‘She’s still trying to get pregnant on your behalf? I thought you said she’d moved out?’
‘That’s how selfless she is,’ Cecelia added. ‘Her last attempt failed again. She’s almost as desperate as I am now.’
‘How desperate?’ Lorraine asked, feeling more uneasy by the minute.
Cecelia stood up and went to the mess of objects that she’d swept off the table. She towered over them before crunching a green stiletto heel into something resembling a finely beaded brooch. ‘I hate this. It’s shameful to my reputation.’
Lorraine stared at the glittering fragments. ‘Did you make it?’ she asked gently, sensing the woman’s precarious state of mind.
‘Yes, of course.’ She turned to face Lorraine with shining eyes. ‘No one will buy it now though, will they?’ She picked up the pieces and allowed them to fall from her fingers in a mini shower of peacock blue and bronze. ‘Business is going well. I get orders from shops in London. They’d have paid five hundred for this. That’s another vial of sperm, you know.’
‘Your work is lovely.’ Lorraine meant it. She couldn’t help bending down and gathering up a couple of pieces that would no doubt end up crunched underfoot too. ‘This is so unusual.’ She dangled a heavy pendant on a silver rope chain. ‘Very mystical-looking.’ Lorraine liked it. It was different. She wished Adam would surprise her once in a while with something like this for a birthday or anniversary. Sometimes, she thought he didn’t know her at all.
‘The stone she’s sitting on is cut gaspeite. Don’t you love the green colour? It’s like the inside of a minty chocolate bar.’ Then Cecelia was on the floor again, sifting through the mess. ‘This butterfly brooch goes with it.’ She held it up and pressed the two pieces together. Lorraine had to agree they were both breathtaking. The nude fairy-like creature sat twisted on the gemstone while her arms reached up the silver rope. Lorraine imagined her staring up imploringly at the wearer’s face. ‘She’s a fairy without wings and needs the butterfly to travel.’
‘I see,’ Lorraine said, certain she could hear Adam’s voice booming at her for being so fanciful. She watched Cecelia grovelling on her hands and knees, suddenly seeming remorseful for trashing her work table.
‘Do you know the last thing Heather said to me?’ Cecelia said, pressing a scarlet ring to her lips. Lorraine thought it looked like a drop of blood. ‘She said, “You will have a baby.” I have to believe in that, Detective.’
*
‘It was the most surreal experience,’ Lorraine told Adam. She had half a mind to mention how much she’d liked the jewellery but didn’t want to stir things up. Before she’d left Cecelia’s flat the woman had tried to give her the fairy and butterfly set, but Lorraine had refused, telling her it wouldn’t be ethical. Anyway, she was always grateful for the book tokens, the perfume or whatever else Adam usually got for her.
‘But did you learn anything interesting, apart from having morning coffee with a baby-crazed eccentric?’
‘I did,’ Lorraine said. ‘And you’re right. She’s exactly that – desperate for a baby and a very odd character. Apparently, her recently-separated partner, Heather, is still trying to “get her a baby”, whatever that entails.’
‘Then we need to speak to Heather. Did Cecelia give you her new address?’ Adam was texting as he spoke.
‘Well, when I asked, she went vague and silent. She said she didn’t even know where she worked any more. Apart from the baby thing, their split seems comprehensive.’
‘You came away without follow-up details?’ Adam put down his phone.
‘Yes, Adam. That’s exactly what I did.’
Piqued, Lorraine launched herself at the bowl of seeds Adam had on his desk. He smacked her hand away before she could grab a handful.
‘You won’t like them,’ he said.
‘Cecelia confessed to following her ex after she last visited,’ Lorraine continued. Adam sat up and frowned. ‘You’d have to meet the woman to understand,’ she added, recalling the look of delight on Cecelia’s face when she was able to provide an address for Heather.
‘It’s posh,’ Cecelia had said, proudly or with a tinge of jealousy, Lorraine hadn’t been sure. ‘A really big place down a lovely street. She had no idea I was following her.’ Cecelia had tapped the side of her nose and let out a childish giggle. ‘I still have Ernie, you see. Heather bought him for me a year ago, after my operation.’
