by Lucy Diamond
She flicked on the television. The Alan Carr show was just starting, and they snuggled up together on the sofa, both cackling as Alan exclaimed theatrically about the week he’d just had. There were worse Friday nights, Harriet reminded herself as Molly leaned against her. As for the party … what party? She was so over it already.
Meanwhile, Robert glanced over his shoulder as he came out of Tottenham Court Road Tube station, then let himself become swallowed up by the crowd as he headed into Soho. He loved warm, grimy London on a Friday evening in summer, when everyone was in a good mood from finishing work and there was nothing better to do than sit outside your favourite pub and put the world to rights with your mates. It was at times like this he missed having a proper job and being able to clock off, bosh, on the stroke of five thirty. He even missed the camaraderie of the courier firm, the banter between the lads, the adrenalin rush as you bested a van driver, the joy of being outdoors each day rather than on the wrong side of a window. Still. He’d made his bed. He had to lie in it now.
He wandered past pizzerias and nail bars, second-hand bookshops and bondage gear haunts, past the theatres and brightly lit restaurants which were already drawing in queues of backpack-laden, selfie-snapping tourists. On and on he walked, winding his way through the busy streets until he ducked down a side road and, with a final check over his shoulder, slipped into The Loyal Hound pub, dingy and beer-smelling, the perfect place to hide. He ordered a pint of bitter and a plate of chips then parked himself at an empty table with a good view of the boxing match now starting on the TV. Just for good measure, he switched off his phone.
With a flash of guilt, he thought about his wife at home, with her party dresses returned to the darkness of the wardrobe. ‘Sorry, love,’ he had said, and he was sorry. Harriet was all good. She was cherry-red lipstick and a great bum in a pencil skirt. A woman who cried at soap opera weddings (seriously) and strung fairy lights around the bedroom, yet went out each day and fought hard for all the vulnerable children in her care. She grew flowers in the garden and collected vintage perfume bottles and could still outdo anyone on the most bad-ass curry without breaking a single bead of sweat.
Oh yes. Harriet was awesome. But right now, he wasn’t sure he deserved such a woman. Right now, it was hard to look her in the eye and tell her yet another lie.
He just had to have a bit of faith, he reminded himself bracingly, posting another chip in his mouth. He had to hang in there and wait for his luck to change. And it would, any day soon. It had to.
Chapter Five
‘Freya? Have you got a minute? I need to speak to you.’
It was eight thirty on Monday morning, but Freya already felt as if she’d lived through an entire week of stress. Dexter had woken up remembering too late that he had a geography test that day and had glowered and thundered like one of the volcanoes in his text book. Teddy had turned the clean laundry pile into a crumpled mess looking for his Spider-Man socks, even though there were at least five other pairs of perfectly wearable socks neatly balled together in his drawer. And Libby had casually announced at breakfast that her class was having a tea party that afternoon, and she needed to bring in some party food. With their kitchen cupboards currently home to an assortment of ageing tins – kidney beans, peach slices in syrup, the wrong kind of mushy peas – all old enough to start claiming a pension (she really must get to the supermarket, preferably sometime this century), the only thing remotely party-ish in there was a packet of chocolate digestives. Unfortunately, when presented with this option, Libby got very cross, moaning that digestive biscuits weren’t at all party-ish, and that everyone else’s mums would have baked cupcakes with swirly icing. ‘Well, if you’d just told me a bit earlier,’ Freya said through gritted teeth, feeling her patience stretching bubblegum-thin.
‘Yeah, if you’d told her earlier, Mum could have bought a packet of Hula Hoops as well. Big woo,’ muttered Dexter sarcastically from where he was simultaneously woofing down most of a large box of cornflakes and memorizing a map of Central America.
