by Ros Carne
‘You just went,’ said Luke.
‘I’m pregnant. My bladder is about to explode all of the time.’ He was beginning to annoy her.
‘Don’t get dragged into anything.’
‘I won’t say a word.’
But as she walked past the table, avoiding eye contact, Isabel muttered something which sounded like ‘witch’, or even ‘bitch’.
‘Mum, please don’t,’ said Mel, adding. ‘I’m sorry, Natasha.’
‘Sorry? Is that what you’re going to tell the court? “Sorry I nearly killed my pupil.” You’ll need to change your plea.’
Without waiting for an answer, she walked into the Ladies. When she came out a few moments later Luke had walked over, followed by the waiter. She heard him addressing the little gang. ‘Please don’t upset my wife. This is a difficult day for all of us.’
Wife? Since when had she become his wife? Jacob stood, squaring up against Luke like a bodyguard, as if he were about to punch him in the face.
‘Jacob,’ murmured Mel, reaching for his hand, indicating he should sit. But he remained standing. ‘Leave us alone,’ he said, in a firm voice, looking and sounding much older than he was.
He turned away from Luke and caught Natasha’s eye. The look was penetrating and a little frightening, as if he could see through the veneer to the core of her, thoughts and feelings she would rather not disclose. She held his gaze for a second then threw out a seductive grin. He grimaced. She wanted to grab his arms and shake him. This was the kid who had sent her suggestive messages and naked photos. Who’d invited her to take her top off. And now he was looking at her with disdain as if she were dirt.
It was easy to imagine the kind of man he would become. The kind of man who despised any woman who enjoyed sex. Her skin was prickling, whether with some new irritation of late pregnancy or simple exasperation that she couldn’t expose his devious behaviour before the court. It was Jacob’s name that had set Mel off, giving her a motive. And it was maddening that mentioning his name could rebound on Natasha, bring Mel more support than disapproval.
He was still eyeing her as if he would like to hurt her. Luke, beside her, appeared troubled. By now he must have recognised Jacob as the face on her computer all those months ago. It was time to move on. Just as she was about to return to her seat Isabel’s ringing voice cut through the clatter of eating and conversation that filled the restaurant.
‘I’d like a small salad and a large glass of Orvieto. Jacob, darling, will your mum permit you a glass of wine?’
Jacob sat down. His reply was inaudible. Natasha smiled inwardly as she picked up his embarrassment. His grandmother had turned him into a child again.
‘Come on, Tash,’ said Luke, laying a guiding hand on her back. She thought of pointing out in a loud voice that Isabel wasn’t supposed to hang around with her daughter before the trial. But who would check? The best she could do was tell Digger when they got back. If Isabel turned hostile, he might find it useful to let the jury know that she had joined her daughter for lunch.
After the large lunch she felt exhausted. The waiting room temperature had been adjusted but it was still warm, and she sank onto the plastic bench, leant against Luke’s arm and closed her eyes.
A disembodied voice was calling her name and she shook herself awake. As an advocate before a case she was used to feeling excited rather than nervous. But now, preparing to take the witness stand, her heart was pounding in a way she did not like. She was accustomed to being looked at, but this would be different. There were no charges against her. Yet she would be judged. And she needed to be judged as good. Acting was second nature to her and for the role of victim she was wearing a simple blue dress, bland without being drab. And she would wear it every day of this trial. Let no one accuse her of vanity. A pity the scar just below the hairline was too small to be visible across a courtroom.
‘Don’t appear proud,’ Digger had said. ‘Ask for a chair, another glass of water, a break. Be vulnerable. If you’re not sure how to answer, ask for time.’
‘I hate being vulnerable.’
‘You want to win this, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then use what you’ve got.’
