by Caro Land
She eventually glanced at the bedside clock. It had gone nine o’clock. She’d be no use to anyone at SS today. Flu or a heavy cold was the thing; she’d phone Chantelle and say she was available to take calls, but didn’t want to come in and spread her germs.
Chantelle had been easy. ‘Poor you,’ she’d said. ‘I hate having a fever, so yeah, best stay at home.’ Then after a noisy yawn, ‘My mum always says “feed a cold, starve a fever”, so look on the bright side.’
There was no bright side.
Anna was more problematic. She was unusually direct when Nat emerged from her bedroom at eleven. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Skarbie? You go to work on Friday with a long face, come home on Saturday with Wesley and a huge beam. Then you disappear again until Sunday evening. No smiling this time, but Wesley doesn’t let go of your hand until I push him out of the door at midnight.’
‘Very observant, Mum,’ Nat replied, puffing up the sofa cushions and stalling for time. What should she say? The obvious thing was to tell her about the miscarriage, but she knew how much Anna loved being a grandma; she desperately missed the three grandchildren in Poland. Why add to the grief? Like Issa and her parents, there didn’t seem to be any point; what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
She flopped on the settee. ‘I’m just fed up and under the weather,’ she replied, realising it was true. ‘Though I’ve loved helping Gavin, it’s been… emotionally challenging. I need to have a bit of time out.’ She tried to frame how she felt, not about the lost baby, but the verbal assaults by Jed and Max and the unfairness of them both. Like miscarriages too, but of justice.
Though her mum didn’t speak, her worried eyes demanded more.
Nat sighed. ‘Over the past few of days I’ve been shouted at by two men. Both about things that aren’t my fault.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Well, not strictly speaking…’
Perching in the armchair, Anna nodded and waited, her gaze steady and compassionate.
‘As you know, Robbie lost his mum. A drunk driver crashed into the family car, killed her and injured Robbie and his dad. Anyway, at college Robbie has been learning about something called restorative justice–’
Anna touched the cross around her neck. ‘Yes, I know about that. Trying to forgive those who trespass against us. Us Catholics have known it forever, but it seems to be fashionable these days.’
Nat couldn’t help but smile at her mum’s small show of conceit. Never for herself, but always for her faith. ‘Very true, Mum. So it made Robbie think about it. He asked me if I’d go with him, just for support. Naturally I said yes.’ The fear bouncing back, she put her palm on her chest. Her heart was galloping. ‘I thought nothing more of it, but on Friday morning, I let a man into the office with no idea who he was and… well, he turned out to be Robbie’s father.’ The tears prodding, she demonstrated with the flat of her hand. ‘He was that close to my face, Mum. I was really scared. He was unbelievably agitated. If Gavin hadn’t intervened, I’m sure he would’ve hit me.’
As though there and ready to defend her child, Anna stood erect. ‘That’s dreadful, Natalie. Just dreadful. Did Gavin call the police?’
‘No, no he didn’t. Apparently Jed, Robbie’s dad, has a medical condition, a brain injury from the car accident. He has difficulty controlling his emotions, anger included. Gavin told him to go home–’
‘I’m sorry, love. Perhaps I don’t know a lot about these things, but that can’t be right. Not just the way he frightened you, but letting him back on the street to do it to someone else.’ Her jaw was tight. ‘Why on earth did he think he could treat you like that?’
‘He was angry about the suggestion of Robbie meeting the offender, I guess; the man who’d killed his wife. He thought I was…’ She cringed; it was that bloody word again. ‘He thought I was interfering. He told me to butt out.’ She sighed. ‘And on this occasion I actually wasn’t…’ She gave a mental nod to Wes. ‘I wasn’t trying to fix anything.’
Anna shook her head. ‘It seems a…’ she struggled with the word ‘…disproportionate reaction. Perhaps it’s something else as well, to make the man so upset.’
Nat thought back. ‘You may be right. His manner was so odd. But who knows what goes on in someone’s mind.’ She thought of Robbie, ensconced in the upstairs flat. ‘Or behind closed doors. Jed resented the driving lessons too…’ She smacked her forehead. ‘Oh no. I missed Robbie’s driving lesson, didn’t I?’
