Playing Nice

by Delaney, JP

  “I didn’t realize you actually met up. She implied it was just a text exchange when I spoke to her.”

  “Well, it wasn’t. Look, I did a stupid thing, okay?” I said, exasperated. “I offered to help her out, and I probably shouldn’t have. You would have talked me out of it if you’d known. So yes, my bad. But considering everything else that’s going on, is that really the priority?”

  “Probably not,” Maddie agreed.

  We were both silent for a while.

  “I think we should try to track down Tania next,” Maddie said thoughtfully.

  “Why? Presumably she’ll have been handsomely paid off by the Lamberts.”

  “She might be pretty angry, even so. She only had that job a few weeks, which doesn’t look good on anyone’s CV. And she lived in the house with them. I’ve a feeling she might be able to tell us something useful.”

  “All right, then. But let’s do it quietly. I’d feel awful if she suffered the same fate as Jane Tigman and that whistleblower.” I went and put my coffee cup in the sink. “I’ll go and hurry Theo up. I want to read him his story before I head over to Greg and Kate’s.”

  I took the stairs two at a time, relieved that our conversation about Bronagh was now over.

  83

  MADDIE

  THE PRELIMINARY HEARING TAKES place in a bland, 1960s building on Cricklewood Lane—it could be a public library, if it weren’t for the royal coat of arms outside. There’s a smaller version of the same crest on the wall of the courtroom, which otherwise looks just like any medium-sized meeting room in a slightly run-down office. The judge, a brisk woman in her fifties called Marion Wakefield, wears a gray suit and sits behind a desk on a slightly raised platform.

  The Lamberts sit with their barrister and solicitor on one side of a row of chairs facing the judge, and Pete and I sit on the other with Anita. It’s all surprisingly informal—none of the lawyers wear a wig or gown, or get to their feet to speak. Lyn the CAFCASS adviser—who turns out to be a tiny, innocuous-looking woman with sharp eyes—sits on her own, in the second row of chairs.

  Judge Wakefield begins by reminding us that this isn’t a hearing to consider evidence, only whether the case can be resolved without the court’s involvement, and if not, what evidence she’ll need at the second hearing to help her make a decision. She looks at the Lamberts, then Pete and me. “So my first question to you, through your legal representatives, is whether there is any possibility you could come to an agreement.”

  Miles’s barrister says, “My clients have tried to explore every avenue for compromise, madam, including becoming Theo’s godparents and inviting Theo to share David’s nanny. But ultimately, Theo is their son and, like any parent, they want to make the day-to-day decisions regarding his care.”

  The judge nods. “Ms. Chowdry?”

  “My clients have also tried to compromise—the suggestion that the applicants become Theo’s godparents actually came from them,” Anita says. “They regard Theo as their son, and believe it is in his best interests not to be removed from them at this important stage of his development.”

  “Thank you,” Marion Wakefield says briskly. “This is clearly an unusual and difficult case, and for that reason alone, a fuller hearing seems necessary. I’m going to accept CAFCASS’s recommendation that there should be a more detailed report on the safeguarding issues. I’m also going to direct that Theo is assessed by a psychologist to see what impact changing families at his age might have on him.” She looks straight at me. “Ms. Wilson, I’m going to direct that you must not travel abroad without the court’s permission. And as there has been a question raised about your alcohol intake, I’m going to order that you give blood and hair samples, to be assessed for current and past alcohol intake respectively.”

  An alcohol test. Anita warned me this might happen, given what Lyn said in her safeguarding letter, and also that there’s no way of disguising the amount I’ve been drinking—although the blood test will only measure what’s in my system at the time, the hair sample will show how much I’ve been drinking over the whole of the last year. I feel my cheeks burn with a mixture of anger and shame.

  Anita says calmly, “Madam, we’d like to request that Mr. Riley be allowed back into the family home. While my clients absolutely refute the suggestion that Ms. Wilson could be unfit to care for Theo, it seems illogical to raise that possibility and at the same time bar his primary carer from caring for him.”