She walked into the courtroom. The witness box was raised slightly from the floor, like a small stage. She could feel the eyes of the jury members as she hoisted herself up the three steps and turned to face them, making a quick assessment. Eight women, four men. Three of them black, two Asian, the others white or part white. Most of them looked old, though there were two women about her age. At first their expressions were stern and impassive but then she caught a glimmer of a smile from one of the men, a big, handsome guy in smart clothes. She remembered Digger’s advice. ‘Don’t smile too much. Look at the jury when you answer the questions. Don’t miss anyone out, even if they appear unsympathetic. You need to get them on your side. In a case like this it often boils down to who they like. Sell your story, but don’t be too confident. Take your time. Remember you’re a victim, not an advocate.’
Digger questioned her for an hour. Natasha spoke about the relationship with Isabel. How they had met by chance at a fundraising event. How she’d been a long-standing fan of the actress and how thrilled she’d been when Isabel invited her to visit her at home. She explained about her diabetes, the hypo on the way to the V&A, Mel’s ridiculous suspicion that she had some ulterior motive in befriending Isabel, the equally ridiculous claim that Natasha intended to steal her mother’s jewellery. Naturally, after being confronted by Mel, Natasha had wanted to leave the house as soon as possible. She had been changing into her own clothes, putting Isabel’s outfit in the wardrobe, when Mel followed her into the spare room. Her violent outbreak had been totally unexpected.
‘You have said she just attacked you. Can you think back, Miss Baker – is there anything you said that might have motivated her to do that?’
‘It’s hard to say. Melanie’s on a short fuse. Takes offence easily.’
‘I repeat, Miss Baker: is there anything you said that might have provoked her?’
‘There might’ve been.’
‘You might have said something? Or something you said might have provoked her?’
‘Something I said might have provoked her.’
She turned to Mel who sat in the dock, her expression uncharacteristically blank and hard to read. Then she looked towards the public gallery. Jacob was staring at her, wide-eyed. Mel would have lied to him about what happened that afternoon in his grandmother’s spare room. And at that moment she had an urge to tell the court everything, to cast shame not only on Mel but her self-important son. But any mention of Jacob would be self-defeating. It would give Mel a reason for attacking her, but Natasha would lose what sympathy she had with the jury. She remembered Digger’s words. In a case like this, each person’s word against the other, it could boil down to which of you the jury liked best.
‘Please tell the jury what you said.’
‘She accused me of stealing. I was pretty annoyed. I was only trying to help her mother. I guess I bit back. I think I called her a cheat and a liar.’
‘This is not in your statement.’
‘No. It’s not.’
He was not expecting this, but Natasha trusted him to deal with it. She knew the rule for advocates. Never ask a question when you don’t know the answer. But sometimes you need to break the rule. Digger was about to ask several such questions.
‘Why is that?’
‘I didn’t want to upset people. There are others involved.’
‘Please explain, Miss Baker.’
‘It’s a private thing.’
‘Private for you?’
‘No, private for Mel. There are people who’ll be hurt by what she’s done.’
The jury was transfixed. Natasha was beginning to enjoy this.
‘The thing is, she was having an affair. With a married man.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I read
an email from her lover.’
Sell your story to the jury, Digger had said. Well, she was selling it.
‘Why did you read the email, Miss Baker?’
‘Melanie had forgotten to log off one of the computers in chambers. She rang me on her way home to ask me to do it for her. She also wanted me to print off an Attendance Note. When I rebooted the computer, it was open on an email. I didn’t mean to read it, but I saw a few words before I shut it down. The words were, well, you know… suggestive.’
‘How did you know the writer was a married man?’
‘I recognised the address.’
‘How was that?’
‘It was one of the lecturers at North Bank University. North Bank was my university, so it jumped out at me.’
‘Please go on.’
‘I knew the guy. He was one of my tutors. Listen, I should have ignored it, shouldn’t have said anything. It was private stuff. Only when she accused me of being a thief, I just snapped. I regret it now. I wish I’d kept cool. She wouldn’t have lashed out. I wouldn’t have this scar.’
‘It may be put to you that you started this. That you rushed at her, you wanted to hurt her. What would you say to that?’
‘No way.’
‘You agree that there were angry words.’
