by Carol Mason
Grace says, ‘Mummy!’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Meredith adds. ‘We tried . . . We really did. But we can’t trust you.’
I have no idea who the we is. Her and Joe?
A tear rolls down my face.
Grace says, ‘I just told you, Lauren didn’t do anything wrong! Toby wasn’t anywhere near her. He was with me. I was playing with him.’ She glances from me to her mother, her eyes full of questions. ‘How are we going to be able to go to Dad’s, if you don’t want Lauren around?’
‘Grace,’ Meredith says. ‘Toby was in Lauren’s care, not yours, and she was the one who failed to adequately supervise him.’
The veiled threat sits there. It would almost be better if I could see some satisfaction in her face; then I could somehow convince myself that this were just a vindictive strike on her part. But nothing here suggests ‘malicious mother’ motivation. She almost comes across as – paradoxically – decent.
I wipe the tear off my cheek. ‘So suing me, ruining me . . . that will make you feel better, will it? That’s the only solution?’ It comes out as a small plea.
I’m aware of Grace standing as still as a statue, hanging on to her mother’s words.
‘Lauren, it’s not about suing, ruining. Tell me . . . What am I supposed to do?’ She flings up her hands. ‘Wait around to see what the next one’s going to be? What other “Oops! I didn’t mean it, it just happened!” screw-up is going to come along? Hope and pray that whatever it is it’ll be minor?’ She glares at me. ‘This child is four! He’s a baby.’
She scans my face as though I’m incomprehensible to her. ‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘If he was yours, if you were in my shoes – what would you do as his mother?’
FORTY-THREE
I try to get to grips with what I can control, and what I can’t.
‘Before I can become a fully registered doctor, before I can even begin Foundation Year 2, I’ve got to declare if there are any current or future proceedings that could lead to my licence being suspended or removed.’
I am FaceTiming in my lunch break with Sophie and Charlie from a bench in the courtyard. It’s not cold but my teeth are chattering, the breath almost trapped in my chest.
This is beyond a nightmare now. All I can try to do is minimise the damage.
‘I think I need to write them a letter,’ I tell them. ‘So they don’t hear it first from Meredith. Unless they already have. But let’s hope they haven’t.’
Charlie is exasperated. ‘They’re not going to deny you your licence, Lauren! You were questioned by an old hag and a young upstart from Social Services. Nothing more. You need to leave it alone! Don’t go suggesting things to them. The second you identify something as an issue, it becomes one!’
I appreciate this, but I say, ‘Yes, but you’re supposed to bring it to their attention if there are possible issues that might affect people’s perception of you as a doctor. You know, like if someone told Social Services you threw boiling water at a kid!’
‘Oh God,’ Sophie says, briefly covering her face with her hands. ‘Can you stop saying that? It’s so awful!’
We go back and forth on it some more. What I think I should do versus what they both think. They manage to talk me off the ledge. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘you’ve convinced me. I’ll do nothing. For now.’
I thank them for finding time in their day to listen to me go on about all this. I am suddenly highly grateful for them – both of them. But as I ring off, I can’t help but feel it should have been Joe’s shoulder I was crying on, not theirs.
Days come and go. None of this leaves my head even for a second. I text Grace: Thank you for sticking up for me. That was big of you, and took some guts.
She quickly replies. Didn’t make a difference though.
We will work it out, I say.
As I trudge to East Croydon station from work – an early shift that ended at 2 p.m. – I feel like the walking dead. And yet I don’t want to go home, have to creep around Joe who seems to retreat into himself when I am in the room, and be on my best behaviour.
I’m just trying to decide what on earth I should do when I get a text.
Hi Lauren!
I haven’t heard from you in such a long time! Hope all is well? We never did have that coffee. All is okay here. Gearing up for a family holiday next week and trying to find the will to live! Just wanted to say Hi!
Mel.
It’s more than a little bizarre that this woman always seems to message me when I’m in the depths of despair. I stand against a wall and type what I intend to be a short reply, putting her in the picture, but it ends up being not very short at all. I delete it and start over.
