It had happened in the summer of 1993, following an evening spent celebrating the news that, after several years of writing magazine articles, Lizzie’s first book, Fooling Around . . . In the Kitchen had been accepted for publication by Vicuna Press.
Christopher had come home from London, drained by hours in the operating theatres at the Beauchamp Clinic (of which he was a director) and St Clare’s Hospital, but bearing a bouquet of white roses, and had told Lizzie how very clever she was, how proud of her he was, and what a brilliant career she was going to have. And he’d insisted, despite his fatigue, on taking her out to dinner in Bray, and it had all been wonderful.
Until about three in the morning, when he had woken Lizzie by switching on his bedside light, pulling up her nightdress and determinedly fondling her between her thighs until he was sure she was properly conscious.
‘I’m half asleep.’ She’d smiled up at him but pushed away his hand.
‘I don’t mind,’ he’d said, and put it back.
The kiss had been the first thing that had jarred because of its roughness, though in a second or two, its intensity had swept away the last of her sleepiness, arousing her, and she’d kissed him back with equal passion.
‘God, Lizzie,’ he had said, and then, right away, begun making love to her, and that had been uncharacteristically rough too.
‘Go easy, darling,’ she’d said, after a few moments.
‘Be quiet,’ he’d told her, and gone straight on.
Lizzie had told herself afterwards that nothing much had happened, that it had just been a blip, something to forget about as soon as possible. After all, nothing major had occurred. Just that slight – not so slight, not really – roughness.
And those words.
‘Be quiet.’
Christopher never spoke to her like that.
She had broached it next morning, before breakfast.
‘That was unusual,’ she said. ‘Last night.’
‘Unusual?’ he repeated.
‘Not the lovemaking,’ she said. ‘That was lovely.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Except,’ she said.
‘Except what?’ Christopher had asked.
‘It was a bit rough,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I really am, Lizzie.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It was just a surprise, that’s all.’
Something had worked in Christopher’s face for a moment. A hint of disappointment, Lizzie had thought.
‘I’d hoped,’ he had said, and stopped.
‘What did you hope?’ Lizzie had asked, curiously.
‘Nothing,’ he had said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Six books and another child later, while Lizzie was still trying to work through the logistics of how she could possibly accept the offer Andrew France had brought her – in view of her reluctance to leave the children for any length of time – Christopher promptly rendered it not only possible, but also almost unavoidable.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he told her, ‘with the children and Gilly.’
‘How could you?’ Lizzie thought about the daily demands on her husband.
‘It’s already as good as organized.’ He saw her face. ‘Only in theory, obviously. And provided you don’t object, of course.’
It was a pleasant day, for March, and they were outside on the stone terrace at the top of the garden, wrapped in woollen sweaters, drinking coffee.
‘For one thing,’ Christopher went on, ‘you know that if I’m involved, no one will dare bugger you about on the special needs front.’
That was so true she could think of no comment to make.
‘And, of course, it could be terrific news for the charity.’ Christopher gave Lizzie a challenging look over the top of his spectacles. ‘Especially if you’d consider donating some of your royalties.’
‘Oh.’ Lizzie was startled.
‘You wouldn’t mind too much, would you, darling? Dalia was very excited when I mentioned the idea to her.’
If there really were a way to get not blood, but cash, from a stone, then Dalia Weinberg, one of the mainstays at the HANDS head office in Regent Street, was the person to do it. She was in her sixties now, but no less energetic or consumed by enthusiasm than a person half her age.
‘You told Dalia before me?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Sorry. Got carried away.’ He paused. ‘You don’t have to say yes to the donation. It’s just an idea.’
‘It would be pretty churlish of me to refuse now, wouldn’t it?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Hm.’ Lizzie watched a pair of sparrows in Sophie’s birdbath a few yards away.
‘HANDS aside, though,’ Christopher said, ‘there’d be another huge plus if you were to agree to all this. Certainly from my point-of-view.’
‘Which is?’
