My Husband's Wife Page 10

  Carla turned and ran.

  ‘Where is your book?’ asked Lily when she returned.

  ‘I couldn’t find it.’

  ‘Are you all right? You seem very quiet.’

  ‘May I just watch television?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And could I stay here. For the night?’

  Lily gave her a cuddle. ‘We’ve only got one bedroom, poppet.’

  Poppet? Lily had called her that before. Carla didn’t know what it was, but it sounded nice.

  Then Lily shut her books. ‘Tell you what. I’ll do this later. Why don’t we make some fudge again? Then you can give your mother a piece when she comes home from work.’

  There was the sound of a bell and a voice cooing through the letterbox. ‘Piccola? It is me.’

  Carla’s heart sank. Instinctively, she knew Mamma was here because Carla had seen her at home when she was meant to be at work. And although Mamma’s voice sounded nice, she was bound to be cross when they were alone together.

  ‘In fact,’ said Lily brightly, ‘it looks like she’s back early.’

  13

  Lily

  I’m running after Davina in the park. She’s holding something and I need to get it off her or my marriage to Ed is over. She’s slowing down, but every time I speed up, she zips ahead. Then she starts sneezing. So loudly that the thing she is holding falls out of her hand. I reach down to get it, but it keeps slipping out of my hand. Finally, in the light of the moon, I manage to pick it up. It’s a wedding ring. Just like the one that Ed gave me. The one that had belonged to his great-grandmother. But as I hold it, the ring crumbles in my hand. I try to piece it back together but it’s no good. The pieces dissolve into dust. Then Davina laughs. A high-pitched shriek of a laugh …

  ‘Can you turn it off?’

  Ed’s sleepy voice comes from the other side of the bed. Slowly it dawns on me – what a relief! – that Davina’s laugh is the alarm clock. The light filtering in through the window is indeed the moon, but even so, it is time to get up. It’s 6 a.m. I need to get an earlier bus because I have a meeting with Tony Gordon. The man who might, or might not, help me release Joe Thomas from prison.

  ‘Let’s go over the facts one more time.’

  Tony Gordon is the type of tall, imposing man who would be equally at home on the cinema screen as he is in his Lincoln’s Inn chambers. It isn’t just his breadth of shoulders or the assured way he wears his dark-grey suit. It’s also his deep, authoritative voice with its hint of gravel. His manner of walking that suggests an inborn confidence. His crisp, expensive-looking shirts (today it’s a baby-pink stripe that might look effeminate on anyone else). The unhurried way in which he answers the phone, even when under pressure. I wouldn’t mind betting this reassures the person at the other end. It certainly reassures me.

  The longer I work with him, the more I feel that this is a man who knows what he’s doing, whether driving a car, hanging a picture, fighting for the release of a convicted murderer or making love to a woman.

  Where did that last thought come from? As I listen to Tony go over the statistics – boiler figures; timing of the ‘incident’ – my thoughts skittle back to Ed’s cheek which I had barely brushed with my lips in the form of a goodbye that morning.

  I am already dreading going home to my husband. On the outside, we seem fine. We go supermarket shopping together on Friday nights, watch our favourite TV shows next to each other on the sofa after work, and look after little Carla on Sundays. I make sure I give Ed space to paint in his spare time because that’s all he wants to do. How he resents working ‘for morons’ during the week. But it’s hard not to notice that his two glasses of wine a night have now become three or four. Or that he hardly ever tries to touch me any more.

  I’m aware as I list these complaints that they sound like the disgruntled litany of a long-married couple. In fact, we’ve only been married for two months. Where will it all end?

  ‘What do you think?’

  Suddenly I’m aware of Tony Gordon staring at me. I feel a flush of shame crawling over me. This is a famous barrister. He could be the key to saving an innocent man. At least, my gut instinct tells me that Joe is innocent, even though I don’t like him very much. And here I am, thinking about my failing marriage.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ It seems a safe thing to say.

