‘What if it’s too hot for the baby?’
‘I’ll go and see if I can find someone.’
‘Get me a bottle of water.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll have to be, won’t I?’
He gave her his beseeching look and left her alone. His obsessive attention was beginning to irritate her. Less than two weeks to go. The hospital had fixed a date for induction because of possible risks to the mother and the baby which was likely to be bigger than usual. She preferred not to think too hard about that, hoping the birth would be over quickly. A Caesarean was an option, though she didn’t like the idea of a scar and a flabby stomach. She would take all the drugs on offer. Luke had arranged time off work and she would start her new job as soon as possible after the birth. At least that was the hope. The Crown Prosecution Service still hadn’t been given a date.
She was seated on one of the low plastic benches, which lined two of the walls. Ranged down the middle of the long room were three sets of chairs and tables, one of which was occupied by a noisy Asian family, mother and father, an older woman and a cluster of little ones. The two women both wore the hijab and they were chatting to each other in what sounded like Urdu. The man had a wailing toddler on his lap and tried to calm the older child, a boy of about seven, with something on his tablet. The baby in the pushchair was asleep. Natasha was surprised the parents had been allowed to bring the children to court, but no one seemed to be checking or paying them attention. Like Natasha and Luke, they had presumably turned up at the appointed time, been directed to the Witness Service desk and told to come into this horrible waiting area.
She walked over to one of the two windows which faced the brick façade of another part of the court building. If you twisted your head to the left, you could just spot a slip of sky. Daylight was insufficient, so the room was lit by fluorescent strips in the ceiling. The windows were impossible to open. There appeared to be no handles. Luke had said the small holes in the lower corners were part of the opening mechanism. You just needed the appropriate key to slot into them.
She looked again at the Asian family who were now picking food out of Tupperware boxes. The younger woman caught her eye and smiled. The food seemed to be doing the trick and the children calmed down.
Luke returned with the water and told her there was nothing he could do about the heating. The technical team was short-staffed. The temperature could be changed but had been fixed at 24 degrees after there were too many disputes between waiting witnesses. It was 11:30 a.m. The trial was due to have started at 10:30 a.m. Natasha knew she would not be permitted to sit in court during the prosecution opening, and she felt a rising anger. She was the one who had suffered. It was all about her and yet she was stuck in this hideous room to wait and do nothing. Luke was scanning the news on his phone. She pulled out her own and checked her pregnancy fitness app. No way was she going to do 10,000 steps today.
Then she heard a voice she recognised, female, with conventional BBC pronunciation, and an actor’s throaty resonance.
‘Do I really have to wait in here?’ it asked, emphasising the ‘really’.
Natasha looked up. Isabel was wearing a faux leopard skin coat, at least Natasha assumed it was faux, and her hair was pinned in elaborate swirls on the top of her head. There seemed to be more of it than before. She must be wearing a hairpiece. She was scanning the room as if she were a prospective hotel guest inspecting inferior accommodation.
‘There’s the corridor, if you prefer,’ said the young woman beside her, wearily. She looked bored. Natasha recognised her from the Witness Service desk in the court foyer.
‘May I not sit with my daughter?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Goddard. You’re daughter’s the defendant. She’s not allowed to chat to prosecution witnesses. Miss Baker is here too, but we do advise you not to confer before the case.’
‘Hello, Isabel,’ said Natasha, hauling her bulk off the plastic bench and making her way across the room. ‘Nice to see you again. I believe you’ve met my partner, Luke.’
Luke walked over. Natasha felt a quiver of pride. He had put on a shirt and tie for court. Tall and well built, he looked like a film star. The Witness Service woman brightened up. Most women did when they encountered Luke.
‘Hello, Isabel. Nice to see you again,’ he said, stretching out a hand. ‘It’s good of you to do this for Natasha.’
Isabel looked surprised at the comment though she took his hand. ‘I’m simply doing my civic duty,’ she replied with a cold smile. Luke let the hand drop and Isabel sat down and took a paperback from her bag.
He and Natasha returned to their seats. The baby started crying. The mother picked it up and jiggled it around until it stopped. Eight months of pregnancy had done nothing to alter Natasha’s distaste for babies, their uncontrollable bawling, their dribbles and smells. Yet her antenatal nurse spoke as if this servitude was the perfect compensation for months of discomfort and tedious antenatal appointments. It was bad enough being type 1 without pregnancy. Now the blood glucose graph was even more erratic, margins were tighter, and she’d had a couple of near-miss hypos at awkward moments in court. ‘It’s different when it’s your own,’ the nurse had told her. Natasha doubted it. Even so, she had started to think about names.
A voice from nowhere announced that Mrs Fatima Bhatti was required in Court 4. The young woman handed over the squalling bundle to the older one, threw her shoulders back and, with an air of defiance, disappeared through the door to the foyer. Natasha would like to have followed her and watched her case. The heat in this enclosed space was making her feel faint. She would much rather be in the public gallery, following someone else’s drama.
But watching was nothing compared with appearing in court herself and the last three months had been frustrating. She’d hoped to squat at Bridge Court after her pupillage ended in October, but Mel’s outbreak had put a stop to that.
‘I know it seems unfair,’ Paula had told her, ‘but the view of the committee is that it’s just too awkward now there’s a charge against Mel.’
‘So, what was I supposed to do? Sit quiet after she smashed my head in?’
‘It’s tough on you, I get that. But squatting’s never automatic. It’s no reflection on your work. I’m sorry. But won’t you be starting at the CPS soon? I sent a glowing reference.’
‘I’m still waiting for a date. They said it wouldn’t be till next year.’ They’d told her they needed to make other enquiries. What kind of enquiries? (There was the caution for shoplifting, years ago. But she’d been using the fake identity. They’d never track that down.)
Over the last three months she’d picked up some part time paralegal work but, after running her own cases, it was frustrating sitting behind other barristers, taking notes on their work. And money was tight. Her flash glucose monitor was £100 a month. It was supposed to be available on the NHS by now but she was still waiting. There was no way she was going back to pricked fingers and test strips. She’d be looking for compensation immediately after the verdict.
As the trial approached she’d hoped to be more involved in the case against Mel, expecting to attend meetings and conferences with the prosecution team. Instead she was just a fat victim, passive and drowsy in a hot waiting room. In another time, another culture, she would have taken her own revenge or paid someone to do it for her.