Into the Light

by Megan Hetherington

  My solicitor nods sheepishly.

  “Yes, so as I was saying, my client requires the house and when his family are no longer dependents, then the house can be sold and the remaining equity be split. The current mortgage arrangements will be in force until the end of the term, which will coincide with the maturity of his son. He in turn agrees to a quarter of his director’s dividend and one quarter of his current employment pension, when drawn, to be paid to Mrs Cockburn-Holt. The amounts of which cannot obviously be guaranteed but an initial estimate has been prepared.” He pushes over a plastic folder with a solitary piece of accounting paper enclosed. “There will be no other maintenance allowance paid, as she is a single woman with no dependents and of free will to fund her own lifestyle.”

  “Thank you for outlining your position and so on to your view.” She wafts a hand towards our side of the table.

  My solicitor rises on her sit bones and proceeds to explain how his pension and dividend are not enough, how after five years of marriage and the sacrifice of a potentially successful career, I had single-handedly sweated over enhancing the value of the house we purchased, and transformed it into the valuable asset is has now become. How a forensic accountant has poured over Charles’ financial records and finds a worrying amount of remiss transactions, including a secured loan on the house that was taken out sufficiently close to the separation, that leads her to believe it was drawn to favour his position in such a division of assets.

  My solicitor is halted when she begins to tear apart Charles’s offer of a portion of his dividend and pension. She only gets as far as explaining how his dividend has been reduced, by the company taking on more directors and doesn’t get to voice the evidence of an alternative to pension arrangements Charles has taken out.

  She says enough though for Charles to flush up with embarrassment. Like a naughty schoolboy who thought his plan to take the cookie jar back to the dorm, would stop him from being caught in the pantry.

  She is able to conclude with a statement about how his abandonment had left me with no income, and how his aggressive and stalker-like behaviour had left me traumatised.

  I am fully aware that I don’t have the look of a traumatised victim, because the feeling I have inside right now is sure to be emanating through to the exterior.

  And I can see how Charles is becoming unnerved by this.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way for me. I was meant to be begging for him to come back to me. But I’m not, and he knows this is not just a front I am putting on.

  The mediator is satisfied that we have laid out our positions and asks us both to take a short recess to come back when we are ready to reach an acceptable conclusion. Warning us that further entrenchment is not the purpose of mediation. A greater understanding of each other’s position has been voiced and steps towards a middle ground is now appropriate.

  My solicitor enrages for the first few minutes of our private counsel on the ludicrous nature of his demands and his solicitor’s inability to reason.

  I wait for her to let it all out and then simply advise what I am prepared to accept. No more and no less, I tell her.

  She stands and parades around the room, as if I am a jury that she needs to convince. I let her have her moment. Her solitary moment, with a jury of one. A jury that has already convicted and tried the perpetrator. The sentence, I believe, he has doled out to himself.

  We enter the middle ground and graciously await the mediator’s reinforcement of the rules and we accept the offer of going first.

  My solicitor conveys my wish, with enough passion and conviction, for it to be impossible to detect she had vehemently argued against it in the ante-room.

  “My client doesn’t want anything.”

  “Nothing?” The opposing solicitor snorts.

  Sweat breaks out on Charles’ forehead.

  I remain calm and outwardly demure. Inside I am laughing like a fat-bellied Buddha.

  Oh the joy.

  “Nothing?” Charles echoes, his voice sounding like I’ve got a tight hold of his balls and am squeezing them like a vice.

  “Nothing.” My solicitor confirms.

  “But the house?” His solicitor questions with equal bewilderment.

  “She doesn’t want the house. She doesn’t want any equity from the house. Just the mortgage and the loan clearing. The currently agreed sale will see to that and, if Mr Cockburn-Holt can secure the funds to do that,” she lowers her voice and mutters, “which I very much doubt,” before raising her voice to a normal level, “before the sale completes, then he is more than welcome to buy it instead.”

