The Friendship Pact

by Alison James

  Adele shrugs unsympathetically. ‘He can’t really stop you though, can he? And if he tries to… well, that’s what the police and the courts are for.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that… Marcus – my husband – has friends in high places. He’s a member of the Freemasons. You know who they are?’

  Adele nods. ‘I’ve heard of them, yeah. Old boys’ club.’

  ‘Lots of them are in the police, and the legal profession. They’ve got a particularly strong grip on the Family Court. So yes, he could make a very good job of stopping me.’

  ‘A proper rich girl’s problem.’ Adele’s tone is distinctly unsympathetic.

  ‘So you don’t know anyone?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’ She sets her jaw. ‘You obviously think I’m some sort of criminal mastermind, but the fact is all I did was fail to declare some earnings while I was claiming benefits. The judge was way too harsh for a first offence, everyone said so. And I just did a few months in an open prison. It hardly makes me Myra Hindley.’

  ‘I know; I didn’t mean to imply that.’ Lucy becomes flustered, tries desperately to back-pedal. ‘I just thought you might have met people inside who have certain connections, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I don’t, okay?’ Adele’s smile returns briefly. ‘Tell you what, though, it makes me fucking glad I never got married.’

  ‘Are you still single now? No man in your life?’

  ‘Yep, still single and planning to stay that way. Well, there is someone, kind of, but…’ She stops herself and forces a smile. ‘Probably a good thing you never had any kids. In the circumstances.’

  Lucy nods. She’s not about to go into the history of her childlessness. Not now. ‘How old are your two?’

  ‘Paige is nine and Skye’s six.’ Adele picks up her phone and pulls up a photo. ‘Here.’

  Two pretty little girls with curly blonde hair and wide smiles fill the screen. ‘They’re lovely.’ Lucy’s about to hand the phone back when she spots something. She swipes her fingers across the screen to zoom in on the image. There, on Skye’s chubby wrist is a familiar silver bracelet. The same one Adele took from her childhood jewellery box. Her response is automatic, and she has no idea how much she will come to regret it. ‘Oh my goodness!’

  ‘What?’ Adele reaches for her phone.

  ‘She’s wearing my bracelet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s my silver christening bracelet. The one you took from my house.’

  Adele sticks out her chin, that stubborn gesture of old. ‘No I didn’t. What are you talking about?’

  ‘You did. I saw you take it, and I never said anything.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘But it’s okay, it’s fine,’ Lucy says hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mind about it; I was given loads of stuff for my christening. I never wore any of it.’

  Adele snatches the phone from her, jolting Lucy’s glass and splashing the wine over her shoes. She feels a tightening in her ribs, and she’s suddenly that same timid, bespectacled eleven-year-old girl who first met Adele.

  ‘Oh, so I’m a thief as well as master criminal now, am I?’ Adele says with a curl of her lip. She grinds out her cigarette and stands up. ‘You know what, I think you should go. It was a dumb idea inviting you back here. Stupid.’

  ‘Adele, I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying—’

  ‘Go on – just go. Fuck off.’

  Twelve

  It’s far too late for Lucy to return to her father’s house, and her blood alcohol level means that driving back to London is also out of the question.

  At least her mobile is still at the bungalow, she consoles herself, and therefore Marcus won’t call her whereabouts into question. She trudges back to the Dog and Fox and folds down the rear seats of her car, wrapping a picnic blanket around herself once she’s curled herself up inside. There isn’t quite enough space to lie down comfortably and her feet are sticky from the wine and lemonade that spilled over her shoes. She shifts miserably like a dog in a cage while a cold, spring rain drums at the windows. After a couple of hours, she is prepared to throw in the towel and check into a hotel but is held back by the fact that the charge will appear on her joint credit card statement and Marcus will start asking questions. She has what’s left of the five hundred pounds in cash but doesn’t want to waste around a fifth of it on a hotel room. It will be needed soon enough.

