by Tina Seskis
“It’s not your fault, Em. He took the drugs willingly, didn’t he, there must have been something else wrong for him to die like that.”
I haven’t thought of that and it’s probably true, but it doesn’t make me feel any better, it still feels unreal, nightmarish, a further descent into hell.
Ben changes the subject. “Emily, I need to know. Why did you leave me like that? If you owe me one thing it’s to tell me that. It seems like such a shit thing to do.”
I look at my husband. “First I lost Daniel, and then I lost the baby, I just couldn’t bear losing you too. And I know I pushed you away, but I was so certain you didn’t love me anymore, that you blamed me, that it made it worse and worse and I became convinced that you hated me. And then we seemed so far apart and I’d become so mean and hostile I thought in my madness that you and Charlie would be happier without me, that if I left completely then one day you’d be able to meet someone else and start a new family. We were both just so unhappy by the end. And I knew that the new house you wanted to buy wouldn’t have made it any better either. All it would’ve meant was that I wouldn’t have had to walk twice as far to get anywhere, to avoid the dark patch on the road they could never get rid of. But it still lives on in my mind Ben, it’s never going to be gone, not ever. So it seemed easier to just leave, to try to start all over again, I honestly thought I was doing the right thing for both of us. It was either that or…,” and I stop.
“I know,” says Ben, and he turns on his side and looks at me, but I keep on staring at the cold blank ceiling. He hesitates but I know what’s coming and I don’t know how I feel, I’m still in shock I suppose.
“Emily, do you think there’s any way you and I can ever be happy together again?”
I take ages to answer, my mind is too scrambled, I don’t have a clue what to say.
“I just don’t know,” I say. “Too much has happened, it’s too soon to think about. Poor Robbie has only just died.” I feel Ben tense and I know he’s jealous. My eyes fill with yet more tears, sad for them both. I struggle to continue. “And anyway it's so complicated: I have a new name, a job, a court case to get through, new friends, I’m a different person now.” I see the hurt in his eyes and it’s agony to witness. I pause.
I still can’t think what else to say, so finally I say what I really think, what I’ve wanted to tell him since I first saw him again, sitting alone in the police station.
“Ben, I still love you, I’ve never stopped loving you, I just don’t know whether we can simply start up all over again, after everything that’s happened. And whatever you say someone else is dead now, probably because of me, and he was massively famous and people adored him. I’m going to be a public figure of hate. I don’t know how I’m going to manage that. I don’t know how I’m going to manage yet more guilt."
“Will you at least try?” he asks, and despite myself I find myself nodding and the tears in my eyes are ones of happiness this time.
69
On the Tuesday morning after my release on bail Ben takes me to the flat at Shepherds Bush so I can collect my things. I realise I still haven’t been in touch with Angel, not since Friday night, just before Roberto Monteiro had escorted me out of the Groucho. I’m nervous, I don’t know how she’ll be with me, especially as I gave the police her name, told them it was her drugs that Robbie took. The flat feels quiet and I assume she isn’t home from work yet, but as I hesitate in the hallway, her bedroom door opens and she comes out, her hair a golden mess, fluffy dressing gown as white as ever.
“Cat, babe, what on earth happened?” she says, and she comes over and gives me a hug of such sweetness that I think maybe the police haven’t contacted her after all. “Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”
She seems to have only just noticed that I’m not alone, and so she smiles and holds out her hand and says, “Hello, I’m Angel.”
“Angel, this is my husband Ben,” I reply, and she squeals and says, “Jesus, Cat, can you stop springing this stuff on me. First you’re arrested for murder, and not just any murder, only the biggest football player in the whole flippin' country, then you put the police onto me, you cow, and now you tell me you’re married. What the hell's next?”
“My name’s not Cat, it’s Emily,” I tell Angel, and that’s the moment I properly make my decision, to cross from my new life back into my old one.