  He snorts again. “It could take many months for my client to procure a mortgage.”

  “In that case it will be sold to the Coots by the end of August as planned.”

  “But the share of the other assets? Her engagement ring? The art? The watches?” He looks down at his long inventory.

  “She doesn’t want any of it and in fact, here…” she pushes the small velvet covered box I had previously given to her, towards him and I add to it, by taking my Rolex off my wrist.

  Charles shakes his head. He knows what is inside the box and it’s only his greed that stops him from throwing it back in my face.

  The greed that is scarring his heart and slashing at his guts.

  “But what about my client’s share of the E-type Jaguar. We are aware that it has been sold and yet it has not been declared on this list of assets.”

  “It wasn’t my client’s to declare.”

  “But I understand now the owner is deceased your client is the benefactor of that and other undeclared inheritance.”

  Even the mediator looks disapprovingly at him for suggesting that.

  “It was after the separation. It is not relevant.” She is on a roll now and ups her ante. “Mr Cockburn-Holt can either agree to my client’s offer or we can go to court. And please, be rest assured, if that happens, he will end up with nothing. Possibly less than nothing. The evidence we have against Mr Cockburn-Holt is tantamount to fraud.”

  The two men turn to each other and whisper fervently, before his solicitor turns to face the mediator and nods his head.

  “Wonderful,” she enthuses. “I have recorded the agreement,” She pushes the stop button on her digital recording device. “I will have it typed up and ready for both of you to digitally sign, by the end of the day.”

  I’ve not had to say a thing, and not had to land a solitary punch, and yet it is my gloved hand the mediator is solidly waving in the air.

  I’m free.

  Kane is waiting for me across the street. His denim clad leg leaning up against the wall. For the first time in over an hour my heart beats and I take in a lungful of fresh air.

  The contrast of my beautiful man to the ugly one I have been forced to look at across a table, is vivid.

  I walk out of the tunnel and towards the light, picking up the pace as I get closer and throw myself into his arms. He lifts me up and making my heart soar.

  I snuggle into his neck, his scent and arms and love are wrapped around me like a protective blanket.

  I am free and safe.

  “Did it go okay?” he asks softly.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you want to celebrate?”

  ‘Of course.”

  He lowers me down and grabs my hand, walking us towards the car park. I ask him to drive. I’m still shaking and anyway I want him to be in charge right now. He’s good at being dominant and I’m looking forward to the celebration I know he has in mind when we get back to the house.

  He wastes no time careering around the corners, down the tight lanes of the multi-storey car park. The rubber tyres of the TT screeching at each chicane.

  The new parents’ parking bays are located alongside the exit barrier, and we are there just long enough for me to take in the final self-gratifying scene.

  Charles is throwing a buggy into the back of an MPV. Obviously a more practical replacement for his u
sual sports car. Crimson is there too, looking haggard and trying to placate a screaming baby, which unfortunately for the child, is the spitting image of his father. She is still wearing maternity clothes and her ankles puffy from the heat are stuck into flip-flops. Charles has loosened his tie and the hem of his shirt is hanging scruffily free of his trousers. They look a sorry pair.

  Kane pauses momentarily to lower down the roof of the car, before accelerating out of the dingy car park.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Kane

  Rosa has been very quiet on the way home.

  I just needed to get her away from that place. I saw her ex in the car park and I’m sure she did too.

  It took every ounce of respect for Rosa, to stop myself from pulling up and punching his lights out. I know she wouldn’t have appreciated that though. And his new woman was with him and I assume the baby that was screaming was his. Not cool to do what I wanted to right then. Not cool at all.

  It didn’t stop me having murderous thoughts though.

  I’m sure she’ll tell me what’s happened in good time, but for now I’ll just help her unwind.

  I wait for the gates in front of the driveway to pull across.

  “Oh look, the estate agents have replaced the sign.” Rosa nods towards the newly erected ‘Sold’ sign.

