Now it’s the weekend and I can’t get through to her without him being there and I’m worried that by me not calling she will feel like I’ve abandoned her, but if I call and he’s listening I could put her in more danger. I feel like I’m losing my mind with all this and I take comfort in the fact that I’m safe, loved and secure, but what the hell must she be feeling like?
Jamie thinks I’m in this state because of my dad, and Kitty leaving, and I can’t let him know the real reason just yet.
Maybe I should call the police, because if David kills her, I will have to live with the fact that I knew and did nothing to protect my friend. And I don’t think I’d be able to handle that. It is such a mess.
Sunday
Today Rex turned five!
We had a party in the garden this afternoon and invited some of his friends from pre-school. Meg and John came with the kids and Jen and her husband too. We got a bouncy castle and Jamie did hot dogs on the barbecue for them all. The kids basically spent two hours running round the garden until they were dripping with sweat and their faces turned scarlet while downing too many sugary drinks and ice poles!
I did wonder when seeing his friends from pre-school if I had made the wrong decision in holding him back a year. He could have started last September, which would have been three months after his fourth birthday, but he still seemed so tiny then, and perhaps now, selfishly, I didn’t know how I would cope without his company in the day – we did so much together. We have clubs and activities that we attended most days and I just knew I’d never get that time back, and he was my last one at home, but I definitely noticed how much older he seems than his ‘friends’ from his pre-school class today. They were all still four – but when he starts school in a few months I know he will also meet kids much closer to his age, so I’m sure it will be fine.
Mark didn’t call, or text. He didn’t send a present, or a card. Which was fine, I actually felt OK about it. Rex didn’t notice, he didn’t ask, neither did Belle or Art, which was strange. After the clear up of the party and everyone leaving Jamie and I sat in the garden and I felt myself getting wound up, I suppose for Rex really. I said I felt like messaging Mark to inform him it was his son’s birthday and tell him he was a fuckwit, but Jamie asked what it would achieve, and said that this would only in time affect him. I remembered what Jen said about her ex, and I took a deep breath, watched my beautiful five-year-old crying with laughter at his big brothers and sisters who had made his day special and thought to myself ‘bite your tongue, Jo’.
On a shitter note, I got a text off Lou first thing. Then another.
The first one said that the café would be closed for around two weeks as the insurance firm needed to send an assessor out to look at the damage then get it all repaired. She said she would be in touch about when they were re-opening.
The second one said, ‘I am fine, please do not text me or tell anyone about what’s happened xx’.
When I replied to the first text, I tried to write it as if it was two days ago, before I knew her husband had beaten her close to death. I tried to respond in a way that didn’t draw attention to the fact I knew, in case he was reading our messages.
‘Hi Darling, what a bloody nightmare! No worries, I can finally do some ironing with my days off! Pat and I are around if you fancy coffee, we can always come to you. Take care, J x’.
I got a reply almost immediately: ‘That would be good, maybe we could do a BBQ with Jamie and David. Will be in touch’.
No kiss.
It was him. He was either writing or dictating that text. I felt the bile rise in my throat again.
All I’ve done is spend the last day looking at every domestic abuse website known to man and googling things such as ‘My friend is being abused should I call the police?’
Of course I should call the bloody police. Why am I not calling the police?
I’ve then spent the rest of the time googling David. His firm, the work he’s done, the testimonials of what an amazing man he is. Seeing his pictures on the internet makes me feel nauseous. He’s so convincing.
I keep thinking of her injuries. Her eyes were so black, she must have been beaten so viciously. Bite marks. Who bites like that? I can’t help but think there is a grim sexual element to it, and that makes me feel even sicker.
I need to keep plodding on. I have the photos on my phone, and I will check in with her every few days. I just feel like my brain is going to burst with it all.
I feel like the kids are ready for the summer holidays, which are going to be here in just a few weeks. Time flies so quickly it feels since we moved here. I think it’s because of the change in schools and homes/areas, plus now it’s really hot, so they’re ready for a long break to just chill out and relax. I am excited for it too. Things have to be run like a military operation to get through each day, with arriving to the schools on time, homework, etc., so it will be lush to just have lie-ins, lazy days and no plans at all.
Monday
Today started as a good Monday. I woke to a text from the bank to inform me I had received a payment of £237,000. The house sale money had gone in. I felt happy, and I have logged onto my banking app over fifty times today just to take in the fact I have almost a quarter of a million pounds in my account. I sit thinking about the weeks I was adding up shopping on the calculator on my phone as I walked round Lidl to make sure I had enough to cover it. Living in a house worth so much money yet struggling to get the shopping each week. But now I have enough money to ensure we are OK. I never ever thought back then I would be here today.
I took the kids to school today then came back and spoke to Pat.
She told me that last week while I had been away at Dad’s funeral there had been an ‘incident’. There hadn’t been a good time to raise it with me with everything else that had gone on, but now I was at home more she wanted to mention it.
