by Anna Maxted
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Fun. Well, I won’t be long. This will only take a minute.’
I smiled, not understanding. ‘What will?’
George gestured towards the lounge. ‘Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable? In your condition . . .’
‘In my condition, what? I’m pregnant, not terminally ill.’
‘Sit,’ said George, marching into the lounge, and reclining on his favourite sofa. He nodded to Lizbet, who murmured, ‘I’ll take the plates,’ and glided into the kitchen.
I sat down on a high-backed chair, and folded my arms. ‘What?’ I said.
‘I’ve been thinking about our sitch, and—’
‘Our what?’
‘Our sit-yoo-ay-shun, Cassandra. I’ve taken advice, and I wanted to inform you of my intended course of action.’
‘Kind of you.’
‘Not at all. As you’ll remember, when we bought this house – or rather, when I bought it – as I was the one with fifty thousand—’
‘Which your grandmother left you. You didn’t earn it. We bought this house in joint name. I’ve paid the mortgage ever since.’
‘None the less, Cassie, I’m sure you understand that, considering the fact of my initial investment, I would expect at least half the equity of this house, if not more—’
‘George, don’t be ridiculous! I’m the one who earns the money, you earn nothing! I’ve put in about five hundred grand! I’m not selling this house, it’s my house, the baby’s room is already painted! What, are you going to turf your own baby out of its house?’
‘I put it in joint name because we were getting married, but it was my inheritance, and taking uplift and inflation into consideration, and my contributions to this marriage in terms of emotion and time and toil, I am entitled to more than half of this house, and you know that. In addition, as you so rightly say, I can’t earn the way you can earn, therefore I should have a great big slice of the p— a larger portion of the house.’
Fuck. He’d done his research.
‘I know no such thing. You’re talking shit!’
‘I know that, as a professional barrister,’ said George smoothly, ‘you know that isn’t true. Now. On to the matter of raising our child.’
‘You’ll have access.’ I gripped the seat of my chair to stop my hands shaking.
‘I’ll have more than that, darling,’ said George – his placid expression dissolved into a snarl. He took a deep breath, and smiled, a smile of hate. ‘We’ll bring our child up together. We’ll co-parent. As you so rightly say, you’re a clever girl, you earn the money, I earn nothing, therefore it makes perfect sense that you go back to work a.s.a.p. and I’ll bring up the baby. I’ll hand in my notice, and you can support us all.’
‘Stop it, stop it,’ I shouted. ‘Shut up. You’ve gone mad, this is horrible!’
Lizbet appeared at the door, her face white. ‘What’s wrong?’
George turned and waved her away. ‘Everything is under control. Please go away.’
Lizbet glanced at me. I nodded my head. She pressed her lips together, glared at George, and went.
I stood up, breathing heavily, but my head spun and I could barely speak. ‘George,’ I gasped, ‘this is pure spite. Please, don’t do it. You . . . have no interest in babies, no knowledge. It wouldn’t be fair on the child. A baby needs its mother. A judge would recognise that.’
‘I believe the law says – and I quote, do correct me if I’m wrong – “A father is equally entitled.”’ George leaned back and his eyes shone. ‘This is my baby,’ he said. ‘And in recognition of the fact that my childcare skills are a little . . . . rusty, I have enrolled on an accredited course. Shame – you don’t really have time for that kind of commitment.’
I tried to breathe slow and deep. I sipped my water, spilling a little down my front. I placed a hand on my stomach, as if shielding it.
I knew what I would have advised a client in my place, and I felt sick at heart. I’d have urged her to wait – to wait until the child was one, or two, before she demanded a split, because this was one way of decreasing the risk of the enemy becoming the prime parent. Even if it meant unreasonable behaviour – disappearing abroad until after the child was born – anything to ensure that there was no question of him being able to challenge her, make a case for him looking after the child for more than twenty-five per cent of the time. I’d suggested it before and more than one woman had acted on my advice, and I knew why: because there was little so frightening as a man threatening your sense of motherhood.
And because – if she didn’t – he had the power to take it all away.
‘Get out, you bastard!’ I screamed. ‘Just, get out!’
George smiled again, and I threw the glass of water at him. He moved his head, and it flew past him, hit the wall and smashed.