  “I accept that argument,” Marion Wakefield says. “Accordingly, I will make no direction about Mr. Riley at this time. But since the present situation is a voluntary one, by arrangement with CAFCASS, it will be up to Ms. Edwards whether she is satisfied with that.”

  “I am satisfied if the court is satisfied,” Lyn says meekly.

  “We would also like to ask that the court consolidate all the proceedings in Theo’s case,” Anita says.

  “Mr. Kelly?” The judge turns to the Lamberts’ lawyer.

  “I was going to suggest the same thing, madam.”

  “Then we will have one hearing for Theo, in approximately twelve weeks’ time, and another at a later date for David.” The judge makes a note. “Is there anything else?”

  There isn’t. The lawyers start shuffling papers together and the judge turns back to her computer. It seems incredible that such a momentous case can be dealt with so quickly, but of course it hasn’t been, not really. This is only the opening salvo. And thanks to CAFCASS, Miles has achieved almost everything he wanted. But Pete’s allowed to come home. That’s something.

  Marion Wakefield stays at her desk, making notes, while the rest of us leave. There’s a bottleneck at the door, with both sets of parents and lawyers reaching it at the same time. “After you,” Miles says politely, just as Pete says firmly, “After you.” It’s all bizarrely civilized. Eventually Pete waves Lucy through and follows behind, and Miles gestures for me to go ahead of him. I realize he’s very close behind me—I can even feel his breath on my neck. No, not just his breath: The bastard is actually blowing on me. I’ve worn my hair up, and the sensation on my nape is unmistakable. I stop dead, outraged.

  “Such a pity about the hair test,” he murmurs. “Some people shave their heads, I gather. But then the doctors use one from down there instead. Do you wax down there, Maddie? I hope not. I picture you with curls.”

  As he speaks, something insinuates itself between my buttocks. His fingers. I jump forward as if stung, and hear—feel, almost—his chuckle. Furious, I look around. His face is the picture of innocence. All three lawyers, and the judge, are looking at me. I open my mouth to say something. But what? It might look like the act of a desperate woman who didn’t get what she wanted at the hearing. A drunk, even. And who would believe that Miles Lambert was reckless enough to grope me in a courtroom?

  But I can’t do nothing. So I say sharply, “Don’t do that.”

  Miles only grins, the smile of a man who knows he’s winning.

  84

  MADDIE

  I DON’T TELL PETE. There’s a chance he’ll storm off and confront Miles, and I suspect Miles would enjoy that. He might even be hoping he can make Pete look aggressive and hot-tempered, and by implication a bad parent.

  After the hearing Pete goes to Greg and Kate’s to get his suitcase, while I go back to the house. By the time I get there I’m kicking myself for not making more of a fuss. Shouldn’t a strong, confident woman—which is what I know myself to be—have called Miles out? I’ve always fended off drunken fumbles with a firm stare and a cutting put-down, but promised myself that, if anything more serious happened, I’d stand up for myself; go to the police, if need be. I wouldn’t be a victim.

  But it had been so quick, so shocking, so hard to take in.

  Is that how people like that get away with it, I wonder—sheer effrontery and self-confidence? My anger is growing by the
minute, but of course it’s too late now. That’s another weapon in their armory, I realize—surprise. And the ridiculous British habit of being polite, no matter what the circumstances.

  Well, I’m not British. If Miles does it again, I resolve to punch him, courtroom or no courtroom.

  Pete arrives, carrying his overnight case. “Welcome home,” I say brightly. “I’d open the champagne, but…”

  He nods and looks around. There’s an awkward moment. Probably no one else, looking at the two of us, would even notice it. But we don’t hug, or kiss, or fall into each other’s arms. We’re polite and cheerful and false.