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Goddard states that she didn’t hurt you in any way. She says that she only touched you in self-defence.’
‘She grabbed me and threw me against the dressing table. You saw the medical report.’
‘She will say that in fact you charged at her, she held up a hand to protect herself and you slipped and fell. Is there any truth in that?’
‘Absolutely not. I didn’t move. I was just standing there. I accused her of the affair. I may have mentioned his name. Paul Freedman.’ There were faces Natasha recognised in the public gallery. Members of chambers. Other barristers. Let them see their esteemed colleague in a different light. Word would spread quickly on social media. And wasn’t that a reporter tapping furiously on a laptop on the press bench? ‘OK, it was provocative. I expected her to argue. I didn’t expect her to respond like that. It was terrifying. She looked like she wanted to kill me.’
Natasha turned from the jury towards Mel who sat facing the court room behind the glass panel of the dock. Her hitherto inscrutable expression betrayed a hint of emotion, a tiny tremble around the mouth as she lowered her eyes from the courtroom to the shelf in front of her. She was holding a pen or pencil and bent forward to write something on a notepad. Natasha knew Mel well enough to be sure she would be churning inside at the public mention of Paul’s name. Good. Whatever decision the jury took, at least Mel was suffering now.
Her glance shifted to Jacob. He was staring at her with the hard aggression of an aggrieved young man. Natasha suspected he had no idea how lucky he was not to have his own character ripped to shreds in court. His hostility burnt through her and she felt her anger rise. So far he had not been mentioned. But Alisha was bound to put a few background questions: the reference request, the trip to Dulwich. What if Natasha told the court that Jacob had been present that day? What if she put a different spin on his behaviour? What if she told the court that he had tried to kiss her outsider the gallery? That she had told Mel as much. Telling Mel would have given her another reason to lose her rag. After the way Jacob had turned on Natasha outside the gallery, the way he had tried to outface her just now in the restaurant, it would be good to see him squirm. If asked why she was mentioning it at this late stage she would say she was just trying to spare the boy.
‘Thank you, Miss Baker. I have no further questions. If you would just wait there.’
Judge McDermid broke in. They would adjourn for the evening. Miss Baker needed a rest. She must remember she was still on oath and should not speak to anyone about her evidence, not even her partner Luke Gearing who was due to give evidence tomorrow. Digger reminded the judge that Miss Baker lived with Mr Gearing.
‘My order is unchanged. They may speak of course. But not about the case.’
‘I’m grateful, Your Honour.’
‘The hearing will resume at ten a.m. tomorrow morning.’
Chapter Forty
Natasha
Luke was in the lobby outside the court. He wanted to know everything.
‘I’m still on oath,’ she said. ‘Can’t speak to you.’
‘Not at all?’
‘Not about the case. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything later. Let’s get out. I need some air.’
They made their way down the stairs to the automatic doors, stepping out onto the pavement and the fading afternoon light.
‘We’ll get a taxi,’ said Luke.
‘I don’t mind the bus. I’ve still got 5,000 steps to do.’
‘Can’t you give it a rest? Only two weeks to go.’
‘I’m not going to become one of those great flabby women. You’ll see; I’ll be super fit.’
‘A yummy mummy.’
‘Exactly.’
They took the bus. Natasha graciously accepted the seat she was offered and stared through the window as they wound their way through the traffic towards Brixton. The bus stopped by the tube station, opposite the department store.
‘Tell you what, I’ll cross over and have a snoop around Morley’s. That way I’ll do my steps and buy myself a treat at the same time.’ Luke made a face. ‘You don’t need to come.’
‘Why d’you want to go traipsing round a busy shop? Don’t you want to get home?’
‘Stop fussing. A spot of retail therapy is exactly what I need. I’ll look at baby stuff. You can pick up something at Sainsbury’s and make us a delicious dinner.’
He looked unhappy. But she knew he wouldn’t follow her. Luke hated shopping for anything but food.
‘What do you fancy?’
