I started to weep. Judith and the guard backed away. I dropped into the chair, sobbing wildly. The guard was going to make a move toward me, but Judith stopped him, whispering something in his ear. Instead she crouched down beside me and said, “You need help. Can I call someone for you?”
“Oh, is that what he told you . . . that I’d gone completely ga-ga and needed help?”
My angry voice prompted the guard to approach me again.
“I’ll go,” I said.
I stormed out of the security booth without looking back.
I found myself on a road called the Highway, staggering in the direction of Tower Bridge, but not really knowing where I was headed. A high, long wall ran the southern length of the Highway. After around twenty paces, I slumped against it—unable to move any further. Though I was still standing on my feet, I could feel myself plummeting: that same descending swoop I so associated with the initial stages of my postpartum disaster. Only this time, it was accentuated by the realization that my husband had vanished with my son—and had obtained a court order to bar me from seeing him.
Here, finally, was legal confirmation of what the world already knew: I was a disaster as a mother. Here, finally, was proof that I should do everyone a favor and walk the quarter mile to Tower Bridge, and climb over one of the railings and—
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
It was a constable—walking his beat and finding me slumped against the wall. Looking—
Well, I must have been looking pretty damn desperate for a big-city policeman to take notice of a lone woman holding up a wall.
“Ma’am . . . ?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m . . . uh . . .”
“Do you know where you are now?”
I nodded.
“Where then, please?”
“London.”
“Yes, but where exactly?”
“Wapping.”
“You’re North American?”
I nodded again.
“Visiting London?”
“No—live here.”
“And you don’t need help right now?”
“Just . . . upset . . . private thing . . . uh . . . a taxi.”
“You’d like a taxi?”
“Please.”
“Going where?”
“My house.”
“And where’s that exactly?”
I told him. Saying Putney immediately identified me as a proper resident—because what American tourist ever ventured to that southwestern corner of the city?
“You sure you just want to go home?”
“Yes. Home. Can I go now?”
“No one’s stopping you, ma’am. Could I get you a cab?”
“Please.”
He raised his hand. A taxi stopped within seconds. I thanked the constable, climbed in, gave the driver my address, then slumped across the backseat.
I was back home by ten. The silence of the house was huge. I glanced at the court order on the table, the stripped shelves, the bare nursery. I walked into the bathroom and popped two antidepressants. I lay down on the bed. I shut my eyes, opening them a moment later out of some strange hope that I would suddenly find myself back in my restored former life. But instead, I found myself dominated by one sole horrifying realization:
They’ve taken Jack away from me.
I reached for the bedside phone. I dialed Tony’s cell. Again, the voicemail came on. Again I left a message.
But I knew that he didn’t have to call me. He had his court order, good for two weeks. He’d gone away, with no forwarding phone number, bar his cell phone—on which he could use his voicemail to screen all calls and dodge the possibility of talking with me. He had it all thought out.
But why had he resigned his job? The Chronicle was the one great constant in his life—and a place from which he would loathe being permanently separated.
I put down the phone. I picked it up—and tried Cha again. This time I got lucky. She answered on the third ring. But when she heard my voice, she was immediately nervous.
“I cannot talk,” she said in her tentative English.
“Why not? What did they tell you?”
A hesitant pause. Then, “They told me I am not working for you again.”
“When did they move everything out?”
“Two days ago. They also brought a nanny to be with the baby.”
A nanny? What nanny?
“When you say ‘they,’ you mean my husband and . . .”
Another hesitant pause.
“Tell me, Cha.”
“I don’t know her name. A woman.”
“Was her name Dexter?”
“I didn’t know her name.”
“How old was she?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did she look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cha . . .”
“I have to go now.”
“Could you somehow come over this morning? I really need to—”
“They told me I don’t work for you anymore.”
“That’s my decision, not theirs. And I want you to keep working here.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“They paid me . . .”
“Paid you to do what?”
“Paid me to stop working for you.”
“But . . . I don’t understand . . .”
“They said I shouldn’t talk to you . . .”
“Cha, you’ve got to explain . . .”
“I have to go back to work.”
The line went dead. I hit redial, and was immediately connected with a recording, informing me that the cell phone I had been speaking to had been switched off.
“They paid me . . .”
“Paid you to do what?”
“Paid me to stop working for you.”
“But . . . I don’t understand . . .”
I didn’t understand anything. Because everything right now was beyond comprehension.
The doorbell rang. I raced downstairs. But when I answered it, I found myself facing a blond, smug-looking man in a black suit, dark blue shirt, a smart floral tie.
“Are you a lawyer?” I asked.
He laughed a bemused laugh, while also eyeing me warily.
“Graham Drabble from Playfair Estate Agents in Putney. We’re here to measure up the house . . .”
