Then
‘I was thinking of inviting Sally over this Sunday for lunch,’ I say, as I clear the plates from the table. I feel like it’s been ages since I had a proper chat with her. We used to go out for drinks after work all the time, but I’m so busy picking Emily up after school and going to work dos with Robert that we haven’t managed it in months.
‘No can do,’ Robert says, putting the vase of lilies back on the kitchen table. ‘We’re spending Sunday with my parents and the Boyles.’
‘Are we?’ I don’t remember that.
‘It must have slipped your mind,’ he says, kissing the top of my head as he passes. ‘Besides, don’t you see enough of Sally at work every day?’
I really don’t remember him saying anything about the Boyles. And the thought of spending another weekend at his parents’ makes me squirm. Things are fraught between Emily and her granddad. She won’t want to come and play happy families. ‘That was my thinking, actually. I’ve been so busy, lately – I haven’t had a proper catch-up with Sal forever.’
‘Oh well,’ he says. ‘I’m sure she’ll cope.’
That wasn’t really what I meant. ‘But I’d like to see her.’
He stops rearranging the stems of the flowers, dusts the pollen off his hands and perches on the side of the table. He has the same look on his face as when he’s about to talk to Emily about ‘appropriate clothing’. I stop too. There’s no point trying to escape these conversations, it’s just something Robert has to do. Sometimes I think he forgets I’m his partner, and not another daughter, but I don’t want to upset him. ‘Darling, I think it’s time we had a little chat about work, don’t you?’
‘What about it?’ I try to keep my voice light. I don’t want to row. I think about the perfect first wife in the photo upstairs. Feel her spectre of judgement hanging over me as dishwater drips from my hands and onto my top.
He takes hold of one of my hands and tenderly wipes the bubbles off, cupping it like he does when he’s talking to important older female suppliers. ‘The thing is, darling, Sally takes advantage of you.’
‘What?’ No, she doesn’t.
‘She wants too much, takes too much, and it’s stressing you out. You’ve barely got a second to yourself.’
But that’s because I’m in a relationship now, I suddenly have a teen I’m responsible for, I’m planning for a wedding. My life has changed, that’s all. ‘No, it’s not that,’ I say.
He squeezes my hand. ‘It’s because you’re so kind-hearted and generous that you don’t see it.’ He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and taps my nose with his finger. Like you would to a cheeky child.
‘Sally would never—’
‘I’m not the only one to notice,’ he says meaningfully. Who else has noticed? Who else has said something? We saw Ness last week, did she say something? ‘Wouldn’t you like a bit more time for yourself – for us?’
I’m not the one booking in dates with the Boyles. ‘I guess with the wedding and stuff, things have been a little hectic.’ Maybe I have been neglecting him. Anxiety catches at my stomach, stitching together the familiar knot. I just want to make him smile, make him happy. Make him look at me like he does when I get it right.
‘This is an important time for me at work, you know that.’ I nod. I know he needs my support. ‘I need to prove to Dad that I’m capable of running the company.’
‘You are,’ I say.
‘You know how important the company is to me. And Dad would never be able to do it without Mum.’ He holds my stare. A thousand unspoken words about being as good as his father between us.
‘I know. I do. We can do this.’
‘Good,’ he says, dropping my hands. He turns back to the flowers, moving the vase by half an inch to the left. Checking the line. ‘I think three days is enough to start with.’
‘Three days?’
‘Yes,’ he says, fixing me with a smile that makes me gooey inside. The knot loosens. He still loves me. It’s going to be okay. ‘Tell Sally you’ll drop down to three days a week for now. It’ll give you more time to plan for the wedding. And it’ll give her time to find a decent replacement.’ He stoops to kiss me. ‘Not that you’re replaceable of course.’ And he walks out the room.
I stand there, shocked. What just happened? I don’t want to go part-time. I didn’t realise that’s what he meant. I go to call after him, but something stops me. He’s under so much pressure right now. I can’t add to that. I can’t bear to disappoint him. When did I start biting my tongue? I’m protecting him from more stress. I think of Judith up at the big house, manicuring, preening, perfecting her gilded cage. Delighted to be on David’s arm at events because she’s out of the house.