Mel! Actually, I’m at East Croydon station right now, on my way home from work! I could get off at Clapham, meet you at Costa’s on the high street if you happen to be up for a coffee? No worries if too short notice! I really hope your dad’s treatment is going well and that he is okay. Lx
Two seconds later she replies: I am free right now as it happens!
This perks me up no end. Want to switch to glass of wine instead of coffee?
Sure! she says, after a moment. Meet me at the Silver Shilling.
She attaches a Google map.
The Silver Shilling is one of those mainstay watering holes that has long been a London institution, and today is a leaner, sleeker version of its former shabby self: all bleached floorboards, pine dining tables, linen napkins and Farrow & Ball paintwork. As I walk in they’re playing the catchy little Jon Boden song, ‘How Long Will I Love You?’
I glance around – she doesn’t seem to be here yet. I plump for a table by the window, sitting so that I am facing out and will see her when she comes in. I send a quick text to Joe telling him I’m just having a drink with a friend. He responds, Stay as long as you like.
As I’m trying to read it for tone, he adds, Try to have a nice time.
A young waitress ambles over and tells me that if I’m here for food, they don’t put out their daily sheet for another hour, but she hands me their snacks menu instead.
Because my shift started at 6 a.m. I ate a quick sandwich at eleven, so I am a little peckish and could probably handle some buttered Cornish crab on home-made English muffins.
I’m just scanning the menu to see what else they have when I hear a voice say, ‘You’re not Lauren by any chance, are you?’
I look up to see a devastatingly handsome young guy standing there. He has a thatch of prematurely grey hair, twinkly brown eyes and a short beard. And he is smiling somewhat sheepishly.
FORTY-FOUR
At first I think, Ah! Mel couldn’t make it and this is the husband.
But then he says, ‘Sorry. I know this is probably a shock.’
Probably a shock? I can’t speak. It takes a moment or two before my brain can signal to my body what to do.
And then I stand. ‘Oh my God!’ The chair scrapes loudly along the floor.
I’m just reaching for my bag when he puts out a hand that doesn’t quite make contact with my arm. ‘Please . . . Lauren . . . I know how this looks, but would you please give me two minutes to explain myself?’
We are standing a couple of feet apart. My blood feels like it’s barrelling through my veins. His gaze, an imploring quality in it, hangs on mine.
For reasons I will never know, I find myself saying, ‘Two minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, looking genuinely relieved. Then he indicates the chair opposite the one I’d occupied. ‘Is it okay if I sit down?’
I cross my arms and pointedly look off to the side. ‘For now.’
He sits, and I follow suit.
‘My God, I bet you’re not even a teacher, are you – Mel?’ My brain darts back over all our conversations, searching for other signs of deception.
‘I am!’ He brings his hand to his heart and my eyes are drawn to his fit arms and broad chest in his white short-sleeved shirt. I vow not to look there again. ‘God’s honest. I can give y
ou the name of my school and references if you want . . . I teach maths.’ He tells me where and for how long. And then, perhaps because I haven’t bolted yet, he says, ‘I realise the name thing is misleading, and I know you won’t see it this way, but I never set out to be dishonest.’
‘But nor did you exactly make full disclosure your priority, either.’
We lock eyes. He tells me his name is Mel Thompson. That Mel isn’t short for anything; it’s what his mother had him baptized. He tells me he’s from Manchester. That he was a rugby player until a shoulder injury ended his career. That he’s twenty-seven, and has been teaching for five years.
‘Thanks for all this,’ I say, somewhat sarcastically. ‘Particularly the bit about how Mel isn’t short for anything. You know . . . Like Melanie.’
The waitress appears and asks what we’d like to drink. I quickly tell her we need a moment. She glances at Mel a little reactively and then says, ‘No probs,’ and walks away.
‘Look, answer me this,’ he says. ‘Would you have continued to talk to me if I’d said I was a man? You know, a bloke in a forum for stepmothers?’
