Then, heaving herself up, she walked to the hall, picking up the car keys from the hook. As she turned for the door, she sensed him behind her. His hands were on her shoulders, pressing into her flesh and bones. She twisted to face him, met his blazing eyes.
‘You can’t stop me,’ she snapped. But he continued to grip her tightly. ‘Let me go,’ she said, ‘I need to do a finger-prick test. I’m taking the car.’
It worked. He stepped back. She opened her kit bag and took out her meter. He watched in silence as she inserted the strip, pricked her finger and smeared on the drop of blood. The reading was high, but within bounds. She needed to get out of the flat.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Just for a drive.’
‘It’s past ten o’clock.’
‘I’m restless. I need to get out.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No.’
‘You’re eight months pregnant; you’re in a state; your blood sugar’s all over the place. I don’t want you going.’
‘What the fuck do you know about my blood sugar?’
‘I’ve lived with it for two years.’
She met his anxious eyes. ‘Don’t go there, Luke.’
‘We tried, Tash. Guilty people get off all the time. You need to accept it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘It must have been tough for her too.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘Being on trial. Imagine how she must have felt.’
‘For Chrissake.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And then there’s her son. Jacob. He was the one on your computer, wasn’t he? I recognised him in the restaurant. It was the same guy.’
‘I told you it meant nothing.’
‘You denied it in court. Your barrister said there were no photos.’
‘What did you expect? Anyway, it’s over now. Finished. Done.’
‘What did you say to her?’ He wore his pained look, the one where his handsome features became sharp and tight.
‘What does it matter now? You heard Melanie. She made Jacob delete everything.’
‘That’s not the point, is it, Tash? The point is Jacob’s photo was on your computer. I saw it. Was that why she hit you?’
‘For fucksake, Luke. Why you raising this now? We lost the case. I’m about to have your baby.’
‘Tash, we talked about it after your arrest. It’s not just the shoplifting. There’s other stuff. Please, don’t go out. Not tonight.’
‘Let go of me.’
‘You know I’ll always be here for you. You need help. Especially now.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. You have no idea what I’ve been through listening to that lying cow.’
‘Stay here. Have a nice hot bath.’
Bloody Luke. He thought a nice hot bath was the answer to everything. That or therapy. But he wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing would stop her. Let him think what he wanted about Jacob. She wasn’t going to explain anything. It was not like she’d done anything criminal. And she’d been in the witness box long enough. She snatched up her keys, grabbed her jacket and walked out before he could stop her, slamming the door behind her.
Rain splattered her windscreen as she set off towards the river. It was hard to see the route through the swishing wipers, but she knew the address from previous research and the satnav led her there through crowded streets. Even at this hour the traffic was bad, with road works and detours, and it was an hour before she arrived in the quiet north London street with its solid Edwardian red-brick homes. 57a. She parked near the front door. There was no umbrella in the car, and she had only her short jacket. Too bad. She crossed the pavement in the pouring rain, walked up the path to the porch and rang the bell marked ‘Goddard’. Wet and cold, she waited. No one came. She rang again. Mel’s voice drifted out through a grille.
‘Who is it?’
‘Your pupil.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
The Entryphone clicked and there was silence. Natasha pressed the bell again. No reply. Of course. Mel would not open the door to a visitor at eleven thirty at night, particularly this visitor. In her mistaken imagination, Mel had opened the door and would be standing before her, vulnerable, in her nightdress. Instead Natasha was the vulnerable one, a fat helpless cow, dog-tired, sopping wet, on the wrong side of London, with nothing to show for her ridiculous journey. She tried to console herself. At least she had interrupted Mel’s evening, hinted that life might not be exactly as it once was when you got away with a serious assault charge.
She rang one more time and was about to leave. It had not been a complete success, but something had yielded. Getting out of the flat had helped. The itch was partially relieved. She’d had the last word. Then, as she was turning towards the car, the front door opened. Jacob stood in the doorway. His round eyes were tired. His hair was rumpled and his T-shirt half out of the jeans which hung so well on his slender hips. She ran her eyes over his body. Defeated, weary, angry and pregnant as she was, it still gave her pleasure to look at him.
‘Leave us alone,’ he said.
‘I came to see Mel.’
‘Please go.’
‘But it’s nice to see you.’ She felt a smile creep up towards her eyes.
His expression was steely, but she would not turn away.
‘Must have been a shock to hear all that stuff in court,’ she said.
‘I said go. Now.’
‘Not just the photos, but the violence. And you only four years old. That’s horrible.’
‘Fuck off, Natasha.’
She had her hands in the doorway. If he slammed the door he would break her fingers and she knew he wouldn’t do that.
‘She’s guilty, you know that, don’t you? She bloody threw me down and got away with it. That’s why I’ve got this.’ And she pulled back her hair to expose her scar. It was small, not much more than a centimetre beyond her hairline. But it was a visible reminder of what his mother had done.
The change in his face was miniscule, an eyelid flickered, there was a quiver in his lip. It was enough for Natasha to detect the shift from certainty. Something in her words had dented the mask of his assurance. It was hardly a triumph. But it was a seed. With luck he would lose faith in this woman who had hit him as a child, taken a married lover, lied in court. What was a bit of Facebook flirtation compared with all that? But he only said, ‘Go’. And when she didn’t move, he grasped her shoulders, squeezed them and pushed her away back from the door. And as he squeezed her she remembered this was how Luke had held her before she left under an hour ago. There were only so many ways you could take control of a heavily pregnant woman.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she squealed.
‘Good,’ he said, moving back inside.
‘Little shit,’ she countered. And he shut the door in her face.
The moment she switched on the ignition, her phone started ringing. Luke.
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I’m coming home.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Driving around. I feel better now. I’ll be back soon. I love you, Luke.’