‘We won’t tell her if you don’t,’ replies Saskia, with an unusually playful look on her face. All three of us smile.
We head to our rooms to brush our teeth, arrange to meet in reception ten minutes later. The man we spoke to yesterday, John, is there when I arrive, by the front desk, with a woman I presume is Cassie, his wife, and the two boys, along with a baby she holds in her arms. Cassie and Saskia have never met, comment politely on how chilly it is, a perfect day for an open fire.
‘I think there’s one in the front lounge,’ Saskia says.
Cassie suggests we have coffee there before we head out. Once we’re seated Mike and John engage in a conversation about the refurb of their office. John complains that the waiting room lacks privacy, can be seen from the street.
‘Yes, not ideal, perhaps we should look at blinds or some kind of screen,’ Mike replies.
The word: screen. Like the one that’ll be in court next week separating you and me.
The two older children sit on the floor by the French windows, to the right of the fireplace. A basket of toys which they proceed to tip over, cries of brum-brum as they play with cars, an attempt at a gunshot noise when one of them finds a plastic water pistol. A small slice of winter sun creeps in, breaks through the layer of clouds in the sky, lands perfectly around the boys, the gold of their hair, the blue of their eyes. Little angels. Again, I’m drawn to join in, or cry, so beautiful. In the end I do nothing, stay where I am, not sure either crying or joining in would be welcome, or normal. When I turn back, Mike’s watching me, a strange look on his face, attempts to smile when he sees me noticing. Cassie begins a conversation with Saskia about Wetherbridge.
‘Obviously it’s years away,’ she says, looking down at the baby girl in her arms. ‘But it’s always good to hear an insider’s view.’
Saskia’s transfixed by the baby, shifts her gaze but it ends up back there. Cassie notices, asks if she’d like to hold her.
‘No thanks, I’m not very good with babies.’
‘What about you, would you like to?’ she asks me.
‘Yes please.’
The words fly out of my mouth, she stands up, transfers the baby into my arms. Flushed skin, her eyes closed, a sweet curtain of lashes so long they almost touch the upper part of her cheeks. There’s nothing in her mouth, no dummy or bottle, but she makes a continual sucking movement with her perfectly peach lips, in and then out. A small flower bud.
Beautiful, pure things make me feel ugly. Tarnished. I remember asking you when I was three, maybe four, where I came from. I waited for you to sweep me up, rub our noses together in an Eskimo kiss and reply, you came from me, you belong with me, I love you. Just like the mummy of another little girl did when I saw her ask the same question at school, but you didn’t respond, walked out of the kitchen, left me standing there alone.
Cassie says to Mike, your daughter’s a natural, and just for a moment, a split second, I feel what it’s like to be mistaken for theirs.
‘Actually, Milly’s our foster daughter, Phoebe’s on a hockey trip,’ Mike replies.
‘I told you that last night, Cassie,’ John adds.
‘Sorry, baby brain. That’s great though, I really admire you guys for taking on –’
Someone like me.
She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, the baby lets out a loud angry wail. Eyes open, looking at me. Scared. She sensed it. Whatever it is inside of me. Felt me holding her that little bit too tightly. Even tighter when Mike said I wasn’t their daughter. I hand her back to her mother, safe hands. You’d hope so.
We drive to the Arboretum and when we arrive it’s busy. Couples, families, the occasional person on their own. Exotic shrubs and painstakingly manicured tree-lined avenues, the autumnal colours, burnt oranges and yellows, an intense crimson echo from the red leaves on the trees above. We walk mainly in silence. I think it means we’re comfortable, a nice thought. Happy. Mike comments that there aren’t many kids my age here.
‘I’m afraid it’s not so cool to holiday with parents any more.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I reply. ‘I’m enjoying that it’s just the three of us.’
Mike smiles, relaxed. And though he would never admit it out loud, I know he agrees, a sense of relief at not having to be the go-between for Saskia and Phoebe. Nicer all round.
Later that evening after dinner I buy Morgan a snow globe from the hotel gift shop. Fir trees, two children holding hands, a snowman built next to them. I text her again, tell her I’ve bought her a present. No reply.
At first I think I’m imagining it, or it’s the TV through the wall, but as I move closer to the adjoining door, place my ear flat against it, I hear them. Arguing. Saskia was drunk at dinner, virtually mute apart from hiccups following dessert which of course she was too full to eat. Mike says something about her getting a grip, especially with the court case next week. I’m trying, she says. Try harder, he replies. Something’s thrown, a glass maybe, it hits the wall. Their voices lower, she begins to cry. I imagine Mike holding her, telling her it’s okay. After a while their voices stop, other noises instead. The moaning from Saskia makes me feel funny. Involved. When the noises stop I take off my clothes, run my fingers up and down the white scar ladders on both sides of my ribs, then climb into the shower.
Scrub my skin raw.
23
Five days to go.
I walk over to the balcony door, open the curtains, a robin is there on the railing. Its breast, red. Puffed out in the cold. When it sees me, it flies off. Doesn’t feel safe any more. I don’t blame it.
When we got back from the Cotswolds on Wednesday I went to the court with Mike to review my video evidence. It wasn’t easy to watch. The girl on the screen talking about her mother. That girl was me.
I wish I could retract my statement, be able to say:
That didn’t happen.
But it did.
While I was there the lawyers took me through a mock cross-examination.
Did you know Daniel Carrington?
Yes.
How did you know him?
He was one of the children at my mother’s work.
Were you in the house when she brought him home?
Yes.
The lawyers warned me the defence will do anything, and everything, to trip me up, make me look like an unreliable witness. How do you feel about that, Fatty asked. I said I felt fine.
I lied.