I tut. ‘No. Which leads me to the obvious question . . .’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ve definitely got some explaining to do. But the truth is I joined for the same reason you did. I felt alone, frustrated. I’ve got lots of mates but none of them are in my situation and there’s no use talking to them because they just can’t relate. My parents thought it was a bad idea to get hooked up with Siobhan in the first place, so I didn’t exactly feel like alerting them to the fact that it was all falling apart . . .’ He stretches out his arms on the table, looks down briefly at his hands. ‘Believe it or not, there are no forums, no support groups for men in my situation. Plenty for divorced dads, if I’d been one of those. Just none for stepdads.’
He regards me frankly as he says all this. He seems to be waiting for me to break the silence – let him off the hook. When I don’t, he says, ‘If you think about it, there’s actually nothing I’ve said to you that’s been a lie . . .’
‘That’s a bit lame,’ I say. ‘Lies of omission are still lies.’
‘The forum is for mums. Once I was in it I could hardly let it out of the bag that I wasn’t one.’
I glance away, still miffed. ‘You’ve made me feel like a bit of a mug. Which is not exactly endearing.’
He holds up his hands, looks sincerely humbled. ‘Look . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know if you noticed, but when you suggested we meet for coffee sometime, I didn’t exactly jump at the idea, did I?’
I think about this.
No. He didn’t. I drove it, I suppose.
‘It’s because I knew that once you saw me you were going to jump to the natural conclusion that I was either a weirdo, or an opportunist on the make.’
‘I jumped.’
‘I know.’ He briefly hangs his head. ‘And I’m sorry.’ There’s a guilty pause and then he says, ‘I should have told you, but then it got harder the more we went on chatting.’ When I’m a little lost for a response he says, ‘Anyway, if you take away the fact that I’m a man, everything else stays the same. Same issues. Same not knowing what to do about them . . . Can we just maybe resume from there?’
The waitress ventures back over. ‘Any decisions yet?’
I tell her I’ll have a gin and tonic.
Mel’s eyes don’t leave my face. ‘So then . . . are you fine if we make it two?’
FORTY-FIVE
Joe is on the sofa when I come in, feeling a little lighter in my stride. I have never seen him sitting around as much as he’s been doing lately.
He truly does look worn out. There are dark crescents under his eyes, aging him by a decade.
‘How was Toby today?’ I say, slipping off my jacket.
‘Better.’ He sounds so flat. ‘I took him to the health centre to get his dressing changed again. He seems to be getting used to the drill and he didn’t even cry this time.’ He smiles; a sorrowful smile. ‘He’s got a big crush on one of the nurses. She makes a lot of him. I took him for ice cream after.’ He finally meets my eyes. ‘He’s really got a thing for that bird. He was asking again today when he’s going to be able to see Russell Crowe.’
I’m about to say, Well, whenever he’s next over here I can take him to the wildlife centre, but I clam up for fear of what his reaction might be. ‘I’m glad he’s feeling a lot better,’ I say instead.
His face doesn’t change. And then he says, ‘Meredith is talking about wanting to change the custody arrangement.’
‘What?’ I collapse into the nearest chair. ‘You mean for her to have sole custody?’
‘Something like that, yes. It’s going to be very rough on the kids. I can’t imagine what this is going to do to them, in fact.’
I think of what she said about her client that day, how parental wrangling and malicious legal action was harshest of all on the children. ‘This is utterly horrible! Can she even do that? What a hypocrite she’s being! Would she even have grounds?’
Mild annoyance flares in his eyes. ‘I don’t think name-calling really gets anyone anywhere, does it? But yes, she seems to think she’s got a good case. We haven’t gotten into the details yet . . .’ He briefly looks at the floor and all I can do is sit here and be flabbergasted – he’s still defending her, even after all this! ‘Something about my no longer being able to provide a suitable environment . . .’
My heart hammers as the realisation hits home. ‘Because of me.’
He nods.
After I try to process the scope of this, I say, ‘What are you going to do about it?’