Freya counted to twenty under her breath in an attempt to stop herself screaming, wondered for a few deluded moments whether she should attempt to make some icing and decorate the chocolate biscuits to look more festive – no, crazy idea, was she insane? – then resorted to making their packed lunches instead. Their packed lunches which – because she was in dire need of a supermarket trip – were woefully boring (leftover-roast-chicken sandwich, apple, some bits of cheese and crackers) and would no doubt show up her poor neglected children yet again compared to the packed lunches of their friends (mini salads and freshly baked sausage rolls and fairy cakes with sodding swirly icing). Aaargh. She thought viciously of her husband Victor, almost certainly still fast asleep at the residential police-training centre, and deaf to all of this, and felt very much like driving down there and setting off an air horn outside his window. Just to be spiteful. Just so that he could share the suffering.
On the way to school, she was cut up at two different traffic lights by impatient drivers, one of whom gave her the finger. Then she had to tell off Dexter, who had taken to using his own invented rhyming slang wherever possible, in this case calling the second driver a ‘total Talamanca’.
‘Dexter, that’s enough,’ Freya snapped.
‘What? I only called him a Talamanca. It’s an area in Costa Rica. I thought you’d be pleased I had learned something for my geography test.’
‘Talamanca,’ Teddy echoed gleefully, and Freya groaned deep in her throat. Great. And of course that would be all round the infant classes within five minutes of the day starting, you wait. Knowing her luck, there would be a polite phone call from the deputy head later that day: Dr Castledine, nothing to worry about, we’re just a little concerned about some of the language Teddy has been using lately …
Just try it, love, Freya thought grimly. And then I can guarantee you’ll hear some really bad language.
She hadn’t imagined motherhood to be like this. Years ago, the summer she was pregnant with Dexter, she and Vic had been in Devon and had gone out for the day to a National Trust property – a big beautiful house by the sea with sprawling, flower-filled gardens. They’d paused for a picnic and watched, smiling, as a family had rolled down the steep grassy hill together, laughing, then tumbled into a tangle of arms and legs at the bottom. We’ll be like that, Freya had thought happily, one hand resting on her bump as they munched their cheese and salad sandwiches. We’ll be the sort of family that rolls down hills in the sunshine, just for fun.
Only, as it turned out, they were the sort of family who squabbled in cars and never got anywhere on time and lurched from one laundry and party-food crisis to another.
And now she had arrived at work, trying to put the mayhem out of her mind, turning her head as usual to avoid the GOT A PROBLEM? poster (Oh, bore off), but just five minutes after her arrival, in had come Elizabeth, the manager of the GP practice, asking if she could ‘have a word’. Monday, you total Talamanca, Freya thought under her breath as she tried to contort her face into something resembling a pleasant smile. ‘Of course!’ she replied with faux cheer.
Dr Elizabeth Donnelly was a tall, chic fifty-something woman, always immaculately turned out, with keen grey eyes that seemed to look right into you; Freya had often imagined Elizabeth’s patients squirming uncomfortably as they confessed in a reluctant mumble that yes, okay, they probably did drink more than ten units a week, and no, all right, they supposed they didn’t really do enough exercise, you got me there, doc.
Now that cool grey gaze was turned on Freya and she was immediately gripped by a forgotten-my-homework lurch of anxiety. Was something amiss? She’d come into work so hungover last Friday she must have reeked of alcohol but whiffing a bit hokey wasn’t a crime, was it? She swallowed, trying to push down her nerves and wishing she’d thought to chew more gum and spray on extra perfume that day.
‘Have a seat,’ she said, gesturing to the empty chair in front of her desk
.
Elizabeth closed the door and sat down with a beige cardboard file on her lap. ‘I believe you saw Ava Taylor and her mother last week,’ she began.
‘Ava and Melanie? Yes.’ Freya gave a short laugh. ‘I see them pretty regularly, to be honest.’
Elizabeth wasn’t smiling. If anything, she looked severe. She opened the file, removing a handwritten letter. ‘And according to Melanie, when they came in last Thursday, you sent her away without a prescription, telling her Ava had – ’ she peered at the blue notepaper – ‘a summer cold.’
Freya’s heart banged hard as Elizabeth raised her head and looked steadily at her, waiting for a response. She didn’t like the sound of this. Why had Melanie written to Elizabeth about her appointment? What was going on? She tried to compose herself and remember the exact exchanges of the visit. ‘I examined Ava and she had a slight temperature as I recall,’ she said.
