phone. Two missed calls from Paul and a text asking her to ring. Ignoring other barristers chatting about their cases, she called him. The week’s tension unravelled as she heard his warm, low voice asking her to come to Barnes. Now.
‘Now?’
‘I miss you. Caro’s in Spain. On a yoga course.’ He explained. ‘You’ve always been curious about where I lived.’
Her heart was pumping fast. He had missed her. Despite the frostiness of their last encounter he still wanted her. What they had was special. They were good together. And now, more than ever, she longed for his touch as if it could weave the tangled strands of her life into a single fabric. Just once. And if it was to say goodbye, so be it. After three years together they both deserved something better than that awkward parting outside the Premier Inn.
‘OK,’ she said.
She set off for the station, wondering why he had suggested meeting at his house. Was there some perverse additional pleasure for him in bringing his other woman onto home territory? Mel dispelled the thought as she imagined their lovemaking and what she hoped would be its gentle aftermath, those precious, companionable moments of easy talk. There was so much to tell him. The mugging, Jacob’s arrest, Natasha’s pursuit of her son, her own actions. Not all of it. But some. Enough to lighten the load.
He picked her up from the station in his battered Mercedes, the back of which looked like an extension of his office, piled high with boxes and papers. As they drove off, she sensed him glancing at her thighs. He knew every inch of her. But his look unsettled her, and she wished she were wearing trousers.
They turned into a quiet side road lined with pollarded lime trees. It was late afternoon, and the street was almost empty under the clear sky. A couple of women were pushing buggies along the narrow pavement. He slowed down and drove into a small brick parking area in front of a large semi-detached house.
‘Here we are,’ he said with uncharacteristic brightness.
Mel stepped out onto the path which ran alongside the neat garden. They were only twenty minutes from the centre of London, but the air was sweet with the scent of flowers. The silver and blue planting would be Caro’s work.
The house was painted white and had bow windows, edged with dusty brick. Fifty years ago, it would have been considered a very ordinary house. Today it was a house to kill for. Millions of pounds of suburban understatement. Paul was right, she had been curious to see it. And she had suspected she might feel uncomfortable here. But she hadn’t been prepared for the ripping pain that tore through her stomach as Paul unlocked the front door.
He walked ahead of her into an open-plan kitchen and sitting room. Huge sliding windows looked out over the garden and, as he stood waiting for her in the still bright afternoon light, he appeared shattered. His complexion was drained and blotchy. There were dark rings under his grey green eyes. He seemed smaller too and older, shoulders slightly hunched under his blue shirt.
‘So,’ he said, in the same bright tone, ‘the matrimonial home.’ They had not yet touched.
It was one of those cool interiors that featured in design magazines. A big, splashy, red and yellow abstract painting gave a touch of warmth, but the prevailing sense was neutral, a setting rather than a home. Framed photographs were ranged along the lower shelf of a wall bookcase, the young brown-haired Paul standing close to a smiling blonde woman with a full, open face; graduation portraits of the twin girls in academic gowns, clutching their degree certificates, wide-eyed and grinning under their improbable mortar boards. A few academic journals were scattered on the coffee table. A vase of dying yellow roses lent a mournful air. This was where Paul lived, where he slept and ate and prepared his lectures. It felt unreal.
‘Sit down,’ he said, brightness softening into something closer to friendliness as he indicated the wide sofa. ‘Tea?’
‘Thanks.’
He busied himself with water and teabags while she looked out to the garden.
To one side of a pond and beds there was a weeping birch casting an inviting pool of shade across a wooden bench. If this had been any other visit she would have suggested sitting outside. But this was not that sort of visit. She was no longer sure what sort of visit it was. At least her stomach was beginning to relax.
He came back with the tea and sat down on the armchair near her.
‘It’s been a few weeks,’ he said.
‘Eight,’ she said, immediately regretting it. Counting weeks smacked of desperation.
‘You been OK?’
‘OK.’
She longed to spill it out, had thought she would. How she had lost all self-control, lashed out at her pupil, causing her to crash against a glass dressing table. But now that he was sitting in front of her she couldn’t speak.
‘You?’ she asked.
‘It’s been tough,’ he said. There had been difficulties at work, a female student accusing him of sexual impropriety. The accusation was bollocks, but the university had to go through the motions. She was about to ask what had happened when he explained.
‘Her father died. She came to my office to explain why her dissertation was late. Wept all over me. Her middle-aged tutor. A perfect father substitute. Not much I could do about that.’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘I just stood there. I mean I could hardly hurl her off. The poor girl was distraught.’
‘You didn’t respond or anything?’
He winced. ‘Fuck, no. I’m no saint but I’m not totally stupid. Still, it looks bad. She’s made an official complaint. I could lose my job. Worse.’