  Eventually she sleeps for a while, waking at dawn with an aching back and stiff legs. Hunger gnaws at her stomach: she and Adele never got round to the promised takeaway, and all she’s eaten in the last day is one of Rhea’s shortbread biscuits and a handful of salt and vinegar crisps. Her original mobile phone will have to be retrieved from the mailbox, so after picking up a takeaway coffee and two croissants from a 24-hour petrol-station shop, she drives to the bungalow. The dashboard clock tells her that it’s 6.51, and dawn is just breaking. Parking a few metres from the bungalow, she walks up the drive and gropes inside the mailbox for her phone. To her relief the battery has a modest amount of charge, which means it will still be discernible by a tracker. Less welcome are the two missed call notifications from Marcus’s mobile.

  As she turns to go, the front door opens and Rhea stands there in a lilac velour dressing gown and fluffy slippers. ‘Lucy,’ she says, confused. ‘Is everything all right? Only, when—’

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ beams Lucy, with manufactured brightness. ‘I stayed down here at a friend’s last night, and I just thought I’d pop in and say goodbye to Dad before I head home.’

  The expression on Rhea’s face is hard to interpret, but it makes Lucy uncomfortable. ‘Jeffrey’s still asleep.’

  ‘Never mind then; tell him I said goodbye and I’ll see him soon.’

  Before her cousin can speak, she hurries down the drive and gets back into her car, pulling away with such haste that the engine almost stalls.

  ‘So where were you?’

  Marcus stalks into the kitchen at 8 p.m. as Lucy is preparing a fish pie, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. He has shaved today but still has purplish shadows under his eyes and his hair looks as though it could use a wash.

  Lucy pauses, potato in one hand, paring knife in the other. ‘Where was I? I told you, I went to Dad’s.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. You weren’t there. When you weren’t answering your phone, I rang your father. Spoke to your cousin actually. She said you’d been and gone. Seemed to be under the impression that you were back here in London with me.’

  Lucy concentrates on peeling the skin from the potato.

  ‘So where were you, Lucinda?’

  ‘I bumped into a friend from school and we went to the pub for a few drinks. Time sort of ran away with us, and I ended up staying over. That’s all.’

  ‘A male friend, was it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Marcus snatches the knife from her hand and pushes the chopping board away. ‘Just stop that while I’m trying to talk to you. Is that too much to ask?’ He holds the knife aloft for a few seconds before tossing it into the sink. ‘Have you got another man? A lover? Is that what all this nonsense is about?’

  ‘No of course not,’ Lucy keeps her voice low and calm, even though prickles of anxiety are racing through her body. ‘That’s a ridiculous suggestion.’

  ‘Is it though? Isn’t that what’s normally going on, when a wife starts acting up?’

  Lucy’s instinct is to protest at this turn of phrase, but she knows that if she’s to maintain control of her situation she has to turn offence into defence. ‘I understand that you’re overworked and stressed, and that’s making you on edge,’ she says in the most conciliatory tone she can muster. ‘But I can assure you I’m not having an affair, nor do I want to.’ She picks up the knife again, smiles, and resumes her task. ‘Why don’t you go up and run a bath and I’ll bring you a G and T. Then we can talk over supper, once you’ve decompressed a bit.’

  Marcus takes in a long
breath, closes his eyes and exhales slowly. ‘All right,’ he says after a few seconds. ‘But only because I don’t have the energy for this.’ He pauses at the kitchen door. ‘But don’t think this is done with.’

  No it’s not, thinks Lucy grimly. Not by a long way.

  The following morning, Lucy retrieves the pay-as-you-go phone from its hiding place at the bottom of her underwear drawer and switches it on. Finding Jane Standish’s number in her regular Contacts list, she punches it in on the new handset.

  ‘Hello?’ Jane’s response is tentative, as she picks up the call from an unfamiliar number.

  ‘Jane, it’s Lucy Wheedon.’

  ‘Ah.’ A warm note creeps into Jane’s voice. ‘New number?’

  ‘Alternative number. Look, I’ve been meaning to get in touch.’ She has left a couple of texts from Jane unanswered and feels bad about it. ‘Mostly to apologise for the other evening. And for disappearing in the middle of the night. I really wanted to phone you, but…’

  ‘But you couldn’t,’ Jane says briskly. ‘And I think after Marcus’s performance we’re all pretty clear why.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Are you all right, Lucy? That’s all Robin and I are concerned about. I phoned Fiona and dropped a few hints, but she said as far as she was concerned you and Marcus are still together and you’re fine. Is that right?’

