Good Me Bad Me(53)

‘Obviously it’s years away,’ she says, looking down at the baby girl in her arms. ‘But it’s always good to hear an insider’s view.’

Saskia’s transfixed by the baby, shifts her gaze but it ends up back there. Cassie notices, asks if she’d like to hold her.

‘No thanks, I’m not very good with babies.’

‘What about you, would you like to?’ she asks me.

‘Yes please.’

The words fly out of my mouth, she stands up, transfers the baby into my arms. Flushed skin, her eyes closed, a sweet curtain of lashes so long they almost touch the upper part of her cheeks. There’s nothing in her mouth, no dummy or bottle, but she makes a continual sucking movement with her perfectly peach lips, in and then out. A small flower bud.

Beautiful, pure things make me feel ugly. Tarnished. I remember asking you when I was three, maybe four, where I came from. I waited for you to sweep me up, rub our noses together in an Eskimo kiss and reply, you came from me, you belong with me, I love you. Just like the mummy of another little girl did when I saw her ask the same question at school, but you didn’t respond, walked out of the kitchen, left me standing there alone.

Cassie says to Mike, your daughter’s a natural, and just for a moment, a split second, I feel what it’s like to be mistaken for theirs.

‘Actually, Milly’s our foster daughter, Phoebe’s on a hockey trip,’ Mike replies.

‘I told you that last night, Cassie,’ John adds.

‘Sorry, baby brain. That’s great though, I really admire you guys for taking on –’

Someone like me.

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, the baby lets out a loud angry wail. Eyes open, looking at me. Scared. She sensed it. Whatever it is inside of me. Felt me holding her that little bit too tightly. Even tighter when Mike said I wasn’t their daughter. I hand her back to her mother, safe hands. You’d hope so.

We drive to the Arboretum and when we arrive it’s busy. Couples, families, the occasional person on their own. Exotic shrubs and painstakingly manicured tree-lined avenues, the autumnal colours, burnt oranges and yellows, an intense crimson echo from the red leaves on the trees above. We walk mainly in silence. I think it means we’re comfortable, a nice thought. Happy. Mike comments that there aren’t many kids my age here.

‘I’m afraid it’s not so cool to holiday with parents any more.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I reply. ‘I’m enjoying that it’s just the three of us.’

Mike smiles, relaxed. And though he would never admit it out loud, I know he agrees, a sense of relief at not having to be the go-between for Saskia and Phoebe. Nicer all round.

Later that evening after dinner I buy Morgan a snow globe from the hotel gift shop. Fir trees, two children holding hands, a snowman built next to them. I text her again, tell her I’ve bought her a present. No reply.

At first I think I’m imagining it, or it’s the TV through the wall, but as I move closer to the adjoining door, place my ear flat against it, I hear them. Arguing. Saskia was drunk at dinner, virtually mute apart from hiccups following dessert which of course she was too full to eat. Mike says something about her getting a grip, especially with the court case next week. I’m trying, she says. Try harder, he replies. Something’s thrown, a glass maybe, it hits the wall. Their voices lower, she begins to cry. I imagine Mike holding her, telling her it’s okay. After a while their voices stop, other noises instead. The moaning from Saskia makes me feel funny. Involved. When the noises stop I take off my clothes, run my fingers up and down the white scar ladders on both sides of my ribs, then climb into the shower.

Scrub my skin raw.





23


Five days to go.

I walk over to the balcony door, open the curtains, a robin is there on the railing. Its breast, red. Puffed out in the cold. When it sees me, it flies off. Doesn’t feel safe any more. I don’t blame it.

When we got back from the Cotswolds on Wednesday I went to the court with Mike to review my video evidence. It wasn’t easy to watch. The girl on the screen talking about her mother. That girl was me.

I wish I could retract my statement, be able to say:

That didn’t happen.

But it did.

While I was there the lawyers took me through a mock cross-examination.

Did you know Daniel Carrington?

Yes.

How did you know him?

He was one of the children at my mother’s work.

Were you in the house when she brought him home?

Yes.

The lawyers warned me the defence will do anything, and everything, to trip me up, make me look like an unreliable witness. How do you feel about that, Fatty asked. I said I felt fine.

I lied.

June showed me the courtroom, the stand I’d be on and where the screen to shield me from you would be. The reality of being close to you again produced a Pavlovian response, excess saliva in my mouth, so much so, I thought I’d be sick. The trial starts on Monday but I’ve been told now that I’ll be presenting on the Thursday and Friday. I had to change the number in the bathroom cabinet – the countdown was never for the trial, but for when I’d get to be with you.

It’s Bonfire Night tonight. Mike told me if I watched from my balcony I’d see the fireworks display a family a few streets along from us have in their garden every year. It usually starts around seven, he said. Morgan still hasn’t been in touch so I text her again, tell her about it, invite her over. I can sneak you in, I write.