‘I know you were. Women in your situation always are.’
Women in your situation. How patronising and demeaning! Darryl (because that’s who he’s become now he’s my solicitor) makes it sound like Logan was mistreating me. Abusing me. Beating me. I fold my arms across my chest and sit back. I’m probably glaring at him with my mother’s face. Actually, my grandmother’s face. No one could withstand Grandma’s glower.
‘That sounded wrong,’ Darryl says. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just . . . very frustrated with myself and effectively making this all about me. I should stop. Do you need anything?’
Yup: proper clothes, proper shoes, proper food, proper way out of here. I shake my head.
‘Before they arrive to speak to you, I need to advise you, after everything you have told me, that you need to speak to your mother.’
I shake my head. What is there to say to her? How do I explain this stuff to her? I saw her face when she realised who Logan was. I watched her do everything in her power not to break down when she found out I’d been dating him, sleeping with him, starting to build a life with him. What good is telling her the rest of it going to do?
‘You need to talk to her,’ Darryl states with a firmness that says he means it. ‘She’s going to form an important part of your defence.’
Mum is? ‘How?’
He stares at me as though I am being deliberately obtuse. When I don’t buckle under his gaze, he sighs. Deeply. As though he wants that sigh to reach the bottom of the ocean with the depth of his frustration. ‘She went through an abusive relationship. No one believed her or Poppy Carlisle at the time, but things have moved on since then. People see things a lot more clearly now. Her experiences will help to put into context a lot of what you went through.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask. Because, you know, what is he talking about?
‘She was in an abusive relationship and, as a result of that, it looks like you’ve ended up in a very similar situation with Logan Carlisle.’
I wish he’d stop with this. ‘I wasn’t in an abusive relationship. Logan wasn’t abusive. We just had times that weren’t great but all couples do. He wasn’t abusive. I know what abuse looks like and it wasn’t that.’
Darryl says nothing for a time. He looks me over with an expression I can’t quite work out. I think he thinks I’m being difficult. I’m not. I’m just not willing to jump on this bandwagon when it’s not for me.
‘You’ll need to talk to your mother either way. You’ll need to get both of your parents on side before this investigation goes any further. And you will have to tell them everything before someone else does. Because you can guarantee, because of who your mother is, they are going to leave no stone unturned . . . And, it’s a risk me representing you. I’m only doing so to protect you from a lot of things by not making official notes just yet, but you need to tell your parents And tell them about you and me.’
‘That’s a big fat no from me,’ I reply.
‘It’s not a request or a suggestion, Verity, it is imperative that you tell them. If the police investigate you as thoroughly as I suspect they’re going to, they may well go asking for security camera footage from the hotel. We don’t know how long they keep those videos, but we do know they will see us kissing in the corridor if they get the chance to watch it. They will see you entering my room. It doesn’t matter that you left less than ten minutes later, they could use that to help build the idea that you become involved with older men. That you’re some kind of over-sexed femme fatale.
‘You need to get in front of this. You need to tell your parents, your brother, the people who you will need to be very publicly supportive of you now and in the lead-up to the trial. Because when it comes to trial, if they are continually blindsided by information presented to them by other people, they will start to crack in public when they need to be emphatic about your innocence.’
Without warning, my eyes are wet and the sea seems to be swirling loudly in my ears. Trial. Public support. This is suddenly very real. Very frightening. Before it was like everyone would definitely see it was all a big mistake. But Darryl is skipping ahead – fast. He hasn’t said the words, but he is thinking about mounting a defence, needing public support, the possibility of hearing ‘guilty’ instead of ‘not guilty’. I blink my eyes to clear them. This is silly. This is all going to work out just fine. Just fine.
‘If they do charge me, it will take a while for it to get to court, won’t it?’
Another ocean-deep sigh from the man I could have slept with all those months ago. ‘I’m going to try to get you out of here, but yes, it would take a few months to come to court if they find enough grounds to charge you. But you should brace yourself because I think they’re going to find the grounds.’
He is being dramatic, of course, hitting me with the worst-case scenario, so I’m going to ignore those words. ‘It’ll be easier if I tell my parents when I’m out of here. Sitting in here or on remand telling them stuff will not be a good idea. And I won’t know who’s listening. Who’ll have been paid to keep an eye on me and listen out for information to use against me.’
‘Have it your way, Verity, but know this, as your legal adviser, as someone who has been doing this almost as long as you’ve been alive, being honest sooner rather than later, before you’re compelled to by circumstance, is always better. Always.’
It was all right for him to say that. But he doesn’t know that these truths, the ones I’ve been keeping to myself, aren’t the type you can shout from the rooftops, or even stand up and boldly proclaim; they are things you have to speak of in hushed tones, with lowered eyes and clenched hands.
The door opens and Darryl moves from his place on the other side of the desk and comes to sit beside me before the police arrive for the first interview.
Telling the truth is no way as simple and straightforward as Darryl has been trying to make out.
serena
Now
Evan sits in bed with his knees drawn up to his bare chest. Like me, he’s starting to look his age. Like me, he wants to go over and over what is happening, but, like me, fears that once he starts talking he’ll never be able to stop, and during that talking, uncomfortable truths will escape.
‘Why is this happening?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply.
We’d both been devastated, truly heartbroken, when we were told Verity would be spending the night in police custody. It didn’t seem real, somehow. I remember . . . I remember the concrete bed with its thin blue mattress underneath you that never gives even the slightest bit so you are always uncomfortable when you try to sleep or just sit . . . I remember . . . the door, sealed so tight, so flush against the wall, it looks drawn on and not capable of being opened ever again . . . I remember . . . the smell of the toilet, used or unused, and how it smeared itself inside your nostrils causing a sickness to rise that would not leave.
Verity is there. My little girl, who not five minutes ago was asking me for a bunny, who had written me a list of reasons why I should say yes to a bunny and had promised – in writing – that she’d look after it if I said yes, is now locked up for attempted murder.