  ‘No,’ Lucy says heavily. ‘No, nothing is fine. I just decided that rather than run away I needed to do some forward planning. And that involves outside help. So…’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I wondered if you knew any solicitors who were experienced in dealing with this kind of… situation.’

  ‘Let me think…’ There’s a beat of silence, then she says, ‘My friend Vanessa went through a horrendous divorce. Her bastard of a husband was obstructive about absolutely everything, but I remember she said her legal firm were fantastic. Why don’t I call her and get their contact details, then phone you back? I take it you want me to use this number from now on?’

  ‘Yes, please. The other one’s under surveillance.’

  An hour later, Jane sends a text with a phone number for a practice called Russell, Parker and Payne.

  Frances Harper is the woman you need, apparently. Good luck and keep in touch. J x

  Lucy phones the firm’s enquiries number and a very brisk young woman tells her that in order to secure an initial consultation with Ms Harper, she will have to pay a fee up front.

  ‘It’s a little difficult,’ Lucy tells her. ‘With the… current marital issues. I was planning on paying with cash when I saw her.’

  The woman disappears to consult a colleague and comes back a minute later. ‘We can put a hold on a credit card and you can settle the account with cash when you come in, if you like. But we do still need the card number in order to book an appointment.’

  ‘You won’t actually charge the card though?’ Lucy asks, shuddering inwardly at the thought of Marcus’s reaction if he sees the law firm’s name on his statement.

  ‘No, as I said, we’ll just hold the funds until you can come in.’ The woman speaks slowly, as if dealing with a child or a simpleton. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been declined,’ she says. She may as well have added, ‘No surprise there.’

  ‘But it can’t have, there’s a ten-thousand-pound limit. Hold on…’ Lucy rummages in her wallet for an alternative card. That, too, is declined. ‘I’ll have to phone you back.’

  ‘I can only hold this appointment slot for a few hours: Ms Harper is extremely booked up.’

  Leaving her regular phone at home, Lucy drives to Clapham, where she first withdraws money from her old savings account, then tries one of her joint account cards in a cash machine. It’s sucked into the card slot with an ominous clicking sound, and ‘Please contact your issuing bank’ appears on the screen.

  She drives to the Standishes’ house and is relieved to see Jane’s car parked outside. When she opens the door, Lucy brandishes a handful of twenty-pound notes at her.

  ‘Help for the fiscally compromised, madam? If I give you this, can I stick £375 on your credit card?’

  Laughing, Jane invites Lucy in for coffee and makes the call to Russell, Parker and Payne in order to secure Lucy’s appointment.

  ‘Weird about your cards not working though,’ she says, but then catches sight of Lucy’s expression. ‘Unless…’

  ‘Marcus,’ Lucy says simply. ‘I don’t have any credit issues, so it has to have something to do with him.’

  Once she’s back home, she tries phoning her husband, but his mobile goes to voicemail as it always does when he’s at work. She’s certainly not going to humiliate herself by contacting Beryl and asking for a message to be passed on to her husband. Instead, she tackles him as soon as he gets home from work.

  ‘Yes,’ he says coolly. ‘You’re damn right. I did close those accounts. You’ve just proved to me that you can’t be trusted, and as far as I’m concerned that includes being trusted with my money.’

  ‘It’s our money,’ Lucy reminds him. ‘I’m your wife.’

  ‘Really? Well why not try acting like it?’ He starts up the stairs towards his study. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a clinical research paper for peer review.’

  ‘What am I supposed to live off?’ Lucy shouts up the stairs after him. Thank God, I’ve got that solicitor’s appointment, she thinks. It can’t come soon enough.

  Marcus thunders halfway down the stairs, his wallet in his hand. He opens it and peels off a handful of notes. ‘Here you go, darling. From now on you get housekeeping. Or – more fitting for a spoilt child like you – pocket money.’

