The Lies You Told

by Harriet Tyce

  Barbara nods but continues, “I would not always advise my clients to give evidence, but in this case you will definitely be your own best advocate.”

  Alexandra smiles, a movement that contains no warmth. “That’s very true. Though we hope you’ll be the best advocate that money can buy.”

  Barbara doesn’t blink, though I feel a tremor in the air. “As you know,” she continues, “we were successful in our application to go through Freya’s phone and laptop. Sadie is searching through the girl’s social media to ensure that there is no communication to be found between Jeremy and Freya.”

  “Well, of course there won’t be,” Alexandra interrupts with some force.

  “That’s the point,” Barbara says. “It will reinforce the fact that there’s no relationship between them other than one of strict professionalism, student and teacher. That’s important for the jury to see. Given how much time teens spend on their devices, the absence of any mention of Jeremy is very telling.”

  “There are the emails,” Jeremy says, his voice hesitant.

  “Emails?” Barbara says.

  “The emails between me and Freya,” he says. “Although I always copied her mother in on those. They were to set homework, discuss assignments, arrange times.”

  “Yes,” Barbara says, leafing through a file. “I have those.”

  “May I see them?” I say.

  They all look at me as if surprised that I can speak.

  “Yes, of course,” Barbara says. “They’re with the unused material that the prosecution served on us. The prosecution isn’t relying on them because they don’t show anything that advances their case. Helpful for us, though.”

  Zora opens a file and runs her finger down the page before pausing at a point and looking back up. “As you also know, we’re set for trial shortly. We applied for an extension to the date to give us time to go through the extra material from the phone, but they haven’t granted it. This explains why it’s been necessary to engage a junior in the case.” She glances at me. “You’re going to have a lot to do in a very short period of time.”

  I nod.

  “I understand from Barbara that you have children,” Alexandra says.

  “One child.” I’m surprised this has come up in conversation.

  “I hope you’re not going to be one of those unreliable mothers, always having to take time off for a sickly child. Are you sure that you’re going to be able to keep up with it all?”

  “Yes. I am,” I say. “I wouldn’t have accepted the brief if I weren’t able to fulfill my commitment.”

  “Well,” says Alexandra, her lips pursed for a moment, eyes thoughtful. “I hope that’s the case.”

  I don’t reply. I catch Zora’s eye and she winks again. My burst of anger passes and I try not to laugh.

  The meeting over, Zora and Alexandra get into a huddle with Barbara, and I busy myself with tidying up plates and putting them on the side.

  Jeremy reaches over with an empty plate and puts it into my hand. He smiles at me. “Thanks for taking the case on at such short notice.”

  “It’s no trouble. I was very pleased to be asked. I’ve moved back here recently, so I’ve been keen to get my practice back up and running.”

  “Moved back from?”

  “The U.S. Brooklyn. My husband’s work…”

  Jeremy nods as if this explains everything. “How long have you been back?”

  “Not very long. It’s taking time to settle in, but we’re getting there.”

  “So your husband’s job has moved back here, then?”

  “No, Robin and I have come on our own.”

  “Right,” he says. “Right. Well. Robin, that’s a sweet name.”

  I twitch. Jeremy holds his hands up, his cheeks flushing. “That’s the awful thing about a charge like this. It colors everything. I can’t even make a comment on a child’s name without it seeming inappropriate in some way.” His mouth twists in disgust.

  I feel bad. I didn’t mean to react like that. “No, I’m sorry. Thank you for saying it’s a sweet name. She is sweet. Though she’s trying to adapt to a new Year Six at the moment, which isn’t easy. There are entrance exams coming up next January for the senior school which seem to be causing some tension.”

  “Oh God. Year Six. You have my sympathies.”

  “I’m beginning to think I haven’t taken it seriously enough. I mean, after the craziness of New York school entry, I thought I’d seen everything. But everyone seems completely hysterical about it.”

