‘Do come in, Harry,’ Dr Pennington says, smiling reassuringly as if this is routine.
My stomach churns. Harry disappears into the consulting room as Ben sits down next to me.
‘What was the examination like?’ I ask.
‘He made me take off my clothes and looked at my bruises.’
Alarm pulsates through me. ‘Bruises? What bruises?’
‘I’ve got a few, from days ago.’
‘How did you get them?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘We mess around so much in the playground at school. Could have been anything. Why is the doctor examining us, Mummy?’
‘It’s just a routine inspection. They do it to all children from time to time, to keep the world safe. It’s nothing to worry about,’ I lie, with a wide stretched smile.
Dr Pennington steps out of the surgery. Harry dashes towards me and hugs me.
‘Boys, please could you wait for your mother in the main waiting room. I just need a quick word with her. The receptionist will keep an eye on them.’
Harry unpeels his body from mine and the boys skip down the corridor. Dr Pennington holds his consulting room door open for me to enter. I step inside.
I sit in his patient’s chair as I have so many times before, with a boy on my knee. When they had chest infections. Chicken pox. Conjunctivitis. Tonsillitis. He sits at his desk, slender legs crossed, displaying trainers and sports socks, despite his formal shirt and Gant chinos.
He looks at me and his eyes soften. ‘This must have been very stressful for you.’ He pauses. ‘As I expected, with a patient I have known and trusted for so long, I found no indication of physical abuse.’ He smiles. ‘And from questioning the boys, no indication of any mental cruelty. On the contrary, they speak of their parents with respect and love.’ He shrugs. ‘The boys have a few faded bruises consistent with the playground rough and tumble they described. After my medical report I can assure you there’ll be no way this complaint will be pursued.’
100
Hayley
You have returned from your conference bereft, because you were not here for Saffron when she took the boys to the doctor. You are making up for your absence by cooking a vegan curry for supper tonight. Bent over the chopping board, preparing onions, ginger and chilli. Your musky aftershave permeates the room.
I step towards the kettle. You turn around and try to smile. But it turns into a twist of your lips, compounded by mournful eyes that are sadder than sad. ‘How could anyone know so little about us to make up lies and complain?’ you ask.
I would like to take you in my arms and comfort you. Hold you against my breasts.
I shake my head. ‘Could it be someone who is envious of everything you do? Everything you have?’
101
Caprice
You are knocking on the door of my boudoir, shouting, ‘Caprice, Caprice, there’s a visitor for you.’
I open the bedroom door and step out onto the landing to find you looking particularly scruffy today in an oversized man’s shirt and bright yellow leggings. Yellow doesn’t suit you. Why do you wear it so often?
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask as I watch you run your fingers through your hair, which needs combing.
‘Sonia Watson from Social Care is downstairs, asking to see you,’ you reply.
‘Why does she want to see me?’ I ask. ‘I thought it would be you she was after.’
You narrow your eyes. ‘I don’t know why she should be after any of us,’ you reply. ‘But it’s you she has asked to speak to. She’s waiting in the drawing room. I’ve made her a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I snap as I step back into my room.
I freshen my make-up and douse myself in Opium by YSL. Check myself in the mirror. So long as I don’t smile and crease my face with wrinkles, I still look good for my age. As I walk downstairs it comes to me – Sonia Watson must be here to suggest I take a greater role in looking after the children, because you are so unsuitable.
I enter the drawing room. Sonia Watson is sitting in the armchair by the fireplace. Lank hair. She needs to go to a good stylist. Wearing a calf-length A-line skirt. Not a good cut.
‘Caprice Jackson,’ I introduce myself. ‘I gather you want to see me.’
‘Do sit down,’ she suggests as if this is her house, not mine.
‘How very kind,’ I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
I sit on the sofa and cross my legs.