Suddenly I feel like I’m standing in a stranger’s house, not in the kitchen of the man I love. This is my home. I think of my flat, still sitting empty: I haven’t called the estate agent yet. Everything is happening so fast. Am I ready for this? I force myself to face the question I’ve been avoiding. Is this what I really want? I love my job, I love earning my own money, I love my independence. On my left hand, my ring finger is weighed down by the diamond. Am I ready to be Robert’s wife? To love, honour and obey.
But I do love him. I love him and Emily so much. I have never felt as happy as I do when we’re together. And every relationship involves compromise, doesn’t it? That’s just what this is. Robert is not your average man, he needs a wife who will support him and the business. Plenty of Emily’s friends’ mothers don’t work. It’s normal in this world. I squash the panicked thought of a life full of charity lunches and organising Robert’s shirts.
Going part-time is actually the best of both worlds. I get to keep what I love doing, and I get to be with Robert. I can do this. I just have to try a bit harder. I can be as good as Robert’s first wife. The diamond flashes tiny yellow and red dots in the sun, like it’s spitting flame. I’ll talk to Sally tomorrow.
I get up and straighten the dishcloth on the enamel hook. This is for the best.
Now
Robert ground me down. He played on my insecurities to get what he wanted. Why did I ever think that was okay? I was lulled, I was in love, I wasn’t aware it was happening. That the water was slowly rising around me. Was Robert always like that? No, not at the beginning. It started when his parents returned from their cruise. That’s when things started to crack. Everything he suggested seemed reasonable at the time. And I wanted to believe. I close my eyes. I face up to the thing I have been avoiding. Robert is like David. A horrible thought detonates in my mind. Robert had the means, the access. He had an explosive secret he was keeping from all of us. Maybe Emily did find out about her mum. But she didn’t confront her granddad, she confronted her dad.
But Robert just wanted everything to be perfect too. His anger at Emily was always when she didn’t conform to that. He had a very fixed idea of what was appropriate and good. David’s idea. David instilled that belief in both Judith and Robert. Robert was frightened of him, and that made Robert scary too. I think of how I didn’t want to upset Robert. How I couldn’t bear to have him disappointed in me, how I needed, desperately, to be back in the warm basking glow of his approval. I think of how David uses money, terror, and love itself as weapons to control those closest to him. How Robert has learnt from the master. How did I never see it? I dismissed the warning signs. Robert’s childhood was just as dysfunctional as mine. More so, because all the damage in mine was out in the open, and the malignancy that festers in the Milcombe house is hidden by wealth and privilege.
How far would David and Judith go to protect their son, their name, their perfect life? Even if Robert did hurt Emily. An accident, surely. An escalation. I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe any more. Erica is back from the dead. Robert lied. Far enough to get him cash and a new phone and onto a private plane to Bordeaux? Far enough to cover up his crime? Far enough to frame me?
Kelly clears her throat, jolting me back to the present. ‘Sorry,’ I
say, sitting up.
She’s back in her tracksuit now. ‘They called Association,’ she says.
I can hear them unlocking below. ‘Right.’
She scrubs at a mark on the floor with the toe of her trainer. ‘I think you should probably stay here, you know. Till things calm down. They’re late today – so they’ll probably run it into dinner. I’ll try and bring yours back. All right?’
I nod. Grateful. Return to my thoughts. Close my eyes. Think about Emily, Robert, David, Judith, Erica. Did being with me make Robert realise how much he missed Erica? Did Robert put the child porn on my computer to get rid of me? But something went wrong. That’s what I keep coming back to. Something went wrong. Emily wasn’t supposed to be home that early. Emily wasn’t supposed to die.
The door opens and I jump. How long have I been lying here?
Kelly is gripping two trays of what looks like chilli. Again. ‘The idiot on the trolley almost wouldn’t give me yours.’