Anna chuckled. ‘I suppose this is what happens when you’re so… “loved-up”, I think that’s the expression.’ Her cheeks flushing, she looked pleased. ‘It’s a good job Borys was here on Saturday. He gave me the confidence and said I could do it. He sat in the back and we took Robbie together to your industrial park–’
‘You gave Robbie his driving lesson?’
‘I did. We spent a good hour at it. Borys thinks he’s making very good progress.’
Nat couldn’t help smiling again. ‘Well you’ve got the right expression, Mum. “Loved-up”, indeed.’
Seeming to understand her grief, the cats didn’t fight but stayed on her lap, purring gently and keeping her warm. Anna had wanted to stay in (and hover worriedly, no doubt) but considering her mum’s usual telepathy, Nat had got rid of her by a combination of ‘cheering up’ treat requests and the need for a nap. She didn’t actually want to sleep, nor eat; she wanted wishes or magic or prayers to put everything right. Or at least stop the sorrow, the hollowness, the breathtaking feeling of loss.
A red van flashed by the bay window, soon followed by the knocker. An airmail parcel no doubt; her sister-in-law sent regular gifts from the grandkids – clumsy sewing or cross-stitch, a lumpy clay model or smooth stone splattered with colourful paint – very sweet acts of kindness which meant so much to Anna. Nat glanced over her shoulder; it was tempting not to budge, but the cats accepted the inevitable and moved before she did.
She shuffled to answer the door. To her astonishment, Jack Goldman was at the threshold, holding a stunning bouquet of yellow roses.
‘For you,’ he said, handing her the bunch and stepping in.
Struck dumb, Nat stared at the flowers.
‘It seems you’ve abandoned your mobile, so I called your office. They said you were ill.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘A coffee would be nice.’
Trying to contain the urge to cry, Nat padded to the kitchen. ‘I think I might be able to manage that.’ Jack followed her in. ‘Aldi’s best instant or fresh?’ she asked him.
‘I think you know the answer to that.’
As she struggled with her ancient cafetière, he strolled around the small room, picking up Anna’s Polish trinkets and examining them carefully before replacing each one in exactly the same spot. They sat at the table, eventually, and he asked the question she knew was coming.
‘What’s wrong with you, then?’
‘A cold,’ she replied, sniffing. ‘Maybe flu, so watch out.’ She added milk to her tea. ‘So, what’s happening with Shirley Selby?’
He smiled. ‘A very smooth change of subject, Natalie. As it happens I’ve been talking to your Mr Savage this morning. Very bright, isn’t he?’
‘The best.’
‘It was his child who was shot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dreadful, truly dreadful.’
‘But she’s finally on the mend. I hope so, anyway.’
‘That’s good.’
Nat inwardly snorted; Jack had deflected her Shirley Selby question beautifully. But he surprised her by coming back to it: ‘We’ve agreed a plan of action; we’re both going to make aggressive applications for bail. Put the ball firmly back in the prosecution’s court. There’s been little or no disclosure so far.’
‘Hark at you,’ she replied with a grin. ‘A criminal specialist at sixty and a bit. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?’
His lips twitched, but he didn’t give the expected reply. Instead he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Wha
t’s really wrong, Natalie? You looked dreadful when I saw you last week–’
‘Such compliments…’ Nat started, trying for a joke and deflection, but the tears had already started, falling from the end of her nose onto her mum’s neatly folded pinny.
‘You’re pregnant,’ Jack stated.
She shook her head. ‘I was.’
‘By Wesley.’ He smiled softly. ‘I might need these,’ he said, replacing his frames. ‘But I’m not blind.’ He took her hand. ‘I’m sorry. How many weeks were you?’
‘I’ve no idea. One minute I was fine, then the next I had severe cramp and… well, blood.’ Trying to hold in the self-pity, she took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t even know. It’s stupid to feel so empty about something I never had.’ She looked at him and just said it. ‘But it was what I wanted, Jack; it’s what I’ve wanted for years.’
He nodded. ‘I assumed that’s what Mallorca was all about. Catherine always said that you didn’t love The Spaniard.’
Glad she’d finally said it, Nat blew her nose. She wanted to be a mum; more than anything, that’s what she wanted.
