I called back. Now I found myself on voicemail again.
“It is absolutely imperative that you get Ms. Ricks to call me back as soon as possible.”
But I received no further calls for the rest of the day. Or night. Except for Sandy who rang at six PM London time and then again at ten PM to check up on me.
“No news at all?” she asked.
“I’ve been waiting by the phone all night. For what, I don’t know.”
“You did try Tony’s cell phone again?”
“Only about five more times. It’s locked onto voicemail. Which means it’s pointless continuing. He’s screening all his calls.”
“But you’ll still keep trying?”
“What other option do I have?”
“You should go to sleep.”
“It’s an idea, yeah.”
I took two sleeping tablets with my end-of-the-day dose of antidepressants. Around three that morning, I jerked awake—and the silence of the house seemed cavernous. I walked into the empty nursery. I could hear the voice of Ellen Cartwright—the hospital therapist—telling me over and over again, It’s not your fault . . . it’s not your fault.
But I knew better. I was the architect of my own disaster. I had nobody to blame but myself. And now . . .
Now I was desperate for a friendly, reassuring voice. So, at eight that morning, I rang the private number that Ellen gave me, “in case of any emergency,” as she said at the time. Well, this definitely qualified as an emergency, which meant I hoped she’d be sympathetic about the earliness of the call.
But I didn’t speak to Ellen—instead I got her answering machine, which informed me that she was on annual leave and would be back three weeks from now.
Three weeks. I couldn’t last three weeks.
I made myself some tea. I ran a bath. But I was terrified of getting into the bath, out of fear that Tony would ring and I wouldn’t hear the call. And the phone was on the far side of the bedroom—well away from the bath, which meant that it might take me a good seven rings before I reached it, by which time I would have missed the call, and then . . .
All right, this was completely manic logic—I could find an extension cord and move the phone closer to the bath, right?—but I couldn’t latch on to any sort of logic just now. I was in the deepest trouble imaginable—and the same damn question kept replaying itself inside my head: what can I do now?
Once again, the answer was: nothing . . . until the lawyer calls.
Which she finally did around nine-thirty that morning. From her cell phone, stuck somewhere in traffic. Her voice was crisply cadenced, upper-class.
“Sally Goodchild? Ginny Ricks here. My secretary said you called yesterday. Something urgent, yes?”
“Yes, my husband’s vanished with our son.”
“Vanished? Really?”
“Well, not exactly vanished. While I was out of the country, he got a court order giving him custody of my baby . . .”
“You know,” she said, cutting me off, “this is probably best discussed face-to-face. How are you fixed at the end of the week . . . say Friday around four PM?”
“But that’s two days from now.”
“Best I can do, I’m afraid. Lots of divorcing couples right now. So Friday it is then, yes?”
“Sure.”
“You know where to find us?”
And she gave me an address in Chancery Lane.
When Margaret called me that afternoon for a transatlantic update, I mentioned that I had managed to get an appointment with someone from Lawrence and Lambert.
“Well, that’s a start.”
“But she can’t see me for two days, and . . . I don’t know . . . maybe I’m prejudging her on the basis of one fast phone call, but her tone was so damn supercilious.”
“They’re all a bit like that,” she said.
“Alexander doesn’t know of anybody else over here?”
“I can ask him again, but by the time I get back to you it will be tomorrow, and by the time you call the firm and get an appointment . . .”
“All right, point taken.”
“Don’t you have some friends there who can point you toward some lawyer they know?”
Here was that question again: don’t you have friends in London? The long answer to which was: I arrived here pregnant. A few months later, I ended up being confined to quarters with high blood pressure. Since then . . . well, let’s not go through that happy scenario again. So, no—I’ve found no toehold here whatsoever. And it’s all my own fault.
“No—I really don’t know many people around town.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up over that,” she said. “It took me more than a year to meet anyone in London. It’s that kind of a town.”
“I’m desperate to see Jack,” I said.
More than desperate. It was an actual physical ache.
“I can’t even begin to imagine . . .”
“Don’t say it . . .”
The next forty-eight hours were hell. I tried to stay busy. I cleaned the house. Twice. I called my old bank in Boston, asked them to cash in my bonds, and wire the entire amount over to me. I took my antidepressants with metronomic regularity—and often wondered if this pharmacological compound was keeping me in check; if, without it, I would have already descended into complete mania. Somehow I was managing to push my way through the day. I even called back Tony’s secretary and apologized for the scene at Wapping the previous day.
“There’s absolutely no need for an apology,” Judith Crandall said. “I understand completely.”
“But do you understand why Tony quit?”
A silence. Then, “Sally . . . it’s not that I am unduly loyal to Tony, it’s just . . . I don’t think it’s my business to involve myself in your business.”
“But Tony told you about my . . . illness . . . didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did mention that you had been . . . unwell.”
“So you did know a certain amount about my business. Which means you also must know something about the woman he’s vanished with.”
“This is very awkward . . .”