“What are you talking about?”
“You are Mrs. Hobbs, right?”
“My name is Sally Goodchild.”
“Well, I was instructed by a Mr. Hobbs . . .”
“My husband. And what did he ‘instruct’ you to do?”
“Sell your house.”
“Well, he didn’t tell me,” I said, and shut the door.
He’s selling the house? But he can’t do that, can he?
While there was one part of my brain that simply wanted to crawl upstairs into bed, pull the covers over my head, and embrace hysterical denial, another more dominant voice overrode such fatalistic logic, insisting: get a lawyer now.
But I hadn’t a clue about London lawyers, or the English legal system, or ex parte orders. A year in this city—and I hadn’t made a single real friend. Except for Margaret. But she was another Yank. And now she was back Stateside with her lawyer husband . . .
Margaret.
Not thinking, I dialed her number in New York. It rang and rang. Finally, Margaret answered—sounding groggy and half-awake.
“Oh, God,” I said, “I’ve woken you up.”
“That’s . . . uh . . . okay, I think . . .”
“Listen, I’ll call back . . .”
“Sally?” she said, finally working out who I was.
“I’m really sorry about . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t mean to bother you so early.”
“What’s wrong?”
I told her everything, trying not to break down
en route. When I was finished, she sounded genuinely shocked.
“That’s crazy.”
“I wish it was . . .”
“But . . . he gave you no intimation before you went to the States that he was planning this?”
“Nothing. In fact, while I was in hospital, he was actually supportive.”
“And this woman . . .”
“I don’t know who she is. Except that she lives in a very big house on a very desirable road opposite Battersea Park, and she has a place in the country, not to mention the current company of my husband and child.”
“He can’t just snatch your child like that.”
“Well, there’s a court order . . .”
“But what was his rationalization?”
“As he’s completely gone to ground, I can’t ask him. But the bastard’s trying to sell the house from under me.”
“But it’s in both your names, right?”
“Of course it’s in both our names. But as I haven’t a clue how the law works here . . .”
“Alexander’s in Chicago on business right now. I’ll wait an hour until he’s up, then give him a call and try to find out the name of a good attorney in London. Meantime, you hang in there, hon.”
She called back two hours later.
“First of all, Alexander’s horrified about what’s happened—and he’s certain . . . certain . . . that you will be able to negotiate some sort of deal . . .”
“Negotiate? Negotiate? There’s nothing to negotiate here. Jack’s my son. And I . . .”
“Sally, hon, easy. We’re both on your side here.”
“I’m sorry, sorry . . . it’s just . . .”
“No need to explain. What’s happened is outrageous. But Alexander’s found an excellent firm in London—Lawrence and Lambert. He doesn’t know anybody there personally—but he said that they come highly recommended. And, of course, you can use Alexander’s name when you call them. Meanwhile, I’m always here whenever you just need to talk.”
As soon as I finished the call, I phoned Lawrence and Lambert. The receptionist was very brusque.
“Is there a party you wish to speak with directly?”
“That’s the thing—another lawyer recommended that I get in touch with you . . .”
“But he didn’t give you the name of someone here?”
“Uh no . . .”
“Well, if I don’t have a name . . .”
“I need to speak with someone who deals with family law . . .”
“We have five attorneys here who deal with family law.”
“Well . . . could you put me through to one of them, please?”
I was put on hold. Then, after a moment, a young woman answered. Her accent was seriously Essex.
“Virginia Ricks’s office.”
“Uh . . . does Miss Ricks do family law?”
“Who is this?”
I told her my name and explained how I had been recommended by Alexander Campbell.
“And Mr. Campbell knows Ms. Ricks, does he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, Ms. Ricks is tied up most of the day in court . . .”
“It is rather urgent.”
“What’s your name again?”
I told her—and gave her both my home and cell numbers.
Once I was off the phone, I had to face up to a very large question: what should I do next?
The answer was: nothing. There was absolutely nothing that I could do right now. Nor did I have anyone to turn to here. Nor did I know the whereabouts of Tony and Jack. Nor—
I suddenly decided to take a gamble that, maybe, the entire country house story was just that—a story. So I called the minicab company, and asked them to send another car around. This time, the driver knew the way. Traffic had marginally lightened, so we made it in just fifteen minutes. Once again, I banged heavily with the big brass knocker. The housekeeper was deeply unhappy to see me.
“I told you, they are not here.”
“I just want to make certain . . .”
I pushed past her into the house. The housekeeper yelled after me. I went from room to room, shouting my son’s name. The house was large with high minimalist decor, good art, sleek modern furniture. I dashed up a flight of steps, and poked my head into a large master bedroom, then headed down a corridor, stopping dead when I saw . . .