‘As you probably know from Saffron, we recently had an anonymous report of child abuse at this house. We have thoroughly investigated, and there is no reason to believe there is any truth in the allegation. But in conversation with the children it seems that the only adult in this house they are wary of is you.’ She pauses. ‘It’s not a problem at the moment. But I thought I’d let you know, so that you would have an opportunity to adapt your behaviour and become less confrontational with them.’
102
Miles
We’re at our favourite restaurant on the high street, Pincho. A high-end tapas bar. Exotic curved ironwork decorating the bar and the windows. Polished wooden floor and shiny polished tables. Subtle lighting. Mood music. You sit opposite me, frail and sad. Thin shoulders rounded, face almost buried in your wine glass. I lean across the table and top up your Rioja.
‘The social worker’s visit has shocked you to the core, hasn’t it?’
You grimace and shake your head slowly. ‘I can’t see how anyone could have complained about us.’ You shrug your tiny shoulders. ‘I mean, our lives revolve around our children.’ Your eyes pool with tears. ‘It’s making me paranoid. Worried someone is out to destroy our family.’
I reach for your hand and squeeze it. ‘No one is ever going to do that.’
Your plaintive eyes burn into mine. ‘I think someone is trying to.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Lots of parents have a brush with Social Care at some point.’
You bite your lip. ‘Not like this. A family like ours. A report and an inspection. It’s outrageous, and disproportionate.’ You pause. ‘I’ve spoken to friends who have rushed to casualty after an accident and been asked rather a lot of questions about how their son or daughter broke their arm. But all they did was explain to the doctor or nurse and that was the end of it. And Ben and Harry haven’t even had an accident.’
‘But this is the end of it. Our GP said the children are fine.’
‘It’s the end of it for now. But … but …’ you splutter. ‘Whoever has complained for no reason, may complain again.’ You stab at your vegan tapas. ‘I think it has something to do with your mother.’
My stomach tightens and I take a deep breath to calm myself. ‘Look, Saffron, I know she can be difficult, but she wouldn’t do anything as awful as that.’
‘Then who the hell was it?’ you ask.
103
Saffron
I look across the polished wood table. Across the wine glasses, the half-empty bottle of Rioja. The scented candle. Listening to my husband denying the possibility that you could cause trouble with the Social Care Services Department. I am opened-mouthed, full of wonder at his trust in you. His gullible innocence.
And I am back, standing on our landing, telling you that Sonia Watson is downstairs, asking to talk to you. You are wearing your silk housecoat, elegant hair sleek and shiny, pulled back from your face.
‘Why does she want to see me?’ you ask. ‘I thought it would be you she was after.’
Why did you think that? It was you wasn’t it, Caprice? You reported us. I can’t prove it. But I know.
Every day, you tell me you hate me. With the twist of your head. The twitch of your mouth. And eyes that turn to stone whenever they meet mine. I hate you back, Caprice. You’ll have to go. Soon.
104
Caprice
It’s a sunny March day. Cold, but bright. I’m sitting in the garden, beneath the weeping willow tree, trying to calm down. Breathe. Breat
he. But the audacity of that frumpy woman, Sonia Watson, obsesses me. She doesn’t know how to dress. She doesn’t know how to think.
The only adult in this house the children are wary of is you.
I clench my fist and bang it on my teak bench. How dare she speak to me like that? I’m the backbone of this family. I do so much to help. Covering on Hayley’s day off. Babysitting whenever they all go out. Trying to introduce the children to good manners. Sonia Watson is irresponsible. Bad at her job. Social workers are very badly paid. No wonder the profession attracts people of such poor quality. No wonder they make so many mistakes. All you ever read about them in the papers is their catalogue of catastrophes. Well congratulations to Sonia Watson – she really triumphed yesterday. Standing in front of me wearing washable polyester telling me to adapt my behaviour. Become less confrontational.
Someone needs to be confrontational in this family. Someone needs to make sure the children understand boundaries. Saffron, you are too soft with them. To make up for the time you don’t spend with them, you let them do whatever they want when you are with them. They watch unsuitable films and cartoons. Play bloodthirsty games on the Xbox. You ply them with unsuitable vegan food. Don’t you know that our bodies were designed to eat meat and dairy? They will become anaemic because of you. The social worker is a real idiot not to have caught you out.
