‘These look sore. What did they do to you?’
I pulled them back to me and looked at the thread-thin lines of broken skin.
‘Nothing. I tripped.’
‘How did you trip?’
‘I broke my fall up the steps on the way in, that’s all. It’s doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Honestly, I fine.’
If the police had seen the footage of me on CCTV in the cell, they might not have identified the meek victim I was portraying in front of my husband now. It was simpler to be the victim, to ignore the bad decisions that might have brought me here. I didn’t want to confront the fact that the past might finally be catching up with me.
He moved closer to me and kissed my lips and then ran his finger along the cracked skin. ‘Have a shower and come downstairs. I’ll make you some toast and tea.’
I ran my eyes across Peter’s gentle features, wondering if I could tell him about the fear and anger that had overwhelmed me in that cell; contemplating how my true feelings would sound to him. I felt a pain in my heart, like a tear, when I realised it might be dangerous to say too much to this man, my husband, with whom I had been through so much.
Before the recorded interview with DC Miles, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to imagine a scenario when anyone – let alone Peter – would have to choose, when any kind of rift would be great enough to pull us apart, but I was changed. My world was to be divided between those who believed me, and those who doubted me. I would be on the look-out for signs in everyone close to me.
I could never forget that Rosie was his flesh and blood.
Cynicism and distrust had entered this new world of mine, and it sent bolts of loneliness ricocheting through me.
* * *
My body was wrapped up in a snuggly dressing gown and my skin had that after-shower clean feeling. The physical smells and sensations of the cell were sloughed off. The toast and the tea were warming me inside.
‘Is there really nothing this Philippa woman can do?’ Peter asked, buttering more toast than we could ever eat.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So you’re really saying that this social worker woman will have the power to stop you being alone with your own children?’
Peter was lagging behind. My shock had been and gone. After I had been released from the station on bail, Philippa had taken me for a coffee at a coffee shop next door to the police station. She explained what could pan out for us as a family over the next few weeks: safeguarding plans, surprise social worker visits, intrusive questioning, police statements garnered from family and friends, doctors’ examinations, doctors’ reports, medical histories, teachers’ reports, multi-agency meetings, and so on. Our lives were to be exposed to strangers in gruesome detail. Much of it I wasn’t able to take it in. And there was nothing I could do about any of it anyway, unless Rosie changed her story. The CPS hearing, set on 4 December 2017, four weeks away, was a future I couldn’t fathom.
‘Yes, it’s called a safeguarding plan.’
‘I don’t understand how it’s going to work,’ Peter said.
‘Basically, you’ll have to police me.’ My cheeks burned with fresh humiliation.
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You’ll have to. If I am caught alone with them, I’ll be in deeper shit than I already am.’
‘But how will they know?’
‘Social Services make surprise visits apparently, and they’ll ask the kids and we can’t ask the kids to lie.’
The irony of that statement hung in the air between us, but both of us let it go. Plainly we weren’t ready to talk about Rosie again. The logistics of a safeguarding plan was easier somehow. There were clear parameters to work with.
‘And that crazy maniac next door will be watching us like a hawk,’ I added, glaring out through the kitchen window.
‘What about when I work late? Or have to go on conferences? I mean, I have three scheduled over three weekends between now and Christmas.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, feeling like I didn’t know anything anymore. ‘Harriet can’t do weekends because of college.’
‘And seriously, how often do I get home earlier than nine? Once a week at the most? Can Harriet stay later than eight?’
The reality of the situation seemed to be hitting him like a series of bullets.
‘No. She has a bar job. That’s why she never babysits for us.’
‘What about the mornings? I leave at seven!’
‘Harriet can’t do the mornings either. She has to be in college at nine.’
‘I won’t even be able to nip out for bike rides at the weekend or meet Jim for an afternoon pint.’
‘Welcome to a woman’s world.’
‘Women don’t like bike rides or beer.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’ But I smiled. Peter could always get a smile out of me, even in the worst situations.
‘It’s just the principle of it that pisses me off.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I cried, reminding him of who the victim was.
‘Sorry. I know it’s worse for you.’
I deflated. ‘No. The whole thing is horrendous for all of us.’ A fresh wave of anger rose in me. I pushed it down. There was going to be no more hitting walls.
‘What if they stay with your sister until this is all over?’
‘She’s too far from school.’
‘What about an au pair?’
‘We can’t have someone new here while this is going on.’
‘Well what the hell are we going to do then?’ he yelled, throwing his hands in the air.
‘I honestly don’t know. I can’t ask Mum, she’s always got way too much on.’
Peter stuck his hands in the air again. ‘That’s it! You can ask Helen. That would solve all our problems.’
‘I said I can’t ask Mum. She’d have to give up work.’
‘She’d have to take a break for a month, not even. That’s not even half of one term. I’m sure the students would survive without her.’
‘Would she survive without them?’
‘Aren’t her grandchildren more important?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s too much to ask. We went through all this before we hired Harriet.’
‘Maybe she wants an excuse to slow things down a bit. She never stops complaining about the bloody place.’
‘Don’t be fooled by that old routine. She’s spent thirty years complaining about it, it doesn’t mean anything. There’s no way we can ask her to give it up.’
‘God, Gemma, you are exasperating. We can’t do this on our own. You have to ask her.’
‘I’m too tired to think about this now, way too tired. I can’t even face the thought of telling her, let alone asking such a massive favour.’
‘She’s your mother and she loves you.’
‘We’ll see how much when I speak to her.’
I picked up the second piece of toast and then put it back on the plate. The thought of eating it made my stomach turn.
He reached to the top of the cupboard where he kept the whisky.
‘How’s about a hot toddy to cheer us up?’
‘God, yes, a virgin one for me. I’ll light the fire next door.’
I knelt at the wood-burner in the sitting room, enjoying the humbling simplicity of the process of crumpling the newspaper and fanning the kindling.
Peter joined me with two mugs. ‘Want me to do it?’
‘Why do men always think they can light fire better than women?’
‘I don’t know about other women, but if your track record is anything to go by...’
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of laughing, but I was inside. It was true. I rarely got a fire going the first time.
The flames were tentative, slowly melting the paper with blue heat. Patiently and gently, I blew on the flame until one stick of kindling burst into flames. ‘There you go, see?’ Maybe it was patience I lacked.
I stretched out on the sofa, with my feet at the end near the fire, and my mug resting on my chest, the aroma of hot lemon and honey filling my head, the fire warming my socks. Peter’s position mirrored mine on the opposite sofa.
We both stared into the flames as they leapt about angrily.
‘At the station there was this crazy woman ranting and raving and she called me a stuck-up bitch.’