My eyes are shut and I’m warm and lying in my bed and how lovely that Matilda’s there to say hello.
“Mummy! You slept in your chair. Why did you sleep in your chair?”
Chair. Not bed. Chair.
“Open your eyes, Mummy. Say hello to me and Daddy.”
Not a dream, either. I open one eye, shut it again. “Too bright. It’s too bright. Please turn off the lights.”
“The lights aren’t on, silly Mummy. It’s morning.”
I open my eyes. It’s my chambers, place of my working week, full of briefs, case law, the detritus from the night before. My daughter shouldn’t be standing here in front of me, one hand outstretched on my knee. She should be tucked up in bed at home, or sitting at the kitchen table eating her breakfast. She is here, though. I reach my hand out and cover hers before trying to get myself into some order.
I’m curled up to one side in the armchair, and as I straighten up, I feel my left foot has fallen asleep. I move my legs and wince as blood returns to my extremities. That’s not the bit that hurts most, though. Flashes of the night before burst through my head. I can see the desk over Matilda’s head, shadows of Patrick pounding into me as she leans over and hugs me. I put my arms around her and inhale the scent of her head. It calms the pounding of my heart, a little. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve just fallen asleep in chambers after a bit too much to drink, that’s all. That’s all that’s happened. And I’ve finished with Patrick, too. It’s going to be all right. Maybe.
Finally I feel strength enough to look at Carl. He’s leaning in the doorway, disappointment in every feature, the lines from nose to mouth strongly pronounced. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, as usual, but the silver in his hair and the sternness in his face give him the air of someone decades older than me.
I clear my throat, my mouth dry, looking for the words that might make this all go away.
“I came back from the club to pick up the new brief and then I wanted to have a little sit-down and the next thing I knew…”
Carl is unsmiling. “I thought so.”
“I’m sorry. I really meant to get home sooner.”
“Come on, I know what you’re like. But I really hoped that this time you’d behave like a grown-up.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I hoped you’d be here, so I thought we’d come and get you and take you home.”
Matilda starts to wander round the room. Before I realize what’s happening she crawls underneath the desk. A sudden cry, a scramble out, straight to me.
“Mummy, look, Mummy, my hand, my hand it hurts, it hurts…” The sobs drown her words. Carl pushes past me and takes hold of her hand, wiping it with a tissue, which he holds up to me. There’s blood on it.
“Why is there broken glass on the floor?” His voice is tight, even as he soothes Matilda.
I get up slowly, move underneath the desk and fish out the photograph frame that was knocked off the night before. Matilda smiles out at me from behind jags of glass.
“My picture was on the floor. Why was it on the floor?” She sobs even louder.
“I must have knocked it off by accident. I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
“You should be more careful.” Carl is angry.
“I didn’t know you’d be coming in.”
He shakes his head. “I should be able to bring Matilda to your office.” He pauses for a moment. “And that’s not the point. I shouldn’t have had to bring Matilda to your office. You should have been home last night. Like a proper mother.”
There’s nothing I can say. I tidy up the rest of the glass and wrap it in an old newspaper before putting it in the bin. The photograph of Matilda itself is undamaged and I take it from the broken frame, leaning it up against the corner of my computer. I tuck my shirt down into my skirt. Carl’s face is furious, his brow knitted, before the rage subsides to an expression of deep sadness. I feel a tightness in my throat, a sharp sensation of guilt and remorse, strong enough to dull the acid taste of my hangover.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
He’s silent for a long while, tiredness etched on his face.
“You look exhausted. I’m so sorry, Carl,” I say.
“I am exhausted. Far too late a night waiting up for you. I should have known better than to bother expecting you home.”
“You should have called.”
“I did. You weren’t picking up.”
Stung by his tone, I pull my phone from my bag. Twelve missed calls. Fifteen texts. I swipe delete. Too much, too late. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
He takes a deep breath. “Let’s not argue in front of Tilly. You’re here now. We’re together.” He walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder and for a moment I put my hand up to his, before he takes a tighter hold and shakes me. “It’s time to go home.”
Then he catches sight of my phone. He picks it up and examines the crack. “Honestly, Alison. You only had it mended a few months ago.” He sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to sort it out for you again.”
I don’t argue, meekly following him out of the building.
The journey’s quick to Archway, cars and buses slipstreaming down the empty streets. I lean my head against the window, looking out at the ruins of the night before. Burger wrappers, bottles, and here and there a small street-cleaning cart trundling along, its brushes turning as it erases the traces of Friday night.
Gray’s Inn Road. Cast-iron railings obscuring the view into the expanses of lawn. Rosebery Avenue, Sadler’s Wells—books I read long ago spring into my mind. No Castanets at the Wells, Veronica at the Wells. What was the other one? That was it. Masquerade at the Wells. I know all about that, the masks, the doubling. My hands clench, the knuckles whitening. I’m trying not to think about how the rest of Patrick’s night might have gone. Did he believe me when I said it was over? Did he go home or go back out, to look for my replacement? Carl reaches over from the steering wheel and puts his hand over mine.
“You seem tense. We’ll be home soon.”
“I’m just so sorry, Carl. And tired. We’re all tired, I know.”
I turn farther away from him, trying to push the guilt away, still looking out the window. Past Angel now, the restaurants of Upper Street that start well and end badly in a Wetherspoon’s on Highbury Corner. The hanging baskets trailing off along Holloway Road, student dives above curry houses and the curious row of latex clothing shops catering for tastes Patrick most likely shares.
“Did the trial go well?” Carl says, breaking the silence as we start to drive up the hill towards home. I’m taken aback at the tone of his voice, more friendly than before. Maybe he’s stopped being angry.
“The trial?”
“The one you’ve been doing this week, the robbery.”
“I got it kicked out at halftime…” My words come out from very far away, as if through meters of water, my head heavy and floating.
“So you’re free next week? Be nice for you to spend some time with Tilly.”
Not submerged anymore. Jerked suddenly above the surface, spluttering and fighting for breath. He’s still angry.