Am I Guilty

by Jackie Kabler

  As he’d slumped in the armchair in the snug that evening, though, Rupert hadn’t looked uptight at all. He’d looked … I don’t know, defeated might have been a better word, his shoulders hunched, one finger distractedly circling the mouth of his beer bottle, his eyes dull.

  ‘Flora – can I ask you something? This may sound odd but – do you think Thea is … well, happy? I mean … I don’t mean that really, of course she is, generally. But … do you think it’s too much for her, the children and the business?’

  I looked up sharply, the magazine slipping from my hands and sliding to the floor.

  ‘What? I mean … well it’s not really for me to say. I’m just … I’m just her assistant,’ I said lamely, feeling horribly awkward. What a strange question, I thought.

  He sat forward in his seat, eyes fixed intently on me now.

  ‘Yes, but that’s exactly why I’m asking you, Flora. You’re the one who spends the most time with her, day after day. Way more time than I do, or even that bloody woman Isla. Do you think she’s OK? Do you think she’s coping? It’s just with all this drinking, these nights out recently …’ He sighed again, put the bottle down on the carpet and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with balled fists, then dropped his hands to his lap and stared at the ceiling, his forehead creasing into a frown.

  I swallowed, not sure how to answer. In truth, I thought, Thea was coping pretty well really, considering how busy her business was these days and how recently she’d given birth. She’d only taken a week off after Zander was born, arguing that she worked from home anyway, so it wasn’t as if she had to leave her baby, that she had me to help her, and that most of her job involved Internet research, email and phone calls, which weren’t exactly strenuous. Any of the heavier stuff, like sorting deliveries and transferring stock to the warehouse, she’d left to me for those first few weeks, and the business had continued to run smoothly, orders flooding in, compliments and five-star reviews being added to the Just Enfant website daily by satisfied customers.

  Even Nell wasn’t a problem back then, a sweet, happy little girl thrilled to have a new baby brother. But it was true that in recent weeks Thea had seemed more stressed, more anxious, and Isla had been quick to step in, whisking her friend off for wild nights out. I had briefly wondered if she might be suffering from a touch of postnatal depression, but I hadn’t said anything. It wasn’t my place to, and if there was something wrong I knew she’d have Isla to turn to, even if she didn’t feel she could talk to Rupert.

  ‘She needs to let her hair down, for God’s sake, Rupert. Give her a break,’ I’d heard Isla snap the previous Saturday evening as she and Thea had headed out yet again, Thea casting a guilty glance at her baby, still wide awake in his bouncer on the lounge floor, Rupert’s face tight and angry as he slammed the front door behind them.

  Now, though, I took a deep breath, trying to formulate an answer that would placate Rupert without making me feel disloyal to Thea.

  ‘It’s probably just a phase, that’s what I think, Rupert. She’s coping brilliantly, honestly – the website’s doing amazingly, she’s got fabulous new stock coming in all the time … I think it’s just that, with that, and the two kids now, she needs a bit of respite once a week or so. She couldn’t drink for nine months, remember, and she’s stopped breastfeeding now … she’s probably making up for lost time. I’d be the same!’

  I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but Rupert’s expression didn’t change.

  ‘She breastfed Nell for nearly a year,’ he said, still staring at the ceiling. ‘Why has she stopped feeding Zander after just two months? I don’t get that either. She said he wasn’t getting enough, that he was always still hungry, that it was better for him to move on to the bottle, but …’ He exhaled, the air puffing out his cheeks, then sat up straight again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Flora,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be putting this on you, it’s not fair. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  He smiled, a slightly crooked, little-boy-lost sort of smile, and I smiled back, feeling a little pang of sympathy, and … to be honest, and to my immense surprise, suddenly something more too. He was a handsome man, Rupert, I’d always noticed that, but in a passive sort of way, the way you’d observe a passing stranger in the street as being attractive.

  But now, alone in this room with him, I felt a sudden tension, an awareness for the first time that he was … well, quite fanciable, I suppose, with that closely shaven head, full lips, deep-set dark brown eyes. Those eyes were fixed on mine now, as he stood up and took the few steps across the room to stand next to me. I tilted my head back to look up at him, my breath catching in my throat, my heart suddenly beating faster. He reached out a hand and touched my cheek, just for a second, then turned abruptly and walked away.