  “The parents go mad. It’s getting worse. So I’m told, anyway. I’ve never taught that age group,” Jeremy says. “But anecdotally, it leads to a lot of pressure. Very high levels of competition.”

  I open my mouth to speak but Alexandra has turned her attention to our conversation.

  “We must go,” she says to Jeremy. “Good to meet you.” This to me. Zora waves and they leave. Barbara tidies up her files.

  “That went OK, all things considered,” she says.

  “What things?”

  “Alexandra can be tricky. You might have noticed that,” she says with one eyebrow raised. “The father is too. He’s used to being in charge. I want to speak to my client on his own at some point, but so far one or other of them has barged into every conference. I’ve tried to point out that they’re too closely involved to make the best decisions, but it’s tricky.” Barbara looks thoughtful. “Anyway, you’d best get back to work. Do feel free to take the material home with you so that you can get on with it in the evenings.”

  “I will do. Thanks. That’ll make everything a lot simpler.”

  With a wave, I’m dismissed.

  16

  I’ve skimmed through another file’s worth of printouts by early afternoon, and still found no sign of correspondence between the complainant and Jeremy.

  “Is her evidence really all they’re basing the case on?” I say to Barbara when I return to her room.

  “Apparently so. And the testimony of a couple of friends who say she told them about it at the time. It’s very weak. I anticipate that I’ll be making an application to throw it out at half-time. I mean, I’m reluctant to give credence to the suggestion that the case is being brought as an attack, but one does have to wonder.”

  I nod. I shuffle papers together into a pile to put in my bag. “I’m going to have to make a move soon. I need to collect Robin.”

  Barbara’s attention is now focused on her computer, before she snaps her gaze back to me.

  “As long as you get on with it. I don’t want us to miss anything. OK?”

  “OK.” I nod again.

  I’m down in reception, saying goodbye to Kirsten, when my phone rings. I look at the number for a moment before answering with reluctance.

  “Yes… of course… I understand it’s necessary… four o’clock.”

  The voice at the other end of the call was cool, dispassionate. A complaint received, teething issues, best to meet and talk it through, all very easily settled. I don’t share the school secretary’s confidence. If it’s so easily settled, why do I need to meet the head? I had hoped the whole fuss would blow over. I put the phone in my pocket and stand for a moment, unwilling to leave the calm of chambers to deal with the drama.

  “All well?” Kirsten says.

  “Yes. Well, no. Not really. There was a… situation this morning at assembly, and one of the mothers has made a complaint. I have to go in and see the head.”

  Kirsten’s face is sympathetic. “One of those professional school-gate mothers?”

  “Maybe a bit.”

  “The head will calm it down,” she says. “She’ll look like she’s listening to the woman, make all the right noises, but won’t do anything to you. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You think?”

  “We’ve had our fill of run-ins at school with my kids. Those mothers who don’t work are the worst—they don’t have anything better to do than magnify every little thing into a massive
drama, just for the sake of it. I’m sure it’ll be OK. Don’t stress.”

  I’m taken through to a waiting room once I arrive at school. I ask the secretary about Robin and whether any arrangements have been made for her, given that it’s time for pickup, but she waves off my concerns. “It’s taken care of,” she says, walking out of the room.

  I sit staring at the door of the head’s office. I’m a fully qualified barrister, was a tenant in a good set of chambers, and dealing with an important trial; mother to a daughter of ten. None of it matters. I’m also a seven-year-old girl, waiting to be told off for stealing an exercise book from the stationery cupboard. I’m nine, my knuckles still sore from where I punched Carole because she wouldn’t stop teasing me about my father being dead. My palms are slick with sweat, my heart hammering in my chest. My windpipe is tightening in anticipation, amygdala fully hijacked, flight or fight.

  Silence stretches out in the antechamber, a clock ticking loud from the mantelpiece on the opposite wall, a petal dropping from a vase of roses next to it. A rhythm beats out in my mind—get on with it, get on with it—and I try to bring my breath in time with the tick of the clock. Three counts in, three counts out, four, five.