‘You told Mrs Taylor, and I quote from her letter, “She has a bit of a sniffle and is probably just feeling sorry for herself”.’
Freya reddened. Her own words sounded glib and heartless when repeated back like that. ‘Well, you know, Melanie does tend to overinflate every ailment,’ she said defensively. ‘Ava was displaying cold symptoms, but seemed quite cheerful otherwise. She wasn’t distressed or unresponsive.’ She recalled the curious gaze of the baby as Freya had examined her, the way Ava had bounced her hands around and how it had reminded her of a piano player. That wasn’t an ill, fractious baby, was it? ‘I advised Melanie – Mrs Taylor – to give her plenty of fluids and some Calpol if her temperature rose any higher.’ Come on, she wanted to say to Elizabeth. What’s your point here? Any doctor would have said the same thing. Melanie is neurotic, that’s all.
‘Unfortunately, Ava must have deteriorated quite rapidly after she came in,’ Elizabeth said in her unnervingly calm, measured way. ‘She was admitted to A&E later that night, gravely ill, where she was diagnosed with bronchial pneumonia. She’s been in intensive care ever since.’
All the air seemed to leave Freya’s lungs. For a moment she felt as breathless as poor tiny Ava must have done. ‘Oh God,’ she said hoarsely. She had listened to Ava’s chest, though, she told herself. She was sure she’d listened, and there had been no wheezing or any shortness of breath. Had there? All of a sudden she couldn’t be certain. She’d been on automatic pilot, feeling miserable and thinking about drinking gin, she remembered guiltily.
Her mouth dry, she took a gulp of too-hot coffee, barely noticing the way it scalded. Bronchial pneumonia, shit. That was never good, particularly when it concerned a six-month-old infant. ‘Is she going to be okay?’
‘Mrs Taylor didn’t go into details.’ Elizabeth gave a small sigh. ‘I’m afraid to say, she has made an official complaint about your conduct and the way you handled her inquiry.’ She glanced back down at the letter. ‘She claims you were negligent and didn’t take her worries seriously. She also claims that because of your response – that Ava was healthy and merely had a cold – she delayed going to the hospital because she didn’t want to make a fuss.’
Melanie Taylor didn’t want to make a fuss? Christ, that would be a first. Freya couldn’t help but fight her corner. ‘Elizabeth, I don’t believe I was negligent,’ she said, trying to control the trembling in her voice. ‘I gave the baby an examination, I checked her temperature and breathing, I looked in her mouth. Her chest was clear, her throat looked a bit sore – which I did mention to Mrs Taylor – but there was no evidence of coughing or rapid breathing, and only a slight fever.’ She was getting into her stride now, voice rising. ‘I’m sorry to hear that Ava’s condition worsened so quickly, but isn’t that often the case with bronchial pneumonia in infants? I’m not a fortune teller, I can’t see three hours into the future when a baby takes a turn for the worse!’
Oops. She probably shouldn’t have said that last bit. She’d been doing so well until then, too. Now she could feel herself getting pink in the face and rattled.
Elizabeth’s gaze was coolly appraising as always. Her eyebrows twitched together in a small frown and then, after an agonizing pause, she said delicately, ‘I don’t like to ask this, as I’m sure it must be wrong, but Mrs Taylor has also accused you of … er … “drinking on the job”, as she called it. Obviously, I am confident this is a ridiculous claim but I have to mention it to you, as your manager. She said she saw a bottle of alcohol in your handbag.’
Hot colour flared in Freya’s cheeks and she couldn’t speak for a moment. ‘That’s just …’ She spluttered, the words refusing to be summoned. ‘That’s ludicrous,’ she got out, crossing her fingers under the desk. ‘And completely untrue.’
Oh no. So Melanie had seen the gin bottle sticking out like that. No wonder she had gone nuclear. Freya hung her head, unable to look Elizabeth in the eye. It was, without a doubt, the worst moment ever in her professional career. She had not been drinking on the job. Sure, she might have been momentarily tempted, and yes, she’d felt miserable enough to have a bottle of gin at hand for that evening’s recreational use. But she hadn’t actually drunk any at work. Ever. It wasn’t as if she had a problem!
Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘Is everything all right, Freya?’ she asked gently. ‘I know you’ve recently lost your father, but …’
Freya’s palms became clammy. Don’t say her boss believed Melanie. Had Elizabeth noticed all those early-morning hangovers, the scent of desperation that had clung so persistently in recent weeks? Her imagination went into overdrive and she found herself envisaging random bag-checks for all staff members, a breathalyser installed in the reception area.
‘I’m fine,’ she stammered, trying to ignore her inner turbulence. ‘Absolutely fine. Bit tired, that’s all. Looking forward to going on holiday next week.’
‘Of course,’ said Elizabeth, ever the concerned professional. ‘Well, it sounds to me as if you did all the right things and were not in any way negligent, but we do have to follow procedure, I’m afraid.’
‘Right,’ Freya replied wretchedly. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ll respond, suggesting that the three of us hold a meeting to discuss what – if anything – went wrong, and how we might learn from the situation. Once Ava’s out of hospital, naturally.’
Freya’s heart sank like an expensive watch in a swimming pool. ‘Fine,’ she said, knowing she had little choice. A meeting would mean looking Melanie in the eye and saying that she had been mistaken about the gin bottle. Freya was not a great liar. She would crumble as readily as a soft digestive.
Elizabeth rose to her feet, the file close to her chest. Freya could only guess at the questions fermenting in her boss’s mind. Is everything all right, Freya? Have you got an alcohol problem, Freya? Are you having a nervous breakdown, Freya?
‘Right,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Well, I’ll let you know her response, and if there’s any news about Ava. And Freya …’ She rested her free hand on the back of the chair. ‘I’m here, don’t forget. If you ever want a chat, or to take a break, come and talk to me. I lost my dad too last year. I know how hard it is.’
Tears brimmed unexpectedly in Freya’s eyes. Hot, stupid tears of weakness that took her completely by surprise. Within these four walls, she had always prided herself on her competence, skill and knowledge. She wasn’t used to anyone looking at her with concern or doubt, let alone having her boss sizing her up, wondering if she was still fit for purpose.
Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she turned to her computer. Brisk, efficient, in control. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered. Please go now, she thought. Go, before I start weeping embarrassingly and pouring out all my problems. Go, while I still have some last semblance of dignity.
Elizabeth left. As the door closed gently behind her, Freya opened her mouth in a silent scream of anguish.
Chapter Six
Robert came back from the fancy publishing party quite drunk: tie askew, face mottled, breath so alcoholic he could strip paint from twenty paces. Contrary to a
ppearances, he assured Harriet that it had been practically the most tedious night of his life. ‘Those people,’ he sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the bed still fully dressed. ‘What a shower of knobheads, honestly. What a complete and utter parade of giant tits.’ His arm dropped across her and she rolled her eyes in the darkness, anticipating his next words with astonishing clairvoyance. ‘Talking of which …’
Harriet, who was still rather miffed that she’d been left with a pair of itching orange legs and badly pencilled eyebrows for no good reason, moved away from his fumbling hands. ‘I’m tired,’ she replied.
‘Oh, Aitch,’ he groaned, rolling clumsily along the bed so as to spoon behind her body – a fairly ambitious feat, seeing as she was under the duvet and he was on top of it. ‘Don’t be like that. It was terrible. Woeful. Take pity on a husband. Spare some kindness for a bloke …’
Harriet snorted but he seemed to take this as encouragement because he immediately began wrestling to insert a hand under the covers. ‘Where was my beautiful wife?’ he cried dramatically, ferreting around hopefully. ‘How I longed for my gorgeous wife! When instead I was cast adrift, alone, into a sea of intelligentsia …’
‘A sea of booze, more like.’
‘These shallow waters of … Mmm, hello.’
He’d somehow managed to wriggle under the covers, still fully dressed, and his hand was now resting warmly on her hip. Despite her earlier crossness, Harriet found herself thawing. There was something about drinking that transformed her husband into a sex-crazed teenager trying to hump her leg. She should be disapproving but it was actually rather endearing in a pathetic sort of way. He’d probably be asleep in two minutes anyway.