‘Poppy,’ says a plaintive voice at my side.
It’s Ronnie. My heart instantly softens. He reminds me a bit of my dad with that combination of anxiety and determination on his face.
‘I heard that vicar chap from Peter’s Paradise is here. The really good-looking one. You don’t think …’
I know what he is going to say. Matthew’s success came from his role as a vicar. Vicars are Ronnie’s speciality. In fact he was a vicar himself until he got defrocked (he’s rather vague on the details) and now he specializes in pretend ones. Clearly Ronnie worries his toes are about to be trodden on.
‘Ronnie, I’d be amazed …’ But before I can say any more, Jennifer comes lolloping over to us.
‘Poppy, it’s true. He’s HERE!’
The music stops just as she yells the last part. Suddenly, the whole room goes silent.
Everyone is looking at the man who has just entered the ballroom. He’s wearing a black dinner suit but has made it look different from everyone else’s by artfully tucking that scarlet bow tie into his jacket pocket so it is just peeping out; rather like a nosegay. It’s the sort of thing that someone might do halfway through a party but it takes a certain confidence to arrive like that.
The crisp white shirt is open at the neck, revealing a mass of curly brown chest hair. On his feet, he’s wearing winkle pickers. In our day, they might have been considered old-fashioned but now they look cool. His dark hair is swept back from his face, revealing a strong forehead and a nose that isn’t afraid to stand out, rather like his dress sense.
He takes the glass of champagne offered by an admiring waitress. Downs it in one and accepts another. ‘Cheers,’ he says in a deep rich voice, as if he is talking to the cameras. Deeply. Intimately. You can’t help feeling that this is a man who enjoys an audience. He scans the crowd, resting momentarily on Doris Days and a few selected others as though each is the only person in the world who matters.
Then his eyes settle on my face.
I cannot breathe. Matthew Gordon is making his way straight towards me.
‘Pops,’ he says, now standing so close that I can smell his minty breath. No one has called me that for years.
I am aware of several jaws dropping around me and the unspoken ‘please introduce me’ expressions. This is a man whose name would mean nothing to my children. It might not mean much to my generation either unless they have encyclopaedic memories like Jennifer. But it doesn’t really matter. People would be staring anyway. This man is objectively drop-dead handsome in a fifty-plus way and he has presence. In spades.
Matthew puts out his hand to shake mine. His skin feels warm. Just as it had twenty-three years and three months ago when it had last pressed against mine in my little Kilburn bedsit with its one-bar electric fire. ‘What a lovely surprise!’
Central Criminal Court, London – Summer
Court No. 1 is large and modern, with white walls and an RAF-blue carpet more suited to an office. There is a series of long tables laid out before the judge’s bench, almost like a classroom. The prosecution and the defence barristers in their wigs and black gowns with flapping crow-like wings are seated in separate tiers. Behind them are their respective teams in their sharp suits who lean forward at times to pass a note or whisper in their barristers’ ears. There are computer screens on all the desks, including the judge’s, and even on the wall.
And, of course, there’s the jury. When the jurors first filed in at the beginning of this murder trial, they looked rather stunned and out of their comfort zone. But now, two days in, some are becoming more assured. Others are still twitchy, like the man fiddling with his anorak zip as though there was something wrong with it.
He stops, however, when a woman is called to take the stand. Instantly a deafening silence sweeps across the courtroom. All eyes are fixed on her. She is wearing a loose emerald-green dress with a bright white collar, which she keeps smoothing down as though nervous. The colour suits her auburn hair. Her face is devoid of make-up. She is not wearing earrings, although if you look closely you might see that her ears have been pierced. Her eyes dart from one place to another, resting fleetingly on all the heads turned towards her.
‘Poppy Page,’ says the prosecution counsel in her crisp clear voice. ‘Can you tell me precisely what happened when you met Matthew Gordon, the deceased, at the Association of Supporting Artistes and Agents’ Christmas party?’
The woman starts to answer, but the words appear stuck in her throat. Her fingers are twisted awkwardly as if she is threading one through the other like a child’s game.
‘We talked,’ she says finally.
‘About what?’ says the prosecutor sharply.
The woman looks up to the public gallery. There are quite a few there. It’s a popular place, not just for the family and friends of those on the stand but also for those seeking free entertainment and shelter from the rain. Right now, it’s actually nearly thirty degrees outside. We are, according to the forecasters, set for a heatwave. Both in court and out.
‘About the industry,’ she says. Each word that she utters appears to be a huge effort.
‘Did you talk about anything personal?’
Her eyes meet those of the prosecution barrister who has just spoken. ‘Why would we do that?’
‘That’s for you to tell me, I believe, Mrs Page. Let me ask you another question. Is it true that you used to know the deceased in a … non-professional capacity?’
The woman looks down at the ground. She nods her head in a quick, awkward jerking motion, rather like a puppet on a string.
‘Please use verbal responses only.’
‘Yes,’ she whispers.
‘Louder, please. I’m afraid the court might not have caught that.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you originally meet?’
There is silence. The barrister glances at the judge, who wears a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. They appear almost anachronistic, set just below the wig, which looks like it belongs to a different age. He leans forward disapprovingly.
‘Mrs Page,’ he says. ‘Would you like the question repeated?’
She shakes her head and then visibly swallows hard. It almost seems that something is stuck in her throat. She takes a sip of water. After that she looks down at her hands – now perfectly still – as if they are not her own.
And then she speaks.
2
Betty
Dear Poppy …
‘How can any of this have happened? You’ve been like a daughter to me and now … well, what can I say? I’d like to talk to you, face to face. But as you’ve discovered, you poor thing, it’s not private enough during visiting hours. So I’m writing to you instead. You might not like all of it. I’m not even sure where to begin. But I’m going to start with my own adult life. You’ll understand why, later on.
When I got married back in 1970, I was twenty and life was all very different. In our part of the East End, it wasn’t on for a couple to live together without a wedding ring. ‘Only a slut would do that,’ my mum used to say. ‘Don’t you ever go getting yourself into trouble, girl, or your dad and me will sling you out faster than you can say “sorry”.’