  ‘Thanks for listening,’ he said, over his shoulder, and then he was gone, the door closing gently behind him. I sank back on my cushions, my breathing still rapid. My God, did I fancy Rupert? Where had that come from? I shook my head like a cow shaking off flies, cross with myself. Ridiculous, Flora. Don’t even go there, I thought. But it wasn’t, of course, going to be quite so simple, was it?

  Now, today on my bench, I sat quite still for a moment, remembering, my left index finger running over the old scar on my right wrist; it’s a habit I have when I am worried or anxious. Then I slapped my wrist gently instead. Why think about these things now, when I had such a nice day ahead, such a nice life?

  I swallowed the last of my coffee, screwed the cup back onto the flask, and shivered, the cold air licking at my face. It was beautiful here, but it was too chilly today to sit still for long. I stood up, stamping my booted feet on the snowy ground to warm them, slung my backpack over my shoulder and rejoined the path, heading downhill through the trees.

  Annabelle would be up by now, I thought, preparing lunch, and soon the delicious aroma of roast beef or pork or whatever was on today’s menu would be drifting through the house. I salivated at the thought, suddenly ravenous.

  I’d been so damn lucky to get this job with the Garringtons. So lucky that they’d taken me in, just like Thea had, made me part of the family, and been so kind, so accepting. That’s what made it harder sometimes, my growing friendship with Annabelle, this woman I’d grown so fond of recently. The closer we got, the guiltier I felt. Because I knew something, you see. I knew something I wish I didn’t know, something that only a small handful of people knew, something that could destroy so much happiness. And something that I had to make sure Annabelle never, ever found out.

  16

  THEA

  ‘Smile, Nell, come on! You look gorgeous!’

  I clapped encouragingly, and in front of the camera Nell grinned, tossing her hair back, one hand on her hip, posing perfectly.

  ‘Brilliant, got it! You’re a star, Nell. Want to go and pop that blue jacket on? Over what you’re wearing is fine.’

  Nell nodded and skipped off to the far corner of the room, where the rail of new season pieces was sitting behind a screen, and I turned to Melissa and smiled.

  ‘Thanks so much, Mel. Finally, finally we’re getting there, those last few shots looked fantastic. And I’m so sorry again about earlier. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with her at the moment.’

  Melissa, the photographer I’d worked with on several shoots in the past, and who was one of the few who’d still work with me, shook her head, her mousy brown ponytail swinging.

  ‘Forget it, Thea. She’s been through a lot. She’ll be OK. These things take time, you know? Want a water?’

  ‘Please. And thank you.’

  She waved a hand and headed off to the fridge down the hallway, and I wandered over to where Nell was pulling on a sky-blue swing jacket I’d brought in from Switzerland, its bodice hand-embroidered with tiny birds and flowers. She turned to the full-length mirror next to the rail and began to button the coat up, humming along to the current track on the Ed Sheeran album Mel had been playing on a loop since we’d a
rrived an hour and a half ago.

  I leaned on the rail, watching my daughter, and worrying. She seemed fine now, but earlier we’d had yet another meltdown, an explosion so fierce I’d almost abandoned the shoot there and then and packed her off home.

  It had started when we’d tried to do a few shots of Nell with Sasha, Mel’s adorable eighteen-month-old son who she had, after all, astonishingly kindly agreed to let model a few of my baby clothes.

  After thinking about it for a while, I’d chickened out of asking Annabelle if Millie would like to take part in the shoot, deciding that Nell would just have to model all of the older girls’ stuff, but it was fantastic to be able to show some of the cuter boys’ outfits on Sasha.

  Nell, who did quite like the spotlight for herself when she was in the mood to help me out like this, grudgingly agreed to the joint shots at first, and we managed to get a few beauties, Nell sitting cross-legged on a big red chair with Sasha grinning disarmingly up at her from a cushion on the floor, both of them wearing Aran jumpers, his in the traditional ecru and Nell in emerald green. But when, between shots, the toddler stood up, reached out a pudgy hand and grabbed one of Nell’s dark curls, the mood suddenly changed.