How could the doctor have dismissed the children’s bruises? You seem to have put a spell on both my sons. Did you put a spell on the doctor too?
Breathe. Breathe.
I look across at the daffodils. They bloomed early this year. Once so dazzling and proud, they are dying already, their leathery yellow trumpets withering at the edges, heads bowed and bent. I look at them and feel tired. So very tired.
My iPhone tells me it’s 11 a.m. The day stretches in front of me, pointless and empty. My back is throbbing and painful. I pull myself up and hobble across the lawn. I’ve got no energy. I’m going to take some ibuprofen and go back to bed. What do the young people call it? A duvet day. That’s all I’m capable of. Or maybe, just maybe, if I lie down in the warmth I’ll be able to incubate another plan. Even if I’m too tired to action it yet.
105
Saffron
Monday morning. Ted’s friend Stan is in my office, again. He is tall and thin, with a long nose and a long face. Bald on top with a greasy, hairy monk’s ring. His belly is so large he looks as if he’s pregnant. Sitting next to me, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. Glancing across at me with narrowed eyes. As usual, for a second I fear that Ted has told him what I said I wanted to buy on the darknet. But I push that thought away. Ted, my trustworthy, long-standing friend, wouldn’t do that.
‘We’ve nearly finished our training. If you concentrate really hard, after a few more serious sessions you’ll be able to manage on your own. Get hold of anything you want. Watch me carefully,’ Stan barks.
I lean towards him and bury myself in his alternative, evil world.
106
Caprice
I feel tired all the time. So tired that I have to fight against my body to keep going. I am so low, so depressed. Whatever I do to try to harm you backfires. Until now I’ve always been in control, powerful. The matriarch. The head of this family. But my power seems to be ebbing away.
There is, however, a small glimmer of brightness in my future. I have had another idea about how to damage you, Saffron. No one can set up their own multi-million-pound business without the occasional slip-up. You must have done something incorrect since you set up Belgravia Private Clients. Most solicitors don’t have the wherewithal to set up their own firms.
I went on your website and saw that someone had left an arsey message about the way you handled one of your cases. I bigged up the point and wrote a letter of complaint to the Law Society. I’ve read their procedures online and know which buttons to press. They will inspect you, no doubt, very soon. And with a stroke of luck they will discover you’ve made a mistake, and strike you off as a solicitor. When you don’t have your career to hide behind, Miles will find out your true worth.
107
Saffron
I’m turning over a new leaf, Caprice. I’m going to treat you better. I’m going to take a considerable interest in cooking, for as long as you live with us. I’m going to make all your favourite things. Healthy soups and meaty casseroles. I will even use the Kenwood mixer you gave me for Christmas. Put it to good use. I will make lemon meringue pie. Macaroons. Chocolate brownies. Taking control of your diet, for your and my greater good.
108
Hayley
I watch Saffron playing Monopoly with her children and sigh inside with relief that my complaint to Social Care fell on deaf ears. To be bruised like that the boys must have had a fight when no one was looking. Saffron would never hurt them. Saffron would never hurt anyone. She is kindness itself.
The Monopoly game is coming to an end. Harry seems to own a raft of hotels at the expensive end of the board. Ben looks glum. He is already bankrupt. Saffron lands on Mayfair.
‘OK. You win,’ she says, throwing the last of her money across to Harry. Harry jumps up and down, smiling and gloating.
Saffron stands up. ‘Hayley, do you have time to come and help me check the food for tonight?’
‘Of course.’
We step through the shiny kitchen into the shiny back utility room, paved in thousands of pounds’ worth of granite and travertine. She opens the larder fridge and pulls out a large plastic container and a smaller one, marked Caprice.