‘Us,’ he said.
Lizzie said nothing, though the meaning behind that single word chilled her. Because as sincere as Christopher’s stated motives undoubtedly were – a chance for a family trip that would benefit HANDS – there was deceit in it too. Speaking to Dalia before tackling her, neatly cutting off any avenues of escape she might have thought of.
The fact was, she probably would have done just that, asked Andrew to apologize profusely to Howard Dunn and the Food and Drink people, but to tell them she simply couldn’t manage it.
Too late for that now, and Lizzie decided she wouldn’t be surprised if Christopher hadn’t already told Dalia that it was safe to leak a little something about the venture to the press, because that was his style when he really wanted something. It was what had made him such an enormous success; determination and – couched in all that charm and courtesy – a degree of ruthlessness.
So because of that, not only Dalia, but also Vicuna and the TV people would all be extra delighted because she was going to donate part of her royalties, which meant more positive press and media coverage.
And soon, too, all the children and Gilly would be bouncing with excitement, and perhaps Angela – recently engaged to William Archer, a lovely retired stockbroker – might want to join them at some stage of the journey, and Andrew would, she supposed, be trying to get them a table at The Ivy or The Caprice to celebrate.
But all Lizzie could think about – instead of the delights of the travel, and the new creative challenge, and the compliment that was being paid her by both Vicuna and the Food and Drink Channel – was the prospect of being trapped in all those hotel rooms with her husband, surrounded on all sides by family and closely scrutinizing colleagues.
And yes, it did chill her.
It was a very long time since she had felt so trapped.
Chapter Six
On a sunny April afternoon in the late 90s, Joanne Patston – until recently a customer services assistant at the Chingford branch of the Savers Mutual Building Society – and her husband, Tony, a mechanic with his own one-man garage near Walthamstow, had brought their new baby daughter home for the first time to their semi-detached house in Chingford Hatch.
Her name was Irina, she was a three-month-old Romanian orphan, and her homecoming had been duly celebrated by her ecstatic adoptive parents, next-door-neighbours Paul and Nicola Georgiou, and by Irina’s overjoyed new grandmother, Sandra Finch.
‘Isn’t she the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?’ Sandra had cooed over her daughter’s shoulder, as Joanne cradled Irina. ‘Eyes just like black cherries.’
‘Even darker than mine,’ Paul Georgiou had remarked to his wife.
‘Intelligent eyes,’ Tony Patston said.
‘Her hands are so tiny,’ Joanne marvelled.
‘Delicate fingers,’ Tony said.
Irina kicked her bootied feet.
‘Maybe she’ll be a ballerina,’ her new father said.
‘Or a footballer.’ Paul laughed.
Tony, who Joanne had once said – looking through the eyes of love – resembled Will Carling, threw his neighbo
ur a look of mild disgust, downed the last of his champagne, went over to their Ikea sideboard and picked up a can of Fosters.
‘I don’t care what Irina does,’ Joanne said, ‘so long as she’s healthy and happy.’
‘Absolutely,’ Nicola agreed.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Sandra said. ‘My first grandchild.’ She bent to stroke Irina’s dark hair. ‘I’m so happy for you, Joanne.’
‘What about me?’ Tony asked. ‘I mean, I did have something to do with this.’
‘Of course you did,’ his mother-in-law told him. ‘I’m happy for you both.’
‘How about a toast?’ Paul suggested, raising his lager in the air.
‘Tony?’ Joanne looked at her husband.
‘Give her to me.’ Tony put down his beer and stooped to take the baby.
‘Support her head,’ Nicola said automatically.
‘He knows,’ Joanne said.
‘Course I know,’ Tony said. ‘Been practising for long enough.’
‘The toast,’ Paul reminded him.
Tony cleared his throat. ‘Our daughter.’ His voice cracked with emotion.
‘Is that it?’ Paul said.
Tony ignored him. ‘It’s taken a long time, and a lot of trouble,’ he went on. ‘But trouble’s not really the right word, is it, Jo?’