  It’s working, I’m calming, though the wait is stretching out unbearably long, the big hand of the clock moving from one minute past, to two, to three. No sound from behind the office door. No sound from anywhere else in the building. No evidence of the presence of hundreds of children just past the other door. Jesus, can’t they just open the fucking door and GET ON WITH IT. Despite the breathing, pressure is building in my head, the silence almost too much to bear, when it’s broken by an imperious screech.

  “It’s utterly outrageous that I have to come in too. Totally unnecessary. A complete waste of my time. All you need to do is tell that new girl and her dreadful mother how to behave and there won’t be any more of a problem.”

  The secretary returns to the waiting room, Julia behind her. She’s changed for the occasion, no longer in sportswear, now in dark fitted jeans, white shirt and what looks like a Chanel jacket. She jangles with long chains of gold and pearls adorned with interlocking C shapes. Definitely Chanel. I doubt it’s knock-off. An image flashes into my mind of this woman poking around market stalls looking for fake designer goods and despite the tension I’m feeling—maybe because of it—a snort of laughter escapes me.

  “And what the hell are you laughing at?” Julia strides over to where I’m sitting. Her porcelain face is mottled red and spittle flies from her mouth, speckling my cheek.

  There’s a split second in which it could go either way. She really looks as if she’s about to hit me. I keep my cool. I’ve been faced with worse than this down the cells in the magistrates’ court. Waiting to see the headmistress might resurrect my childhood insecurities but not a woman like this, entitlement and the superiority of privilege erupting from every well-tended pore. I rise slowly to my feet, jaw set, shoulders squared.

  Julia’s shoulders are squared too. I stand right in her face, eyeball to eyeball, loathing running in a current between us. I’m resolute, unmoving, letting Julia’s contempt wash over me, rocklike against the scorn.

  “Ladies,” a voice says, and the spell is broken. Julia shifts, moves back. I take a deep breath.

  “Ladies,” the voice says again, and now the door to the inner sanctum opens and it’s the head, her smile beatific. “Thank you for coming in.”

  SUNDAY, 11:09 A.M.

  “What’s the address of the emergency? Where are you?” says the emergency service operator.

  “I don’t know what the address is,” I say. “Somewhere else. It’s my daughter.”

  “I hear you, madam, but I need you to give me an address and the phone number you’re calling from.”

  “It doesn’t matter what my address is,” I say. “She’s not gone from here.”

  “I still need to have a phone number, please,” says the voice at the other end.

  I reel off my address and phone number. I know the operator is only doing their job. I understand the need for the questions. But it’s pointless. It doesn’t matter where I am. It matters where my daughter is, and it’s too complicated to explain. Not when I can’t put into words my fears. Not even to myself.

  “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “It’s my daughter. She was away staying with friends last night. And they said she was being brought home, but she isn’t here yet.”

  “Do you have the address where she was staying?”

  “No, I don’t. But she won’t have run away.”

  “Let’s just go through this in order. Can you tell me exactly what’s happened?”

  I take a deep breath. I’m trying to calm myself down. I can’t start screaming at the operator even though it’s all I want to do.

  “My daughter was taken by some friends to stay in a holiday cottage. They told me hours ago that she was being driven home by someone, but she’s not here and I can’t get hold of anyone. I thought I should call 999. Get the police involved.”

  “Do you have the address where your daughter is staying?”

  “I’ve already told you, no,” I say. Before I can stop it, I break into sobs, my crying hysterical now. I jab at the red button to end the call, overwhelmed with the futility of trying to explain something I don’t understand, throwing the phone away in frustration.

  At last I get myself back under control and drop to my knees to retrieve my phone. There’s a missed call notification from an unknown number—it must be the emergency operator. I delete it—there’s no point. No point at all.

