He coughs. “We’re going to have to come back soon—next week. It’s important for Madeleine’s defense that we get the full picture of what happened. And what came before.”
“Fine. That’s fine. Just not today. This is enough for now. It’s going to take me hours to calm her down, and I just don’t have time…” Francine lays a hand on Madeleine’s shoulder and shakes her gently. “Madeleine, shhhh. The children will be back home soon.”
Patrick and I leave them to it. We call a minicab from outside the house and travel to the station in silence, catching the London train with only a couple of moments to spare.
5
I’m going to get a drink. Do you want one? Gin?”
I nod and Patrick walks off to find the buffet car. I feel drained, Madeleine’s sobs still ringing in my head. We only spent an hour and a half with her but it feels like much longer. Tilly will be finishing school now, running out to greet Carl, who’ll be standing chatting to the other parents. Maybe they’ll go to a café for hot chocolate. Or maybe one of her friends will suggest a play date and Carl will take her there and sit and drink tea with the mum while the girls play dress-up. I can almost smell Matilda’s hair for a moment, silky against my face, her head warm against mine. My heart lurches with a jolt of fear as she disappears from me, but Patrick returns with the gins and I take a long drink, exorcising my dread with spirits. It’s been a difficult afternoon, that’s all. Patrick leans forward, pushes his hand hard up between my legs and whispers into my ear. “There’s a toilet just there. No one else is in this carriage.”
I know I should argue, remind him that I’ve finished the relationship. I don’t. I look at him for a moment, the heat from his hand insistent in me. Pouring the rest of my drink into my mouth, I swallow fast and follow him, grabbing my handbag at the last minute.
He locks the toilet door and turns to me. I hold my breath, waiting for him to kiss me, pull my face in towards his, maybe touch my cheek with some tenderness like he did earlier today. My nerves are jangling, strung tense by Madeleine’s emotion, but this’ll be the way to calm down. We face each other for a moment, eyes locked, and this—yes—this is the moment that he kisses me, and pushes his hand down past my tight waistband into my underwear and the day unwinds…
I sigh and he pushes me gently down to my knees and unzips his fly. Nothing like a quid pro quo. Trying to avoid a puddle of piss, I shift on my knees over towards him and take hold of him, balancing my other hand against the sink unit beside me on which he’s leaning. He grasps my head and pulls me closer, and I shut my eyes.
After Patrick finishes, I swallow and then rinse my mouth with water, spitting it out against the mirror. I’m tired, and I can see my mascara is blurred in the corners of my eyes and any lipstick long smeared off. My sense of tired disquiet has come back as the afterglow fades. I see this dissatisfaction mirrored in the face of the woman waiting outside the train loo, toddler in hand, tutting quietly as Patrick and I return past her to our seats. I forget my handbag in the rush of it all and she calls to me, holding it out with a stiff arm as if to minimize any potential contact between us.
While I retrieve my bag, head hung so as not to catch the woman’s eye, Patrick sits back down and goes straight on to his BlackBerry, each key click furthering the distance between us. I look out the window, trying to ignore the scent of stale urine that’s emanating from something near me. I was sure I’d avoided the piss on the floor. Finally I pick up my bag, sniff one corner. Then I touch a finger to it, pull it away. It’s damp. I’ve protected my knees, but not the Mulberry bag I bought myself with the fees from my first big trial. Patrick sees what I’m doing and grimaces in disgust before returning to his emails.
My phone rings as I transfer the final items from the stained handbag to the wheelie bag. My heart sinks the moment I see the name of Matilda’s school appear on the screen, and I straighten my shoulders before answering, pulling myself away mentally from Patrick to the responsibilities of home. The teacher barely waits for my hello before telling me that I’m late to pick up Matilda.
“Carl was collecting her today. That was the arrangement.” I try to keep calm, to emulate the businesslike tone of the teacher on the other end.
“Not according to him. He thought you were picking Matilda up.”
“He told me his last client was at two.” Closer to panic.
“To be honest, it doesn’t matter who told who what. It’s five past four and Matilda still hasn’t been collected. We can put her into late club until quarter to five, but we need to know what arrangements are going to be made to collect her.”
I look out the train window. We’re approaching Marylebone, at least, but I still have to make my way from the station all the way up to Highgate.
“Can’t you get hold of my husband?”
“His phone is switched off.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can. I’m on a train right now.”
“We’ll see you at four forty-five.” Not a question, a statement as the call ends.
My heart rate’s beginning to rise, a tightening of panic in my throat. Poor Tilly, left waiting like this. I was sure…But there’s no point, I just have to get there. I pull a mirror out of my handbag and check my face, ensuring that no sign of Patrick still adheres.
Patrick eventually looks up from his screen. “What’s happened?”
“I was sure Matilda was being picked up. She hasn’t been, though. And I’m going to be late.”
“Ah, well, I’m sure they’ll get over it.” He looks back down, clearly without any interest in the subject. I’m about to say more about it but bite my tongue—what’s the point? He suddenly glances up again.
“Does that mean that we can’t have a proper discussion of the case when we get back?”
“Well, yes, I’m afraid it does. I have to go and pick her up.”
“Isn’t there anybody else?” He sounds impatient.
“No, there isn’t. They can’t get hold of her dad so it’s up to me.”
“Have you tried calling him?” Patrick is completely engaged for the first time since we’ve sat back down.
I shake my head, call Carl’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.
“It’s off. The school said that too. There’s no point—he never answers when he’s with a client.” I return to salvaging what I can from the piss-stained bag.
“We need to discuss the case. That’s more important than babysitting. He should be doing it. You need to chase him. Call him again.”
I dial Carl for a second time. The call goes straight to voicemail. “I told you. And it’s not babysitting, Patrick. It’s looking after my daughter. I have to collect her.” I finish with the handbag, roll it up, and push it into the overhead rack. If someone else wants it, they’re welcome to it. The train approaches the station and I pull on my coat, walking over to the door in preparation for our arrival at Paddington. “I’ll call you later.”
He doesn’t argue further. His face twists and he puts his hand out, touches mine. I pull my hand away, now too preoccupied with Matilda to welcome his touch.