‘Did anyone see you? I mean when she… I mean what evidence does she have?’
‘Who needs evidence? Her word against mine. Lovely young girl against lecherous old goat. Who they going to believe?’
‘Why would she make it up?’ She was pushing him. The habit was ingrained. Yet he seemed untroubled by her questioning, probably expected it.
‘She was needy. Breaking down. About to fuck up her degree. I guess she wanted someone to blame. Maybe she believed her own lies. People do.’
She swallowed her tea. He had left the teabag in the cup and the taste was strong and bitter. ‘And you wanted me to come over, so you could tell me about it?’
He stood up. ‘I thought you would understand,’ He took his teacup to the kitchen area, stared into the sink and said, ‘You of all people.’
‘Me of all people?’ She heard her voice, brittle and sharp. It was not what she meant to say, not how she wanted this conversation to develop.
‘I only meant that as a barrister; you don’t jump to conclusions. Anyway, there’s bugger all in it, but as you can see, I’m pretty steamed up about it.’
She asked, more gently this time, ‘Did you tell anyone else. Caro? The girls?’ In their three years together, she had never mentioned Caro’s name.
‘Of course not. Caro hates secrets. She wouldn’t have been able to keep it from the girls. I don’t want them to know. Not unless it’s unavoidable.’
&n
bsp; ‘Surely they wouldn’t think…’
He walked to a low cupboard, pulled out a bottle of whisky and placed it on the kitchen counter. From another cupboard he took out two tumblers and a small water jug. He filled the jug from the tap and poured himself a whisky. A cloud crossed the sun outside and the air in the pale painted room was suddenly melancholy and cold. He said, ‘Fuck knows what they think. Whisky?’ She nodded. He poured the whisky.
‘I trust you, Mel.’
‘I was surprised when you contacted me. I mean, I thought maybe you’d had enough.’
He gave a weary smile. How well she knew that smile. It spoke of a life lived to the full, an understanding of the complexities of this crazy world, an understanding free of passion and illusion, shot through with a streak of determined selfishness that was curiously seductive. It was a smile that made women vulnerable, that won over his students and had probably seduced the young girl with the dead father. She still didn’t know whether the smile was true or false, whether he practised it in the mirror to get the perfect curve of that well-defined mouth. But the eyes must be true. Only the most consummate actor can transform the message of his eyes and she doubted Paul was that. He came towards her with the whisky. ‘I thought it was you who’d had enough.’
‘It’s been difficult. Work’s been tough…’ She might speak of Jacob and Natasha eventually, but not now. Both subjects were too big. He slugged his drink and sat down beside her. She sipped hers.
‘I haven’t had enough, Mel.’
She had taken off her court jacket and was sitting in her cream silk blouse and the skirt that was too short for a woman her age. He shifted closer, reached out and touched her arm, as if acknowledging that conversation was too complicated, too loaded, and that this was the language they understood. The touch was tentative. She wondered if he would suggest one of the bedrooms. Would he show her round the house and ask her to choose? But he made no such suggestions, only studied her face, continuing to stroke her arm. He looked younger now, energised. The sun had emerged from the clouds and the skin that had looked so worn and grey was glowing in the afternoon light. She didn’t move, even when his hand began to trace the swell of her breast.
‘Do you want me to stop?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ she murmured. She wanted him to go on and on, stroking her body through the film of her clothes forever. Nothing more, only this. But she heard herself say, ‘Kiss me.’ And everything changed.
His lips met hers as they had a hundred times before, but within seconds he was pushing hard against her, his breathe sour with whisky, his large tongue filling her mouth. Her heart went cold, but she didn’t stop him. He had always been a wonderful lover, slow, careful, considerate. Never like this. At times his desire had been fierce, but this urgency was closer to anger.
He stopped kissing her and pulled away. She shifted to the edge of the cushion and lowered her feet to the floor, about to stand up, gather her things, walk out. But his eyes were locked on hers, gluing her to the sofa. It was as if she’d been hypnotised, split in two. Part of her wanted to leave but the other part, the part that prevailed, could not move. Paul was looking at her, smiling, waiting for her to act. Without speaking she started to undress. Soon he was down on her with his firm lips and strong tongue.
He pushed himself inside her, burying his face in the cushions. She was staring past the side of his head to the ceiling as he plunged into her. His curly grey hair tickled her cheek. Her mind was drifting. She should never have come. She needed to get home. She no longer knew this man in this bland house that looked like something out of a TV property show. He needed a woman and she could have been anyone. She’d responded from habit and because she didn’t know what else to do. It was too late, but it would soon be over. It was. He slid off her, reaching for the Kleenex on the coffee table. She heard strange gulping sounds, and when she looked up at him, he was sitting with his head bowed over his knees, heaving with sobs. ‘Forgive me, Mel.’