70
I stand with my hand on a bible and although I’m no longer a believer I have somehow in the confusion agreed to make an oath, and so I promise Almighty God to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth and the God bit makes me feel uncomfortable. I find I don’t mind telling the truth these days though, I know that lying has got me nowhere. The court is a modern informal-feeling room, more like a school hall, not at all like the courts I’ve been in before, but it’s rammed with reporters, and it’s only by looking across at my husband and him giving me a small smile of support that I find the strength to not buckle at the knees. I’m wearing a navy fitted jacket and a cream skirt and my hair is pulled back neatly, my lawyer told me to make sure I look serious and contrite. That’s easy, I just ensure my exterior matches how I feel inside.
“Catherine Emily Brown, you are hereby charged with possession of Class A drugs, as discovered at Flat 3, 15 Marylebone High Street, London at 06.45 on Sunday the 8th May 2011. How do you plead?”
“Guilty,” I say, and the single word resonates loudly across the room and makes me feel spacey, euphoric.
The judge pauses before starting a lengthy pronouncement on the evils of drugs, and I find it incomprehensible that this is me, Emily Coleman, once an upstanding lawyer, here on the wrong side of the dock, being lectured about my criminal activities involving illegal substances – but thankfully not about murder. This is just the latest episode in my life over the past year or so that I find hard to digest, ever since the hideous annihilation of my precious son started a train of incredible events that took me away from myself, but now seemed to be turning full circle, bringing me back to who I really am – Emily, wife of Ben, mother of Daniel (deceased), mother of unnamed baby (miscarried). Although I’m trying my best I find I cannot concentrate on what the judge is saying, my mind keeps drifting – back to the main road in Chorlton, over to the death bed in Marylebone, on to the doom-filled church where I said my wretched farewell to my boy – and so when I hear the gasps from the gallery I don’t know what’s happened but I assume it must be bad, and it’s only when Ben tells me afterwards I discover that all I got is a fine, a measly £180 fine, and it’s over.
71
Three years later
I sit alone in the pews in the flower-filled church, and the scent reminds me of summer meadows from long ago, from when I was a little girl. The church is beautiful, with a soaring stained glass window, but the brightness of the colours make me think of Daniel lying like a smashed toy in his cobalt blue coat, covered in blood, so I try not to look at it. The lectern is golden, in the shape of an eagle, and the eagle is standing upright, and its little fat legs remind me of Daniel’s, but its face is mean and beaky and I can’t look at that either. I still find it hard to go into a church, ever since the funeral.
I’m wearing a black silk dress from my agency days, feeling self-conscious that I’m on my own, it’s the first wedding I’ve been to since my divorce. Maybe I should have agreed to be Matron of Honour after all, but I felt too old, too frumpy, too bowed down by life to feel like I’d do a good job of it, and the bride didn’t seem to mind. I keep turning round, looking down the aisle to see if she’s coming, she’s fashionably late as usual. I catch the eye of Angel’s old friend Dane, who’s hard to miss, massive in an ostentatiously bright blue suit and a crimson button-hole, bald head gleaming blackly, and he makes me think of Daniel too. I give him a little wave, and he recognises me and after the initial shock he waves back and blows me a theatrical kiss. Angel’s mother Ruth sits in front of me wearing deep vivid red, the colour of the blood that courses wildly through her ve
ins, and she looks as sensational as ever.
I feel close to tears, and I’m not sure whether it’s just because of Daniel, or because it’s a wedding, or whether it’s knowing that people have recognised me and are looking, whispering. I wonder whether it will ever end, being pointed out as the woman who caused the death of 24-year old Roberto Monteiro, the unfulfilled football genius, even though the post-mortem proved what Ben had always thought, that the drugs had had nothing to do with it, that Robbie had died from a rare heart defect that no-one had known about until it was too late.
I look towards the altar and the groom’s still standing there patiently, noticeably nervous, and next to him stands his best man Jeremy, and he looks so smart and handsome it’s hard to fathom he’s the same lanky boy who long ago flung himself upside down out of a plane, and scared me witless.
