Grace, page 32
‘I think that’s understandable. You’re both going through a horrible time. What effect has the uncertainty had on you?’
‘I feel… I feel –’ said Amelia, staring into her glass at the amber liquid at the bottom, ‘– I feel exhausted. And defeated. Like I know we’re going to lose her, and I just want to get it over with. No, hang on, I don’t mean that…’ she said, looking at Grace in the pram, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘but I just can’t cope with this pain for much longer.’
‘When will you know?’
‘In two weeks. That’s when the final hearing is going to be held. We don’t get to attend, of course, but we’ll get a phone call when the decision has been made.’
‘Oh, Amelia. You don’t deserve any of this shit. You really don’t. And look, for what it’s worth, I think the judge would be insane to even think about letting anyone take Grace away from you. You are clearly an excellent mother.’
Amelia managed a smile.
‘Was I really not rude to you, at school?’ she asked. ‘Since our last chat, I’ve been plagued by a fear that I was a selfish, bitchy teenage girl who was far too self-absorbed to notice everyone else around her, and how they might be feeling.’
‘I’ve already told you – you were lovely,’ he said. ‘Friendly and caring. Honestly.’
‘Phew,’ said Amelia, taking another sip. ‘That’s something, at least.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help at the moment?’ asked Mark. ‘I mean, babysit, or something?’
‘That’s sweet of you, very sweet, but we’re okay. I just need to try to get Piers to open up, I think. Perhaps I need to get him to take time off work. He spends almost all of his time in his office when he’s not at school. I barely see him. I just feel like he’s internalising things.’
‘He probably is,’ said Mark. ‘We men are rubbish at talking about how we feel. We’re absolute masters at putting a face on things, even if it’s not a very convincing one.’
Amelia nodded.
‘You know, I’ve decided… you’re going to think this is mad… that I should talk to his ex-wife,’ she said.
‘Piers has an ex-wife?’
‘Yes. Lesley. They have a son together. I don’t think he’s told many people at school.’
‘No, I had no idea. Wow. So you’ve never met her?’
‘No. He hasn’t ever encouraged me to, and you know, I’ve honestly never wanted to. Except now, because he’s being so strange… Lesley must have got to know him well enough when they were together, surely, to be able to tell me what to do to help?’
Mark took a sip of his whisky.
‘I imagine so. Will you tell Piers you’re in touch?’
Amelia necked back the rest of the contents of her glass.
‘I know I should,’ she said, staring down at the empty glass, ‘but you know, I don’t think so. He’d be angry.’
They sat in silence for a moment.
‘For what it’s worth, I think you should try to make contact with her anyway,’ said Mark, finally breaking the silence. ‘Surely it would be a good thing if you got on? For his son?’
‘You know, Mark, I think you’re right,’ said Amelia. She didn’t know if it was the whisky or the company that was making a difference, but she was definitely feeling more confident about her plan. ‘I should be heading back…’ she said, aware that Grace would be waking soon. She would drop Lesley a line when she got back.
‘Okay,’ said Mark. ‘But let me pour you one more thumbful before you wander home. It’s good stuff, this.’
*
All the lights in the apartment were off when Amelia returned. She was surprised; it was 5 p.m., and Piers was usually home by now. She parked the buggy at the bottom of the stairs, removed Grace and carried her up to the living room. She put the still-sleeping Grace down in her bouncy chair and went into the kitchen to make her up a bottle. As she did so, she noticed that the door to Piers’ study was slightly ajar. She had been trying to find an opportunity to look in there for ages, but Piers generally kept it locked, and he had the only key. Now was her time to strike.
Something was up with Piers, and she was certain that it was more than their uncertainty about Grace. He was just acting… weirdly. One minute he’d be sweetness and light, and the next, utterly furious, without any apparent reason for the change. She had no idea why, but she hoped that the study might give her a clue. After all, he spent so much time in there alone. She was sure that the mysterious letters he’d been receiving held at least part of the answer. Amelia left the microwave counting down and walked swiftly next door, knowing that Piers could return at any moment.
She flicked on the light. The room, which she’d often seen glimpses of when she’d been talking to him, was not how she’d seen it previously. It was tidy, for a start – books were stacked neatly, paper was separated into separate piles, all labelled with post-it notes or gathered with paper clips. It looked, frankly, like the study of an organised, dedicated teacher. Not at all like a mercurial man who’d just experienced a major emotional upheaval.
She lifted up a few of the pieces of paper on the desk. They were lesson plans, mostly, along with a copy of the application for a deputy head job at the college that he had filled in a few weeks previously. The previous incumbent had decided to move on, as Piers had suspected, and the vacancy was a huge opportunity for him. Michelle prayed his mental health would hold up for the interview.
She turned around and looked in the bin. It was empty; there was just a fine film of dust left in the bottom of it. Finally, she turned to the metal filing cabinet, which was in the corner of the room, all the while listening out for any sign of Piers arriving home. She pulled at the top drawer, but discovered it was locked. So – the key. Where would he have put the key? She looked on the windowsill, in the various mugs and bowls he used for stationery and pens, but could find no sign of it. Then she lifted up the rug under his chair – not there – and then peered behind his computer screen.