  ‘Come on, Lily, stay with me. The extra psychologist’s report that I asked to be carried out says that our man shows signs of Asperger’s and also has obsessive behaviours.’ Tony Gordon glances down at his notes. ‘Both are broad labels and mean different things to different people. But in this case, one of our man’s “things” is he likes everything to be neat and tidy. It disturbs him when objects aren’t in their right place. He interprets language literally. He doesn’t always respond to situations in the same ways as other people. He has difficulties communicating with people. He also dislikes change of any kind. Good with numbers too.’

  ‘My brother is a bit like that,’ I hear myself say. Even as I speak, I realize I should have said ‘was’, rather than ‘is’. The truth is that I often do that. It makes it easier to pretend Daniel is still alive.

  ‘Really?’ Instantly I feel Tony Gordon’s interest sharpen. ‘Does it make him act oddly?’

  ‘When he was younger,’ I say slowly, ‘we were just told he was difficult. We weren’t given any label. But he could be charming to people one minute and rude or abrupt the next. He didn’t like change …’ Mentally I run my hand over the smooth saddle. Smell the wood. Cradle Amelia in my arms. No.

  ‘Are you all right, Lily?’

  I look down at my shaking hand. ‘Yes.’

  Yes, it made Daniel do strange things. No, I’m not all right.

  But Tony Gordon has already moved on. ‘We’ve got to watch that,’ he’s muttering to himself. ‘Got to emphasize the facts and the figures rather than the emotions. In my opinion, the defence didn’t do that enough last time. It would help, too, if the jury is made up of people who like statistics: they need to be the type whose heads rule their hearts rather than the other way round. We also need to show that although people with Asperger syndrome all share common behaviours and features, everyone is different. Unique. They have their own personalities that have just as much of an effect on their behaviour as the syndrome itself. According to my research, this cold, unemotional, obsessive behaviour that’s recorded in his notes is not necessarily a consequence of the Asperger bit. Tricky. Especially if someone on the jury has personal experience which doesn’t fit in with Joe’s. Or if we put his case in a way that offends someone.’

  I’m beginning to wonder if I even need to be here. After all, I’ve briefed my barrister. It’s up to him now.

  ‘Please ask your firm to make sure you are with me when I visit the client,’ he says. ‘Your experience could be very useful. There’ll be a lot of publicity surrounding this case, you know.’ He gives me another kindly look. Almost fatherly. ‘No one will like us,’ he adds. ‘We’ll be the devil, you and I. A murderer is always a murderer in the public eye, even if proved innocent. This case is of huge national importance. If it’s allowed to run and we win, it will open the floodgates to all kinds of suits. We’ve got to be careful.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, realizing as I do so that I don’t. But I mustn’t show my ignorance. I want to be grown up. I want to be good at my job. I want to be good at my marriage. I just don’t seem to know how.

  I leave Lincoln’s Inn with its beautiful brick walls and rich green post-rain grass to weave my way through the midday tourist crowds. I like walking in London. It’s good to breathe the air after being in a stuffy office, and besides, it gives me time to think.

  I walk towards Westminster Bridge and pause for a moment to admire the skyline. ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair …’

  Daniel used to love poetry. He admired the order. The way the words fell into place exactly where they were meant to. When he was distressed about som
ething – a missing jigsaw piece or a shoe that was not in its usual place – I would sometimes read to him. It had to be a poet with structure and a certain touch of quirkiness. Edward Lear was always a good choice.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say as someone bumps into me. Ruefully, I rub my elbow. Typical of me to apologize for someone else’s rudeness. I did that all the time for Daniel. Meanwhile, the man hasn’t even stopped to acknowledge me. I glance back but he’s already disappeared into the crowds.

  Then I realize something. My bag. Not the one on my shoulder, but the smaller one tucked under my arm, with all the papers concerning Joe Thomas. The figures he’d given me and the notes made during my meeting just now. It’s gone.

  As I walk quickly towards the office, Tony Gordon’s recent words come back to me. ‘This case is of huge national importance … If we win, it will open the floodgates to all kinds of suits. We’ve got to be careful.’