‘Watch it, love,’ he said. ‘That’s my wall.’
He winked at me, and left.
Lizbet rushed in. Plainly, she’d had her ear to the keyhole. ‘Cassie, Cassie! Are you ok? He’s just bluffing, isn’t he?’
I didn’t want her to worry. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just . . . bluffing.’
‘Phew!’ she said. ‘Thank goodness for that! Anyway, he’ll be no match for you – you’re the expert! You could ask Barnaby to defend you! Or do it yourself! You’d decimate him in court, wouldn’t you?’
I nodded, and looked away. I couldn’t meet her gaze. Lizbet really was a child in her unshakeable belief that some magical power would step in to save us all. My unshakeable belief was fifty thousand costs, untold misery, and no resolution.
After Lizbet had departed in a cab, I fell asleep on my bed, and woke at mid-evening, groggy and confused. The blinds were drawn and at first I wasn’t sure if it was morning or night. I had a raging headache. The heating was on, yet I was freezing cold. The chill of fear. I lay and stared at the ceiling, both hands on my stomach, and the words ran through my head, I am so sorry, I am so sorry. George’s threats from earlier jumped out at me like monsters from closets. I needed to sandblast them off the inside of my head or I wasn’t going to be able to function.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes.
I was so scared.
I hadn’t been scared for about twenty-three years, not since Lizbet had forced me to stare for four entire minutes at a drawing of a green witch with a wart-encrusted nose in her Walt Disney book. But George had scared me. Like every ruthless villain, he had gone for his opponent’s weakest point – the kid. Fuck it, until now, I hadn’t had a weakest point. I’d always looked after myself – and what on earth is there to fear when you only have yourself to answer to? But now, I had a tiny new person to protect, and now that this was fact, it scared the life out of me. I saw the potential for disaster.
I needed back-up.
I had Mummy, I had Daddy, I had Lizbet, but I needed more. I needed all my troops. Not to do anything, just to . . . be. As if, by surrounding myself with love, I could beat George. I thought of Holly Golightly, saying of Tiffany & Co. ‘Nothing bad could ever happen in there.’ And I thought of the Hershlags’ house, where I used to think the same thing. As long as I was under the Hershlags’ protection, nothing bad could happen. I’d abandoned them. And now look.
(My God! If ever I cracked my head open and these thoughts fell out, I’d be a laughing stock in chambers. Barnaby would die laughing, as would Sophie Hazel Hamilton. I’d be forced to resign from the Bar, take a job more suited to my silly, sentimental, girly personality – say, arms dealing.)
On reflection, I found I didn’t care. I stood by my convictions. Love is a battleship. Or something.
I heaved myself off the bed, waddled to my desk, and started to write.
‘Dear Aunt Lucille . . .’
Chapter 35
Someone had removed my brain and stuffed my head with newspaper. This was not good for a barrister, on the morning of a final hearing in the High Court. Every time an intelligent thought occurred I had to grab it with both hands and stare
hard, or it would pop like a bubble. I no longer looked the part. I had the figure of Veruca Salt as she became a blueberry. Hubert had finally noticed that I was pregnant – I was over seven months gone and my bump was visible from space. His disdain for my extra-curricular activity showed, in that he ignored my advice more brazenly than he did already, if that were possible.
The previous week, I’d said, ‘This is your last chance to retain control over your private economy. Otherwise, you’re allowing a stranger to carve up your financial life. Settle now, Hubert, or you’ll be chewed up and spat out.’
‘I’ll take a punt,’ he’d replied. ‘Anyway –’ he grinned at me – ‘I was right about the silly cow, wasn’t I? Sorting herself out a nice little nest egg. That’s going to derail her case.’
I felt a lurch of frustration. Or maybe it was heartburn. ‘It’s not going to derail her case.’ I wished he’d stop parroting back phrases he’d overheard. ‘It’s hardly the big dollar, Hubert. It’s going to make us look petty. That’s all.’