  He tosses the money over the banister and the notes flutter to the ground, landing like confetti around Lucy’s feet.

  Thirteen

  Frances Harper is a handsome woman in her early fifties, her ash blonde bob streaked faintly with grey. She wears a white silk shirt with a no-nonsense black trouser suit and a few discreet but expensive pieces of jewellery.

  She allows Lucy to talk at length and without interruption, scribbling fluent notes on a yellow legal pad. Eventually she leans back in her chair, pen still in hand.

  ‘Well, Mrs Wheedon, the good news is that you have ample grounds to file for immediate legal separation. Moreover, the new criminal offence of coercive and controlling behaviour has had a knock-on effect on the family courts, and there are new rules in place when it comes to divorce, which undoubtedly apply in your case. Although it’s unlikely to affect the financial settlement you’re awarded, especially as you don’t have children.’

  ‘I don’t care about the money.’ Lucy is aware that her voice is trembling. ‘That’s not what this is about. It’s about freedom. Getting my life back.’

  Harper smiles sympathetically. ‘Yes, I can see that. However, that brings me onto the bad news. In order to achieve the physical separation from your husband you so desperately want, and which he seems hell-bent on preventing, you would need to make a police complaint. Given, from what you’ve just told me, that he’s determined to follow you wherever you go. And that he’s using financial means to control you. If he ended up on police bail, it would mean that he would be prevented by law from contacting you or even coming near you. But the criminal complaint would take precedence over divorce proceedings, which would almost certainly be delayed until after a court case. And any financial resolution would be delayed too. You would have to be prepared to weather that storm, which wouldn’t be easy.’

  Lucy nods. ‘I see.’

  ‘The other thing it’s only fair to warn you about is this. The burden of proof for coercive control is high in a criminal case. And from what you’ve said about your husband – an eminent and widely respected man – he would no doubt tell a completely different story about your marriage when put on the witness stand. There is clearly an issue of credibility here.’ She holds up a hand as Lucy starts to object. ‘Which, I must stress, does not mean I don’t believe you. Far from it: what you’ve said is
very compelling, and sadly all too familiar… You say some of your friends have witnessed the controlling behaviour in action?’

  Lucy nods.

  ‘That’s a point in your favour. In the short term, you could apply to the court for an exclusion order. That would effectively bar your husband from the marital home. The courts are normally reluctant to grant them unless there’s violent or threatening behaviour, which is arguably the case here. Is that something you would consider as a starting point? I imagine he’d be keen to avoid the publicity, so might then go voluntarily. That often happens.’

  ‘Not Marcus.’ Lucy gives a short, deprecating laugh. ‘If he gives any ground, it will be over his dead body. That’s what he tells me, anyway.’

  Harper frowns. ‘Goodness, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that!’ She straightens her jacket and checks her watch, signalling that Lucy’s allotted time is over. ‘A lot for you to think about, I know, and I do recommend you give it plenty of thought.’

  ‘And if I want you to go ahead?’

  ‘You would have to pay my retaining fee up front. Fifteen thousand pounds.’

  ‘Fifteen?’ Lucy croaks.

  ‘The entire bill is likely to be at least fifty thousand.’ She gives a small smile. ‘Sixty to seventy would be a more realistic estimate. Though I would, of course, be applying for your costs to be covered by your husband. Anyway, Mrs Wheedon,’ she stands up and extends a hand, ‘as I said, you need to think about this. Do please get in touch again once you have.’

  Back in Barnes, Lucy pulls out her savings passbook from the zipped pocket in her bag.

  After withdrawing the cash to refund Jane for her legal consultation, there is £5,800 in the account. She still owns some shares, valued at around three thousand pounds – a purchase that pre-dates her marriage – and has a few good pieces of jewellery. They would be unlikely to raise their true value on the second-hand market, and the entire pot of cash if she sold everything would still fall short of fifteen thousand pounds., let alone the full legal bill if things went that far. And if she hands every penny to Frances Harper, what will she have to live on, now that Marcus intends to keep her on cash handouts and freeze her out of their bank accounts? She could try and get a job, but that would mean missing the final, critical two months of her master’s course.