“That would be perfect. Taylor and I are both so on edge it would be good to have a friendly face around to distract us. No trial-talk though,” I instruct sternly.
“Scout’s honour,” Michelle promises with a giggle. “Prepare to be pitch-slapped, baby,” she says before hanging up on me.
.........................
“So where is boy-wonder?” Michelle asks as the credits roll on the second film of our chick flick marathon.
“Working,” I say quietly. “He has been putting himself through hell the last couple of days. I think he thinks that I am not going to be able to handle all the questioning, especially after the roasting he got.”
“Sorry, I know we said no trial talk,” Michelle apologises and I wave it away.
“No need. It is kind of the pink elephant in the room at the moment. Poor Bea and Andreas and all the guys from work didn’t have a clue what to say to me when I popped in to say goodbye earlier. Instead, I ended up in the middle of the most random group hug.” I let out a chuckle as I remember the looks on everyone’s faces; I swear if I ever needed someone murdered these would be the guys who would do it for me.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. How do you wish someone luck for testifying at a trial for attempted murder?” Michelle laughs, but the sound is hollow and forced. Quickly, she changes the subject as she flicks on the next movie on our list. “Time to get your a capella on,” Michelle murmurs making a dive for the popcorn I am holding in my hands.
“I so love Pitch Perfect,” I sigh, losing myself in the film as the first scene opens.
The Seventeenth
Oh. My. God. Oh, my god. This is actually happening. I am physically shaking as I walk through the impressive entrance to The Old Bailey, otherwise known as the Central Criminal Court. I couldn’t help but stand outside in awe for a few moments taking in Lady Justice and her scales as the carving with the words over the entrance ‘Defend the children of the poor & punish the wrongdoer’ resonated in my mind. This iconic building has been immortalised in film and TV making it seem familiar even though I have never stepped foot in here before.
The building’s dome makes me think of St Paul’s Cathedral, which is only a short walk away but when I step through the entrance, the reverent quiet I am expecting is absent. Instead, people in wigs and gowns hurry through the groups of people milling around. I can see a couple of journalists and I duck my head down, hoping to avoid being seen. Emelia, who is leading the Prosecution’s case, quick spots me and takes my arm, gently guiding me through the maze of the building until I am where I need to be to wait until I am called, something she promises me will be very soon.
I have no phone or anything bar a couple of worn-out old copies of Grazia to distract me while I wait so instead I am left to fiddle with the hem of my dress and watch as the clock ticks by infuriatingly slowly.
When I am finally called to the witness stand and sworn in it is as if time stands still. My eyes lock with Hannah’s and I take in her pallid appearance; her suit is ill-fitting and I can see she has lost weight. Her hair is tied back, but I can see the regrowth of her natural brown hair, the dyed blonde is, for the most part, tucked into a neat bun. For all her insanity that the Defence are claiming, when I look into Hannah’s blue eyes all I see is an ice-cold malevolence that sends a shiver down my spine. Hannah smirks at me and in that moment the spell is broken.
A small movement catches my eye and when I glance up at the public gallery, I spot my mum and dad in the crowd, smiling supportively at me. I let out a small gasp when my eyes wander further and I see Bea and Andreas and all my staff from Bread & Cake giving me a thumbs up. Michelle promised she would also be here today and when I glance a bit further to the right I see her giving me a small wave. The only person not present is Taylor, who was under strict instructions not be here; who knows what he would do if things got a bit intense in here? I run my fingers over the pattern on my cuffs reminding myself that even if Taylor is not here physically, he is with me in spirit.
The judge calls everything to order and asks the Prosecution to present their witness. I am the second last witness now with only Detective Stanton still to go. As Emelia begins asking the questions that we spent so long rehearsing, my mind starts to drift until I feel like I am almost having an out-of-body experience. It’s as if I am hovering above myself watching another person answering the questions; to say its surreal is the understatement of the century.
But for all the weirdness it keeps me calm, particularly once the Defence begins their line of questioning. Several times the judge has to remind Mr Piccot, or Mr Prickett as I have taken to calling him in my head, that I am not the one on trial. I watch as the faces of my friends and family grow darker and darker with anger as the Defence tries to imply that my pregnancy and suicide attempt were all a means of ensnaring Taylor in the hopes of taking him away from Hannah. They seem to gloss over the fact she actually tried to murder me, attempting to turn the tables and say they I had invited her up to the flat in order to kill her!
Inside I am screaming that these people are deranged and I can slowly feel my blood pressure building; the only thing keeping me from boiling over though is the looks of sympathy I am getting from my friends. I can’t lose it, I can’t lose it, I keeping repeating to myself as I continue to answer the questions as calmly as possible. The Defence finally rests and Emelia returns to clarify a few points, yet I can see some of the jurors are not sold. Is there a possibility that this supposedly open and shut case could not be the walk in the park that everyone assumed it would be?
It is one-thirty so the judge thanks me for my testimony and announces a short break for lunch. I sit for a couple moments trying to gather myself before exiting the witness stand and following the bailiff out of the door we came in through. I wait in the antechamber for Emilia to come and collect me, too scared to try and find my way back to the entrance by myself.