My stomach growls as I take it, suddenly ravenous. Nonce. They can’t starve me, can they? It wouldn’t be allowed. They had to give Kelly my tray. I don’t want to think what will happen when she leaves for the Mother and Baby Unit. I shove my plastic fork in and begin shovelling the cold bland goop into my mouth. Pausing only to lend a steadying hand to Kelly as she lowers herself down, legs hip-width apart, till she’s sitting next to me.
We eat in silence for a minute. Me grateful it’s companionable. That she trusts me. That she’s standing by me.
Then something hard catches between my teeth, and almost skids backwards into my throat. I gag, my palm open to catch the spatter of chilli and the solid thing. Is it a pip, a stone of some fruit that’s found its way in? No, it’s bigger than a pip, squarer, glinting. I pick it up to rub off the sauce and it slices into my skin. Blood springs from my thumb.
‘Bloody hell!’ shouts Kelly, as I drop the foreign object onto the floor, with the unmistakable gritty crunch of glass hitting concrete.
Oh my god.
‘Fucking hell, is that glass?’ Kelly puts her own fork down.
I’m already working mine through the chilli, finding more glinting lumps.
‘What the hell are they playing at?’ Kelly says, as I produce another shard that looks like it was once the bottom of a jar of sauce.
‘They aren’t playing.’ I swallow. It must have come from the kitchen – no glass is allowed on the wing. Nonce. News travels fast.
‘They could have killed you!’ Kelly’s voice rings round our cell. Her own chilli squashed flat against her tray, no concerning anomalies in that. No wonder they didn’t want to hand my tray over to her. This one was meant just for me.
Have I swallowed any already? No. I would have felt it. I grip my throat. They don’t need to starve me. They can get to me any way they want. I’m locked inside a prison with real murderers, sadists like Gould, and they think I’m a child killer. Our door has been marked. Oh god.
And at that moment the very same door swings open forcefully into the cell.
Now
Kelly and I stare at Ryan, who is standing there scowling.
‘Did I disturb your dinner?’ he says.
My heart is still thumping. I imagine glass moving through me, slicing into my insides, cutting my baby.
‘Someone’s put glass in her food!’ Kelly is veering between outrage and panic.
Ryan walks toward us, squats down onto his haunches and looks at the pieces that have been stirred into my dinner. ‘Looks like an accident to me,’ he said.
‘An accident?’ Kelly cries. ‘Are you fricking mental? That’s deliberate – you’re supposed to be looking after us. You’re in charge of our welfare and all that.’
Ryan gives me a withering look. ‘I think Ms Burns is more than capable of looking after herself.’
I put the tray down on the floor. What else might be in it? Things I can’t see? Drugs, bleach, or things that are more readily available? Like bodily fluids? I try not to gag. Hepatitis, syphilis, HIV, all the things the doctor had tested for. All the things, all the germs people could have.
Ryan picks up the tray. ‘I’ve heard some pregnant women get like this.’ He nods in my direction. ‘Lose their appetite and stuff. I’ll take it away for you.’
And dispose of the evidence.
‘What are you doing here anyway – what do you want?’ Kelly glares at him.
‘I’m an officer and I’m allowed to carry out spot checks if I have reason to believe prisoners have contraband in their cells.’ He kicks over the pile of library books we have next to the bed. Kelly’s handwritten pregnancy guide falls from the top, loose pages fluttering out.
‘We had a full search yesterday,’ Kelly says. ‘We got nothing we ain’t supposed to have.’
Ryan nudges the books with the toe of his boot, looks at the small collection of personal-care items we have on the top of the bedside shelves. A rollerball deodorant each, some toothpaste, a loo roll. Then he shrugs like he can’t be bothered. ‘Oh yeah, and there was this.’ He hands Kelly a letter. An official Fallenbrook stamp on it. Internal mail.
Kelly looks at me, her mouth an O.
Is it the decision of the board already? In one afternoon? Is that a good or a bad sign?
‘Oh my god,’ Kelly says, tearing into it like it’s exam results. It is.
