by Adele Parks
‘Dad.’ Liam looked pained.
‘Come on, son, answer me. Because whether you love Abi or not, and whether she loves you, that’s all that counts.’
‘Of course she loves me. She’s, like, obsessed with me.’ Liam glanced at his phone. ‘Shit, look at the time. I need a shave. We’re going to be late.’ He strode into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.
Ben was inwardly rolling his eyes. The boy had just put his shirt and tie on, now he was getting a shave. He wasn’t anywhere near ready to look after a baby, he couldn’t quite look after himself.
That’s when Ben heard the ambulance sirens outside the hotel. He looked out the window and could see a crowd of wedding guests gathering. Had someone overdone it with the champagne already? It was such a hot day. Or maybe something was wrong with his mother, Mel’s parents.
‘Liam, I’m just going to see what the commotion is. I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ he called through the bathroom door and then sped out the room.
61
Melanie
I froze; for one shameful, dreadful moment I did nothing. I just watched her lying there – her limbs tangled and twisted, her body unnaturally still. And do you know what I thought? I thought she was dead. And I was relieved.
I look at the policewoman, who has been talking to me for over ten minutes now, and I wonder whether I’ve just said that out loud. Maybe, from the uneasy look on her face. She has a no-nonsense face, the sort that never looks young but therefore ages well. She’ll be the woman who, on her fiftieth birthday, people will sincerely compliment and swear she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s wearing a little black bowler hat with black and white checks on it. It’s flattering. I almost tell her she suits a hat. Not many people do. It’s the sort of compliment that I readily give in the shop but I stop myself as I realise how inappropriate I’d sound. She’s also wearing a belt, off which hang handcuffs, a baton, something that looks like a pepper spray and a host of other official-looking equipment. She’s twice spoken into a radio. Her accessories are horrendously sobering. I think I’m in shock. Tanya has been led away by some medic because she was shaking so violently. You didn’t need to be a trained professional to see what a mess she was, but no one has offered me a sugary drink. I wish they would.
They’ve taken Abi away too. Bleeding, battered, shattered Abi.
‘You are not being charged at this point. We’re just inviting you in to give a statement,’ the policewoman tells me.
‘I need to go with my friend. I need to follow the ambulance,’ I insist.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘Is she conscious?’
‘Someone said she did say something.’
‘What did she say?’ I ask eagerly.
The policewoman flips over her notepad to read her own notes. I get the feeling this is an unnecessary gesture, some sort of show, for my benefit. She knows the answer to my question. ‘The patient in the ambulance was mumbling, drifting in and out of a fully conscious state but it appears she said, “Keep that woman away from me”.’
‘That woman being me?’ I ask.
‘It appears so. What is your relationship to the injured party?’
‘I’m her friend.’ I don’t know if this is true. I don’t want to lie to a police officer so I add, ‘Well, I was her friend. Once. I was about to become her mother-in-law.’ The policewoman wrinkles her forehead a fraction. ‘She was supposed to be marrying my son today. He’s just turned eighteen,’ I add, but I realise that doesn’t offer any clarity, or maybe it offers too much.
The policewoman says, ‘I see.’
‘Has anyone told my son about Abigail? He’ll want to go with her to the hospital.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that, right now.’ But I do. ‘You need to come with us.’ Oh, I see.
The girls watch me being led away by two police officers; that, just after they’ve seen Abi plummet down the stairs. It is horrifying. They’re both sobbing, confused and scared. I’m relieved to see that my mum has appeared from nowhere. Thank goodness. She keeps saying to me, ‘It’s OK, honey. I’m with the girls. I have your babies. I’ll find Ben. Go with the policewoman now.’
Her voice is soothing and her eyes plead with me. Go quietly. Be polite. Don’t make a fuss. She thinks I’ve pushed Abi down the stairs. My own mother.
Someone puts their hand on my head and eases me into the back of the patrol car. I am aware of guests still hanging about, mouths open in shock or to pass on gossip. The hotel staff are running around, panicked, trying to get the guests off the street. I look for Ben and Liam but can’t see either of them. I can only hope they are together.
