“Right. Well, I’m really sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose. Can I speak to Matilda?”
“She’s playing at the moment. I don’t want to upset her by making her stop. She was really sad you weren’t there but she’s better now. Just leave it.”
“I don’t understand it—I never sleep so late. I didn’t mean to. Please tell her I’m sorry, at least.”
“It is what it is,” he says. A pause, then he changes the subject so firmly I can’t argue. “Are you getting some work done?”
“I’m about to start. Going to make a stew for supper.”
“Well, I’ll let you get on with it.” He hangs up before I can say goodbye. I hold my finger above the call icon before moving it instead to home and canceling the whole process. We’ll talk later, over a nice dinner. I’ll make Tilly understand I’m sorry, that I didn’t want to miss the trip. I shake my head clear and get out of bed, pull on some pajamas, and go downstairs to work.
Two coffees later I open the brief, blinking through the fog of a headache that’s lodged itself behind my right eyeball. Regina versus Madeleine Smith. The Central Criminal Court. Transferred from the magistrates’ court at Camberwell Green, the closest court to the scene of the crime—a rich residential area in south London.
My phone beeps. I jump for it, hoping that Carl is ready to make up.
Any thoughts on the case yet?
Patrick. Pleasure sweeps through me, then anger. How dare he text me on the weekend, especially when I’ve finished with him. Then his message sinks in.
What case? I text back.
Madeleine Smith. Ur first murder, no?
I didn’t think I’d mentioned it to him. It slowly dawns on me and I turn to look at the brief. There it is on the back sheet, the instructing solicitor in my first murder. Saunders & Co. Patrick’s company. For a moment I wonder exactly what I have done for the case, how far I’ve gone, how many times. How hard, how fast. But I know that’s not why. Patrick won’t fuck with work. Just me.
Another beep.
Hmmm yes, ur welcome. He’s being stroppy.
I finished with you on Friday. I feel like I’m fifteen again.
I know I know. But this is work. Conference nxt wk. Client wants to meet u ASAP. I’ll book w/clerks.
The end of the conversation. Not the end of the affair. Nothing about Friday, nothing to worry about. If he’d shagged someone else he’d have told me. Not that I should care. I look again at my text: I finished with you on Friday. Delete it. Delete the whole exchange. Maybe I should refuse to work with Patrick for the good of my marriage, but this is what I’ve been working up to all my career. I push him out of my mind and open the files, start reading. I’m doing my job, that’s all.
Later, I put the brief away and start to cook supper. I chop an onion slowly. The last sunlight catches the blade of the knife and I hold it out, angling it from one side to another, letting the reflection dance off the walls and ceiling. It’s one of the big kitchen knives we were given as a wedding present, me quickly handing a coin over to the donor, my friend Sandra from school. “I don’t want to cut love—we’ve known each other too long,” I said as she smiled and pocketed the silver.
Madeleine Smith hasn’t just cut love, she’s hacked and chopped and stabbed at it repeatedly, leaving fifteen separate injuries on her husband in their bedroom in Clapham. There are several from which he could have died, though according to the prosecution case summary the pathologist has concluded that the most likely is the stab wound to his neck that almost severed the jugular vein. The red stains are vivid on the white bed sheets where the body was found, shown in pictures provided by the scene-of-crime officer.
I select another onion and slice it finely.
The stew has cooked to perfection by the time that Carl and Matilda return home but Matilda takes one look and says that she is hungry, but she doesn’t want to eat meat.
“You ate lamb yesterday,” I say.
“When I was talking to Daddy today I asked him about how chickens are killed and I didn’t like what he said.”
“You don’t like very many vegetables,” I say.
“I know, but I don’t want animals to die.”
I look at Carl for help but he shrugs.
“Okay, sweetie, I’ll make you an omelet. But maybe you should think about it some more,” I say, and she nods. I stir the stew round, hold out the spoon to Carl. “Do you want some?”
He takes the spoon and looks at it, smells it. Then his mouth twists and he pushes it back into my hands. “No, not really. Not that hungry.”
“I wish you’d said…You’re not going vegetarian too?” I try not to sound cross.
“No, it’s not that,” he says. “It just smells a bit…”
“A bit what?” I suppress my anger less.
“A bit…Look, don’t worry about it. You made the effort, that’s what counts. And as far as Tilly going veggie, I’ll support her in any choice she makes. It’ll be fun, won’t it? We’ll find lots of new foods you like.” Carl smiles at Matilda. He walks over to the stove, stirs at the stew. “It was worth a try, Alison, but maybe let me stick to the cooking? I know what Matilda’s favorites are. And I’ll make her that omelet.”
I don’t reply, and move past him to pick up the casserole dish and take it off the heat, putting its lid slightly to one side for the stew to cool down. I’ll take it in for lunch, freeze the leftovers. Its cloying, meaty scent will dog me for weeks. The chunks of carrot I’d so carefully chopped into batons poke their heads through the viscous gravy. It looks like sick. I feel sick. My offering, not even burnt, rejected.
Matilda comes over to me and I kneel down and hug her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come with you today, sweetie.” I speak to her quietly, words meant for her alone. I put out my hand and stroke her cheek before pulling her into a hug. She hugs me back hard. I push her out gently to arm’s length, holding her shoulders so I can make eye contact. “I promise that very soon, we will go out. Just you and me. We’ll go wherever you like. I promise. Okay?”
She nods.
“I promise.” Then I pull her back and hug her again. She relaxes into me, head warm against my shoulder. A knot inside me loosens.
Carl watches me bathe Matilda. I brush her hair and dry it, read her a story and sing to her as she falls asleep. After we shut her bedroom door he says, “It’s very important to keep promises to children.”
“I’m not going to break it.”
“Make sure you don’t.”
“There’s no need to threaten me, Carl. I’m doing my best. Can’t you be more supportive?”
“Don’t push me, Alison. You’re in no position to be reproachful.”
Anger blazes in me, subsides. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
He reaches over and runs one finger down the side of my face. I catch his hand in mine and kiss it, then put my other hand round the back of his neck to pull his face closer. We’re about to kiss. Then he pulls away.