Good Me Bad Me(52)

‘I don’t think you’re coming,’ I tell her. ‘You’re staying here with Sevita. Next time maybe.’

She cocks her head, licks my hand and pads into the kitchen alongside me.

‘There’s freshly squeezed orange juice over there, would you like some?’ Saskia offers.

‘No thanks, I’m going to make some toast.’

Mike’s on his mobile facing away from us, leaning into the sink.

‘Of course, I’ll bring her Wednesday after we get back, does that work for you? Okay, sure. Thanks, June, see you then.’

He hangs up, turns round to face us.

‘That was June, we’ve arranged for you to go in and watch your video evidence this Wednesday, three o’clock. I’ll take you.’

I nod, appetite gone.

The traffic is slow leaving London but a long stretch of motorway follows, the roadsides greener as we get further away from the city. Mike asks me how my sketches are coming along for the art prize. Fine, I tell him. Saskia turns and says she’d love to see them some time. She and Mike exchange a smile and she places her hand on the back of his neck for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve seen her touch him.

After an hour or so we turn into a long gravel driveway, a fountain in the middle when we reach the end. A member of staff explains to Mike that the car park’s full, what with it being half-term and all.

‘Leave the key in the ignition, we’ll move it into an overspill in the field over there. Hang on to this ticket and whenever you need the car show it to reception and they’ll arrange for it to be brought round for you.’

Mike checks us in and we’re shown to our rooms, a family suite, separate bedrooms with an adjoining door. When we go down for lunch I’m struck by how many children there are. Crawling; running; crying; spilling. Everywhere. But it’s not just children, you’re here too. Your face, on the front of a newspaper, the headline ‘One Week to Go’. A man at a table by the window, he holds you. Reads you. Folds you. Places you in the inside pocket of the coat handed to him by one of the waitresses. He stands up and puts it on. How close your face lies to his heart. But truth be told, you love in a different way from most. Your love isn’t so gentle and kind to be a kiss from your lips to a person’s heart. It isn’t like that at all.

Mike asks if I’m okay. Yes, I’m fine, I tell him. I don’t want to ruin the trip by letting him know you came too.

After lunch we spend the afternoon walking in the grounds, stop and have a few conversations with other families. Mike bumps into somebody he works with. The man kisses Saskia and when I’m introduced, he says, ‘So this is Milly.’

Mike nods and smiles, yes. Yes it is. The man explains that Cassie, his wife, is here too but she’s gone to change the baby.

‘And these little scruff pots are also mine.’

Two small boys, no older than five or six, play chase in and out of his legs. It looks fun, I wouldn’t mind joining in. Simple game. No harm. Later on in the afternoon children’s activities are set up on the front lawn, a bit like a school sports day. Saskia and me sit in the armchairs by the window, watch them. Ring o’ roses, the egg and spoon, even a race for the dads, not for the mums though, if there was and you were here in flesh and blood, you’d have joined in, you’d probably have won. Mike arrives, yawns, suggests we all have an early night. He explained to me during our walk in the afternoon that he locked the door to the cellar last week, didn’t want me to hurt myself. I thanked him, wished I could tell him not being able to check what’s down there hurts me more.

After dinner we go to our separate rooms. A reply from Morgan, two words only.

Fuck you.



The next morning over breakfast we decide to take the car to the Arboretum. The sky is overcast, rain threatens. Mike says not to worry, Phoebe’s wellies and waterproof jacket are in the car, we brought them for you.

‘Won’t she mind?’ I ask.

‘We won’t tell her if you don’t,’ replies Saskia, with an unusually playful look on her face. All three of us smile.

We head to our rooms to brush our teeth, arrange to meet in reception ten minutes later. The man we spoke to yesterday, John, is there when I arrive, by the front desk, with a woman I presume is Cassie, his wife, and the two boys, along with a baby she holds in her arms. Cassie and Saskia have never met, comment politely on how chilly it is, a perfect day for an open fire.

‘I think there’s one in the front lounge,’ Saskia says.

Cassie suggests we have coffee there before we head out. Once we’re seated Mike and John engage in a conversation about the refurb of their office. John complains that the waiting room lacks privacy, can be seen from the street.

‘Yes, not ideal, perhaps we should look at blinds or some kind of screen,’ Mike replies.

The word: screen. Like the one that’ll be in court next week separating you and me.

The two older children sit on the floor by the French windows, to the right of the fireplace. A basket of toys which they proceed to tip over, cries of brum-brum as they play with cars, an attempt at a gunshot noise when one of them finds a plastic water pistol. A small slice of winter sun creeps in, breaks through the layer of clouds in the sky, lands perfectly around the boys, the gold of their hair, the blue of their eyes. Little angels. Again, I’m drawn to join in, or cry, so beautiful. In the end I do nothing, stay where I am, not sure either crying or joining in would be welcome, or normal. When I turn back, Mike’s watching me, a strange look on his face, attempts to smile when he sees me noticing. Cassie begins a conversation with Saskia about Wetherbridge.