  I get up and sit at the table for a few moments, breathing in and out, regaining some calm. Then I stand up. I’m going to the London house now. Right now. See if they’re there. And if there’s no answer, I’m going to break down the door with my bare hands.

  17

  The head gestures us to two chairs set at an angle to each other in front of a large mahogany desk, behind which she lowers herself onto her own chair. I sit down immediately, having parked my bag of papers against the wall near the door. Julia continues to stand.

  “Do sit down,” the head tells her, the words dropping through the room like a stone. I watch in fascination as the command works its way through Julia. She’s clearly torn between the desire to assert herself, and the recognition of an authority greater than her own. If I weren’t so hyped up, I’d laugh.

  The headmistress gestures once more, and says, “Sit down please, Mrs. Burnet.” There’s a chill in her voice that wasn’t there before. Still resistant, Julia stands for a moment more before giving up the fight and throwing herself down into the chair behind her.

  “That’s better,” the head says. “Now, Ms. Roper, we haven’t met as yet. I’m Florence Grayson.” She offers her hand to me. Her grip is firm and her gaze steady. A woman in her late fifties, she has a sensible air to her and, despite the circumstances, I feel reassured. She turns to Julia and nods. “Mrs. Burnet.”

  “Can we cut to the chase?” Julia says. “We all know why we’re here. That new girl did her best to sabotage my daughter’s performance in assembly this morning. It was a deliberate attempt to undermine her before she had to sit the practice test today.”

  “That’s not true,” I burst out. Mrs. Grayson’s upheld hand silences me.

  “Mrs. Burnet, I need you to calm down. The incident this morning is part of the reason for this meeting, but not all of it.”

  “What more can there be?” Julia says with huge indignation.

  “I thought that this would be a good opportunity to bring you both together, see if we can bring some calm to the situation.” She looks pointedly between us. “It’s far from ideal that there should be a shouting match of this sort in front of the children. I appreciate that tensions are running high in the run-up to the senior school exams, but it’s not advisable to throw around accusations of sabotage.”

  Julia doesn’t reply. I take advantage of her s
ilence.

  “Robin has no interest in sabotaging anyone, honestly. She doesn’t even understand what the exams are about. And the owl was my fault, not hers—I wasn’t organized about the costume for this morning and had to throw something together at the last minute.”

  “That’s because you’re too busy working to look after your daughter properly,” Julia says.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I’m getting angry, but again Mrs. Grayson interrupts.

  “Let us steer clear of any kind of personal attack,” she says. “There is no room for prejudice in this school, whether against working or stay-at-home parents. We all support each other.”

  Julia’s lips are clenched tight, her eyes narrowed. Her face is strangely smooth and expressionless, though, despite her obvious emotion—an ageless mask, full of Botox and fillers.

  “I don’t understand why the school keeps doing it,” Julia says. “Why do you keep bringing in new girls so late in the day? You did it before and you know what happened. You’ve made the same mistake again, but this time it’s too close to the exams for us to ignore it. It’s ruined the dynamic of the class. Daisy is really unhappy.”

  “Daisy is a fine, resilient girl who can cope with a new addition to her class,” Mrs. Grayson says firmly. “And that’s why I wanted to speak to you both. You should not let personal differences play out in front of the girls like this. It’s destabilizing for them. They are looking to us to be positive role models, not examples of behavior that they should avoid.”

  “How dare you speak to me like that?” Julia spits.

  “I’m not speaking to you like anything,” Mrs. Grayson says. “I’m telling you that Daisy is absolutely fine. I’ve had the test results from this morning and she got seventy-five percent.”

  “Only seventy-five?” Julia says. “You see! How can you say she’s not disrupted? I would be expecting over eighty percent at this stage. She’s more than capable.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t. There’s no need for her to be scoring more highly than that—it’s already a very high score and you need to trust both us and Daisy that we know what we’re doing. You know perfectly well that she’s going to get into the senior school with no trouble at all.”