Joanne shook her head, tears rising.
‘Because nothing would have been too much to get us to this moment. Being able to bring this little one home to where she belongs.’ Tony paused. ‘Our Irina.’
They had broken laws in their own country and in Irina’s and, so far as they knew, all manner of international laws, but both Tony and Joanne had ceased caring about that a long time ago. They cared about not getting found out, and they cared about keeping and bringing up Irina as their own. And to hell with the law.
Joanne’s motivations had been straightforward. Yearning for motherhood for years, thwarted by her husband’s infertility, she’d become desperate enough to do almost anything. Tony’s motives were not as clear-cut. Made resentful by what he saw – despite Joanne’s reassurances – as his failure, he’d come to view her unhappiness as a reproach. The idea of sperm donation had offended him and having, after lengthy soul-searching, agreed to adopt a baby, he’d been swiftly put off by the intensity and personal nature of the questions posed by the authorities.
‘They’ll never let us adopt,’ he’d told Joanne flatly after one early meeting. ‘Not once they get hold of my record.’
‘But that was so long ago,’ his wife had said.
‘I was a drunk who hit people,’ Tony had said, uncharacteristically realistic.
‘You’ve never hit me,’ Joanne had said.
‘And I’d be a bloody good father,’ Tony had added. ‘But I’ve still got a record.’
‘What if we just come out and tell them?’ Joanne had ventured. ‘Before they find out for themselves. We could say you haven’t had a drink for years.’
‘That’d be a lie.’
‘I don’t mind lying.’
‘I don’t, either,’ Tony had said, ‘except all they’d have to do is go round the Crown and Anchor and they’d know.’
They’d all but given up when, one evening some months later, they’d watched the repeat of a TV programme about Romanian orphans in the post-Ceausescu era. Even while they were still watching, Joanne had been surprised that Tony – who hated documentaries – had neither switched channels nor even got up to fetch a beer.
Till afterwards. Then he’d opened a can right away, drunk the whole thing, before sitting down again on the sofa beside Joanne, and taking her hand.
‘Why not us?’ he’d said.
‘Us what?’
‘That.’ He’d nodded at the TV. ‘This could be it. This could give you what you want more than anything in the world. And me.’
‘But all the assessments and stuff,’ Joanne reminded him. ‘You hated all that.’
‘This might be different. We’d be helping one of those poor little babies, wouldn’t we, getting them out of one of those fucking horrible places. Maybe the people over there wouldn’t be so bloody fussy.’
‘I don’t know, Tony.’
‘Think about it, love,’ he said. ‘A kid of our own. We’d be helping a child.’ He’d paused. ‘I might even start feeling like a real man again.’
‘You’ve always been that,’ Joanne had said softly.
She’d begun researching the possibilities next lunchtime at the library near her branch of Savers Mutual, discovering – with such ease that Tony said later that it was fate, that they’d been meant to see that programme – the Overseas Adoption Helpline.
‘Mind what you tell them, though,’ Tony had cautioned. ‘Tell them you just want to ask questions for now.’ He paused, saw her expression. ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ Joanne said. ‘Except you said “you”, not “we”.’
Tony had smiled easily. ‘You’re in charge of this, Jo. For now, anyway.’ He’d paused. ‘Not too much for you, is it?’
‘Of course not,’ Joanne had said quickly.
She’d taken him at his word, had begun asking questions, received more answers and assistance than she could have believed possible, though each snippet of help seemed to come wrapped in a great blanket of information.
‘There’s so much reading,’ she told Tony one weekend.
He’d glanced at the piles of pamphlets and photocopies and printouts from the computer Joanne had taken to using in her lunch hours at an Internet café.
‘I can’t handle all this junk,’ he’d said.
‘It isn’t junk. It’s our path to being parents.’
He’d laughed at that, told her she sounded like she’d swallowed one of the books she’d been reading. ‘Bottom line, Jo,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’m interested in.’