  ‘Ow! Get off me, stupid baby,’ she snapped, pushing him roughly away. Sasha fell backwards, thumping down onto his nappy-clad bottom, sat there in shocked silence for a moment, and then began to bawl.

  Dismayed, I ran to pick him up as Mel, who’d been fiddling with her camera and hadn’t seen the altercation, looked up, a slightly panicked expression on her face.

  ‘What … what happened? What’s wrong, Sasha?’

  She ran across the room, grabbing her still-sobbing child from my arms, and I turned to glare at Nell.

  ‘Nell! For God’s sake, he’s only a baby! He was just playing, why did you have to push him like that?’

  ‘Push him?’

  Mel turned to Nell, too, frowning, as Sasha buried his face in her shoulder, snuffling. Nell was staring at the ground, cheeks pink, arms folded.

  ‘Mel, I’m so sorry, Sasha got hold of her hair and she pushed him away. It wasn’t hard, not really, but he lost his balance and fell down. I think his nappy probably cushioned the fall pretty well … it’s just the surprise that’s upset him, I think.’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK, he’s fine now, look. But Nell, really? Please be more careful, all right, love? He’s only little.’

  Mel’s voice was gentle, but Nell ignored her, her face reddening even more, and I marched over to her, temper flaring, embarrassed by her behaviour.

  ‘Nell! Look up when you’re being spoken to. And apologize to Mel, right now. You could have seriously hurt Sasha. You should never, ever push another child, especially one younger than you, do you understand me?’

  She looked up then, dark eyes flashing.

  ‘And you should never ever get drunk and leave a baby on his own in a car, but that didn’t stop you, did it?’

  There was a gasp from Mel, and I stood stock-still for a moment, mouth open, horrified, emotion suddenly hovering somewhere between anger and awful, terrible shame. She was right, wasn’t she? Of course she was. Who was I to judge her?

  ‘I-I … that was an accident, Nell,’ I stuttered finally. ‘I would never, ever have hurt Zander intentionally, you know that …’

  Close to tears, I reached out a hand but she batted it away, hard, then turned to the little round table nearby that was serving as an accessories station, and with one enormous shove accompanied by an angry roar upturned it, hairbands, mini handbags and pieces of jewellery scattering.

  ‘Nell!’ My admonition was more of a strangled whisper this time, tears pricking my eyelids. In Mel’s arms, Sasha began to cry again, startled by the crash, and I turned to my friend, ready to apologize, but she shook her head.

  ‘Thea, don’t say anything. Nell needs you, she’s clearly very upset. I’ll take Sasha upstairs for a few minutes, give you some space, OK?’

  ‘OK. Mel, I’m so—’

  ‘Shhh. It’s fine.’

  She turned and left the room, Sasha still sobbing, and I looked down at Nell, who was now slumped on the floor, breathing heavily, body crumpled like a rag doll among the ribbons and necklaces. Slowly, I moved towards her and sat down, too, edging closer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.’

  Her voice was low, cracking with unshed tears, and my heart broke for her all over again then, broke for this beautiful little girl, this child I loved so much and had hurt so badly. I was disgusting, a revolting, disgusting human being, and I wasn’t worthy of Nell, I wasn’t worthy to call myself her mother. And yet … I reached out to her again, and this time she didn’t push me away but slipped into my arms, and I pulled her close, rocking her like a baby.

  ‘No, Nell. You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s me, all me. I’m sorry. So, so sorry, about what’s happened. I love you so much, I loved Zander so much. I never meant to … never meant to hurt him; I’d never hurt either of you, hurt anyone, not intentionally, you know that, don’t you? Please, Nell, I love you …’

  I murmured the words into her hair, tears running down my cheeks now, and she nestled into my chest, her breathing slowly steadying. Eventually, eyes wet, she straightened up and looked at me.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Mum. I’ve stopped now, look.’

  She pointed to her eyes with both forefingers, a slightly comical gesture that made me smile.

  ‘OK, well I’d better stop too then. Sorry, Nell.’

