As the wine swam down her gullet, she saw again Paul’s angular features. His grey blue eyes looked sad, and his skin had the pallor of a man who had spent too much time hunched over his books and computer. She pictured his long hands with the heavily jointed fingers. As she yanked up her trousers, smelling the garlic, onions and tomato wafting through from the kitchen, she could feel those hands running across her waist, over her hips and buttocks. No, she wouldn’t see him again.
Jacob’s voice rang out down the corridor.
‘Mum!’
‘Five minutes,’ she replied.
They had barely spoken since she got back from court and she longed to hug him for his kindness in staying home for her, cooking for her. But hugs with Jacob were still awkward, still self-conscious. He was struggling. He needed space and time. If only she had the time.
She was finishing dressing when, in her mind, she heard again Paul’s name, sounded out in court for all to hear. As she tugged a comb through her wet, tangled hair she felt the familiar hot surge of anger: at Natasha, at Paul, even, it now seemed, at herself. And there was something else, another less familiar emotion. For years she had seen herself as an innocent party. It was Paul who had betrayed his wife. Mel had betrayed no one. But as she waved the dryer around her damp hair a persistent inner voice was telling her otherwise. Mel had been complicit in the deception. Natasha might be a bitch and a troublemaker, but she had told the truth about Paul. There was a sour edge to Mel’s anger. It felt more like shame. The jury would know Mel as a woman who was prepared to lie. She ran a comb through her hair, looked in the mirror then quickly looked away.
‘Are you coming?’ called Jacob.
‘Coming,’ she said.
She picked up her empty glass and walked through to the kitchen, praying this would not be their last night together.
Chapter Forty-six
Mel
Light flickered around her curtains. She showered and put on the short-sleeved brown dress and jacket she had worn for the last three days, the only smart outfit she had that was not barrister gear. Foundation, lipstick, eye-liner, mascara. Make-up would help her face her accuser.
At breakfast Jacob was taut and taciturn. He was off to college, but they had agreed that he would try to get to court in the afternoon. Mel forced down two slices of toast and they both had large strong coffees. Everything would be fine, she told him. She would see him later.
* * *
In the witness box, Alisha let her take wing and she told the story she had rehearsed so often in her head. When Digger pounced, she was ready with that surge of energy that arises on the brink of disaster.
‘There was a degree of professional jealousy in your attitude to Miss Baker?’
‘Not at all. I was pleased she picked up work so quickly.’
‘Surprised too?’
‘A little. It’s unusual to get that much work in your second six.’
‘On one occasion she took one of your returns after you had been the victim of a mugging?’
‘That’s true too.’
‘You were suffering from a degree of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.’
‘I was pretty shaken up. Anyone would be. I was never diagnosed.’
Judge McDermid intervened. ‘Mr Diggory-Brown, no expert evidence has been adduced attesting to Miss Goddard’s psychological state.’
‘Apologies, Your Honour. I’ll rephrase the question. After the assault you took a week off work.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And when you returned, you found, to your surprise, that Miss Baker already had the beginnings of an independent practice.’
‘You can do better than that, Digger,’ said Mel.
To her amazement, Digger looked flustered, two members of the jury tittered and there was no intervention from the judge.
When it came to the nub of the narrative, the afternoon in Isabel’s house, she was well rehearsed. ‘I don’t deny there was irritation, even antagonism between us. I was uneasy about this new friendship.’
He didn’t ask why. The old rule which Alisha had broken so defiantly and successfully yesterday. Never ask a question if you don’t know the answer. But he didn’t stop her when she carried on.
‘I had a hunch and I was proved right. Not only was Natasha wearing one of my mother’s vintage designer outfits, she also had on some of my mother’s valuable jewellery. A ring, a brooch and earrings. I asked her to leave and she went upstairs to change. I followed her. I needed to be sure she was leaving empty handed.’
‘And Miss Baker took off the jewellery.’
‘Yes.’
‘But the jewellery, the vintage costumes, they weren’t the main cause of the row were they?’
‘I wouldn’t call it a row. More of a spat.’
‘You had never liked Miss Baker.’
‘Liking is not the issue. I was cross with her for inveigling her way into my mother’s house.’
‘Despite entering at your mother’s invitation?’
‘Natasha sought her out. She never told my mother she was my pupil. That sounds pretty duplicitous to me.’
‘The truth is you were envious of Miss Baker.’
‘Not at all.’
‘She was clever, popular, she had been attracting work from your solicitors.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Why would I be envious of her? She didn’t even get the tenancy.’ As soon as she had said it she wished it unsaid. It sounded arrogant. And which was worse? Envy or arrogance?
‘Miss Baker met your son at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you met again at your mother’s house, she asked if he was OK?’
‘That’s not true.’
‘She said she had enjoyed meeting him.’
‘I don’t remember her saying that.’
A couple of jury members were taking notes. Mel looked over to where Natasha was sitting behind the CPS solicitor. Their eyes met but Natasha’s gave no hint of acknowledgement. She wore the same blue pinafore dress, this time with a cream silk blouse, buttoned to the neck. Her hair was tied back neatly. There was no sign of a scar. She reminded Mel of an antique doll. And at that moment Mel realised that despite everything she had said to Alisha, despite her horror at hearing her son’s name tossed around in court, she could no longer stay silent. The jury needed to know what kind of woman had brought this complaint.
Digger paused to look at his notes. Mel was conscious of the low buzz of the air conditioning, the occasional scrape of feet on the wooden floor, bodies shifting on benches, fingers tapping on devices. The wordless sounds were soothing, and she leant against the side of the witness box. Then, quickly, she pulled herself straight, needing to call on what buried strength remained. Before Digger could lob another question, she turned to face the jury and spoke.
‘She said he had a nice body.’
‘Miss Goddard, she did not say that. She merely asked if he was all right,’ interrupted Digger.
‘My son was sixteen years old at the time.’
‘Miss Goddard, there was no mention of Jacob in your defence statement.’
‘No. Because he has nothing to do with my defence.’