“What court hearing?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Tell you that I applied for a court order this morning, insisting that your husband pay the mortgage on your house until the divorce settlement is finalized.”
This was news to me.
“You did?”
“I hope you don’t mind . . .”
“Hardly. I just didn’t know.”
“Well . . . uh . . . I just thought, considering that you were being threatened with eviction . . .”
“No need to apologize,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Uh, sure. Anyway, uh, it seems . . . well, the court decided to preserve the status quo.”
“I don’t understand?”
“I obtained the order this afternoon at three. And the judge presiding over the hearing . . . well, over the strong objections of your husband’s solicitor, the judge decreed that your husband must continue to pay the mortgage until you have worked out a mutually agreed financial settlement.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Does this mean that the house can’t be sold out from under me?”
“Uh . . . that’s right. And if your husband doesn’t make the mortgage payments, he will be considered in contempt of court. Which means that he could actually be imprisoned for failing to meet his commitments to you.”
“Good God,” I said.
“One other thing,” he said. “His solicitor said that he wants to make an offer vis-à-vis interim financial support for you.”
“He did? Really?”
“I think he was rather nervous about the idea that, under the circumstances, the judge might instruct his client to pay you a substantial sum a month. So they offered you £1,000 a month in interim maintenance.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Is that too low?”
“Hardly. I don’t want a penny of it.”
“Oh, right. But how about the mortgage?”
“That’s different—because the house is a shared investment. But I certainly don’t want to be supported by her money.”
“Well, uh, that’s your choice. And if, uh, you want me to continue handling this matter, I will inform them of your decision.”
Was he always so self-denigrating? I paused for a nanosecond’s worth of reflection, then said, “I’m very pleased to have you in my corner, Mr. Clapp.”
“Oh . . .” he said, sounding somewhat bemused. And then added, “Uhm . . . thanks.”
TWELVE
I DIDN’T HEAR FROM Nigel Clapp for another week. But he did send me a copy of the court order he obtained against Tony, along with a follow-up letter from Tony’s solicitor confirming that his client would continue to pay the mortgage payments on our jointly owned house until such time as a legally binding agreement was reached on the disbursement of mutually owned assets. The letter also confirmed that I had turned down an offer of £1,000 per month in maintenance, and let it be known that, in light of this refusal to accept said offer, his side would enter into no subsequent negotiations in regard to interim maintenance payments until such time as the final financial settlement blah, blah, blah, blah . . .
“You should have taken the money,” Sandy said after I read her this letter on the phone. “I mean, he’s got his sugar mama covering everything. An extra grand to you a month would have bought you a reduction in financial pressure, and the ability to hire better legal counsel . . .”
“Like I told Clapp: there’s no way I’m going to live on her money.”
“You and your dumb pride. I mean, welcome to divorce—where the object of the exercise is to stick it to the other party. Which is precisely what the wonderful Tony and his rich bitch are doing to you. Which is why I think you were insane to turn down the dough. You have hardly anything left to live on, and also because, from what you’ve told me, the legal eagle representing you isn’t exactly Mr. High Powered, Mr. Perry Mason. The other side will eat him alive once this goes to trial. And just think of the nonevent he’ll entice to be your barrister. I mean, all courtroom lawyers are actors, right? So no big-shot ‘actor’ is going to work with a cipher like him.”
“I think you’re being a little hard on the guy.”
“Hey, I’m just repeating what you told me.”
“True—but that was before he won the mortgage payment thing . . . which, let’s face it, has saved me from the street and kept me in the house. And yeah, you’re right: he’s like dealing with the world’s greatest wallflower, which does worry me. But given how that upscale ineptitude at Lawrence and Lambert messed me over, I’m just a little suspicious of high-flying law firms right now.”
“But that was just one up-her-ass limey bimbo. Surely there are some excellent divorce lawyers in London.”
“Yeah, but I can’t afford one now. And you’re right—it’s my own damn fault for turning down Tony’s money. But the thing is: for the first time since this extended bad dream started, I’ve actually won an argument. And that’s due to my very peculiar solicitor. So why turn my back on a guy who’s trumped Tony?”
Still, Sandy was right about one point: dealing with Nigel Clapp was like dealing with the number zero. It was impossible to fathom him, or to work out his legal methodology. After his success on the mortgage front, he vanished for seven days. Then, out of nowhere, he made contact with me again.
“Uhm . . . ,” he said after I answered the phone.
“Mr. Clapp?”
“I’d like to speak with Ms. Goodchild.”
“That’s me.”
“Really?”
“I’m pretty sure of that, yeah.”
“Oh, right. Well . . . uhm . . . names.”
“Names?”
“Yes, names.”
“I really don’t follow you.”
“I need the name of everyone who’s dealt with you from the social services.”
He paused—as if the effort of getting that one sentence out without an uhm had been overwhelming. Then he continued. “I also need the names of any nannies or nurses whom you might have used.”
“Fine, no problem. Shall I email you them today?”
“Yes, uhm, email is all right.”