The back of the car smells of sweat and fear. I wonder whether it is my own. I’m not cuffed because I haven’t been charged, I’ve come voluntarily, just to give a statement of events. However, I heard the photographer scream repeatedly, ‘She did it. I saw her. They were fighting and that woman shoved the bride.’ She was pointing at me. I heard this and so did the policewoman who was talking to me. The one who is sat in the passenger seat in front of the car right now. I know I’m in trouble.
I pray for Abi in the back of the police car. For Abi and for her baby. I’m not big on prayer. God must think I’m a lousy bet; I only ever appear when I want something: safe deliveries of my babies, happy friendship groups for the girls, a promotion for Ben, good results for Liam and now for Abi to live. For Abi and her baby to make it, because she doesn’t deserve to die. The crazy, angry, misguided woman doesn’t deserve to die. I hope maybe he’ll answer my prayer because he’ll know I really want to pray for myself, pray that I’ll be going home to my family tonight, pray that I’m not going to be blamed and punished, but I’m holding back. I’m trying to be a good person. A better person. I’m trying to make amends.
At the police station, I’m led into a small, airless room with a grubby Formica table and three uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs; one is at the side of the room, the other two are at the table in a face-off. The unadorned room is set up to be daunting, comfortless. Naturally, it’s a place where criminals are interviewed. There is a policeman waiting to take my statement. The policewoman who brought me here hands me over and then says she has to be elsewhere. I stare after her, much the way a toddler might stare after her mother on the first day at nursery school. I miss her sensible face that suits hats. It is ridiculous to have formed any sort of attachment but I feel even worse than I did on the hotel stairs; I feel lonelier. The policeman with the pen and notebook, who is waiting to take my statement, is in his forties. He’s carrying a few extra pounds as well as the weight of dealing with all that is wrong with the world. I sense his disappointment in me. I feel ashamed.
I tell him what I can. I didn’t push or shove Abigail Curtiz. I didn’t touch her at all.
He writes that down. His passive face does not betray whether he believes me or doubts me, but he observes (almost gently), ‘We have a witness statement to the contrary.’
‘The photographer?’
‘Yes.’ The policeman sits up an inch straighter, and makes another note. He looks quite pleased with himself, as though what I’ve just said is akin to a confession. To clarify, I add, ‘Yes, I heard her say that – well, yell it – but it’s not true.’
‘Then why would she say it?’
‘She’s mistaken. She was taking photos.’
‘Let’s go over your statement one more time, shall we?’ It isn’t a question. ‘See if there’s anything you’ve left out.’
And so I tell them. Yes, I was rowing with Abi. Yes, I know her, Yes, we were having a dispute. I suppose you could call it a family dispute. Yes, I can give details if they think it’s really necessary.
He does.
The tale sounds sorry and sordid. It is. The police clearly think I have a motive for pushing Abi. I do. Liam. Liam. What must he be thinking now? Who is he with? I’ve watched enough cop shows to know I am in trouble. I wonder about asking for a
lawyer but would asking for one make me look guilty? I don’t know and I’m struggling to be logical. I’m too law-abiding for this to be my life.
‘What do you think Abigail Curtiz will say when she can make a statement?’ the police officer asks.
‘I have no idea,’ I say with a sigh. It’s not like she can be relied upon to tell the truth and she’s no friend to me. ‘Is she well enough to make a statement? Is she even conscious?’ I am concerned for her but I fear my question sounds self-motivated, as though I’m hoping she can’t make a statement. ‘How’s Tanya?’ I ask.
‘Tanya?’
‘The photographer’s assistant.’ I shouldn’t have mentioned her. ‘She seemed very upset. Almost hysterical.’
‘We ask the questions around here,’ says the policeman, stonily.
After an hour and a half, most of which I spend alone, like a child on some incredibly serious naughty step, I am brought a cup of tea by another police officer. ‘When can I go home?’ I ask.