I was gloomy with the knowledge that I was about to make a fool of myself in front of a barrister with a good reputation. Oh yes, and he was also a barrister I was obsessed with, and desperate to impress. But never mind that. After Barnaby had touched my arm in the coffee shop, I’d avoided him. I liked him too much. Despite his arrogance, he was kind. There was more to his personality than I’d supposed. He thought he was fond of me, but he was fond of an image I presented, and I didn’t want to get hurt. Men like Barnaby had their fun, but they saw themselves ending up with a certain type: blonde, ponies back in Hertfordshire, stick-thin, plum in mouth, a Daddy on the bench (and I’m not referring to a park bench). Barnaby might present himself as sentimental, but there was no way that he would risk aligning himself – and his glorious reputation – with a woman expecting another man’s child.
As for the other man. I was stalling – or maybe I was paralysed with terror. George’s solicitor was whining at me to complete the affidavit, a nightmare form, in which you have to detail every last penny, including the ninety quid in a building society from when you were seventeen, and the one pound, thirteen in loose change in your bedside drawer. I didn’t want to swear the affidavit because then George would put in his list of questions, and it would be like facing a firing squad: ‘What’s your future earning capacity going to be, and can I have it all?’ That sort of thing.
I’d mentioned to Mummy and Daddy that my husband and I were undergoing a ‘trial separation’, hoping that if Mummy read her People magazine (which she did, religiously, it was where Lizbet got it from) she would understand. I didn’t want to upset them – unusual for me, as there was a time when I thrived on upsetting them. I thought it best that they absorb the poison slowly, like slugs absorbing salt. That way there was more chance of acceptance. The last thing I needed on top of The Vengeance of George was parental kerfuffle. I didn’t ask what he’d told the Hershlags, if anything. They were away for the summer – they had a flat in Lanzarote, overlooking a building site.
‘We’re shocked,’ Mummy had said on the phone, and it annoyed me that they couldn’t have two responses, as they were, after all, two people. Apart from anything else, I didn’t have time for their shock. It increased the burden of guilt.
‘I’m sorry,’ I’d said. ‘But it will all work out.’
If people want something badly enough, and you tell them what they want to hear, they often believe you. Also, I knew that Mummy liked to conjure up a terrible doom from the slightest mishap, so it was best to block off this road to ruin before it was embarked on. Once, in exasperation, Daddy had said – grabbing various objects off the kitchen table for emphasis – ‘This is a glass, and this is a plate, and this is a coffin!’
Mummy had stared at him, and said, ‘No it’s not. It’s a salt cellar.’
The judge had a cold, and it wasn’t helping. Every time she sneezed, Barnaby said, ‘Bless you, Your Honour.’ I was back to thinking he was an arsehole, although, this might have been more because he’d been brusque with me before court. I supposed he had had two lever-arch files of financial documents to wade through the previous night; it was bound to put a grouch on anyone. (As Barnaby charged four hundred quid an hour, Hubert would be looking at quite a bill – he would be paying, even if he didn’t know it yet – and I felt a stab of satisfaction, despite myself.)
But then, in the case of Montgomery v Hershlag – would the judge regard me as an Alissa or a Hubert? Or both? The satisfaction dissolved, and was replaced by dread – like a lump of coal in my chest.
Normally, I’d feel a thrill as I walked into the High Court. Its austere gothic beauty made you feel both powerful and insignificant: you were part of an historic tradition, but only a tiny dot. And there was a sexy edge to the crisp formality – so much repressed passion beneath the sombre dress – not one person arrived in this building because they didn’t care. But today, I reacted to none of it. I was too preoccupied with my own worries. For the first time, I saw what Lizbet had feared, as her finances dwindled to nothing before her eyes.
At the time, I’d had no patience for her predicament, I felt it was her and Tim’s own doing. They’d whined about what they hadn’t frittered their money on (silver Bentleys, islands in the Caribbean, black diamonds etc.) and overlooked what they had: a house that was too big for them, too many posh meals, elaborate holidays, and endless tat. Tim was king of the fad electronic, the novelty hat, the pointless accessory, and Lizbet was too weak to say, ‘Enough’. I often thought that she was like an indulgent mother with Tim, and it would be the ruin of both of them.