‘Liverpudlian, actually. Jose is from Liverpool.’ She glanced at him and smiled. ‘As if you didn’t know that anyway.’ Then after a moment, ‘I’m sorry about Sunday brunch. You were right; it was rude not to reply. Stuff happened on Friday and I’d left my mobile here, but still, it’s no excuse. Please say sorry to Catherine.’
Finishing his coffee, he stood. ‘Will do.’ He took a few paces before turning back. ‘It might help to talk to her, to Catherine.’ He glanced up to the ceiling, then spread out his fingers before curling them into a fist and tapping his lips. ‘Five,’ he said eventually. ‘We had five miscarriages. We paid for the best, a lovely consultant called Hirsch, but we never got to the bottom of why. It ripped out Catherine’s heart every time.’ He cleared his throat and kissed Nat on the head. ‘But that was us. We left it too late; we let work get in the way. Look after yourself, Natalie. Learn from us. Don’t make the same mistake.’
28
Black and Blue
Wes had asked Nat to take the rest of the week off work and that was fine. She didn’t feel great anyway, and when she looked in the mirror, a pale face and hollow eyes stared back. Even though she frequently reminded herself that many people were far worse off than her, the tears had a will of their own. She kept them to her bedroom, but she knew the snivelling and self-pity would take over completely unless she made a real effort to get out of the sack, get dressed and shake herself down.
Determined to do something useful while Anna was out, she looked in the fridge for dinner inspiration. Over the last few weeks she’d tried to persuade her mum that meat was not a compulsory ingredient for each and every meal (or cabbage, for that matter) but she wasn’t making much progress, so she’d make something without either today. Onions, garlic, peppers and tomatoes were a good start; she’d fry them in a splash of flavoured olive oil and see where that took her.
Taking care not to lop off a finger, she finely sliced the veg, but the onion fumes made her eyes water, and by the time she had finished chopping, she didn’t know if her wet, snotty face was from desolation or amaryllis-induced. She only understood she was sad, even though there were a number of reasons to be happy. The main one was having Wes Hughes back in her life. He’d driven straight from work to Cheadle the previous night, and the three of them had eaten dinner then played cards as usual. Once Anna was settled in her bedroom, they’d cuddled on the sofa. Inevitably it had brought on the waterworks.
Wes had looked at her intently. ‘Everything will turn out right in the end. Honestly, I can feel it in my bones. We will have a baby; we’ll have lots of fun making it.’ He’d grinned. ‘And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘Matty sent me a text saying to pass on his thanks for the meal.’
‘Aw, that’s nice–’
‘And…’
‘There’s more?’
‘There is indeed. He said that Dylan’s girlfriend mentioned you were a “complete babe”.’
That had brought a smile; she knew from Chantelle that ‘babe’ was a good thing. ‘So one of the girls was Dylan’s–’
‘Seems so.’
They had speculated on which of the attractive lunch attendees she was. Though they hadn’t come to a consensus, it had been lovely to laugh. But later Wes’s expression had turned half serious, half wry.
‘I’m sorry to bring this up, but we do need to talk about Max.’
‘I know. You’re completely right, it’s just…’
Despite Max’s verbal attack, the loyalty – and feelings of culpability – were still there; she didn’t want to get him into even more trouble, but she understood Wes’s need for her to share. So she’d made him promise to have two hats, one for Wes her boyfriend (‘Can it be a Brixton Messer Fedora?’ he’d asked) and the other for Wesley the partner at Goldman Law.
‘So I’ll be telling the story to the former, my “boyfriend”. Understand?’
As though he knew how much the BF word pleased her, he’d grinned.
‘I do.’
‘Good. Then let me begin by saying that you, wearing the fedora, should understand and empathise with him…’
His smile had slipped. ‘Go on.’
‘You had a mad wife in the attic; Max has the same, except she’s his girlfriend.’
Wes had shaken his head. ‘Okay, as your boyfriend, I’m listening, but when I met her she seemed very nice.’
Nat had raised her eyebrows. ‘So does Andrea.’
‘Point taken.’