‘Whenever you like,’ she confirms. ‘You’re here voluntarily.’ I wonder if it’s a trick but she smiles at me. ‘We have your statement now. Plus, I think they have everyone else’s who was at the scene too, so really there’s no need for you to be here. Go home to your family.’
I immediately pick up my jacket and leave the tea. I realise that I didn’t bring my bag with me, so I have no money or phone. I suppose it must be in Abi’s suite at the hotel; that’s the last time I remember having it. I’m too embarrassed to mention this to the police – it’s hardly their problem. I don’t want to ask to borrow their phone to ring Ben, I just want to get out of here. I’ll find a taxi driver and pay them when I get home. The important thing is just to get out. As I walk back into the reception I see Gillian Burton waiting for me. She spreads her arms wide and I collapse into her bosomy hug, only just holding back tears of relief.
‘Ben is with Liam at the hospital. Your parents wanted to come but I persuaded them to stay with the girls.’ I appreciate that she’s given me the exact information I need. Where my family are. Who is looking after my children.
‘Thank you, Gillian. So much.’ Polite concern compels me to ask, ‘Have you been hanging around long?’
‘Ben called me the moment you were led away by the police. He knew you’d want him to stay with Liam.’
‘You’ve been here almost two hours?’
‘Don’t mention it. What are friends for?’
Gillian drives me home calmly and efficiently. She extends the favour and further proves the depth of her friendship by not asking any questions other than, ‘I bet you could do with a cup of tea?’ I’m so utterly grateful to have her sensible, solid presence by my side. How could I have ever undervalued this friendship, one that is centred around ballet classes and childcare arrangements? Suddenly that seems like the most wonderful foundation for a relationship imaginable. When I get home, the house is full: my parents, Ellie, the girls, Gillian and Becky and their kids and husbands are all dashing about. I’m offered tea about a hundred times. It’s painfully obvious that the adults want to ask for details of my ordeal but can’t do so in front of the children. Gillian and Becky swiftly and discreetly say they’ll leave us to it and usher their families out of the door. My mum and Ellie slip into the garden with Lily and Imogen. My dad says, ‘We’re here, when you’re ready to talk about it.’
‘Have you heard from Liam and Ben?’ I don’t want to talk to anyone until I have spoken to them.
‘They rang from the hospital. I don’t think they know anything about Abigail. No one will talk to them. Liam’s status as her fiancé isn’t being taken particularly seriously I’m afraid.’
‘I’m going to have a shower. I feel . . . unclean.’
Ben and Liam get home just after eight p.m. Surprisingly, the girls are already in bed. I’d thought we’d never get them to sleep because they’d be hyper or alarmed by the events of the day, but in fact the shocks have taken their toll and they were both sound asleep by seven. My parents wanted to stay with me but I practically pushed them out of the door and I insisted that Ellie take up their offer to stay with them so that Liam, Ben, and I could have some time alone together. They only agreed to leave when I promised that if Ben and Liam didn’t make it home within the hour I’d call, then one of them would come back so I wouldn’t be alone. I’m glad of the back-up plan but I’m delighted I don’t have to use it. When I see our car pull onto the drive I jump up, buzzing with relief, excitement, but also trepidation and concern, a cocktail of dizzying emotions. I don’t know what reception to expect. I hear Ben’s key in the lock, I see my men in the hallway, and then I feel my son in my arms.
I ran to him, flung my arms around him, not knowing whether he’d push me away, not even worrying about it. I just needed to hold him. Then, Ben folds himself over us like a blanket and we all cling to one another for a long time, like survivors picked from a stormy sea.
‘How’s Abi?’ I ask, the moment we break from the hug.
Ben answers my question. ‘We just don’t know. No one is telling us anything. One nurse let slip that she has a concussion and some broken ribs. I think she’s probably going to be OK but we don’t know anything about the baby.’ Ben shakes his head sadly.
Abi was bleeding when they lifted her onto the stretcher. A dark stain on her beautiful dress. I turn to Liam once again. ‘I’m so sorry, my darling.’ He shrugs – it’s not a careless shrug, it’s a helpless one. ‘Can’t you get any information as the father of the baby?’