Bingo… there it was, attached to the back of the screen with blu tack. Why would he do that? It was properly odd. She removed the key and bent down in front of the cabinet. But as she did so, she heard a tell-tale click as Piers’ key was inserted into the lock in their front door.
Shit, she thought. He mustn’t find her in here. She bolted back upright, stuck the key back on the blu tack, checked she hadn’t left anything out of place, flicked the light switch off and pulled the door closed.
She was in the kitchen retrieving the now sterilised bottle when Piers reached the top of the stairs. It was lucky it was so grim outside today, she thought; he must have spent a vital few seconds removing his coat and hanging it up on the rack before coming up to see her.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said, with a broad smile.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling back and trying her best to breathe deeply, to calm down her rapid heartbeat. Piers leaned in for a kiss, and she held her breath, aware that she must smell of whisky.
‘Had a good day?’ Piers asked.
‘Yes, lovely thanks,’ she said, keeping her tone as light as possible. ‘I took Grace for a walk into town. We popped into the Priory, and then went to see Dad. How was your day? Do you have an interview date yet? You’re quite late back.’
‘Yes! Heard today. It’s a week on Wednesday, nine-thirty a.m. Just before the adoption hearing, but it can’t be helped. I’m sorry I’m late, I got talking to Alec Stevens, you know, the head of sixth form? He’s going for the job too. Don’t think he’s in with a chance, though, listening to him. Hasn’t done much preparation. Where’s Grace?’
‘Oh, she’s asleep in the lounge,’ replied Amelia, relieved that he hadn’t picked up on her unease.
‘I’ll go and see her and then I’ll get some work done, I think, before dinner,’ he said. ‘What are we having?’
Amelia hadn’t even thought about food.
‘Oh, something Chinese,’ she said, remembering that she had some hoisin chicken thighs in the freezer. That would do.
‘Sounds great,’ said Piers, coming back out of the lounge, and heading into the study. Amelia froze in the kitchen, anxious about what he would say when he found it was unlocked. But he said nothing. Not one word. He simply walked in, flicked the light on, and closed the door.
She stood in the kitchen, her heart still beating frantically, reflecting on what had just happened. She’d found nothing strange in his office, except for a locked filing cabinet and a hidden key. What should she make of that? Maybe his behaviour was normal, and it was her unease about the upcoming court case that was skewing her perception of him?
And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she no longer knew or understood the man she’d married. Perhaps, she thought, this stressful period had simply shone a light in a dark part of their relationship, somewhere she hadn’t really looked before. But if she was to stay married to him, she decided that she needed to understand what was driving him, and why he behaved the way he did. She needed to know where the anger and vitriol he only ever displayed towards her, behind closed doors, was actually coming from. And she knew who to ask about that. She got out her phone and sent her mother-in-law a text message.
Hey Catherine, it’s me. Do you happen to have Lesley’s telephone number? I wanted to reach out to her to see if there’s anything we can do to restore contact between Piers and Sebastian.
In the myriad dates that had followed their initial meeting in the wine bar over warm rosé on a sticky leather sofa, Piers had told Amelia that Lesley had been too controlling, too disorganised and too selfish to remain his wife. Amelia had not questioned this, because back then, in those heady days when he had been taking her out for expensive dinners, showering her with gifts and making her guest of honour at school events, she had been far too infatuated with him to do so.
So, she had accepted without question that Lesley had simply not hit the target he had set, while also understanding that she would be expected to hit it. As astonishing as it seemed to her now, she hadn’t even minded that. It had been intensely flattering to be considered capable of meeting such a high bar. She had been so proud to be considered worthy. She hadn’t ever anticipated that the bar would become something to batter her with.
Yes, she thought, I need to speak to Lesley. There are things I simply have to know.
29
February 23rd
Michelle
Final hearing, Day 1
Michelle stood in front of the mirror, frantically tugging her skirt down and removing imperceptible fluff from her jacket.
Gillian had taken her shopping to buy this outfit, but she still had her doubts about it. It reminded her of her school uniform, and that wasn’t in any way a good thing. But she knew that bloody Rob and his stuck-up family would turn up dressed in Ralph Lauren or something, so she wanted to put up a decent fight.
And furthermore, she was different now, and she wanted to dress to reflect that. In her mind’s eye, she placed the version of herself that had appeared at the first court hearing, back in October – just a day postpartum, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, wearing the clothes she’d laboured in – next to this newer version.
She was still herself, definitely, but she was also a lot more confident, and that had a lot to do with the support Mike and Gillian had given her, and the sessions she’d been having with her counsellor, too. She had come to recognise that she had been self-harming with drugs and alcohol as a way of punishing herself both for her sister’s removal and her own chequered history in care.
She was repeatedly being told now that neither of those things was her fault. And that was a huge ask, really. They were asking her to leave that long-held belief behind and to look at the world in a completely different way. She was struggling with it, but she had got to a point now where she could at least try to think that way, and that was a start.