She said that Molly had stayed over and she had allowed her and Belle to go to the beach with Jacob and his friends. She had given them a curfew of 10pm, the same as what I would have said. She said Jaclyn called the house phone at 9.20pm to speak to Molly as she wasn’t answering her mobile, and Pat had explained that the girls would be back at 10pm. Apparently, Jaclyn had lost it and had called Pat irresponsible, demanding to know the ‘exact location’ of her daughter’s whereabouts – which of course Pat didn’t know.
Pat had explained that Molly and Belle were sensible girls and that they would be back at 10pm, as they always were, and when Molly got back Pat would ensure she called her mum straight away. But when they arrived back at 9.55pm, Jaclyn was already waiting outside the house and she went crazy at Molly, screaming through the car window at her that she was a liar. Then she kept saying that Molly knew how ‘dangerous’ it was to be out at night and reminding her that she ‘knew the rules’. She ordered her to fetch her things and get in the car. Molly ran in the house, stuffed her belongings into a bag in tears, apologised to Pat (who repeatedly told her she had nothing to apologise for) and left in a hurry, saying to Belle and Pat, ‘This is all my fault. I’ve ruined everything.’
I wondered what Jaclyn would do if she did ever find out about the time Molly had sex. It made me sad to think how Molly must be desperate to ensure her mum never finds out something that had such a huge effect on her mental health. I went into Belle’s room and again reassured her if she ever needed to tell me anything that worried or upset her, if she had made a mistake she was ashamed of, I would never judge. She looked up from her phone, rolled her eyes, smiled and said ‘I get it’.
I was seething with Jaclyn. I told Pat I would call her, but she told me not to. She assured me that she had dealt with far worse parents when Jamie was a boy.
It’s funny how we perceive things before we know about them. Molly’s mum is a successful, wealthy career woman, and when we think of successful wealthy career women who are mums, we just expect they’ll get it right and their kids will be happy and healthy and go on to have success
ful careers themselves – because as a society it’s what we are trained into believing. Only when you are then faced with these situations in real life do we discover that it’s so very different.
Children who live wealthy lives aren’t always privileged. Parents who are looked on as pillars of the community aren’t always child-focused. Sometimes, children who are raised in poverty and live with neglect get more support and help from outside services and agencies than those that are ‘invisible’ like Molly, because no one sees the issues at home. People just see wealth so they can pretend things like this don’t happen. And the issue now is that you have a teenage girl who’s growing up with no one to talk to or confide in, and the only family member she has bans her from doing stuff other teenagers are doing, which as I see it, only causes them to rebel and lie about their whereabouts.
After I had calmed down later in the evening I spoke to Belle again. I apologised that I haven’t been there much of late, and she told me it’s OK, that she knows I’m not in a good place because of everything, but I tell her that still doesn’t make it OK. That she’s my daughter and she and her siblings are my priority, but I feel like they don’t feel like they are right now.
She wasn’t on her phone, and rather than roll her eyes, smile and give me one sentence she actually spoke back to me for a while. She tells me she can’t get hold of Molly. She’s had her phone taken away and hasn’t been at school this week. My heart sinks. She hasn’t even done anything wrong to be punished. I wonder if I should call Jaclyn or go round; maybe she needs some support as a mum.
Since we moved here in the last few months, I’ve done nothing but ‘feel things’. I constantly think about Megan losing her baby and it makes me feel so lucky that my children are healthy. I think of Lou, every minute of every day, and feel grateful my partner does nothing but care and protect our family. I look at Molly and the fact she can’t talk to her mum, and it makes me want to be a better mum to my own children. A mum who is always there for them, without judgement, to make things better. And, although life lately seems a bit of a shitstorm, and all I do is ‘feel things’, I’m grateful, because those feelings have made me aware of situations going forward – they’ve opened my eyes to things I didn’t even know existed and they’ve made me want to change things for other people as much as I can.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Problem Shared
Tuesday
I drove to Molly’s today after I did the school run. I wanted to check she was OK after speaking to Belle last night. An older lady answered the door wearing a pinny and with a perfect white set perm. She reminded me of Mrs Doubtfire. I asked for Molly and she looked taken aback. I explained I was her best friend’s mum and had come to drop some bits off.
I was invited to step in, and waited as the woman I assumed was the housekeeper went to call Molly.
I noticed that the walls were covered in pictures. The ones I first spotted were of Molly’s mother at various award ceremonies and events. She was even prettier in pictures; she had a beautiful smile – with her white-blonde hair, her tan and gleaming white teeth. She was immaculately dressed in every picture, and she looked happy, gripping onto various trophies, award cups and smiling with other men and women as immaculately dressed and beautiful as her. There were others of Molly, mainly as a little girl – they looked like they were taken on holidays, in swimming pools with beaming smiles. I could only see one of them together, Molly and her mum. It wasn’t recent – but they were cuddling; they looked like they were laughing together. It was a beautiful picture and my heart skipped a beat wondering what their relationship is truly like.
Molly came walking down the huge walnut sweeping staircase. She was pleased to see me; I saw that instantly. She shouted my name then ran towards me, wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight. She was wearing grey pyjamas. She smelt good, of fresh washing powder and nice shampoo, but looked exhausted and pale. I gave her the carrier bag full of chocolates, grapes and some books that I’d brought from home, although I doubted she would ever read them. She told me her mum was away on business until Friday and had left to go on Sunday night.