He eventually shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see my lawyer. There’s going to be a court battle, of course . . . And they’ll be wanting to subpoena you.’
The blood rushes to my face. ‘Me?’
‘Of course. What did you think?’
I swallow hard. I have no idea what he means by that, or what I was thinking.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I say.
He looks bewildered. ‘Bed? At this time? I thought we were having a conversation.’
‘We’re not,’ I say, firmly.
As I walk down the hall, my phone pings. A text.
It was great to meet you. I enjoyed chatting. Hope there’s no lingering weirdness between us after you learned she was a he. Anyway, would love to meet up again – as friends. But if that is too awkward for you, I understand. Mel.
My head feels like it’s spinning. I can’t accommodate this now. I shut my phone down.
I have to drag myself into work for the next few days for 8 a.m. starts, struggle to even find the will to get up out of bed when my alarm goes off. I’m standing on the platform at Victoria, waiting for the train to East Croydon, when I get a phone call.
Audrey Richardson, from Social Services.
She tells me that she just wanted me to know that they were satisfied with the outcome of our meeting and they will not be pursuing the matter any further.
When I thank her for letting me know, she says a rather loaded, ‘Good luck,’ before she rings off.
On the train I try to feel happier. So that’s gone away. Thank God! But what about Meredith threatening to sue me for negligence? The custody battle? My name being dragged through the courts? I try to envision what all this will look like for Joe, as well as for myself: the very possibility that he could lose his children – a situation he would not even be in if it weren’t for me. Where’s that going to leave our relationship?
At work I can’t focus on anything I’m doing. Then in the afternoon I do something I’ve never done before.
A fifty-four-year-old woman comes in with chest pain, shortness of breath and wheezing after a Zumba class. The class instructor accompanies her, concerned she’s suffered a heart attack. I examine the patient, ask her detailed questions about her medical history and then perform a lung function test. ‘I think what you have is exercise-induced bronchoconstriction,’ I te
ll her after some consultation, and suggest we prescribe her an inhaled medication – Flomax – to open her lungs, after which we’ll repeat the lung function test and compare results to see whether the bronchodilator improved her airflow. If I’m right, then she can be given a short-acting beta agonist – an inhaler – which she’ll take before her next class.
When I’ve finished explaining all this and writing up her script, preparing it for a senior doctor to sign, her face bursts into a smile.
‘What?’ I ask.
Her face flushes. ‘Oh . . . sorry . . .’ She chuckles. ‘It’s just that, well, my husband takes that. You know . . . Flomax. For his enlarged prostate.’
There is a moment where my heart gives a single skip. All I can do is stare at her and play back what she’s just said. But then, miraculously, I am saved by a spot of quick thinking. ‘Volmax,’ I say, as though obviously it was she who misheard. ‘It’s an inhaler, essentially, for asthma.’ I smile, the confident professional that I am. ‘Don’t worry!’ I try a little laugh. ‘I can assure you I would never – ever – prescribe you prostate medication!’
By the time I finish my twelve-hour shift and walk to the train, I’m still shaken by what I nearly did. Maybe everybody is right and I am incompetent and not to be trusted. Maybe I need to find some other line of work where I can’t be a threat to anyone, can’t almost mis-prescribe medication. Maybe I need to be single so I can’t mess up anybody’s kid, or even one of my own.
Or maybe I don’t.
Maybe I need to pull out the only weapon in my arsenal.
FORTY-SIX
This time, she is a little less self-assured when she answers the door.
As she stands there, not two feet away from me, I catch Rosamie having a nosy peek, and then she disappears into a room, emerging moments later with her coat on to leave, and scurries past us.
‘You’d better come in.’ Meredith shows me into a high-ceilinged, well-lit reception room with almond-white walls and three matching cream sofas arranged around a fireplace. On one of the sofas their cat Fishcake is curled into a ginger-and-white ball. On another there’s a scattering of files and loose papers and an open MacBook, a coffee mug on the table beside it.