“I just have to make contact with him. What he’s doing is so unfair.”
“I’m sorry, Sally. But I just can’t help you here.”
I phoned Tony’s deputy, Simon Pinnock. He was similarly evasive (and just a little mortified) to be cornered like this by the shunned wife of his ex-boss.
“I really don’t have a clue why he did what he did,” he said, the nervousness showing.
“Come on, Simon,” I said. “I think you do.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m being called into conference . . .”
I even tried ringing Tony’s long-estranged sister—whom I’d never met (they’d had a falling-out over something he wouldn’t discuss with me), and who now lived in East Sussex. It took some dogged online digging in the phone book to find her number. She didn’t particularly want to talk with me either.
“Haven’t spoken to Tony in years—so why should he call me now?” she said.
“It was just a long shot.”
“How long have you two been married now?”
“Around a year.”
“And he’s already abandoned you? That’s fast work, right enough. Mind you, I’m not surprised. He’s the abandoning sort.”
“You mean, he’s done this before?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Maybe I feel I don’t need to give you an answer. Especially having adopted that tone with me . . .”
“I didn’t adopt a tone.”
“Yes, you did. And it’s not like I know you or anything . . .”
“Well, if I’ve offended you, I’m very sorry. And . . .”
“Don’t feel like talking to you anymore.”
And the line went dead.
I hit my hand against my forehead, congratulating myself on another tactical diplomatic victory. My inborn American inability t
o couch things in coded language caused me to strike out every time. Hadn’t I learned anything in my months here?
I vowed to be on my absolute best behavior when I met Virginia Ricks the next day. I took the tube to Chancery Lane well in advance of our appointed time, and loitered for an hour in a Starbucks until three-thirty arrived.
The offices of Lawrence and Lambert were in a narrow-terraced town house, sleekly renovated inside. There was a security man on the door—who made me sign in and checked that I did have an appointment upstairs. Then I headed up in the elevator to the third floor and stepped out into a pleasant, modern reception area, with chrome furniture and copies of all the daily papers on the coffee table. While the receptionist phoned Virginia Ricks, I sat down and absently glanced through them, deliberately shunning the Chronicle.
Around five minutes later, a young woman in her early twenties came out. Blond. Big hair. Slutty suit.
“You Sally?” she asked. “I’m Trudy. We spoke yesterday. Doing all right?”
“Uh fine, yes.”
“Great. But listen, Ginny’s still tied up in court. Now we could reschedule the whole thing for Monday . . .”
“I really need to see her today.”
“Understood. And the good news is, she should be back at around four-thirty. So . . .”
I killed an hour in a branch of Books Etc on Fleet Street, then picked up another coffee and sat on a bench in Lincoln’s Inn, shivering with the chill, chasing another two antidepressants with my latte, thinking that there is always something strangely comforting about a square like this one in the midst of a city—how it gives you a sense of enclosure and shelter.
Virginia Ricks was in her late twenties. As I expected, she was blond, slightly horsey in the face, but immaculately polished: the sort of woman who spent a good hour putting herself together in the morning before showing her face to the world. But what immediately struck me about her was a certain noblesse oblige manner—a slightly flippant superiority, no doubt taught to her at a young age by the kind of upscale parents who masked their own doubts behind an overweening public face.
“Ginny Ricks,” she said, hurrying into the conference room into which I had been ushered, proffering her hand. It was now almost five o’clock. As she settled herself into the chair opposite mine, she kept up a steady, nonstop line of chat.
“So sorry to be so late. Ghastly day in court. It’s Sally, right? Trudy fix you up with some tea, I hope? Hope she didn’t take you aback, our Trude. A bit Estuary for some of my clients’ taste—but she’s brilliant with all the soccer players’ wives we always seem to be representing. Puts them right at their ease, for some curious reason. So now, you have my complete, uninterrupted attention . . . though we will have to curtail things in about a half hour. Ghastly Friday night traffic again. Know the Sussex Downs, do you? Perfect romantic weekend spot, if you’re . . .”
But she stopped herself.
“Oh, dear,” she said, half-laughing to herself. “Can you believe such rubbish? So sorry. Well now, let’s make a start. You were recommended to us by . . . ?”
“Alexander Campbell.”
“Sorry, never heard of him.”
“He ran Sullivan and Cromwell’s London office for three years.”
“But he never had business with our firm?”
“No—he just told me, through his wife, that you were the best divorce lawyers in London.”
“Quite right too,” she said. “And I presume that, because you’re here, you want to get divorced.”
“Not precisely,” I said. And then I quickly took her through the entire story, right up to the bombshell court order. Ginny Ricks asked to see the order. I handed it over. She speed-read it.
“Evidently your husband got his barrister to convince a sympathetic judge that you were an unfit mother, and to grant this temporary order. Which, in turn, raises the unpleasant, but most necessary question: were you, in your opinion, an unfit mother?”