The lady that answered the door hovered close by and I could see she was uncomfortable with my presence. Molly picked up on that too, ushering me towards the kitchen and closing the shiny solid walnut door behind us. She offered me a cup of tea and I accepted. I don’t think Belle has ever offered me a cup of tea; despite us growing up drinking tea together out of matching mugs most days, I don’t think she actually knows how to make a cup herself. It made me smile.
It was scorching today so we sat outside. The gardens were huge and there was a swimming pool. When I commented on how beautiful it was, Molly looked unimpressed and said the swimming pool hadn’t been used in years by anyone but her in the summer months, but was cleaned every week by the maintenance team her mother employed. Like every other part of this huge home, it all looked so pretty and perfect.
Sitting here, in this pristine tranquillity, I can’t help but compare Molly’s home to ours. We’re constantly fighting for the bathroom, or rinsing knives and forks off under the tap before we eat because we’ve run out of clean cutlery, and it feels like we live in chaos. But what does Molly see when she looks at us?
We spoke lots about what she’s been doing – nothing. Who she’s spoken to – no one. She said she missed staying with us, I told her she was welcome anytime, so she called her mum to ask if she could stay – there was no reply so she left a voicemail. She was quite convinced it would be fine, I wasn’t – and I wasn’t sure if she was either. She might have just been trying to convince me so I took her with me, either way my heart hurt at the thought of leaving her, and the worst-case scenario was that I could drop her home later if her mum didn’t want her with us.
‘Get your stuff,’ I said. She beamed. ‘Your uniform, bag and books and some clothes.’
She ran – no, sprinted – to her room and I poured my drink from the china tea cup down the marble kitchen sink, picked up my car keys and politely asked Mrs Doubtfire to pass a message on to Jaclyn to give me a call, and that her daughter would be staying with me until she returned from her business trip. As we walked out the front door, I saw Molly give her a look. It was a look I imagined she had never given to anyone before – because no one had ever made her feel like this before. No one had ever listened and protected her. It was a bit of a ‘fuck you’ look, to the housekeeper, her absent mum and her huge stately home, but one that hopefully made her feel better.
I’m writing this while I await the phone call from Jaclyn, which I feel more than ready for …
Thursday
Lou called today. She tried to put on a brave face, if you can even do that down the phone. I asked how she was, how her injuries were, and she kept saying, ‘Fine. Honestly, Jo, I’m fine.’ She said she was calling from her mobile, stood on the tennis courts, because she knew there were no hidden cameras or bugs out there. It felt like I was speaking to someone in a film. Cameras and bugs? Surely this shit only went on in America?
She said David was away on business. She didn’t know for how long; he never told her. The ‘element of surprise’ always kept her on her toes. She told me she knew he had thirty-six pairs of socks and underpants in total and that four pairs were missing. He’d left on Tuesday so she expects he will be back today or tomorrow. I wonder if he knew that his wife had counted his socks and pants so that she had some idea of when he was likely to return. Probably. I also imagined there were times he took a few extra pairs just to really mess with her already damaged mind.
She said he’s booked to take her and the boys away this weekend. They’re going to Devon to a holiday cottage there. He has been ‘lovely’ since ‘it’ happened and she assures me, again, that everything will be ‘OK and fine’. I tell her we will discuss it when we are back at the café together but in the meantime all she has to do is call my mobile and hang up or send me a blank text and I will call the police to her addre
ss. The fact that she thanks me before hanging up tells me that the reality is anything but ‘OK and fine’.
I spent the rest of the afternoon back on websites researching domestic abuse some more and, upon reading real-life stories and statistics, I got through half a box of tissues wiping away tears.
I feel so ignorant to this situation now it’s been shoved under my nose, and I’ve come to realise that domestic abuse in the UK is an epidemic.
I can’t help thinking about Lou’s boys. What have they seen in their little lives? What have they grown up witnessing? I can’t imagine their dad abuses them – that would be more difficult to hide and I know Lou would do anything in her power to protect them – but after the horror stories I’ve read today of decent, caring, loving women, who are mothers, and have been abused so relentlessly that they choose their perpetrator partners over their own children, I can’t help but wonder what is going on.
They are definitely seeing the injuries, even if they’re not witnessing the abuse. I realise my mind has thought of nothing else since last Friday. I’ve barely thought of my dad, or the funeral, or anything that goes with it.
What I do need to find some time to consider, though, is the adoption papers Kitty gave me – all the notes and the records and the detail I now have, which explain why we were removed from our birth mum. I decided to speak to Pat and asked her if she would be happy to go through them, and then tell me if she thought I would want, or be able, to handle the content.
Her response was so right: ‘If I was to tell you that I didn’t think they’d help you, do you think that would make you want to read them even more?’
Yes, of course it would. Because my mind is fucked up and I have no idea what I actually want. Still, I wasn’t ready to read them without someone else reading them first – just to prepare me. I don’t think Jamie would cope if there was anything in there about abuse or neglect, and I really have no idea what they contain.
A Different Kind of Happy Page 17