“You know that my first lawyer took witness statements from just about everybody—with the exception of my health visitor who was in Canada at the time.”
“Yes. I know that. Because I have the statements.”
“You do?”
“Uhm, yes.”
“How’d you get them?”
“I obtained copies of all court documents.”
“Sure, sure. But if you’ve got all the witness statements, why do you need the names of everyone again?”
“Because, uhm . . . well, I would just like to speak with them all again.”
“I see,” I said. “Is that necessary?”
“Well . . . uhm . . . yes, in fact.”
Later that day, while reporting this conversation to Julia over coffee in her kitchen, I said, “You know, I think that was the first assertive thing he’s ever said to me.”
“You shouldn’t worry about him so much. He seems to know what he’s doing.”
Four days later, I was woken up by a phone call around one in the morning. At that hour, the sound of a phone ringing can only mean two things—(1) a drunken wrong number, or (2) very bad news. In this case, however, it was a youngish-sounding woman with a London accent who—judging from the static on the line—was calling from far away.
“Hello, Ms. Goodchild . . . Sally?”
“Who’s this?” I asked, half-awake.
“Jane Sanjay.”
“Who?”
“Your health visitor, remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Hello, Jane. Aren’t you supposed to be out of the country?”
“I am out of the country,” she said. “In Canada. Ever heard of Jasper National Park? Way up in Alberta. Amazing place—and a long way from South London. But l
isten, your solicitor, Mr. Clapp, tracked me down.”
“Mr. Clapp found you?”
“That’s right. And he explained what you’ve been going through—and asked me if I’d be prepared to testify on your behalf. Which, of course, I’m most willing to do, especially as I’ll be back working for Wandsworth Council in just over two months’ time. But the reason I’m calling—and I can’t talk for much longer, as my phone card’s about to run out—is just to tell you that I am so shocked that they took Jack away from you. From what he explained to me, they’ve done a complete stitch-up job on you. He also told me about the postpartum depression—which, in itself, should have got you off the hook. I mean, so what if you said something threatening when you were exhausted and suffering from a clinical condition? So what if you accidentally breast-fed your son while taking sleeping pills? We’ve had far worse cases in the borough—and I’m talking about genuine child abuse, where the mother still didn’t have the child taken away from her. So as far as I’m concerned, this is outrageous. And I just wanted to let you know that I’m completely behind you, and will help in any way I can . . .”
I was so pleasantly stunned—and touched—by this out-of-nowhere transatlantic call that I mumbled a huge thank-you, and asked her to come over for lunch as soon as she was back. Then I called Sandy in Boston and told her the news.
“That is amazing,” she said, genuinely excited. “I mean, the fact that she saw you at home with Jack is going to count for an enormous amount. And since it is her job to see how mothers are coping with their newborns, her opinion is going to carry a lot of professional weight. By the way, how did it go with Jack yesterday?”
Leave it to my sister to remember exactly when I had my supervised visit with Jack.
“He seems to recognize me now,” I said. “Or maybe I’m deluding myself.”
“No—babies do get a sense of who’s around them.”
“Which means that Jack most certainly thinks of that woman as his mom.”
“He’s only a few months old,” Sandy said. “He doesn’t know who’s who yet.”
“You’re trying to humor me.”
“Yes. I am,” she said. “But the fact that he seems to know who you are . . . well, isn’t that a great sign that you’re bonding . . . ?”
Bonding. That word again.
“Yes, we’re bonding all right . . . considering that we only have an hour a week to bond. Still, Clarice—the woman who supervises the visits—seems pleased. So does Jessica Law—who’s doing . . .”
“I know: the CAFCASS report for the court . . .”
“You do impress me.”
“Hey, I hang on to every detail you give me. But here’s a question you should ask Ms. Law the next time you see her: why hasn’t Tony once contacted you?”
“That’s a simple one,” I said. “Because he’s a total coward.”
“Without question. But why you should ask Ms. Law about it is because, as she’s interviewing both parties in this case, she’s probably in pretty regular contact with Tony. And if you sense she thinks you’re all right . . . well, why not tell her that you’re a little surprised not to have received any sort of communication from your husband? In the future you will have to be in close consultation about Jack’s upbringing, no matter which one of you ends up getting custody. You see what I’m getting at here?”
I did—and so did Nigel Clapp. Without prompting from me, he raised exactly the same point the next day, when I called him to congratulate him on tracking down Jane Sanjay.
“Oh, right,” he said.
“But you must have spent so much time trying to figure out where she was. I mean, the legal assistant at Lawrence and Lambert didn’t seem to have any luck whatsoever, since Jane was moving around Canada all the time.”