‘It’s all right,’ she heard herself say. And then. ‘I wanted it too.’
‘Not like that.’
‘What is it, Paul?’
He didn’t answer but handed her a bundle of Kleenex, turning away from her as she wiped herself and pulled up her knickers and tights.
‘Do you want to shower?’ he asked. She looked up. His eyes were pink and puffed with tears.
‘No, I’ll do it at home.’ Not here. Not in this house.
‘I’ll take you to the tube.’
‘This minute?’
‘You won’t want to hang around here. I’m no use to anyone.’
‘Christ, Paul, it’s not just about fucking. You’re upset. It happens. It doesn’t matter. I know you’re not like that.’
‘It doesn’t matter?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘No.’ It did, of course. Everything mattered. But he was no longer weeping. That was a relief. She said, ‘I’ll make more tea.’ She stood up and moved to the spotless kitchen area, glanced about her and switched on the kettle. Inside one of the cupboards she found a row of teas, herbal, China, English breakfast. Choosing English breakfast, she put two teabags in cups, poured on boiling water and found milk in the fridge. When she turned around, he was dressed.
They sat with their tea, the air heavy with silence. She stood up. ‘You’re right. We’re both upset. We both have stuff in our lives. It’s not going to work. I shouldn’t have come.’
And he murmured with unexpected tenderness, ‘What stuff?’ When she didn’t reply he added, ‘I’ve been a selfish shit. The least I can do is listen to your stuff.’
She sensed the effort it cost him to speak like this. Whatever he had done, this was an old friend who knew her better than anyone else and she needed a friend. The man with the puffy face who had just fucked her on the family sofa was not the whole man. That was an aberration. What if he had gone a step too far with this student? What if his whole career was on the brink of ruin? Should they not be partners in iniquity? At the very least she could give him time. She asked, ‘Did you hear anything more from Natasha Baker?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Only she’s had an accident. She’s off work.’
‘What sort of accident? Is she OK?’
‘I think so. Sort of. I mean, it was serious, but she seemed OK when we left the hospital.’
‘Hospital?’ He sounded alarmed.
And she told him. Not what she had wanted to tell him. The version she offered him did not bring the sweet unburdening she had longed for, but it was the version that would become increasingly familiar over the next few weeks.
‘So, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. She didn’t hurt me. She tried to, but she fell. She was totally out of control. Doesn’t like being challenged.’
‘Still… going behind your back like that… I mean if she wanted to meet your mother she could have just asked you.’
‘She did. It’s a long story, Paul. She lost my trust months ago, soon after she started. You remember the email. She likes to stir it up.’
‘Lucky she didn’t get the tenancy then. But… did she say anything else?’ A slither of fear ran through his voice. She knew what he was alluding to. Had Natasha mentioned his name? But no, she reassured him, Paul had not featured in the quarrel.
He looked unconvinced, abandoned his tea and stood up to pour himself another whisky. She had been unable to finish her own. It tasted like their last kiss. The distance between them had never felt so vast. How could she tell him about Jacob? She was mad to even consider it.
‘Listen, I ought to go. Jacob will be home and I’ve got to prepare for tomorrow.’
‘I’ll take you to the tube.’
‘I can walk. It’s a nice afternoon.’ She needed to get out of this house.
‘I’ll take you.’ His expression was set, determined and she sensed that he would have her do what was required, and that if she tried to leave now, he would stop her. He handed over her jacket. The cryin
g man had vanished. She was edgy and unsatisfied, and the ludicrous thought came into her head that they might try again. Then she asked herself how and why she could think such a thing. She was beginning to hate him, but she hated herself more.
And she knew why he didn’t want her to walk out alone. It wasn’t worth a confrontation. She’d had enough of confrontations. She followed him to the car. He opened the door and she dropped onto the passenger seat.
He drove quickly away in the comfortable knowledge that none of his neighbours, nor the women on the street with buggies, would have noticed a lone woman in her early forties turning up at his door with a large bag, spending an hour in his house in the middle of the afternoon when his wife was away.
They reached the station car park. He turned off the engine and waited for her to get out. She sensed he was not going to kiss her, not going to suggest another meeting. She sat for a moment, turned and pecked him on an unresponsive cheek. Would he say sorry again? He said nothing.
‘Goodbye, Paul.’
‘Bye, Mel. Let me know how you get on.’
‘You too.’
She opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the pavement. Paul drove off and she stood alone for a few minutes. Commuters scurried out of the tube, jostling past her. The long summer evening rolled out before her.
There was a letter on her doormat when she arrived home. A letter inviting her to attend Tolpuddle Road Police Station at ten a.m. the following Tuesday. Miss Natasha Baker had made a complaint.