“I’m sorry. I can’t.” He walks into the living room and shuts the door. I wait for a moment to see if he’ll change his mind, then I return to the study and close the door behind me. I try to work, using statement and statute to dull the sting of rejection, while the stench of stew lies heavy in the air.
Later that night, as I spoon the cold slop into small plastic containers, Carl comes into the kitchen and shuts the door behind him.
“I’ve thought about it all day, whether I should show you this,” he says.
“Show me what?” Something in his tone makes my hand shake and spill gravy down the side of the box I’m filling.
“I need you to understand what it’s like sometimes, why we get so worked up.”
“What do you need me to understand?” I put the big spoon back in the casserole and fasten the lid on the box.
Carl doesn’t reply. He fiddles with his phone. I put the boxes into the freezer, tessellating them neatly, pushing the half-finished bags of frozen peas to one side. As I thump at the ice on the sides of the freezer, I hear the opening bars of “Rolling in the Deep” and smile, about to join in the singing in my head. But as I mentally draw breath, I hear myself already singing. If singing is what it can be called. I slam the freezer hard shut and turn to Carl. He holds his phone out to me, wordlessly, a look of something like compassion in his eyes.
Last night, I’d been glorious, singing without a care in the world. So what if no one else was joining in, they didn’t know what they were missing! I was a star, riding a wave of music that had carried me away from all the petty wrangling that had dominated the end of the afternoon. Today, I see what they saw: a hammered woman, with her bra hanging out of her dress and her makeup running halfway down her face. I watch her, appalled. Her voice tears through me—the notes I’d hit so well, she misses by a mile. The rhythm off, the dancing worse. And worst of all, the looks on the children’s faces when she tries to get them to join in and dance with her. No, that’s not the worst—the worst is the muffled voices on the recording. There’s even laughter. Dave, Louisa—Christ, is that Carl’s laugh, too?
“Why the hell didn’t you stop me?”
“I tried, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Instead you thought you’d video me making a twat of myself?”
“I wasn’t doing it to be unkind. I just needed you to see what it’s like, having to live with you, sometimes. Not all the time, but when you’re like this, it’s really hard.”
I look again at the phone. The woman onscreen—the me onscreen—is clearly set up for a long night. She staggers across the sofa, sitting down heavily to sing Prince. Then, the finale, the Smiths song I was so sure I’d aced. It’s not a heavenly thing to watch. My hands are cold, trembling as I hold the phone. A flush prickles up my face, shame writhing in the pit of my stomach. I close my eyes but I can still hear my voice shrieking and slurring over the words I thought I’d sung so clearly the night before. Struggling to control my shaking hands, I press pause, and am about to press delete when Carl takes his phone back from me.
“I was just trying to have some fun,” I say.
“It isn’t fun if it’s upsetting everyone else,” Carl says, looking down.
“I didn’t realize people were upset.”
“That’s the thing, Alison. You never do.”
He leaves the room and I keep spooning stew into boxes. Once I finish I wipe down the counters and start the dishwasher. I turn off the light and stand in the dark for a long time, listening to the humming of all the appliances, hoping it’ll calm my mind and drown out the sound of my own voice. I can still hear it shattering like broken glass.
4
Carl makes breakfast for Matilda in the morning, getting her ready for school. Given I’m not in court I’d planned to take her in but he’s being so efficient I don’t want to get in the way of it. I go down to the kitchen to get a coffee.
“If you give me your phone I’ll get it fixed for you. There’s that shop near the therapy center,” he says.
I try to look nonchalant, running through the dangers in my mind. I’m always careful. Very careful. Messages, emails—all deleted the moment they’ve been read. As long as I warn Patrick in time. I shrug. “If you can be bothered. It’s not that bad.”
“It’s worth fixing the crack before it gets any worse. You don’t want to have to buy a new one.”
I know he’s right but the prissiness of his tone grates on me. I swallow it down—he’s doing me a favor, after all.
“Make sure you’ve done a backup. In case something goes wrong,” he says. He sits down and waits while I back up the phone wirelessly, wipe it, and hand it over.
“Thank you—it’s very kind of you.”
He takes it from me and leaves, Matilda hugging me briefly before trotting off at his heels.
As soon as Carl is out the door I call Patrick’s office to get hold of him before he calls my mobile. His associate partner, Chloe Sami, answers the call and puts me through. Before I can speak, Patrick says, “I’ve booked the conference for tomorrow.”
“I’ve read through the brief. No more papers from the prosecution yet?” My voice is cool. I can always talk to Patrick about work.
“No. But she needs to meet you, start building confidence in her team.”
“Okay.”
“I think you’re perfect for this,” he continues. “You’ll make the jury see it from her point of view—they’ll relate entirely to you. And it’s complicated, legally speaking. You’re very strong at that.” Patrick sounds professional. It’s an objective assessment, not a compliment, but a small shiver of pleasure runs through me nonetheless. “Right, the conference is at two o’clock tomorrow,” he continues. “I’ll meet you at Marylebone station at half twelve. Madeleine is living at her sister’s in Beaconsfield.”
“I wish you’d told me you were instructing me in this case when I saw you on Friday.”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise for you. Anyway, I’ve got to go now,” he says.
“Hang on, Patrick. Just to say, don’t call me on my mobile today? Or message? I don’t have it with me.”
“We’ve just spoken. Why would I need to be in touch?” He hangs up. His words have a sting but I don’t want to call back. I put it out of my mind and get to work.
The rest of Monday passes, the remnants of the hangover too and with it the fear. Mostly. There’s still a tender spot behind my right eye, a small reminder of the pain I’ve caused to myself and to Carl and Tilly. Never again, I think, hoping the words aren’t as hollow as they sound. I read the papers, highlighting and noting. He gives me back my phone at the end of the day, good as new.
On Tuesday morning, I emerge booted and suited, with Matilda dancing along beside me. As I walk her into school, a group of mothers form a huddle against me, lithe in their gym clothes. I shake my head, trying to throw off the paranoia. I smile at one, wave at the others, say hello to a couple of fathers who walk past. Eventually the women smile back before talking to each other again, heads close together. Yes, her, for once. Amazing, isn’t it, that she’s made the effort. It’s always that poor husband of hers. I shake my head again. That’s not what they’re saying to each other. Why would it be? Matilda pulls my hand and we walk down the stairs into her classroom.