“You did great, Abby,” Emelia says as she walks through the door, still looking resplendent in her gown and wig.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly. “Some of the jurors didn’t seem too convinced. Is it possible that they believe Hannah, that they think I tried to lure her to kill her myself?”
“The Defence are just trying to sling mud and draw attention away from Hannah in any way possible because their actual case is so weak. Once we get Hannah on the stand, the jury will be able to see that for themselves. Don’t worry, really. You were great.” Emelia’s tone is reassuring, but I still detect a hint of concern in her eyes.
“Well, if you are sure…” I trail off not knowing what else I can say.
“Let’s get you out of here. I know your mum and dad were going to wait for you outside. Okay?” Emelia responds kindly.
“Alright,” I say feeling like I can’t wait to get out of this building.
The moment we step out of the entrance we are mobbed by reporters flinging questions at me.
“Would you consider your mental history will make you an unstable mother, Abigail?”
“Does your relationship with Taylor Hudson somehow fuel some kind of revenge fantasy on his brother and Hannah?”
“Why did you try to kill yourself, Abby?”
“Do you think your business will suffer from your involvement in this trial?”
“Where is your husband? Did Taylor not feel it necessary to come out and support his wife today?”
On and on I am faced with a never-ending barrage of questions as I try to make my way through the sea of reporters. Suddenly, a voice cuts through it all and an arm breaks through the crowd. “Enough!” my father commands as he wraps a reassuring arm around my trembling frame. “My daughter will not be commenting on this case or on anything else for that matter. Your comments are disgusting and only worthy of tomorrow’s fish and chips. So step aside now, before we sue you for harassment and intimidation.”
Somehow Dad’s words have stunned the crowd into momentary silence. We see that my mum has hailed a taxi
and is waving across at us so my father propels me through the sea of reporters at a breakneck speed. The clamour of questions picks up and follow us until Mum slams the door shut and instructs the cabbie to get going.
I let out a deep sigh, my heart racing as I try to calm down. I let my mum fold me into a hug as the tears that I have been holding back begin to course down my face. I am so stressed out that I could scream. “Taylor wanted us to take you straight back to the apartment, but I think that with all this press maybe you just want to lay low for a few hours, sweetheart?” my dad asks.
I nod my head in response. “Shall I see if Taylor can slip out and meet us somewhere?” I nod again, trying to focus on breathing through the wracking sobs that seem to have been unleashed.
“I know just the place,” my mum murmurs. “Guiliana’s in Primrose Hill,” she instructs the cabbie, talking about this cosy little Italian restaurant that we used to go to when we lived in London.
.........................
Carbs are definitely my best friend and as I tuck into my herb ravioli, I feel like I am picking up the pieces of myself. I find that I am humming Incubus’ Make Yourself under my breath and it seems entirely apt for this moment. Mum and Dad are hovering around me, treating me like I am ready to break down again at any time but truthfully my tears have been cathartic as I was finally able to let go of the tension that had been consuming me.
By the time, Taylor arrives I feel slightly more normal. I am still unsettled by the questions that the press flung at me; the lawyers had told me to be prepared for them but still, hearing them yelled at me in that way was unnerving.
I hate the fact that they have been digging into my life, that tomorrow morning my story will be splashed across the front pages of the various tabloids. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, after all my entire relationship with Taylor has been highly publicised online, but mostly I have been able to ignore it and pretend like we are just any other ordinary couple.
I know Taylor has a whole department of people whose job it is to manage the press and I am confident that today they will be working incredibly hard to spin all this in a positive light but right now I just can’t help but feel that tomorrow I will be on trial myself when those papers hit the stands.
Mum and Dad are chatting away about their latest trip out to Marrakech as Taylor slides into the booth beside me. He pulls me into a hug and I find myself melting into his embrace, his warmth seeping through to my core and removing the final chills that seemed to have infused into my bones.
“How are you holding up, Abs?” Taylor asks softly into my ear.
“Better now,” I reply softly as I wind my fingers through his.
“I saw those bastards hounding you as you left court on TV,” Taylor growls, his frame going rigid against me.
“They were just doing their jobs, Taylor,” I say as I let out a sigh. Despite my own worries, Taylor has enough on his plate to deal with.
“Well, Sara and her team are already on it with an official statement,” Taylor says in what he seems to think is a reassuring tone, but is, in fact, the opposite.
“The press are going to write whatever they want, Taylor. We both know that. And at the moment we seem to be the villains in all of this which is great for selling copies but not so great for making sure Hannah is found guilty. But then at least this is a trial by jury and not public opinion…” I trail off with a hollow laugh.
“Trust the system, Abs. Trust Emelia and the lawyers. They know what they are doing.” Taylor does his best to reassure me, but the despondency I am feeling is just too deep-rooted so I change the subject and draw the conversation back to Mum and Dad’s shoot in Morocco.
I am grateful that Mum seems to understand that I am looking for her to distract me. She tells us about a shoot that she did at Jardin Majorelle, the botanical gardens created by French painter Jacques Majorelle, in the heart of the city. Mum grabs out her phone and begins showing us pictures of the amazing pools filled with flowering water lilies and lotus flowers before going on to show me some photos of her wearing reproductions of some of the traditional jewellery featured in the Museum.