But as Ryan strolls out, apparently bored, I see something flash across his chiselled face. Something like amusement.
And my stomach collapses in on its own emptiness.
Now
Kelly screams. Her tray flies across the room and splatters against the wall. She is up and pulling at the beds. The mattress tumbling into both of us before I can get to her. A whirl of hair and ripping sheets. A wail pouring out of her.
‘Kelly! No! Kelly!’ Jesus Christ. Ryan will be back here in two seconds. They’ll be carting her off to seg.
The shelves tip and the deodorants skid across the floor.
Her nails catch my skin but there isn’t time to think, before I get my arms around her from behind. Reaching forward over my bump, being careful not to hurt hers. I clamp her arms by her side, dimly aware I’ve done this to Mum before. Holding her still. Stopping the chaos.
‘You’re all right, you’re all right,’ I say, expecting her arms and legs to wheel and her head to come smashing back into my nose. But she goes limp. Her body, my centre of balance off, tipping us forwards so I am holding her as if she were hanging just off the floor.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ she is saying. Tears pouring down her face.
Oh god. ‘You’re okay, you’re okay.’ I gently lower her onto the floor, ready in case she roars back up, but she doesn’t. Instead she curls like a comma over her stomach, in the chaos of our cell. I lower myself next to her. Stroke her hair, her arm. Curl myself into her, spooning around her as best I can with my own bump while she sobs.
Outside I can hear the noise of prisoners returning their trays after dinner. The skip and clang of movement on the landings as people make use of their last free moments before lock-in. The gossip, the bartering, the thousands of tiny deals that are negotiated and struck to survive in here. The shared stories, the sadness, the hope. And we still lie on the floor.
Eventually I manage to get the mattress back onto Kelly’s bunk. To get her onto it, to get her settled. Standing on my bed, my own bump pressing against the metal frame as I keep my arms round her. My back screaming at me to move. But I stay there till her sobs subside, her breathing slows. Only then getting down.
I have mere minutes to right the upturned books and unit. To tidy as quickly as I can before they check the cells before shift change. And it is only after all this, when our cell looks the right way up again, that I pick up the letter Ryan has delivered and read what I already know.
To Prisoner AF160299,
Thank you for presenting your case at the Admissions Board. Your application has been carefully considered, but I am afraid on this occasion we are unable
to offer a place on a Mother and Baby Unit. As there is not a suitable family alternative for your child to go to, arrangements have been put in motion for your baby to be taken into social care upon arrival.
My eyes mist and I stifle a sob. I don’t want to wake Kelly. The letter reads like it is discussing bin collection, or a council tax increase. Not taking her baby away. Kelly, who is smart and hardworking, and trying to do her best. Kelly, to whom I had promised everything was going to be all right.
‘Keep it down!’ shouts Ryan, the distant sound of a fist hammering against a metal door.
I get into bed and stare at the springs of the bunk above. They are going to take Kelly’s baby away. I have to help. There has to be another way. Something we can do. Something.
Just after 4 a.m. her contractions start.
Now
‘It’s not that bad,’ Kelly says, rubbing her lower stomach. ‘Just like period pains. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’
I don’t point out that I think this is just early days, that she probably hasn’t dilated much yet.
Kelly starts pulling on the T-shirt she wears to work.
‘What are you doing? Don’t you think you ought to stay here, or at least let the doctor know? We can see if Sara’s on today – tell her,’ I say.
‘No screws,’ Kelly says. There’s a flatness to her voice. Her eyes have lost all their sparkle. It’s as if a shutter has come down since last night. As if she’s distanced herself from what’s happening. We read about this in a specialist pamphlet from the midwife. Women who are not going to be with their babies after birth don’t always bond. They create distance. Kelly is in shock. Kelly is in labour. Everything is happening too fast. How can they only just have had the Admissions Board? It’s too stressful. A sliver of ripped sheet hangs down from the bed. It’s barbaric. There’s no time to adjust. No time to appeal.
On My Life Page 24