‘What are they interviewing you about?’
‘Mostly our telly roles. Maybe a bit about our lives now. Then the audience clap and we all go home.’
‘That’s amazing. How did they find you?’ Mel was sitting down now, settling into this, pleased for her mother and amused by her rapid mood shift.
‘Darling, I still have an agent.’
What would Isabel say when asked what she was doing now? Would she make something up?
‘Mum, that’s brilliant. When is it?’
‘Wednesday evening.’
Her heart sank. She was out of London. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum. I’m in Canterbury.’ A three-day trial. The money would be good. There was no way she could forfeit it for her mother’s fifteen-minute performance.
‘All evening?’ Isabel sounded plaintive.
‘I don’t know. It’s an hour and half on the train. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get away from court.’ She would need to wait for the verdict. Courts often sat late rather than sending the jury away for the night.
‘Up to you, darling,’ snapped Isabel.
‘I’ll do my best.’
She would. She wanted to be there for her mother now. As much as she had wanted her mother to be there for her in the past. And she had longed for it. Still did. But, there seemed to be taboos on every subject of importance. She had never been able to share a problem. And Isabel would be horrified if she knew what the problems were: the affair with Paul, Jacob’s arrest, Natasha’s troublemaking. She hadn’t even told her about the mugging for fear of upsetting her. A mother–daughter friendship had never been part of the picture.
But Isabel was an old woman now. Mel could at least give her more of her time. She would do her best to get to ‘Meet the Stars’.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mel
Mel stared through the train window at the houses, parks and warehouses of south London. The slow rumble of the overground helped calm her thoughts. Jacob had texted. He was home and safe and they would talk later. The visit to Dulwich had been a nightmare but the visit to her mother had turned out better than expected. At least Isabel had something to look forward to.
As for Natasha, there was nothing left in Mel but a bullet-hard determination to erase the woman from her life. Mel would talk to the members of the pupillage committee. Someone else could take over Natasha’s supervision for the final two months of her pupillage. Mel would cite personal differences. After that she would avoid all contact. If Natasha tried to squat or get a third six, Mel would do everything in her power to stop it. With careful management, she would never have to see her again.
She glanced at her phone, opening Jacob’s message for the third time that evening.
I’m home. CU l8ter.
She smiled inwardly. The silly code they still used. Textspeak had moved on but it was good enough for them.
Her mood lightened and she felt stronger, more hopeful, as she alighted from the train at Finsbury Park and set off down the tunnel towards the bus.
There was a queue for the W3 and it was only three stops from the station to her home, but she decided to wait. It wasn’t yet wholly dark, but in the half-light of a summer evening, Mel preferred to avoid passing too close to the place where she’d been assaulted two months previously. There had been nothing more from the police. She wondered if the case was closed.
The flat was quiet, only the usual muffled thud of music from the floor above. She threw down her bag and pushed open the door to Jacob’s room. Her boy was staring into his computer screen, oversized headphones wrapped around his asymmetrical haircut like a pair of plastic earmuffs. His right hand was draped over a mouse, scudding around a worn-out mat. Mel pushed a jumble of clothing to one side and plonked herself on the large bean bag she had given him for his thirteenth birthday. A nod of his head indicated he had seen her but there was no lull in the gaming.
Scanning the room for something to write on and with, she spotted a biro on the floor and a notebook full of illegible scribbles on the edge of his computer table. Turning up a clean page, she wrote, ‘Talk to me.’ She was about to add ‘when you’ve killed enough baddies,’ but it sounded patronising and she wanted the mood to be right. Ripping off the page, she left it on the table next to his computer, voices ringing in her head: You spoil him. You let him dominate you. The voices had a point, but tonight she needed to approach him on his terms.
There was soup in the fridge. She popped it in the microwave. A drink would be welcome but in her eagerness to get back she had omitted to pick up wine at the corner shop. And she needed a clear head for work.
After the soup, she opened the Canterbury brief and laid out the papers on the table. Her client had stabbed her lover with a fruit knife. The evidence against her was strong. Mel would need to be at her focused best to get the woman off on self-defence. Cross-examination of the lover would be key. For a good hour she was oblivious to her own concerns, losing herself in preparation.
Shortly before midnight Jacob walked in. Mel was deep in work and didn’t look up immediately. When she did, her son seemed different, more solid, with a new confidence. Over the last few weeks he’d grown tall and lanky, but when did his shoulders become so broad? It was not as if he worked out.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.
‘Don’t keep avoiding me, Jacob.’
‘I’m not avoiding you. I’m here, aren’t I?’
Even as she heard him speak she was conscious that half her mind was on tomorrow’s case. Was she, too, guilty of avoidance? She shut her notebook and held his gaze. It was late, but she needed to know.
‘Listen, darling, you walked off this afternoon. You didn’t tell me you were going or why. You know I’m anxious because of the assault thing. You might at least have texted.’
‘I did text.’
‘Two hours later.’
‘One hour.’
‘One hour, two hours, what’s it matter? The thing is you pissed off. Why?’
‘I wanted to come home.’
As a single mother Mel had yearned for a companion. Was that why she had treated Jacob as mature beyond his years? Why she had assumed an understanding and experience he was too young to possess? She should have been a better parent, a better guide. He was sixteen now, but it was not too late. He might think he was almost a man, but he was on police bail on an assault charge and she needed to protect him.
‘What happened? Did Natasha say something to upset you?’
His body gave a little jerk. His features looked tight and hard and his eyes lost their dreamy softness. Mel waited, the walls of the room pressing in on her. The electric overhead light felt harsh and cruel.
‘You won’t like this, Mum.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Natasha told me. About you and this bloke Paul.’
And though she had suspected what he might say, she was unprepared for the physicality of her reaction. A bitter taste flooded her mouth; her stomach seemed to curdle. Was it revulsion at the lies she had told him? The days she had called to say she was stuck at work when she’d been resting in Paul’s arms in a hotel bed? Had she felt even a slither of guilt? No, more like a running strain of mild discomfort, mostly ignored. Because no one would get hurt, would they?