It does the trick and for about half an hour we completely forget our everyday troubles as my mum and dad regale us with hilarious tales of cameramen falling into ponds and a make-up artist who ‘accidently’ put fake-tan into one of the models’ face cream after she had been really rude to her, leaving her looking like a very stripy tiger.
The spell is finally broken when Taylor’s phone rings. One look at it has Taylor grimacing and leaving the table before accepting the call with a curt, “Yes?”
When Taylor finally returns, I look at him questioningly but the only answer he gives is a pissed-off sounding, “My mother.” Okay then.
We can’t avoid going home any longer so we say our goodbyes and I hold onto my parents a little longer than is necessary. I am immensely grateful for their support today and I thank them yet again for being there for me. My dad brushes it off, telling me that is what parents are for, and I can’t help the wave of sorrow that washes over me when I catch the look on Taylor’s face. Taylor’s parents have never been there for him and this trial has caused even more friction between them leaving me to wonder what will happen when Bean is born. Will they try and repair their relationship with their son so that they can see their grandchild, or will they simply fade into the background until it is like Taylor never knew them at all?
I slide into the seat of Taylor’s car, relieved that we don’t have to travel back to the apartment to get it, particularly as the grey skies have finally opened. We are both quiet as Taylor navigates his way out of London. The stereo is on low, playing some kind of cello music that Taylor likes but I am in need of some angry-girl music so I pull my MP3 player out of my bag. I plug the buds into my ears and turn on some old-school Alanis Morissette, finally relaxing as the music blasts out and obliterates the overwhelming swirl of thoughts running through my mind.
The journey passes in silence and even when we walk through the front door, our conversation is limited. There is no animosity, just a need to process and so we spend the rest of the evening in our own separate corners. When I finally retreat into bed I am alone, Taylor still consumed by some spreadsheets that he insists are needed urgently. I hug my bump, reminding myself that I am never truly alone and send out a whispered, “Goodnight,” to Bean before falling into a disjointed sleep.
The Eighteenth
Why is it that no matter how hard I try to keep moving forward, something keeps holding me back? This thought twists around my mind on a continuous loop, much like an infinity symbol. I am supposed to be meeting Dr Grohl today but for the first time ever I have decided to blow it off. Maybe it is the constant nausea I woke up with, or the headache that is threatening to crush my skull, all I know is that I cannot face questions about what makes me happy today.
I know I should be happy…I have finally given my evidence, though I was warned I might get called back for cross-examination, so really now all I need to start worrying about is the impending arrival of Bean. Yet, at the back of my mind a shadowy figure still looms. Richard. No one was more surprised than me when he appeared on the Defence’s list of witnesses, but it seems that he will be giving evidence tomorrow, something that is filling us all with dread. Richard is unpredictable at the best of times and very, very smart. How else has he managed to get away with everything he has done over the last few years?
Taylor keeps reminding me of the case Detective Stanton is building, but part of me just wonders if Richard is always going to be one step ahead of us. The thought that he might end up being a constant shadow through the rest of our lives is not just unsettling, it bloody scares the shit out of me.
My eyes flick to the piece of paper that I have been carrying around, hoping that inspiration would strike. I have contemplated many of the things that I could put on my list; my family makes me happy as does Taylor, my business, my baking. Yet none of these things
are what I assume Dr Grohl is pushing me to reveal. For so long I have measured my own self-worth by how others perceive me and it is a habit that I just can’t seem to break. And really is that such a bad thing? I like making people happy.
Richard being dead is a dark thought that has also been consuming me. Would that make me happy? Certainly I would be happier knowing that he couldn’t hurt us or go near Bean, but to actually wish him dead seems too extreme. I would like to think that I am a good person deep down, even if I have my many flaws, so no matter how much I despise Richard, I don’t actually wish him any harm. An extended stay in jail perhaps but definitely not anything more serious.
My inner musings are interrupted by an overly attentive Taylor bringing me a glass of water and some pills for my headache. “Still feeling so rough?” Taylor asks looking increasingly concerned.
“Yeah. I think it is just all the stress from yesterday,” I reply, wincing at the loudness of my own voice.
“Then rest up,” Taylor instructs. “The team are handling everything downstairs. Stix is even reading books to a group of rowdy toddlers to give their mums a break,” Taylor says with admiration in his voice and I crack a smile wondering how she is getting on.
“Stay with me for a while?” I ask Taylor. I don’t want to be alone. I need a break from the incessant swirl of thoughts going round and round my head and at least if Taylor is here my mind seems to quieten down somewhat.
“Of course,” Taylor murmurs climbing into our bed beside me. He wriggles back rather comically until his back is against the headboard, before opening his arms to me. I scoot into his body, enjoying the warmth from his frame as his arms wrap around me. I can’t get comfortable, though, my growing belly seems to be an ever-present obstruction these days so I shift down until my head is on Taylor’s lap instead. His hands rub circles on my back and fingers play with the ends of my hair until finally my mind stills and my body relaxes and the world mercifully fades into darkness.
Book Three: Thirty Days, Book 3 Page 10