‘Ernie?’ Lorraine had asked incredulously.
‘My car, silly. A little Fiat.’
Lorraine had nodded slowly, wondering what might come out next.
‘I kept a good distance, slowed down and pulled over when I had to. Heather wobbled once or twice on her bike at junctions but I managed to track her back to this place.’ Cecelia had written down the address and handed it to Lorraine. ‘She’s going up in the world, look.’
Lorraine had done a double-take when she read the house number and street and pocketed the paper. She wasn’t sure what it meant yet.
‘Anyway,’ she said to Adam, ‘Cecelia couldn’t really be certain that Heather actually lived at this address. She’d made a whopping assumption, that’s all. Her full name’s Heather Paige. Same surname as Cecelia.’
‘They did the whole civil partnership thing, then?’
Lorraine nodded, wondering who Adam had been texting. ‘Must have. Aren’t you going to ask me then?’ She couldn’t believe he hadn’t picked up on it yet.
‘Ask you what? Why you’re dancing about like a cat on a barbecue? Why your cheeks are flushed? Why you have a twinkle in your eye the size of Venus?’
Lorraine produced the scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to Adam. He scanned the address, thought for a moment, and when he looked up, he too had a light the size of a planet in his eye. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he said, sliding the bowl of seeds towards her.
31
THERE WAS ONCE a point when I thought I wouldn’t be able to continue with my work. Looking back, it was a bleak, cold and lonely time, but something I truly believe I had to go through. I wouldn’t be the woman I am today otherwise. It was part of life’s great journey and not unique to me. I really believe that we’re all here for a reason, a higher purpose, and it’s our mission to stay on the right path, or even find it in the first place. Pip, it seems, has other ideas.
‘Piffle,’ she says. ‘God, I could use a glass of wine.’
I glance at my watch. ‘I hope they won’t keep us waiting. I have so much to do back at the office.’ I try to catch the waiter’s attention but he’s doing a good job of ignoring us so far. He clearly thinks two heavily pregnant women are incapable of rushing. Pip may not have anything on this afternoon other than a nap, but I have two home visits, a department meeting and three reports to write up before I can go back to the boys.
‘And it’s not piffle. It’s what I believe. Anyway, what are you having?’ I’d only agreed to the lunch because she’d sounded . . . well, sad, I suppose. It’s because I understand and know what she must be feeling that I made time to slip down the road to Orlando’s for a quick bite with her. By the end of our brief phone chat earlier I was convinced she had something serious to talk about. ‘And you’re not having any wine. I won’t allow it.’ I give her a playful kick beneath the table.
Pip pouts, and the waiter finally hands out menus and takes our drinks order. The young lad looks shocked by our sizes, perhaps petrified he’ll have to deliver us both simultaneously. We both burst out laughing when he retreats behind the bar.
‘Did you see his face?’ I say.
‘Priceless,’ Pip says with a smile, although I know she’s feeling pensive.
‘I’m sorry, Pip. I didn’t mean to get on my high horse before. I just feel passionately about it.’
‘No need to apologise. I’m worried about you, that’s all.’
‘Worried? About me?’ It comes out even more incredulous than it feels.
She was the one to bring up my job as we wandered
down the high street together. She asked how I deal with the emotional side of things as well as the physical issues that I witness each and every week. After we were seated, I got talking about some sensitive issues I’d had within the first year or two of qualifying. I hadn’t really meant to bring it up, but it followed on naturally from what we’d been discussing. Then that got me started on everyone in life having a path, whether they realise it or not. I think I might have sounded a little too New Age or religious for Pip’s liking, even though I’m not. I was trying to be vague, so I didn’t have to explain everything. It still rubs a few raw nerves.
‘So what about your miscarriages and the stillbirths?’ she asks quietly as we are offered bread rolls. ‘Are they a “path” in life too?’
I’m shocked that she’s even brought this up, but she deserves a thoughtful reply. ‘It’s not as if I would have chosen that path if I’d been asked,’ I try to explain. ‘But if losing my babies was their path in life, then I feel honoured to have been part of it.’