I shifted uneasily in my chair because I was aware that Ginny Ricks was now studying me with care.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, let me ask you this: did you ever physically abuse your child? Shake it when it was crying, toss it across the room, that sort of thing?”
“No. I did get angry once or twice . . .”
“Nothing unusual there. Parents often get angry at children and say angry things. But words is cheap, as you Americans love to say.”
Actually, we don’t love to say that.
“As long as you didn’t physically harm your child, we’re on strong ground here. And during your stay at St. Martin’s . . . you were never committed, were you?”
“No—it was a voluntary stay.”
“No problem then. Postnatal depression is so common these days. Though we will naturally investigate what evidence they used against you, the way I see it, your husband really doesn’t have much of a case.”
“Then how did he get this court order?”
“You were out of the country, and his legal team obviously put together a case against you, in which it was argued that the safety of your child was at risk . . . oh, by the way, is it a boy or a girl?”
“His name’s Jack.”
“Well, they probably chose a judge who was known for his misogynist credentials—and as you were not represented at the hearing, he heard just what they wanted him to hear . . .”
“But could he rule against me like that without listening to my side of the story?”
“With the alleged safety of the child in question . . . absolutely.”
“But does this mean that, for the moment, I’m barred from seeing Jack?”
“I’m afraid so. The good news, however, is that this ex parte order can come to an end at the next hearing, which is fixed for ten days’ time—which means that we have just five working days, not counting both weekends, to build our case.”
“Is that enough time?”
“It has to be.”
“And do you also think you might be able to find out who this Dexter woman is?”
“Ah yes, the femme fatale.” Another of her giggles. “Sorry—bad joke. But yes, that shouldn’t take much effort. Now—just a little spot of housekeeping. My fees are £200 an hour, I’ll need to put an assistant onto this immediately to help me with the research, and she’ll cost around £50 an hour. Then we will also have to instruct a barrister, though that’ll only be for the hearing itself. So, say a £2500 retainer to get us started . . .”
I was prepared for such an initial sum, but I still blanched.
“Is that a problem?” she asked.
“No, I have it. However . . .”
I then explained about him stopping the bank accounts, and what the guy at NatWest told me.
“But if you never insisted on a proper joint account . . .” she said, with a little supercilious shrug.
“I thought it was a joint account.”
“You’re obviously a very trusting person.”
“What about him trying to sell the house?”
“You are joint owners, right?”
“So I thought.”
“We’ll search the land registry and check who owns the house. Anyway, if you put money into the house you’ll get it back on divorce. And if you get to keep Jack, you’ll probably get to keep the house . . . or, at least, while he’s still at school.”
“And when it comes to getting some sort of support from my husband . . . ?”
“That’s Monday’s job,” she said, glancing at her watch. “So, Monday morning—we’ll need the retainer and a list of assorted health care professionals and people who know you who can vouch for your good character and, most tellingly, your relationship with your son. That’s critical . . .”
She pulled over a calendar, opened it, and glanced down a page.
“Now Monday’s rather ghastly . . . but shall we say four forty-five?”
“Isn’t that late in the day, if we only have this week to buil
d the case?”
“Sally . . . I am trying to fit you in at a time when I really shouldn’t be taking on any more clients. Now if you feel you can do better elsewhere . . .”
“No, no, Monday afternoon is fine.”
She stood up and proffered her hand. I took it.
“Excellent. Until Monday then.”
Later that night, while talking with Sandy, I said, “She strikes me as a bit young, but ultra-arrogant . . . which might be a good thing under the circumstances. She certainly seems to know what she’s doing.”
“Good, because you need a bitch in your corner. And she sounds like she fits the bill.”
The weekend was endless. On Monday morning, I went to the bank. The American money had arrived. I bought a sterling bank check for £2,500. This left me with just under $6,000—or around £4,000 . . . which I could certainly live on for a bit, as long as my legal bills didn’t spiral beyond the initial retainer fee.
I brought this concern up with Ginny Ricks later that afternoon. Once again, I was kept waiting more than a half hour, as she was “tied up” with another client.
“So sorry about that,” she said, breezing in.
I showed her the list of contacts I’d drawn up. There were only four names: Dr. Rodale, Ellen the therapist, my GP, and Jane Sanjay, the health visitor. I mentioned that Ellen was out of town. “Don’t worry—we’ll track her down,” Ginny Ricks said. She also wondered out loud if there was a friend in town—preferably English (“It will play better in front of the judge, show you’ve found a footing here, that sort of thing”)—who could vouch for my good character.
“You see, Sally, before the next interim hearing next week, we will already have submitted witness statements to the judge. So the more people who have positive things to say about you as a mother . . .”
“I’ve only been a mother for a few weeks,” I said.
“Yes, but surely there are some chums here . . .”
“I’ve only been in the country a few months. And I haven’t really met many people . . .”
“I see,” Ginny Ricks said. “Well . . . I’ll have one of our researchers get cracking on the witness statements today. One last thing: you did bring the retainer, I hope?”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 91