  “Are you okay about that?”

  “I guess.”

  I park up and take the keys from the ignition and open up the house, switching the alarm off before letting Belle in from the garden. She’s a good dog, no bother at all.

  Rosa is still standing there in the hallway, looking a little lost.

  “Are you okay?” I walk towards her and pull her into my arms.

  “Yeah I’m fine. It just feels a bit strange coming back here. It doesn’t feel like my home anymore.”

  I kiss the top of her head and squeeze her a little tighter.

  “Shall we go away somewhere for a couple of days?” she asks.

  “Yeah sure, where you thinking?”

  “Don’t know. Somewhere remote, a bit wild or rugged even.”

  I look at my watch. Scotland would be perfect but it’s a long drive. Northumberland is closer and my mate has a holiday cottage up near Seahouses. I could give him a call, see if it’s available.

  “Do you want to throw a few things in a bag and I’ll see if I can sort something?”

  “Yeah.” She pauses looking at me wistfully. “I would really like that.”

  I like the feeling helping Rosa gives me, and what makes it even better, is that I know she likes it too. It gives me a warm feeling deep in my gut.

  “Sorted,” I shout up to her, as I bound up the stairs two at a time.

  She’s in her bedroom and is folding some clothes into a bag.

  “Great,” she says, looking up at me. “I’ve put some of your stuff in here too. Is that okay?”

  Okay? That’s more than okay. I’m quite liking that she’s doing that for me. It feels kind of weird but in a good way. Like we’re a couple.

  “Yeah that’s fine. I’ve not brought much here though. The rest I dumped at my aunt and uncle’s.”

  She stares a while and I can’t read her thoughts. Does she want me to keep it all there or bring it here, or something else? It’s only stuff but there is some symbolism in where your stuff is at. I’ve not really asked if I can stay here, it’s just sort of happened that way. When I left Oxford, and came up with my clothes and a few personal belongings, I took it all straight to my room at my aunt’s. But then I’ve stayed here every night since the funeral.

  Her eyes drop without a further comment and she moves into the bathroom, picking up some toiletries.

  “Where are we staying then? And how long will we be away for?” She reappears clutching an armful of bottles. “Just thinking about how much stuff to take.”

  “It’s my mate’s cottage. He rents it out, but it’s free right now so we’re okay up until the weekend.”

  “Excellent.” She smiles, moving onto her straighteners and hairdryer.

  I scratch my head, wondering if my choice is going to go down well, tentatively saying, “Erm, no point in bringing that with you?” Pointing at her hair dryer.

  “Why?”

  “Well… there’s no electricity.” I screw my face up in apology.

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. It’s sort of off-grid.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s a bit like camping.”

  “Camping?”

  Oh shit, she doesn’t look impressed and I’m sure she just shivered.

  “Yeah but with a proper bed.” I add, encouragingly.

  “Oh. I suppose that makes it alright then?”

  Hmm. That wasn’t a convincing add. I’m sure she’ll love it though.

  She continues to pack and I go around the house, making sure the windows are all locked. It might not be hers for much longer, but I don’t want her coming back here to any nasty surprises. I’m still not sure about that ex of hers, especially after whatever went on with him today.

  She’s done packing when I get back to her and holds up her electric toothbrush. I shake my head.

  “Better take a regular one.”

  I herd Belle into the car, so we can drop her off on the way and double-check the front door and burglar alarm. I’m in two minds to swap out for the Land Rover when we do get to my aunt’s, it will be a slower ride but we’re more assured of getting to the cottage. My recollection was that the road up to it was pretty rugged and although we haven’t had much in the way of rain for the last couple of months, it might have deteriorated over last winter. By the time we reach my aunt’s, Rosa is already nodding off. If she’s exhausted from the stress of today’s events then she’s not going to be very comfortable being bounced around in my old Defender.

  I decide against suggesting it to her and hope the four-wheel drive on the TT is good enough.