And today – well, today was so important that she was mustering up all of the self-belief that she could manage.
Today, you see, was the first day of the final hearing. Sally had said that it would probably last a couple of days, so that meant that she might hear the judge’s decision tomorrow, or if not, definitely the day after. It was hard to believe that she would know within three days whether she would have Grace with her for life, or whether she would never see her again.
Just the thought of the latter option made her want to vomit. On her most recent visit to the contact centre, she’d held on to Grace throughout the session, not wanting to share her with Gillian or the social workers, or to let her play with toys. She had literally clung on to her for every second she could, in case they were among their last together.
There was no way, absolutely no way that Rob and his parents, or those liars at social services (she had tried to drop the moniker, but she couldn’t – the scarring was too deep) would take Grace away from her. When Grace had just been born, she could now see that she had been at her lowest ebb, and she hadn’t been right in the head. She’d wanted to give her up because she had felt that she was incapable of anything. But now she knew differently.
The guy who had come to assess her for dyslexia had said something that had stuck with her. He’d quoted the actress Whoopi Goldberg – herself a dyslexic – saying that she saw her dyslexia as an advantage, because her brain saw information from a different perspective to everyone else. Michelle was starting to see that this was true. She might be different, but that different didn’t have to mean bad. In fact, it could just mean special.
‘You look lovely, Michelle,’ said Gillian, coming out of one of the toilet stalls behind her and washing her hands at the adjacent sink.
‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘I feel like they’ll all be looking at me thinking that I’m wearing a costume, or something.’
‘Don’t be silly. You are your own person, and that’s nothing to do with what you’re wearing. And anyway, everyone here is wearing a costume. Do you think that overpaid lawyer for the Allcotts wears a pinstripe suit at home? Do you think that judge wears a black bodycon dress when she’s watching Bake Off? Nope and nope. We are all playing a part. All of us.’
‘Okay,’ said Michelle, still unable to shake the feeling that she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
‘Ready?’ asked Gillian, drying her hands with a paper towel. ‘Sally said she’d meet us at half past, to go through things before the hearing starts.’
Michelle nodded and followed Gillian out of the loos and into the court foyer, where Sally Mucklow was waiting. She was characteristically colourful – today’s choice was a yellow shirt and a black skirt – and it looked like she’d recently had a new haircut. Her new look was sharp, bobbed, and it screamed ‘don’t mess with me’, Michelle thought, which was just as well, because the Allcotts’ barrister looked particularly keen for a fight.
‘Hey, both of you,’ Sally said. ‘Shall we head over to the cafe over the road? We’ve got half an hour, and it might be nice to talk where we know nobody relevant is listening.’
Michelle and Gillian followed her to the crossing outside, across the busy ring-road and into a quirky cafe, which was furnished with mismatched furniture and junk-shop art, and which smelled of coffee and cinnamon buns. Frenetic jazz music was playing in the background and the customers already seated inside were making sufficient noise to mask the conversation of others. Michelle could see why Sally had brought them there.
‘I always come over here with clients before cases,’ she said, after she’d been up to the counter to order them their choice of hot drink. ‘It’s noisy but not too noisy, and more importantly, they make good coffee.’ She smiled at Michelle then, and Michelle did her best to return the smile, although her stomach felt like it was being wrung through a mangle.
‘So. Hopefully you have been able to read the reports that have been submitted to the judge?’
Michelle had read them, with Gillian’s help. She’d had little sleep after she’d read the statement from the local authority, who were still adamant that their chosen route of foster to adopt was the best way forward, and she’d wanted to scream when she’d read Rob’s statement, which was full of lies.
‘I wanted to talk to you about them,’ said Sally, noting Michelle’s doubtful face. ‘I know they don’t seem overly hopeful. But the thing is, they are just a starting point. This hearing is our opportunity to point out the obvious holes in those reports and to put your point of view forward. And we will do that, okay?’ Michelle nodded. ‘And of course, we’ve submitted your own statement, which is very powerful. I am hopeful that it will make all of the difference.’
‘But what about Rob’s statement?’
‘He hasn’t got a shred of evidence for that. I’ll challenge them heavily. Don’t worry.’
Michelle was dubious. Given that he had been capable of convincing her that he was a total loser for several years, he was probably capable of convincing a judge that he was a total pussy cat.
‘I do wish I could come in with you, Michelle,’ said Gillian, rubbing Michelle’s arm. ‘But I’ll be just outside, okay? We can have lunch together and talk things through.’
‘Honestly, you don’t have to wait. You’ll be bored. And it’s so uncomfortable out there,’ said Michelle, knowing how bleak court waiting rooms always were.
‘I don’t care. I’ve brought a good book and a couple of magazines, and I’ll have a walk around the block mid-morning. But I will never be far, okay? I’ll be right there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michelle. ‘That means a lot to me.’
‘No problem at all, lovely girl,’ said Gillian. ‘I’m doing this because you mean a lot to me.’
*
‘Miss Jenkins? Ms Mucklow? It’s time to go in now.’