‘They are being very circumspect. They said they only have my word for it that I am the father of the baby.’
‘So, she can’t be conscious then because she’d have told them,’ I comment.
‘I just don’t know,’ says Liam.
He doesn’t know what to say or do. I don’t even know what to hope for. I throw my arms around him again and then it strikes me, I am not hugging him, he is hugging me. My head rests on his chest and he’s patting my back. My man son.
It’s been such a hot day that the air is still warm. Normally, in temperatures such as these, we’d sit in the garden, perhaps with a glass of wine. Instead, we settle around the kitchen table as we can’t risk the neighbours overhearing us. I pour us each a glass of lemonade. We need the sugar and we don’t need to be woozy.
I start to tell them about my day. About how I went to Abi with high-minded plans, how those quickly deteriorated, how we started to argue.
‘Why? Over what specifically?’ Liam asks.
I don’t know how to reply. I know if I tell him everything, he will be utterly devastated. Abi is lying in a hospital, we don’t know if she’ll hold onto his baby; I can’t choose this moment to tell him she doesn’t love him, that she only used him to get pregnant, specifically to forge a connection between her and her ex, his father. I can’t tell him that much of her reasoning to do this was to punish me. It’s too much, too dreadful. Today in particular, it would be an impossible thing to hear. The day he thought he was getting married. However, I know I can’t tell him any more lies. It’s because I’ve told lies that we are all in this position. Liam must read from my expression that I’m struggling with deciding what to tell him.
‘Come on, Mum, I’m a big boy. All grown up.’
And he is. Well, almost. ‘We were rowing about your father. Your biological father,’ I admit.
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Liam, I’m so sorry my darling, this is going to be a huge shock.’ Ben takes hold of my hand and squeezes it to encourage me. ‘I should have told you a long time ago. You had every right to know.’ I nervously glance at the table – taking in the salt and pepper shakers, the tall glasses, a smudge of tomato sauce left over from the girls’ tea – hating having to look into my son’s eyes.
‘Go on.’
I finally meet his gaze. ‘Rob Larsen is your father.’
Liam lets out a snort of disbelief. ‘Rob, as in Abi’s bastard ex-husband?’ He asks. I nod. �
�Shit, that’s literally like being told Darth Vader is your father. I’m bloody Luke Skywalker.’
I almost laugh because his response is so youthful, so uncontainable. It’s impossible to know what the right response could be to this news, but I think in this situation, which is awash with impossibilities, his response is perfect.
‘Well, now at least I understand a little more about why you were so against me and Abi getting together. I guess it felt a bit claustrophobic. “Of all the bars in all the towns.”’
It feels so good to hear Liam tease me again. Even if his humour is something close to gallows humour. I have missed his cheeky irreverence, his irrepressible spirit and I’d forgotten about his resilience. He’s a gentle soul but he’s also tough. I’m glad. When Abi moved in with us, he changed. No doubt because he fancied her, and then because he was having an affair with her, he became more restrained and severe, at least towards me. I guess it was an attempt to impress her, a desperate effort to appear more adult.
‘So, you had an affair with Abi’s boyfriend at university?’ Liam asked.
‘More of a fling. I told you, it was a one-night thing.’
If Liam still feels inclined to judge me Ben heads it off because he adds, ‘Your mum was nineteen, just a year older than you are now.’
‘I get it, immaturity leads to mistakes.’
‘You were never a mistake,’ I assure him, swiftly.
‘No, I’m bloody marvellous, but sleeping with your best friend’s boyfriend is a mistake,’ points out Liam.
‘Sleeping with your mother’s best friend isn’t exactly a well-thought-out move,’ adds Ben.
‘Touché,’ says Liam with a laugh. Then, more seriously, he asks, ‘So did Rob Larsen always know he was a father?’
‘Yes,’ I admit. Liam looks sad but not surprised.
‘And did Abi know it, before today? Or did you tell her today? Was that why you rowed?’
‘She knew it before she came to the UK.’