“Moving around? Really?” He sounded even more bemused. “Because what she told me was that she had been working at the Jasper Park Lodge for the past four months. And, uhm, finding her was . . . well, it took two phone calls. The first to the council. I explained who I was, and why I needed to speak with her. And although they didn’t know where to find her, they said they’d call her mother on my behalf—since mothers usually know where to find their daughters. Which, uhm, turned out to be the case here. The council gave Mrs. Sanjay my number. She called me. We talked. She gave me her daughter’s number in Canada. I called her. We talked. And she agreed to be a witness on your behalf at the final hearing. Oh, and . . . uhm . . . just in case she gets delayed in Canada or can’t make it to the hearing on the day in question, I contacted the Law Society of Canada, and found the name of a solicitor in the town of Jasper, and spoke with him yesterday. He’ll be taking a sworn affidavit from Ms. Sanjay later in the week—which he’ll also have notarized, to make certain it’s admissible in an English court of law. But that’s just a precautionary measure on my part.”
Then, with what almost seemed like a slight laugh, he said, “I am just a bit on the cautious side.”
He also informed me that almost all the other people I had listed in my email had been interviewed by Mrs. Keating.
“Who’s Mrs. Keating?” I asked.
“Oh, you don’t know Mrs. Keating?”
“Uh, no . . . ,” I said, stopping myself from adding: “surely if I knew her, I wouldn’t be asking you.”
“Maybe I didn’t introduce you?”
“But where would I have met her?”
“At my office. You were here how many times?”
“Once.”
“Is that all?”
“Absolutely.”
“Rose Keating is my secretary.”
Well, that took some effort to get out of him.
“And she interviewed all the social services people?”
“Uh, yes. She’s very good at that sort of thing.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said. “Are you happy with the new statements?”
“Happy?” he asked, as if he didn’t understand the meaning of the word. “I think they’re fine, yes. But happy . . . ?”
There was a long existential pause on the telephone line as he pondered the semantic implications of “happy.” God, this man was work. From our brief association to date, I could see that I would probably never understand him, let alone get to know him. After our initial meeting, all business was conducted by phone—and on the one or two occasions when I suggested I stop by and see him for a chat, he sounded almost horrified, telling me, “No need to trouble yourself coming all the way to Balham.” I sensed he was very aware of his profound social awkwardness, his verbal hesitancy, his almost autistic inability to make even the most minor emotional connection with a client. But I now knew that he was very good at what he did—exceptionally thorough and considered. I was certain that behind all the awkwardness, there was a private man of some emotional complexity and feeling—he did have a wife and kids, after all. But he would never let me (or probably any other client) be privy to that side of him. It wasn’t as if he was one of those much doted-upon English eccentrics who played to the gallery when it came to their idiosyncrasies. No, Nigel Clapp wasn’t quaint or quirky—he was downright strange. Unnervingly so . . . given that he was my one hope out of this nightmare.
And yet, little by little, I was beginning to trust him.
“Mr. Clapp, are you still there?” I asked.
“I suppose so,” he said. “So there was something else to discuss, wasn’t there?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Clapp,” I said respectfully. “You called me.”
“That’s right, I did. Now . . . uhm . . . I think you should write a letter. You don’t mind me saying that, do you?”
“No, if it is your professional opinion that I should write a letter that would be beneficial to my case, I’ll write the letter. I just need to know to whom I should write the letter.”
“To your husband. I’d like to establish . . . uhm . . . that you want contact with him as regards your son’s well-being in his new home . . . as regards how thi
s Ms. Dexter is treating him, and what his plans are for the future. I’d also like to suggest that you propose a face-to-face meeting . . . just the two of you . . . to discuss Jack’s future.”
“But I really don’t want to meet him right now, Mr. Clapp. I don’t think I could face him.”
“I can appreciate that. But . . . uhm . . . unless I am mistaken . . . and I could be mistaken, I have been mistaken in the past, I do make mistakes . . . uhm . . . I don’t think he’ll want to see you. Guilt, you see. He’ll feel guilty. Unless I am wrong . . .”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think you’re wrong. In fact, my sister had a similar idea.”
“About what?” he asked. And I dropped the subject before things got more confused.
But that evening I did write the letter.
Dear Tony,
I cannot begin to articulate the grief you have caused me. Nor can I fathom how you could have betrayed me and your son in such a ferocious, self-serving way. You used my illness—a temporary clinical condition, from which I am now largely recovered—as a means by which to snatch my son from me, and reinvent your life with a woman whom you were obviously seeing while I was pregnant with your son. The fact that you then manipulated the facts of my postpartum depression to claim that I was a danger to Jack is unspeakable in both its cunning and its cruelty.
But it is another, more pressing matter that compels me to write you. I am troubled by the fact that, as Jack’s mother, I have been deliberately kept in the dark as to who is looking after him, whether he is being properly cared for, and if he is getting the proper maternal attention that an infant needs.
There are also questions about his upbringing—no matter what the final custody arrangements turn out to be—which we must decide together.
That is what I want to most emphasize now—the fact that, despite the desperate anguish I feel by being unfairly separated from my son, and despite my anger at your terrible betrayal, my primary concern is Jack’s welfare and his future happiness. For this reason, I am willing to put aside my anguish to sit down with you for the first of what must be an ongoing series of conversations about our son and his future. For his sake, we should put all our animosities to one side and talk.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 99