A nursery.
Not just any nursery. It was identical to the one we had at home. The same wallpaper. The same crib and wardrobe and chest of drawers. The same revolving night light that played a lullaby as it turned. The same colorful mobile suspended above the crib. It was as if his room had been picked up and transposed completely to this house. And it made me realize the extent of the planning that had gone into this operation.
The housekeeper came rushing in, furious, unnerved.
“You leave now, or I call the police.”
“I’m leaving,” I said.
I’d asked the driver to wait for me outside.
“I’d like to go back to Putney now.”
Halfway there, however, I realized that I had run off without any cash.
“I need to stop at a cash machine, please,” I said.
We pulled up in front of a NatWest machine on West Hill—possibly the ugliest section of road in South London. I fed in my card, hit the numbers, and was greeted with the following message on the screen:
This account has been closed. Please contact your local branch should you have any further queries.
Instantly I refed the card into the machine and pressed the necessary numbers, and once again read:
This account has been closed. Please contact your local branch should you have any further queries.
Account closed? He couldn’t have . . .
I rifled through my wallet until I found an AmEx card that I held jointly with Tony. I fed it into the machine. I punched in the PIN. I read:
Card No Longer Valid.
No, no, no. I saw the driver glance at me with concern. I checked my purse. My net liquid worth was £8.40—and the round-trip fare was bound to be at least £20. I tried my own account, into which my Boston Post salary used to be paid. It had been largely depleted over the last few months, since I was no longer employed by the Post. Whatever remaining funds were left over from the paper’s final payout to me had been transferred to our joint account—to help cover the mortgage and also pay for some of the final renovations to the house. But I was still hoping that there might be a little cash left in it—so I punched in the PIN requesting £200. The screen message read:
Insufficient Funds.
I tried £100. The message read:
Insufficient Funds.
I tried £50. Bingo. Five ten-pound notes came sliding out toward me. My new liquid worth was £58.40.
Actually, it was £36.40 by the time I paid off the driver.
Back at the house, I rang the bank. The customer service representative confirmed that the joint account I held with Tony had been closed down two days ago. Ditto our shared Visa card—though the good news was that the outstanding balance of £4,882.31 had been paid off. How kind of him.
“What about any outstanding funds in the joint account?” I asked. “Where did they end up?”
“There were no outstanding funds. On the contrary, there was an overdraft of £2,420.18 . . . but it’s also been cleared.”
“Let me ask you something: don’t you need the written permission of both parties to close down a bank account?”
“But the account was always in Mr. Hobbs’s name. He just added you as an adjunct signatory ten months ago.”
An adjunct signatory. It said it all.
I tried to reason all this through. Tony quits his job. Jack’s nursery is exactly replicated in the house of that Dexter woman. And our bank accounts are both closed, after debts of around £7,300 are paid off.
What the hell was going on here?
“Don’t you get it?” Sandy said after I called her and horr
ified her with a detailed account of my London homecoming. “He’s met some rich bitch. And the way he’s set the whole thing up makes it pretty damn clear that he wanted you to find out about the whole setup straight away. I mean, he could have used your own address in the court order. Why didn’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe because he wanted you to know immediately about his new life. I mean, imagine if he had just disappeared with Jack, without letting you have his new address. You’d have the cops on his tail. This way . . . you know exactly what’s happened . . .”
“But not why it’s happened.”
“To hell with why. He’s taken Jack. You’ve got to get him back. But the first thing you’ve got to do is find a lawyer.”
“I’m waiting for someone to call me back.”
“How are you going to pay for it?”
“Remember the bonds Mom and Dad left each of us?”
“Mine were cashed in long ago.”
“Well, I’m about to do the same. They should be worth around ten thousand dollars now.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
“But if I don’t have any other income . . .”
“One thing at a time. Get on to the lawyer. Now.”
“Right,” I said, suddenly feeling exhausted.
“More important, do you have some friends in town who can look after you?”
“Sure,” I lied. “I’ve left a couple of messages.”
“Bullshit,” she said. And then her voice cracked. “Jesus, Sally—this is horrible.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
“And I wish I could jump on a plane right now . . .”
“You’ve got enough to cope with.”
“You won’t do anything stupid . . .”
“Not yet.”
“Now you have me scared.”
“Don’t be.”
But the truth was: I had me scared too.
I called back Virginia Ricks at three that afternoon. I was connected to her voicemail. I left a message. I called back at five PM. This time, I was connected to her secretary again.
“Like I told you before,” she said, “she’s out at court all day.”
“But it is urgent. Genuinely urgent. And I desperately need . . .”
I broke off, covered the mouthpiece with my hand, and started to sob. When I was finally able to speak again, I discovered that the line was dead.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 90