So Joanne had gone on with it until all her preliminary questions had been answered, when her head was jammed with hundreds of facts about practical and ethical aspects of ‘intercountry’ adoption, thousands of facts, cautions about conflicts and pitfalls to avoid and choices to be made.
Forms to be completed.
‘Oh, no.’ Tony had been emphatic. ‘We’re not going through that again.’
‘We have to, Tony.’ The relief had already gone. ‘Obviously.’
‘The only obvious thing to me is that we’d be great parents.’
‘But we still have to convince the authorities of that,’ Joanne reasoned.
‘And they’ll find out about my record and we’ll be back to sodding square one.’ Tony’s face had reddened. ‘I thought I’d made myself clear, Jo. We’re prepared to help some little no-hope kid from some God-forsaken country and that’s that.’
‘But it’s not that simple.’ Joanne had tried not to cry.
‘It’s got to be,’ her husband had told her. ‘Simple, or no kid.’ He’d stood up, his face redder, his eyes harder. ‘You want this, you find a way.’ He was already halfway back to the kitchen door. ‘Get back on the Internet. Find someone who understands what we want.’ He paused. ‘Tell them we’ll pay, if you like.’
‘Pay?’ She had been startled. ‘For a baby? That’s horrible.’
‘Not if it works.’
‘We don’t have enough money.’ Joanne could hardly believe she’d said that.
‘Find out how much it would cost.’ Tony had opened the door. ‘If it’s not too much, I’ll pay. I’m not mean, Jo.’
‘I know you’re not, but—’
‘Find out, Joanne. Or drop it.’
She was on the verge of giving up again when, suddenly, she hit on the website that led her to the ‘someone’ Tony had so airily told her to find. An adoption ‘practitioner’ claiming to have legitimate links with agencies on three continents, and specializing in couples feeling let down by the ‘system’ because of age, class or other irrelevant and often petty considerations.
Too easy, Joanne thought, trying not to get too excited as she clic
ked on the e-mail address offered on the site – doing no more, she promised herself, than dipping her toes in the water.
Which was warm and congenial, as it turned out, and came in the form of a middle-aged, bespectacled Scandinavian doctor named Marie Jenssen who told Joanne she was in charge of the UK ‘intake’ on behalf of the international operation, and who appeared to want nothing more than to help her and Tony achieve their hearts’ desire and offer a new life to a child in need.
With Dr Jenssen, there were no long interviews and a minimum of forms to fill in. Just one meeting in the coffee shop of a hotel off Russell Square, a contract between themselves, and money to be found – such great, alarming wads of cash that Joanne was continually afraid Tony might call a halt.
But then their baby was located.
Irina Camelia Karolyi. Five weeks old, parentless and currently in a Bucharest orphanage. No relatives. No prospects. No hope.
‘She’s so beautiful,’ Joanne had said softly, staring at the photograph Dr Jenssen had sent of a tiny baby girl with huge dark eyes, looking for all the world as if she really was smiling from her crib.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ Tony had said. ‘I could really love her, Jo.’
From that moment on, he had become every bit as unstoppable as Joanne. While she paved the way with Sandra, the neighbours, a few friends and the building society, preparing them for the arrival of their adopted child, keeping the real truth from them all, Tony worked like a demon at Patston Motors to build up the ever outward-flowing supply of cash – even when the exact nature of what he was paying for became less clear.
‘You should have made her itemize this,’ Joanne said once, after Tony had handed over yet another five hundred pounds to Marie Jenssen.
‘You know she wouldn’t,’ Tony had told her. ‘You know the score by now.’
She did, which had begun to trouble her even more than the frightening expenses. The ‘score’, as Tony had put it, was illegal adoption. The money, Joanne feared, was going towards whatever it took to buy visas, bribe officials in God-alone-knew how many countries. She’d read about illegal trafficking in babies, had been sickened by the notion that anyone could be so wicked or desperate as to sell their child, let alone buy one.
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