  At the time, I’d interpreted his words as meaning that we had to be careful to win. Now I’m beginning to wonder if he was referring to our own personal safety. Is it possible that I have been deliberately targeted? Did the man on the bridge – whose face I can barely recall – bump into me on purpose so he could remove vital evidence?

  I’m almost running now along High Holborn, the throbbing in my elbow intensifying. I’ll have to tell my boss. Tell Tony Gordon too …

  Racing up the staircase with its elegant Victorian mahogany handrail, I almost collide with one of the secretaries. ‘I’ve got two messages for you.’

  The first is from Tony. In the short time since I left him, he’s heard from the CCRC. It’s referring our case to the Court of Appeal. Great. All we need now is the Court’s agreement to allow it and then, hopefully, a re-trial.

  ‘Not now, please,’ I say to the secretary as she waves the second message in front of me.

  ‘It’s urgent.’ She presses a piece of paper into my hand. ‘You’ve got to ring her immediately.’

  Sarah Evans.

  Why does the name sound familiar?

  And then I remember. It’s the name of Joe Thomas’s dead girlfriend.

  14

  Carla

  Carla pulled at her mother’s hand. Backwards. Backwards. Away from the bus stop. Away from the journey that led to school. Away from the nasty looks and the laughs that made her feel even more stupid.

  It didn’t help that the new Charlie said nothing.

  ‘You must hurry,’ said Mamma, her voice edging towards that note that usually indicated either song or hysteria. (Definitely the last one today.) ‘We will be late.’

  As she spoke, the bus rounded the corner. ‘It is there!’ Mamma’s beautiful face turned old with frown lines. ‘Quick.’

  Reluctantly she allowed her feet to be dragged along the pavement. Scuff, scuff, in the sloppy, wet leaves went the black patent shoes that Larry had paid for. It had not been a good weekend without Lily and Ed. ‘You cannot go to them every Sunday,’ Mamma had said, as if it had not been her who had made the arrangement in the first place.

  But Carla was all too aware of the real reason. It was because she had seen Mamma and Larry at home when Mamma was meant to have been working. Mamma felt guilty. This had seemed a good thing at first because it would make her do what Carla wanted. But then it had become a bad thing because she had cancelled Sundays with Lily. No baking cakes or licking out the bowl! No making pretend people out of conkers and pins. Or pompoms out of wool like Lily used to as a little girl. No sitting in front of Ed, feeling special while he drew her. No running in the park. Or swinging on Lily and Ed’s hands.

  Just staying at home with Mamma, waiting for Larry. Even though he hadn’t turned up last Sunday. They’d made lasagne specially.

  ‘On you get.’ Mamma’s voice was heavy with relief. They had managed to catch the bus after all. Carla clambered up the stairs and took her usual place at the front.

  Recently, her friend Lily had not been on the bus. ‘I have to leave earlier now for work,’ she’d explained. But Ed was still there. Waiting on the other side of the road, his notepad in his hand, sketching. Maybe he was drawing her! Fiercely, she knocked on the window.

  ‘Carla!’ Mamma’s voice was annoyed. ‘I’ve told you before not to do that.’

  But Ed had heard! He was waving his notepad at her! Carla’s heart grew warm. He liked her. She could tell that from the way he observed her face, every detail. Sometimes she was allowed to see the pictures. He’d made those thick eyebrows of hers look almost pretty! If only the other children at school could see them like that. Then they might not be so horrid.

  As Ed’s face disappeared out of sight, Carla felt a jolt of emptiness. ‘Aren’t you going to pick up Charlie?’ said Mamma, pointing down at the dirty bus floor where Carla had dropped him among the old sweet wrappers and a tin can.

  ‘He’s not called Charlie. He’s just a caterpillar,’ Carla said in the same voice that the other kids used when she said something stupid in class.

  Mamma was clearly puzzled. ‘But you used to love him so much.’

  That was the old Charlie, she wanted to say. The one she’d taken from a bully at school and which had been so cruelly murdered by another. But she couldn’t. This one, which Larry had bought, did not smell the same. It was too quiet. It did not listen to her secrets.