She almost agrees. I can see her mind ticking over as she scans the menu, wondering whether to have the wild mushroom and scallop linguine or her usual chicken Caesar salad.
‘And do you feel honoured to be part of the lives of the children you work with? How does it fit into both your and their paths when you take them away from their parents?’
I feel it’s an attack, but she’s entitled to her opinion. ‘Pip, it’s not exactly like that,’ I begin, but quickly realise that is exactly how it is going to sound whichever way I tell it. I love our lunches together – since we met at the antenatal class, Pip’s become my best friend – but we’ve never really chatted much about the ethics of my work before now. When you get down to the nuts and bolts of it, the rights and wrongs, people generally have very strong views about what I do.
‘I would imagine they don’t include your presence in their lives as part of their life’s plan, that’s all I’m saying.’ Pip unfolds her napkin and places it on her lap.
I don’t know why she’s being so sensitive about issues over which I have no control.
I sigh and dive right in. ‘About eighteen months after the start of my first placement, when I was living in Manchester, I had to take extended sick leave,’ I tell her. Her face softens, encouraging me to continue. ‘I’d just found out I was pregnant. I was overjoyed. It was my first time and we’d been trying for months to conceive.’ Pip begins a smile but it quickly falls away. She knows what’s coming. ‘Anyway, the stress of my work had been really getting me down. I was depressed. I wasn’t coping on a day-to-day level. To begin with the tablets helped but, being pregnant, I was reluctant to take them for long.’
I wait for Pip’s reaction but she shrugs casually and comments, ‘Everyone I know is on happy pills, or has been at some point.’
‘Things began to get worse,’ I tell her. ‘I wasn’t functioning at all well because of all the stress. I certainly wasn’t in much of a fit state to make sound decisions at work.’
Whenever I get this close to telling anybody, I always stop here. But in my head, the dreadful horror of what I did rattles through me with the same force as when my supervisor broke the news. Maybe if I’d ticked another box, written one sentence differently in my final report, alerted someone to the depth of neglect that I suspected but failed to prove, then maybe she’d still be alive today. As it was, I’m convinced the pressure of the case, the little girl’s death, the subsequent investigation, the newspapers latching on to me as if I was some sort of criminal – all of it contributed to my miscarriage.
‘But you know,’ I say flippantly, ‘I had the therapy, got the T-shirt. And here I am.’ I’ve been pressing my hands together so hard my fingertips have turned white.
The water and breadsticks arrive. I crunch into one immediately to stop myself from blurting out more. Pip, it seems, is a good listener despite her apparent prejudices. I try to change the subject but it doesn’t really work. ‘As a teacher, you have a similar responsibility to the children. We often get school staff ringing up with a child they think might be suffering at home.’
‘Thankfully I’ve never had to do that,’ Pip is quick to say.
‘But would you, if you suspected something?’ I pour the water.
‘Of course.’
‘Even if you knew the child would be taken from its parents?’
‘Still of course.’ Pip reaches out and takes my hand. ‘What you do, Claudia, is a remarkable thing. No one realises that you go into a family home with a clear head and a heart full of hope and very often leave with a bucketload of despair and a ton of paperwork.’
I laugh. ‘You’re so right.’ I marvel at how she’s just managed to sum up each and every day of my life. ‘They put me in hospital,’ I say quietly. It comes from nowhere and sounds like someone else speaking. I’ve not even told James what happened. My hand rises to my mouth as if I’ve just vomited all over the table. ‘But it’s private,’ I add, as if that will erase my even telling her.
‘A mental facility?’ Pip says in a fake American voice that I think is meant to sound like a crazy person. ‘Straitjackets and all?’
‘Yes, it was a psychiatric ward. But it was fine. It did me good.’ In reality, I didn’t get out of bed for three weeks, and it didn’t do me any good at all. The nurses allowed me to just lie there, dissolving in my own grief. When the doctor came, he tut-tutted that I should be up and about, participating in the occupational therapies on offer, socialising with the other patients, attending group therapy sessions and generally being normal. I told him that if I could do all that then I wouldn’t need to be there. ‘Look, it’s not as sinister as it sounds. Work got the better of me, I had a miscarriage, and had a bit of a breakdown.’ I tap my head.