Now, it looked likely that I’d end up living in a flat-pack apartment in an identikit estate on the edge of a motorway, while my indolent ex-husband lolled around in my gorgeous pink and white townhouse, eating Menopause Cake (George was addicted to it – a revolting concoction of nuts, seeds, dates, the weight and consistency of clay, purloined from an exclusive Hampstead patisserie for a prohibitive sum), and laughing his head off. Now, I saw how simple it was to lose a fortune, and I blamed Lizbet a little less.
On the subject of losing a fortune, Hubert Fitzgerald was high on adrenalin and unaware of what was about to befall him. He’d dressed as if for a wedding – in a pink shirt, purple tie, and navy suit. He had half a tub of gel in his hair and he reeked of Paco Rabanne. A pressed lilac handkerchief poked out of his breast pocket, very dapper. All he was missing was a white carnation. I suppose the Royal Courts of Justice did have the look of a church – what with all the arches and stained-glass windows, it was an easy mistake. I’d tried to warn him about Barnaby’s cross-examination.
‘He won’t ask you a thing he doesn’t know the answer to,’ I said. ‘And he’ll be ever so courteous, but he’s a rottweiler. He’s going to interrogate you about the transfers you made from this account which— Hubert! Are you listening? Do you understand?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Bring it on!’
Hubert had watched one too many teen movies starring Kirsten Dunst.
Alissa, meanwhile, had the look of a nun. She wore a plain white shirt, a black skirt, and flat black shoes. She had a black velvet Alice band in her hair, and wore no jewellery. I was surprised Barnaby hadn’t encouraged her to show up in a wimple. Ah Christ, this was going to be even worse than I’d thought. If only she didn’t look quite so sweet and good. My toes curled as I thought of what a mean bully I’d seem if I asked her any question more challenging than, ‘Mrs Fitzgerald, is it right to say that, you are, in fact, a saint?’
Barnaby saw my gaze pass over his client. He glanced at Hubert, and smirked. The shit. I looked down, coughed, and shuffled some papers.
‘Good luck,’ I murmured, as Hubert was called to the witness box. The judge sneezed three times as he passed and I guessed his cologne irritated her sinuses. I tried not to shrink in my seat as Barnaby fixed on his victim, and smiled. His voice was smooth and seductive, and Hubert fell into every trap, like a particularly stupid rat. Within minut
es, the sweat ran down his forehead and into his piggy eyes, and his face was red with impotent rage. He started to stammer and contradict himself, mop his forehead with his lilac handkerchief, which soon became a crumpled rag. Ditto Hubert.
He’d swaggered to the witness box. He returned to his seat almost limping. He glared at me and hissed, ‘There was about fifty times there, you could have said “Objection!” – why didn’t you say it? What’s wrong with you? Cat got your tongue?’
‘Hubert. We don’t say “Objection!” in this country. That’s in the States,’ I murmured. ‘And, there was nothing I could object to. Not legally. I’m afraid every single question was watertight. I would have jumped on him . . . mmm, at the first opportunity, but there wasn’t one. Not a single one. Hubert, I did warn you.’
Hubert said nothing. He shot me a look of absolute disgust, and stared ahead, like a zombie. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Already, I looked a right chump.
Alissa walked softly, noiselessly to the witness stand, her feet slightly turned in, her head bowed, like a geisha. I wondered if she was a member of Equity.
I began with a few non-threatening questions to encourage her to relax. Then, I drew a sheaf of papers from my folder like a sword from a scabbard. I handed a photocopy to the judge, a photocopy to Barnaby, and – with a syrupy smile – a photocopy to Alissa.
Assuming my prissiest voice, I said, ‘Mrs Fitzgerald, would you please read this letter to yourself?’
Alissa scanned the letter and bit her lip.
‘Mrs Fitzgerald, is it right to say that this letter is addressed to your mother?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘It was written to ensure we had full and frank disclosure of your every asset, do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ said Alissa, in a baby bear voice.
‘Mrs Fitzgerald, could you read out paragraph three?’
Alissa swallowed. ‘In the interests of full and frank disclosure, we would be grateful,’ she breathed, with a girlish lisp, ‘if you could confirm what assets, if any, of your daughter, Alissa Bryony Fitzgerald, you are holding.’ Alissa’s big brown eyes appealed to Barnaby. Oh, very woodland.