  ‘Here we are!’ Mamma’s voice was bright as school came into sight. It was as if her mother wanted her to go as quickly as possible so she was free to get to work and laugh and smell nice and see Larry at lunchtime perhaps.

  Carla looked down at the children streaming through the school gates. The boys had faces like hard nuts. The girls bared their teeth at her like rats.

  ‘Please, Carla. Please.’

  Her mother was trying to pull her down the stairs of the bus. Charlie, under her arm, did not attempt to resist.

  ‘I will only go if you ask Lily to have me this Sunday.’

  Her mother’s eyes flickered. ‘You want to go to strangers instead of me?’

  ‘They are not strangers. They are my friends. I want to be with them just as you want to be with Larry.’

  ‘Are you getting off or not?’ roared the conductor. A woman with a shopping bag was staring at them. So were the girls in the brown uniform who came from the nicer school down the road. The one where there weren’t boys and where no one spat or was rude. Mamma said it was a convent school where nuns taught. She had tried to get Carla a place there, but they didn’t want her, because they didn’t go to Mass regularly. ‘Couldn’t we start going now?’ Carla had asked.

  ‘I said we would do that. But the nuns told me it was too late.’

  Carla only hoped it was not too late to go back to Sundays with Lily and Ed.

  ‘I will ask.’ Mamma sighed now, as though she was sighing the wrong way round, where the breath came into her wide red mouth, instead of out. ‘But you must go to school this instant. Promise?’

  Carla nodded. ‘Promise.’

  Mamma held out her face for a kiss but Carla ignored it. Instead, she made her way towards the school gates and another day of misery.

  ‘Eeetalian!’

  ‘Why do you speak all funny?’

  ‘Why have you got hairs on your arm like a man?’

  ‘They’re as furry as your eyebrows!’

  The taunts came thick and fast, as they did every day now.

  ‘What are you going to nick next, then? My dad says all Italians are thieves. They nicked my auntie’s handbag in Rome.’

  This last comment was from a thickset boy with a face like a dog she had seen in the park. A bulldog, Ed had called it.

  ‘I do not nick nothing.’

  ‘Anything, Carla.’ The bony-nosed teacher’s sharp voice cut into the conversation. ‘The correct word is “anything”. And what is this about stealing?’

  ‘Carla stole my friend’s pencil case. I told you. But no one would believe me ’cause he socked her with the football.’

  It was no good. She coul
dn’t help the burning flush creeping up her cheek. ‘It is not true.’

  The teacher’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’

  She sat up straight. ‘Very.’

  ‘I see.’ The teacher nodded before moving on to the next table.

  ‘Liar, liar,’ chanted the children.

  If Charlie was here – the real Charlie – he would tell her to ignore them. But instead she had an impostor (she was on the ‘I’s now in her dictionary), who just sat on her lap and did nothing.

  ‘Liar, liar.’

  ‘If you do not stop, then God will punish you.’ Carla’s eyes flashed at Jean, the girl who was nearest and loudest. ‘You will die!’

  There was a shocked silence. Carla was shocked at herself too. She was not even sure where the words had come from.

  ‘Carla Cavoletti! Leave the table this instant.’

  Good. That was exactly what she wanted. Head high, she sailed out of the dining room and into the corridor.

  ‘You will sit there for the rest of the afternoon.’

  Good again. She would not be bullied if she wasn’t in the classroom. It was then that Carla had her idea. She knew now just what she needed from Larry next.

  ‘I hate school,’ Carla declared over and over again that evening. The teacher had, of course, told Mamma about the detention. Carla had tried to explain her side of the story. But Mamma was cross with her.

  ‘I have told you, cara mia. You have to fit in with these Eenglish.’

  For the first time she could remember, Carla wished Larry would visit that night so she could get on with her plan. Mamma was expecting him because she had put on her pink dress and sprayed Apple Blossom down her chest. But then the phone had rung. Larry’s wife needed him after all. Mamma was desolate. And so was Carla.

  The next morning, when she dawdled through the school gates, there was a strange air of quietness in the playground. The others were huddled in groups, shooting her horrible looks.