‘What have you done, Mum?’
‘Nothing wrong.’ What could she say? He would dig and dig. He was his parents’ child. ‘Like I said. We had a row. She fell over and hurt herself. Gran and I took her to hospital. She might try to blame me. That’s all.’
She reached out and touched his hand as a wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Jacob didn’t move but his eyes were searching. She drew back her hand as he began to speak.
‘Was it about me? I told you not to say anything.’
‘Please Jacob. I can’t talk about it now. Yes, you came into it. But it wasn’t just about you. There was a lot of stuff. I need to sleep on it. It’s all a bit of a muddle in my head. But darling, don’t worry. You’ve done nothing wrong. I mean you’ve been stupid but… I guess… we’re all stupid at times.’
‘Like you and that bloke.’
‘Like me and that bloke. And I’m not seeing him anymore.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes, prayed he would let this drop.
After a moment’s silence he asked, ‘So are you giving back the phone?’
‘Yes. I’ll leave it in chambers.’
She wished she could tell him everything. There were many things she wished. She wished she had never shown Natasha the photo of her beautiful son, never offered her that coffee in Dulwich, never mentioned Paul. She wished she had not left her car in East Finchley, never asked Natasha to log off her computer, never taken a week off work. Jacob looked deflated and she sensed he didn’t want to talk any longer. At least not now. All she could count on was that Natasha would not want her mischief-making publicised. But how could you count on anything with Natasha?
Through the swirl of thoughts, she heard her own mitigation: her good character, her successful career, her son. Then she heard the words of an imaginary prosecutor, ‘Miss Goddard, you of all people should understand the consequences of your actions.’
She poured herself a glass of red wine and pulled back the curtains to look at the city at rest. On clear nights you could see stars beyond the light-polluted air, the faintest hint of infinity, though not tonight.
Tonight, the only visible lights were human, street lamps, splinters of brightness around the blinds and curtains in the houses opposite. She gulped her wine and, as it swam down her throat, she thought of Paul. For the last week he had been texting again. She had ignored the messages, but she wondered how long she could withstand the pressure. Despite the awkwardness of their last meeting, her body longed to be close to his once more, simply, without complication, as it had been in those early days, when secrecy went unmentioned and only added to the excitement.
Tomorrow she was due at Wood Green Crown Court to defend Vicky Brightman in her prosecution for assault of her ex-wife’s partner. She should have been working on the case this afternoon. If only she had. But what happened in Dulwich had happened, and the only thing to do now was wait.
It was almost eleven. She would need to be up at six to go over the statements and refine her cross-examination. She should go to bed, but the events of the day had transformed exhaustion to a manic wakefulness, and she wouldn’t sleep for at least an hour. She pulled out her phone to check the time. Another message from Paul.
I’m sorry about last time. Can we speak?
She stood up, walked to the bedroom, began to undress, putting out her court gear to speed her progress in the morning. The thought of what she had done was growing inside her, spreading like a bruise. She could see Natasha’s edgy, troubling beauty. Both had sought confrontation, but it had been Mel who lost control. And she couldn’t banish from her mind the panic on Natasha’s face as she fell backwards, twisting, crashing the side of her head against the sharp edge of the dressing table. Mel had wanted to hurt her. She might be horrified at her own violence, but while she had, at the time, felt shock, and now felt both fear and regret, at no stage had she felt remorse.
She lay in bed staring at the crack of grey between the curtains. Her head swirled. Natasha on the floor, limp as a rag doll, Isabel, frightened and stunned to silence, the breakneck drive to the hospital, the clatter of trolleys, the scent of bodies and disinfectant in the waiting area.
Then in her mind it was morning and she was in one of the courts at Wood Green, the high-ceilinged Victorian space she had stood in so many times to represent feckless clients. Tomorrow it would be Vicky Brightman, but as Mel imagined the scene it wasn’t Vicky in the dock, but herself, alone, friendless, and pleading for her life.
Chapter Thirty-four
Mel
Vicky Brightman was acquitted. For the four days of the trial the details of another person’s struggle had blanked out Mel’s own concerns. But as she packed up her wig and gown in the robing room, sounds and pictures looped through her head: angry words, jumbled objects on the floor, the glass edge of the dressing table, a pool of blood. She pulled out her phone. Two missed calls from Paul and a text asking her to ring. Ignoring other barristers chatting about their cases, she called him. The week’s tension unravelled as she heard his warm, low voice asking her to come to Barnes. Now.
‘Now?’
‘I miss you. Caro’s in Spain. On a yoga course.’ He explained. ‘You’ve always been curious about where I lived.’
Her heart was pumping fast. He had missed her. Despite the frostiness of their last encounter he still wanted her. What they had was special. They were good together. And now, more than ever, she longed for his touch as if it could weave the tangled strands of her life into a single fabric. Just once. And if it was to say goodbye, so be it. After three years together they both deserved something better than that awkward parting outside the Premier Inn.
‘OK,’ she said.
She set off for the station, wondering why he had suggested meeting at his house. Was there some perverse additional pleasure for him in bringing his other woman onto home territory? Mel dispelled the thought as she imagined their lovemaking and what she hoped would be its gentle aftermath, those precious, companionable moments of easy talk. There was so much to tell him. The mugging, Jacob’s arrest, Natasha’s pursuit of her son, her own actions. Not all of it. But some. Enough to lighten the load.
He picked her up from the station in his battered Mercedes, the back of which looked like an extension of his office, piled high with boxes and papers. As they drove off, she sensed him glancing at her thighs. He knew every inch of her. But his look unsettled her, and she wished she were wearing trousers.
They turned into a quiet side road lined with pollarded lime trees. It was late afternoon, and the street was almost empty under the clear sky. A couple of women were pushing buggies along the narrow pavement. He slowed down and drove into a small brick parking area in front of a large semi-detached house.
‘Here we are,’ he said with uncharacteristic brightness.
Mel stepped out onto the path which ran alongside the neat garden. They were only twenty minutes from the centre of London, but the air was sweet with the scent of flowers. The silver and blue planting would be Caro’s work.
The house was painted white and had bow windows, edged with dusty brick. Fifty years ago, it would have been considered a very ordinary house. Today it was a house to kill for. Millions of pounds of suburban understatement. Paul was right, she had been curious to see it. And she had suspected she might feel uncomfortable here. But she hadn’t been prepared for the ripping pain that tore through her stomach as Paul unlocked the front door.