I turn to peek back up the aisle, the bride is unacceptably late now, the vicar’s looking agitated, but at last the music starts up and as I look again she comes into view and I feel like I cannot, cannot believe my eyes, because there is my ex-husband walking straight towards me, and now he has seen me too, for the first time in nearly two years. My whole face feels like it’s burning and I put my head down and sharp angry tears claw at the back of my eyes, begging to be let out. Angel is on his arm, looking like a vision of virginal loveliness, younger than her 27 years, a frothy halo of white silk tulle framing her blonde tumbling hair. I have never hated her more than I do at this moment.
The service is lovely but to me it’s interminable, and although I try to stay calm I find that when it’s over I can’t think of anything else to do but leave. I can’t possibly go to the reception in this state. I’m sure Angel won’t mind and anyway after what she’s done today I don’t much care, and so whilst everyone is milling about outside, waiting to congratulate the bride and groom, I duck around behind the church, through the gravestones, and make my way quickly to my battered black Golf. I kick off my heels and as I start the engine I can barely see through my mascara and the rhythm of my sobs is in tune with the car. The car-park is at the rear of the church so I have to drive round the front past the people, it’s the only way out. I drive as steadily as I can and I feel like I’m going to make it without anyone noticing, until I see someone in a morning suit run out from the throng and manage to get in front of my car and I’m shocked when I see it’s him, he’d looked so appalled to see me. He signals frantically for me to stop, and I panic – what does he want? I have to get out of here, I just can’t face him, not now he’s with someone else, and my foot wavers – my God, the moment lasts forever – my foot wavers between the accelerator and the brake.
PART FOUR
72
I stand at the edge of the road outside the off-licence at the end of my old street in Chorlton and nothing much seems to have changed. No-one pays me any attention, I’m just a 40-something woman with my husband stood next to me, looking like we’re waiting to cross at the lights. As I stand silently in the rain my body feels unconnected to my mind and I realise I’m swaying and that if I’m not careful I could lose my balance and pitch forward into the road. My husband seems not to trust me, and he takes my arm and holds me tight, like you would a child, like I should have done with my own child so many years ago.
It’s funny how hard it is, when it really comes down to it, to move on from a tragedy that will always define you. You need a bucket load of determination and a resolve to never go back to the scene of the original devastation, to leave that place behind. Or that’s what I thought for such a long time. But standing here now I wish I’d come back years ago. Seeing the buses clattering past, and how easily it must have happened, how one smashed bottle can be the difference between life and death, makes me realise that tragic accidents like that occur every single day around the world, and this knowledge has finally helped heal me. A mother who lets her concentration slip for half a second, with her toddler in the bath, or at the edge of a pool or by a busy road is not incompetent, not evil. These things happen, and 99 times out of a hundred it doesn’t matter, fate intervenes and the child is OK, and the odds don’t work so maybe there is a God, after all. My darling Daniel was the one in a hundred it wasn’t OK for. I weep for him now, quietly, calmly, but I know he's at peace, next to his baby brother, I’m sure it was a he.
My son is not the only person I’m mourning today, not the only one who has died here, at this exact spot. I’m also weeping for my twin sister Caroline, who last week on the 10th anniversary of Daniel’s death stepped in front of her own bus-shaped destiny, has left her own gruesome mark on the ground here, and who we buried at lunchtime. When I got the call from poor long-suffering Mum I wasn’t really surprised, I knew long ago that Caroline’s story would never be a happy one. But I also knew that this was her own way of finally saying sorry, of trying to make amends, that it is she who has forced me to face up to what happened, to come back to this spot and say goodbye to them both. I’m grateful to my twin sister in a strange sort of way, her final step has released us both – her from a lifetime prison of addiction and turmoil, me from my ten year sentence of anguish and guilt. As I stand on this miserable, rain-sodden corner I feel the forgiveness flood through me, of her, of myself, and the feeling is one of lightness and brightness, as though four sparkling angels, one for each life lost, have left my shoulders and flown free above the dark streets of Chorlton into the ever-expanding sky. After long healing minutes, serenaded by honking horns and squealing brakes, beeping crossings and wheel-splashed puddles, I finally sense it is time to leave, and we turn wordlessly together and head back to our car.