  We’re an hour into the journey before Rosa wakes and she looks so damn sexy, stretching out of her sleep.

  “Where are we?”

  “Nearing Newcastle. About an hour away. Thought we might stop when we’ve got off the motorway, grab some dinner before we get there?”

  “Yeah that sounds good and maybe some stuff for breakfast tomorrow, because I’m assuming there’s no corner shop or anything at the cottage.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, good shout.”

  We’re soon passing Newcastle and I veer off the main route to a village, with what seems to be, the most pubs I’ve seen in one place, ever. There’s practically one every hundred yards; drunken staggering distance I suppose. Many look like old coaching inns and I reckon this village must have been a regular stopping point for carriages on what used to be the Great North Road.

  I pull through the arched entrance to the car park of one, which has a board outside advertising home-cooked food.

  We enter in through the back door and the smell of real ale is instantly noxious to me, and the sight of what looks like half a dozen regulars drinking the stuff at the bar not very appealing either. I’ve not become righteous about my sober existence, but certainly a lot less tolerant of the all-day drinking of men, who have much more to offer society, than propping up a dingy bar.

  The barman is welcoming enough and I look over the specials board while waiting for Rosa to come out of the ladies’ restroom before ordering anything.

  We take our drinks out to the garden at the back. A pretty stone-walled space with a children’s play area. It’s the back-end of summer and the wasps are starting to die; their craving for anything sugary before they do, drives us to distraction at the first table we sit at. A child’s candy pop the main attraction, so we move further away.

  It’s not long before our dinner is brought out. I’ve gone for a toasted sandwich and Rosa a pork one. I did think of warning her about the accompanying peas she ordered but decided not to be patronising in case she knew what they were.

  Mine looks to be the universally acce
ptable cheese and ham toastie, served with a smattering of salad and some unidentifiable crisps. Hers is a massive man-sized stottie full with hot pork, crackling and smothered in pease pudding.

  She raises her eyebrows, but waits until the waiter retreats from the table to comment.

  “The peas look strange, like anaemic mushy ones.”

  “Have you not had pease pudding before?”

  “No. I thought the barman said peas. I figured they would be on the side or something.”

  “Do you want to swap for mine?”

  “No, it’s fine, thank you.”

  Her face when she bites into it, is a picture. Unfortunately, one that the wicked side of my sense of humour can’t help but laugh at.

  “Ugh. They’re cold and … really not very nice.”

  “It’s an acquired taste.” I laugh.

  “Why are they even yellow? Ugh, gross.”

  “Here.” I pass her a knife. “Scrape them off.”

  “Stop laughing.” She jokes, hitting me with her napkin, then tries in vain to scrape the yellowy-green gloop off the bread. She picks at the sandwich before covering up the gloop, that is obviously putting her off, with a napkin.

  “So how did it go today?”

  “Fine. Absolutely fine.”

  Her smile is reaffirming her comment.

  “No nasty surprises from your ex?”

  “Not really. It was weird sitting opposite him and really seeing him for what he is. You know?”

  No, not really, but I nod anyway.

  “I shocked him with the proposal that we chatted through.”

  “Not surprised at that. More than likely expecting a fight from you. What do you think will happen about the records the forensic accountant dredged up?”

  “Well my solicitor says it will be submitted to the loan company and they may choose to investigate, although if the loan is paid off in full, they might not bother.”

  “Are you okay with that?”

  She blows out a breath. “Yeah, I am. I think the way you explained about how all this stuff just eats away at you if you don’t let go, really resonated with me. I don’t need the money. I’ve got plenty from my dad’s inheritance. I’ve got some decent skills I can put to use if I choose to. But more importantly I’ve got peace of mind. I don’t want to be chewing over the latest twist and turn in an ongoing argument with Charles. I’m not interested if he feels that he has won or not. In the end, and believe me this is the end of me and Charles, I’m free. That’s worth so much more.”