‘This is the coq au vin that I made last night. The large one is for all of you. The small one is for Caprice. Make sure you give it to her. I’m cooking separately for her right now because I think she is gluten sensitive. Her portion isn’t thickened with flour. She doesn’t like talking about it but I think she’s having digestive issues.’
‘That’s fine. Where are you going tonight?’
‘I’ve got to go and schmooze with a prospective new client. He’s a media mogul.’
‘On another superyacht?’
‘No such luck. It’s a plastic hotel at Chelsea Harbour. You know the sort of thing: glass and mirrors and air conditioning. Pallid tasteful colours and superficial artwork.’
I don’t know the sort of thing. I wish I did. I expect it’s beautiful. That’s the problem with money: when you have a lot of it, you don’t realise how lucky you are. What is special to other people becomes mundane.
She disappears upstairs to change, and reappears when we’ve tidied up the Monopoly, wearing a punky dress and dangly earrings, surrounded by a waft of vanilla scent. Looking seriously delicious. She leaves with a fanfare of hugs and kisses from her boys.
‘Look after Caprice for me,’ she shouts as she leaves.
Miles, you are late. So we eat without you, as instructed. Coq au vin from two separate dishes. Caprice is tired. She picks at her food and doesn’t eat much. She snaps at the children about their table manners. She stares into the air in front of her.
‘Did you listen to Gardeners’ Question Time this week?’ I try.
She bites her lip and shakes her head. After supper she goes straight upstairs to bed. When you arrive home the children and I are sitting in front of a film. You look stunning in your tight jeans and a toffee-coloured shirt that matches your eyes. The shirt clings perfectly to your hard torso. I try not to look at you. I try not to think about what a dish you are. You sit down next to me. Just being near you is making it hard to catch my breath.
Your brown eyes meet mine and engulf me. I would be happy if my life ended here. ‘Are you going out with Jono tonight?’ you ask.
‘No,’ I reply, deciding to cancel. Jono and I were going to go to the pub on the corner to do shots. He’s always available. I can do that anytime. All he talks about is repairing cars. Another diatribe on brake pads will doubtless just make me yawn.
‘Well in that case, do you fancy a glass of wine and another movie when the boys are in bed?’
I can’t tell you what I fancy – it would make you blush – so I simply say ‘Yes.’
109
Saffron
I sashay down the corridor of the Harbour Hotel. Leaning across a glass dining table, I shake hands and smile at Jenny Bletchley. Media mogul. Prospective client. I am so hopeful of attracting her business that a draft contract is neatly folded in an envelope in my briefcase. She is a smooth-looking woman. Hair cut in a stylish bob. Small neat features. Small neat smile.
‘I’m drinking mineral water. Would you like anything stronger?’ she asks.
‘Mineral water’s fine,’ I reply.
She pours me a glass and looks at her watch. ‘Let’s order quickly. I have to leave by nine.’
She waves her hand at a passing waiter, who immediately changes direction to hover by our table. We start to look at the menu. From the sea. Fish. From the land. Meat. Not even a vegetarian option, let alone vegan. I order a side salad. Jenny Bletchley goes for chicken and honey-roasted carrots. The waiter taps the order through to the kitchen on his iPhone, and disappears.
My dinner companion puts her elbows on the table and leans forwards. ‘How would you handle this?’ she asks. ‘I’ve made a lot of money after investing in a disused oil well in Kazakhstan. Unexpectedly we discovered more oil. I’ve made another five million sterling. I want to bring the money back to the UK without paying tax on it.’
I take a sip of mineral water and shake my head. ‘You can’t. If you want to avoid paying tax on money earnt abroad that’s fine. But you need to live abroad. Switzerland is a good option.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snaps. ‘I can’t live in Switzerland. My family and my business are here.’
‘I know the rules. You can reside in Switzerland without becoming a Swiss citizen, and still enter the UK for a substantial number of weeks a year. Different Swiss cantons have different rules. But in some the tax breaks are phenomenal. After all, now, with modern technology you can work from anywhere in the world.’
The Unwelcome Guest Page 16