‘Then I admire you greatly,’ Pip says. I think she means it. ‘And that makes me probably not worried about you at all right now.’ She smiles broadly.
‘Good,’ I say. The last thing I want is for her to fuss over me.
I offer her a smile as our food arrives. My mozzarella and vegetable panini is steaming hot and served on a bed of greenery and dressing. I don’t feel in the least bit hungry, even though I left the office famished. Pip tucks in to her linguine, wrapping the pale ribbons of pasta around her fork. The whole lot slides off just as she’s about to put it in her mouth. She sighs and puts down her cutlery.
‘It’s just that I thought you seemed a bit down or distracted the last couple of times I’ve seen you,’ she says. ‘But it’s probably because James has gone and you’re getting used to Zoe.’
My heart thunders in my chest when she mentions Zoe. I should be spending the limited time we have together telling her about what I found in her room, asking her opinion about the photographs, the pregnancy testing kit, the blood on her top. Pouring out my heart about times long gone and done with, harping on about my grand path in life and my woes at work, should not have been a priority.
But talking about Zoe now somehow seems wrong, and Pip would only say I was jumping to conclusions, reading too much into very little. She’ll think I’m making it up, being paranoid and irrational. Besides, I know she really likes Zoe.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘you don’t get off that lightly, Mrs Pearce.’ I force myself to pick up my sandwich. ‘When you rang this morning, I thought you sounded horribly down in the dumps.’ I gauge her reaction. ‘Us beached whales need to stick together, you know.’
At this she laughs. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit apprehensive about the birth, but nothing I haven’t done before.’
‘How was it with Lilly?’ I’m keen to know her story. ‘Easy, quick, caught on the hop, or a long, drawn-out affair lasting days?’
Pip forks up another mouthful and ends up with creamy sauce on her chin. She wipes it away with a grin. ‘Awful,’ she says. ‘Nearly died.’
‘Oh that’s terrible, Pip.’ She has previously mentioned that her labour wasn’t straightforward, but I had no idea she nearly died.
‘
I was alone when it happened. Being my first time, I was absolutely terrified. The pain was unbearable.’ Pip pours more water. ‘I couldn’t get hold of anyone.’
‘When what happened?’ What I really need is to hear about an easy pregnancy, a gentle breeze of a labour and a dream of a baby born with a smile on her face.
‘It,’ Pip says, breaking apart a bread roll. She has a fierce appetite today. ‘You know, labour. The pain. The terrible, crippling, back-biting, madness-inducing pain that never ends.’
‘Oh,’ I say, slightly disappointed. ‘So nothing actually went wrong?’
‘No. My labour was text book. It was just plain awful, and Clive wasn’t answering his phone. He was in Edinburgh at the time. I swore I’d never have another baby but . . . here I am.’
‘Here we are,’ I say, feeling more scared than ever.
32
HOWEVER HARD I scrub, the blood won’t come out. It’s embedded, the keeper of guilty secrets. The water is tinged pink beneath the suds so I sprinkle more soap powder onto the stain, rubbing the fabric vigorously. The basement sink glugs when I pull out the plug. I wring out the sweatshirt and hold it up. I sigh at the deep orange-brown tidemark circling the shoulder. As it is I’m going to have to stitch up the ripped seam. My sewing isn’t up to much, so either way she’s going to be cross that I ruined her favourite top. It’s the one she always lounges around in, the one she cries at soppy black-and-white films in while hugging a box of chocolates, the one she’s had since she was about sixteen. She didn’t know I took it. Cecelia will not be pleased.
‘You should have put that in to soak straight away,’ Jan says. I turn around, suppressing my shock. She’s standing with her hands on her hips, scowling at my rather useless attempts at hand washing. ‘Blood?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say nervously. I fumble with the sweatshirt, trying to fold it so the stain is hidden. ‘I’ll probably just throw it away,’ I add, trying to indicate how unimportant it is.
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