  I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue, dabbed her cheeks and then wiped my own eyes, feeling my mascara smearing on my face but not caring.

  ‘Is it … do you get so angry because you miss him, Nell? Did Sasha remind you of Zander, was that the problem?’

  She nodded, fingers plucking at my jumper.

  ‘It’s not so bad with girls. But every time I see a little boy I think about him. It’s horrible, Mummy. I miss him so much.’

  She gulped, her body shuddering, and I pulled her close again, rubbing her back in circular motions, muttering soothing nonsense in her ear, until the door opened and Mel reappeared.

  ‘All OK?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘We’re fine. Aren’t we, Nell?’

  ‘Yep. Sorry, Mel, about …’

  Nell sat up and gestured vaguely at the mess around us, and Mel shrugged.

  ‘Don’t worry, no big deal at all. It’ll only take a minute to pick it all up again, and nothing’s broken. I’ll put the kettle on and then we can get started with your solo shots, Nell. I’ve put Sasha down for a nap; he was worn out, poor little chap.’

  She smiled at us, then squinted at me.

  ‘Oh and Thea … not sure about the panda look. Hot on the spring catwalks, is it?’

  She grinned and headed out of the room again, and I turned to Nell, who laughed.

  ‘You do look like a panda, Mummy! Think you need a wet wipe.’

  ‘Oh hush, you. I never remember to buy waterproof mascara. Go on, you start picking this stuff up and I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘OK.’ She clambered off my knee, and I watched her for a minute as, with a grunt, she righted the little table and began to gather up the fallen accessories. She seemed fine again, but the ferocity of the outburst had frightened me, and I wondered again whether counselling might be the way to go.

  After our Pilates session yesterday, when Isla and I had collapsed into comfortable chairs with a complimentary drink, I’d finally remembered to ask her if she knew anyone who might be able to help Nell. She thought for a moment, sucking her green smoothie greedily through a straw, then put the glass down and pushed a tendril of dark red hair, damp with sweat, off her forehead.

  ‘There’s a woman Lennie at work saw, when she was having some sort of emotional crisis after her latest break-up. Her name’s Karen … Karen Ballington, Basildon, something like that. I’m thinking of her because Lennie said she was amazing, but also because she specializes in
kids with emotional problems. Lennie recommended her to a woman we had on the show who was having massive issues with antisocial behaviour in her son. She’s in Reading, so not exactly local, but might be worth a go?’

  I nodded. Reading was about an hour and a half away, but that might be a good thing. I didn’t want anymore local gossip about me than there was already, and if anyone happened to recognize me taking Nell into a therapist’s office in Cheltenham, the Twitter trolls would have a field day.

  ‘Brilliant. I think I need to do it, Isla. Nell isn’t right, and I need to try and help her. And best to start now. Who knows how bad things will get when the trial starts.’

  Isla reached out a hand and stroked my arm, ‘I’ll get you her number. And don’t start worrying about the trial, not yet. It won’t do you any good. Worry solves nothing, remember? What’s that saying? “No amount of regret can change the past, and no amount of worry can change the future”?’

  I smiled at her, but my stomach was twisting. It happened every time I thought about the trial, the court room, the jury, the TV cameras outside, the media frenzy, for I already knew that was what it would be, knew off by heart the statistics the papers and news bulletins would be full of: seven cases of children left to die in hot cars in a two-year period in France and Belgium; four cases in two years in Israel; thirty-six, on average, every single year in the United States. But rare, so rare in the UK. Rare, until Thea Ashfield got drunk om champagne, and left her baby to die a horrific death. Statistics to shock and sicken, and strike fear into every parent.

  Even if I could get through that, somehow survive the shame, the agony of being forced to relive Zander’s death in a roomful of people, people who were all judging me, despising me, what then? What if I went to prison? Despite the reassurances from my barristers, the promise to do their very best to stop that happening, the prospect of jail terrified me. Not for myself so much – although I had no idea how I would bear it, cope with being locked up, maybe for years – but for Nell. How would I survive, knowing that she was out here in the world without me, and bearing the stigma of a mother in prison?