73
I leave the gravel footpath and I miss the reassuring sound of the crunching underfoot, reminding me that I’m real, that I’m really still here. I move quietly amongst the wild flowers, moving with the breeze and the bees from the magnificent Georgian house down to the playground next to the running track. No-one pays me much attention, I’m just another well-dressed mother, with an ageing spaniel and two young children. I went back to Manchester for the first time in ten years yesterday, for my sister’s funeral, and perversely today I feel as if my steps on earth are that bit easier. The breeze feels cold and cleansing, despite the sunshine, despite the early promise of the mid-May morning, and the weather suits my mood of absolution.
It’s funny how easy it is, once you actually finally confront something, to move on right away from it, to leave it behind at last. I knew I couldn’t face going back up north on my own, so my husband came with me, obviously, and Mum, and of course my dear friend Angel, the only person other than Simon who has straddled both my lives and knows me as Cat as well as Emily. In fact she still calls me Cat, and none of us minds, although the children do sometimes ask. I’ll tell them the whole story one day, I owe them that.
It’s ten years now since Daniel and my unborn baby died, six since I remarried and I thank God for the two little girls we’ve been blessed with. I’m glad they weren’t boys, I think that would have been harder, but I admit it was an unwelcome shock at first when I found out I was having twins. At least they’re not identical, and they share a closeness I never had with Caroline, thank goodness, and I adore them both, exactly the same.
I suppose looking back it was inevitable Ben and I would get a divorce. I guess it was too much to expect that we could just carry on after he found me again. It was all too hard: the horrendous publicity, what with the media digging up the whole sorry story of Daniel’s death and my desertion of my family; the strain of being an ongoing hate figure (although Roberto Monteiro was always a hero, he has absolute cult status now, another God-given boy who will never grow old); my struggle to come off drugs, it turns out I did have a problem after all. But those things were nothing compared to our grief for our dead children and my terrible guilt about Robbie, who I think I loved a little, not just because he was so like Ben, but for himself too. Ben and I were both jealous of each other’s lovers, although we didn’t like to admit it – I ma
y have slept with the most desirable man in the world, but he slept with my sister. It was too grim. I think the clincher was Ben’s anger at my running away, he couldn’t help himself, once the relief at finding me had faded, and we found ourselves descending into petty rows about everyday things, fights full of rage and jealousy and abandonment. When after nearly a year it still wasn’t working it seemed easier to split than to keep on trying, although he didn’t want to at first – but finally I left and went to stay with Mum for a while. I think we were both just worn out by the end.
As we walk further down the hill into the fields I let Charlie off the lead and he bounds off, more slowly these days, he’s nearly eleven now. I find my thoughts wandering still as I let the girls run: I’m a bit easier with them of late, slightly less panicky, less paranoid that they’ll be stolen or drowned or run over.
It was Angel who engineered my next marriage. Who would ever have thought she’d end up with one of Ben’s friends, another boring parachuting accountant at that? But she went for counselling and has given up drugs and stealing and sleeping with men for money, and I’m happy for her. She was always going to marry well, she’s one of those girls, and now her bastard rich boyfriend has been replaced by her adoring rich husband. She spotted Tim’s potential and he has turned out to be such a catch, and he treats her like the fairy princess she is. I don’t know how she gets away with it, but Tim just accepted her past life, he was that puppy-struck from the moment we introduced them, that first Christmas after Ben found me. It took her a while, and a few of his City promotions, to fully come round to Tim, but now she shows him the loyalty of a lioness to her cubs, like how she is with me. She doesn’t work in casinos any more, of course, she gets her kicks these days out of 10,000 foot free falls over southern Spain and from trading shares on her laptop – Tim taught her, and she’s quite brilliant at it, she always did have a sharp brain.