I get up and go over to sit next to him. I reach out and touch his back gently with my hand. He doesn’t flinch away, so I start to rub it softly with my palm. Soothing him, stroking his warm back through the starched cotton shirt. He lets me.
“Mark?” I say tentatively.
“It’s okay if we sell this place,” I continue. “It’s okay. It’ll be sad, because I like it here. But I don’t care where we live. I just want you. You anywhere. Under a bridge. In a tent. Just you. And we don’t need to have kids straightaway, if it’s the wrong time. And listen, I know you’d hate to do a different job, but it wouldn’t bother me what you did, as long as you were happy. I mean, I wouldn’t think any differently about you. You’re just you. I never loved you for money or anything like that. It’s nice to have it, sure, but I just want to be with you. We can even live with your mum and dad in East Riding if you want?”
He lifts his eyes to me. Smiles in spite of himself.
“That’s great, Erin, because that was another thing I needed to tell you: Mum’s already made up the futon in the spare room.” He’s watching me slyly. A joke. Thank God. We laugh and the tension bursts over us. It’s going to be okay.
“I genuinely think that would make your mum’s year, you know!” I laugh.
He smiles, sheepish, boyish again. I love him.
“Sorry.” His steady look. He is sorry.
“Can you let me join in again?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I should have told you how I felt before. But I will from now on, okay?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay. But, Erin, I know it’s stupid but…I can’t go back to where I started. I can’t do all that again.”
“I know, honey. It’s okay. You won’t have to. We’re going to work this out together. Because that’s what we do.”
He takes my other hand, my ring hand, lifts it to his mouth.
“Mark, should I go back on the pill? Should we wait?”
“You know what they say…” He kisses our engagement ring. “There’s never a good time.” He still wants it. Thank God.
He pulls me close. We swing our legs up onto the couch and fall asleep together, spooning in the afternoon sunlight.
I’m back at Holloway to meet Alexa, my second interview subject. The guard, Amal, has gone; instead we have a guard called Nigel. He’s much older than Amal, mid-fifties, a career prison guard. I’d say by the look of him the novelty of the job wore off back in his early twenties, yet here he stands. We’re in the same room as last time. I think of Holli staring opaquely up at the slice of sky, and her face morphs into Mark’s. Holli’s release date, and our follow-up interview, is set for five weeks from now, but that won’t be till after the wedding and, now, after we’re back from our honeymoon.
* * *
—
It’s an odd damp day. I sip the staff room instant coffee that Nigel has made for me as I wait for Alexa to arrive. The coffee is hot and strong and that’s all that matters right now. I like my coffee like my men. I am joking, obviously. Wait, am I? I didn’t sleep that well last night; it’s been two days since our argument. I think we’re okay now, though. Mark and I. Over the weekend, we canceled the wedding venue and rejiggered a lot of wedding stuff together. It was actually pretty fun. I’ve been relieved to discover that I’m not a highly strung bride, not by a long shot. We’ve cut back in some places in order to splurge in others. We’re all set now. And Mark seems much happier. More secure. Back to his old self. I think this whole thing has just shaken his confidence a bit. But he’s back formulating a strategy now.
I don’t care about the wedding as long as he’s happy.
Nigel clears his throat loudly and gives me a nod. I turn on the camera next to me and stand awkwardly, as if I’ll be greeting someone I don’t know. But the funny thing with Alexa is that, since our telephone chats, I feel like I actually do know her, even though I’ve never met her.
I see her through the reinforced mesh of the door’s window, her eyes: warm, calm, serious. She enters looking at me from under soft blond bangs. Her open face. The pale blue Holloway prison-issue sweatshirt, pants, and slip-ons look like they’re from a Scandinavian fashion house on her. Like she’s trying something new for London Fashion Week. Very minimalist, very chic. Alexa is forty-two. She looks toward Nigel and waits for him to nod before pulling out the seat opposite me. I extend my hand across the white void of the table. She takes it with a muted smile.
“Alexa Fuller,” she says.
“Erin. It’s great to finally meet you, Alexa. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Yes, great to finally put a face to a voice,” she says, her smile widening. We take our seats.
I want to get straight to it but Alexa is staring at Nigel. His presence is going to be an impediment.
“Nigel. I’ve got the camera on now. It’s recording already, so would you mind stepping out of the interview? I’ll make the tapes available. Just the other side of the door is fine.”
I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking Amal to do the same during my interview with Holli, but Alexa is by far the safest of my interviewees. Nigel shrugs. I’m sure he’s aware of Alexa’s history and her crime. He knows I’ll be perfectly safe in here alone with her. I’m not so sure how safe I’d be with Holli and Eddie Bishop, though. I wonder if the authorities would ever even allow those two to be unsupervised.
Eddie has requested another telephone interview. I received an email from Pentonville on Sunday. I’m not sure what exactly he wants to discuss. I hope he isn’t getting cold feet about filming next month. I hope it’s not more game-playing.
I wait until Nigel leaves and the bolt slides on the door before I speak again.
“Thank you, Alexa. I really appreciate you taking part in this process. I know we’ve talked it all through over the phone, but just to recap: What I’m going to do is record everything we say here today. If something comes out wrong or you’re not happy with how you’ve expressed something, then just let me know and I’ll ask you again or I’ll rephrase the question. You don’t have to worry about performing for the camera or anything like that. Just ignore it and talk to me. Just like a normal conversation.”
She smiles. I’ve said something funny.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a ‘normal conversation,’ Erin. So you’ll have to bear with me, I’m afraid. I’ll do my best.” She chuckles. Her voice is warm and deep. It’s funny to hear it now in person after hearing it on the phone for so long. We’ve had three pretty comprehensive phone conversations since we started the process. I’ve managed to keep off the central interview topics, as I want her to be able to tell me her story in full for the first time on camera. I want to keep it fresh. It’s strange to see her now, here, real, in front of me. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of her in her file, articles in papers, the story Mark read over my shoulder only a month ago, but this is different. She’s so calm, so self-possessed. I’ve seen her arrest photos from fourteen years ago, when she was twenty-eight. She’s more beautiful now somehow; she was attractive then but she has clearly grown into her beauty. Her soft dark blond hair is tied back loosely in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, her naturally sun-kissed skin has a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and forehead.
She’s only half joking about the lack of normal conversation. I can see it in her eyes. I smile. I understand why she might have agreed to this project. Cultural homesickness. I can’t imagine there are too many people like Alexa in Holloway. From where she’s from. We’re not the same generation, she and I, but we’re definitely the same tribe.
“Shall we give this a go then? Any questions before we start?” I ask.
“No, I’m happy to jump right in.” She straightens her already straight sweatshirt and shakes her bangs from her eyes.