‘Whatever you like. Everything you cook is brilliant.’
He’d said nothing about Jacob. Though she was sure he had recognised him. He kissed her and held her a little too tight. Something was digging into her lungs. She heard herself squeal. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Overenthusiastic. You OK?’
‘Fine.’ She pecked him on the cheek, ‘I’ll be back in half an hour or so.’
They separated. It was a relief to be away from him. He was a good man and she needed him, but he was beginning to crowd her. She entered Morley’s. Babywear was on the first floor but there was no pull in that direction, and she drifted towards the cosmetics counters where she was drawn to a sign announcing: Pregnancy Body Care.
‘May I help?’ asked a willowy young woman, dressed like a doctor in a neat white jacket. Her face was a pale mask, the heavily made-up eyes shadowed in dusty pink and grey.
‘Just browsing, thanks,’ said Natasha.
Pregnancy was supposed to be good for the complexion. Her adoptive sister Eleanor had told her she was ‘blooming’. But Natasha hated the flushed look and there were some unattractive red splotches on her cheeks. What she needed was a decent concealer. She noted a line of testers at the front of the counter, tried out three and made a mental note to pick up the expensive one if she had an opportunity. Now was not the moment. The assistant was watching, and she would need to be careful.
She approached the perfume counter. The air was rich with scents, the shelves a picture gallery of crisp packaging and jewel-coloured liquids.
It had been weeks since she had lifted anything. Since the beginning of her pupillage she had resolved to stop, but the urge to appropriate was powerful. The symptoms were familiar, the lightly fluttering heart, the rapid breathing, the restlessness, like unslaked thirst. Voices competed inside her, one, the clearer, telling her to walk out of the shop, the other, low and insistent, telling her she was good at this, she could do it. Pregnancy had given her an advantage. She was more conspicuous but less likely to arouse suspicion. And she wanted the best.
Customers took their time. It was essential to test before you decided. Under the white and gold
logo a young woman with black-fringed green eyes, scarlet lips and a blonde bob, and wearing a badge marked ‘Chloe’, was occupied with two middle-aged Indian women in bulky red and green saris. Both had grey hair twisted into buns at the back of their heads. One was overweight, the other skinny and neither of them looked the type to sport expensive French perfume. Perhaps they were buying for a daughter or niece. Chloe was giving them her full attention, setting out the products on the glass counter, letting them use the testers, explaining the relative merits of Eau de Toilette and Eau de Parfum.
Natasha hovered behind them, waiting to try the tester. If nothing else, she would leave the shop in a cloud of seductive Chanel. But the women were taking their time and she drifted to the next counter, sweeter modern fragrances, which were much less appealing.
After about five minutes the Indian women thanked Chloe and ambled away, chattering in their own language. Chloe started to replace the packages she had so carefully laid out on the counter. Natasha glanced at a clock on the wall. It was just after five. The shop would be open for another three hours. Luke would wait. There was no need to rush.
A woman wearing the standard Morley black, with an ID card dangling round her neck, walked over and led Chloe away to the back of the shop where Natasha noted a gathering crowd. Much later she learnt that a customer had collapsed with a heart attack. The perfume department was empty, apart from the two Indian women dithering over another display about five yards away. Natasha turned back to the Chanel counter, brushed her bulk against its glass edge and slipped the Eau de Parfum in its white and gold cellophane wrapper into her open bag.
There was a rush inside her body as if something had caught fire. She managed to tamp the flames, walking more slowly than she would have liked towards the exit, aware of the heart thumping below the cool exterior, adopting a calm, neutral gaze. As a child she had played at being invisible and some tiny part of her still believed that if she concentrated hard, avoided anyone’s eye, looked straight ahead, though not too fixedly, she could disappear. Her reactions were so finely attuned that, without looking about her, she could sense if she was being watched, even from behind. All was clear. She continued to walk slowly. It had happened more suddenly than she would have liked, and she had omitted to make the single legitimate purchase which would have provided her with a store bag. She needed to get out.