So she’d told him the whole saga of Max’s possessive woman and her sex tape blackmail. The rest of it he’d already gleaned from listening to Nat’s side of the Sunday conversation. ‘So you have to feign amnesia at work. Okay?’ she’d finished.
But Wes was Wes; he played with a straight bat; could he really do otherwise?
‘Look, Nat, I won’t say anything to him, or to anyone at work, but as someone who loves you, I think he’s well out of order blaming you. He’s a grown man. Whatever he did or said, both on film and to his girlfriend, it was his decision. I can see why he’s stressed, but bawling you out like that just isn’t on. I know the two things aren’t connected, but…’
She’d nodded. He was right; her miscarriage and Max would always feel linked.
Trying to expunge the smell of onions, Nat washed her hands several times. Dinner preparations were completed, what to do now? It was still only noon. What on earth had her mum done with the yawning hours in her pre-Borys days? She glanced at the blank television screen. Nope, daytime TV was a little too desperate, and anyway there were texts to be sent.
The one to Robbie was tough. She’d had a set-to with his dad; did he know? How did he feel about it and, more to the point, had his dad taken his anger out on him too? She wanted to check he was fine without making a big deal of it. She’d discovered from Chantelle that he’d been at college on Friday, and of course he’d been here, alive and driving on Saturday, but his father had been so irate, he was nevertheless on her mind, the responsibility pecking.
How’s life? Hear you’ll be driving for Formula 1 soon! she typed.
He immediately replied. Thx. 1 way 2 get a car.
It was brief and numerical, but at least he was breathing. Still mulling about his situation, she sighed and sat back – losing a mother so young, keen to stay in Gavin’s flat rather than go home to his angry dad. God, she remembered that dread. It was hard being twenty-one, needing your own space, but not having the dosh to move out, let alone buy or rent luxuries like a car.
She thrummed her fingers on the armrest. Money, money, money. The root of all evil. A thought suddenly struck her. Bloody hell; that was a good point. Should she…? No; look how much trouble she’d already landed herself in by poking into other people’s lives. And she was no expert. But still, fairness was fairness; wrong wasn’t right.
Her finger hovered before pre
ssing the icon. Just do it, Natalie. She wouldn’t be interfering this time, more flagging up or passing the buck.
Gavin answered eventually. ‘Bach. Are you still skiving?’ he asked.
There had been no discussion about whether she remained seconded to Savage Solicitors. Was she still needed? Did she even have a job at Goldman Law? But she felt uncomfortable addressing it, so she didn’t. ‘I can come in and sneeze on you if you’d prefer.’
‘I’m not in the office at the minute,’ he replied.
‘God, sorry to bother you.’ Ruthie had improved and was now in a Stockport rehabilitation unit. ‘Are you with my favourite little girl?’
‘No, I’m at court with your boss, Mr G. An application for bail.’
‘Ah, Brian Selby.’
‘“Lucky lady”, eh, lassie?’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘I know you like to get around, but a man from Yorkshire of all places.’ He mimicked the accent. ‘Strong in’t arm, thick in head.’
‘Very droll, Gav. I’d stick to the day job.’ She heard a court tannoy. ‘Look I’ll call you later.’
‘It’s fine; I’ve got a few minutes. Shoot.’
‘Okay.’ She should reconsider?
He must have sensed her hesitation. ‘Come on, Bach, I haven’t got all day. Better out than in, you know that’s what this Weegie says.’
Inhaling quickly, she dived in. ‘I was wondering about Robbie and his finances. Presumably he had a claim for personal injuries against the other driver after the car crash, same as his dad…’
A pause. ‘Yes, he will have done.’ Gavin’s tone changed. Cautious? Certainly more serious. ‘The name of the solicitors who acted will be in Jed’s file. And you’re asking, because?’
‘Look, I might be completely off-kilter here, Gav, but it strikes me that Robbie has no money. He wears tatty clothes; he sleeps in your flat; he had a temporary career as a thief. He was eleven when his mother died. Surely his damages would’ve been a tidy sum at eighteen? Not only for his own injuries, but those relating to his mum’s death. There would have been a claim for the loss of a parent’s love and affection, for his financial dependency, his parent’s services and the like. He’s twenty-one now, so…’