  Is it because of what Miles did? Because of not telling Pete? Or is it because of all the other secrets that have started to ooze their way to the surface over the last few weeks, like bubbles squelching out of mud? I want to trust Pete, of course I do, but there’s a tiny part of me that knows good people can do bad things, and that loyalty isn’t the same as certainty.

  Losing Theo isn’t the only threat to our relationship, I realize. Even if we get to keep him—which, I have to admit to myself, is looking far from certain—will all the stress and suspicion leave its mark? Can we really survive this as a couple?

  I’ve heard people say there are no winners in legal cases. I’m beginning to understand why.

  * * *

  —

  MY ANGER ABOUT MILES makes me even more determined to speak to Tania, though. What he did to me fits with everything else I know about him, as well as something I read online: “For psychopaths, sex is all about gratification, conquest, risk, and reward.”

  Where to start? I never took Tania’s number. But then I think of Lucy’s Facebook, all those pictures of expeditions to the zoo and park. I reach for my iPad.

  Sure enough, under the list of people who’ve liked the pictures is Tania Lefebvre. I message her.

  Hi Tania, it’s Maddie Wilson here. I know this will seem odd, but could I talk to you about your experience of working for Miles Lambert?

  After a little while, a reply comes back.

  I think you might be more interested to talk to the nanny before me, Michaela Costea (we share the same agency). Here are her contact details. Bonne chance.

  Attached is a phone number.

  * * *

  —

  “MILES LAMBERT FIRED YOU, didn’t he? He saw you going through Facebook or whatever, and using his coffee machine when you were meant to be looking after David.”

  We meet in a café on Finchley Road, a small, bustling place with steamed-up windows where the owners, a family, shout to one another cheerfully in Turkish. Michaela sips her latte and nods.

  “Yes. He fired me. But it wasn’t how you said.”

  “What happened?”

  Michaela pauses before replying. She’s a pretty girl, I decide, although her bleached-white hair does her no favors. “I didn’t behave too good myself. Listen, I’m not proud of it. But he was worse.”

  “Why? What did he do?”

  She sighs. “I suppose I was angry with her—with Mrs. Lambert. Who has a coffee machine and stops people using it? ‘You’re just the nanny. Here, you can drink Nescafé.’ I mean, really? So when they were out, I made myself a coffee.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t know it was his rule, of course. Everything in that house was him. And yes, while I drank my coffee I looked at my Instagram. Why not? It wasn’t like David needed me right then.”

  “But Miles saw you on his camera.”

  Michaela nods. “They hadn’t told me they were spying on me, either. Not in so many words.”

  “And then he fired you,” I say, not quite sure where this is going. Having a hidden camera is distrustful and controlling, certainly, but I don’t think it’s illegal.

  “Not then, he didn’t.” Michaela seems to come to a decision. “Okay. He comes to me that night, when she’s at her book club. ‘I’ve seen you drinking the coffee,’ he says. ‘My wife gets very angry about things like that. Personally, I think it’s a ridiculous rule. So let’s not tell her. Our secret, right?’ And then he…he…” She suddenly looks very young. “Well, you can guess the rest.”

  “Ah. You slept with him?”

  “Sleeping. What an English word. We say a băga regele-n castel when we want to be polite. Putting the king inside the castle. Yes, we did it. I told myself it was just my revenge, to pay his wife back for being so uptight.” She shrugs again, an attempt at bravura that doesn’t quite work. “I would have done it with him maybe once, then stopped. But he came to my room again a few days later. She was downstairs. I knew it was wrong but he just assumed…Somehow it was hard to say no. And then, the next time, we did it in the kitchen when she was right next door, in the playroom. We were behind the big counter in the middle, what she calls the island. He just unzipped himself and put my hand on it. I was wearing a short skirt…It was crazy stupid. If she’d come in…But you know something? I think he liked it. That we might get caught, I mean.”

  “Do you think she knew?”

  Michaela looks thoughtful. “I don’t think so. But she’s strange with him, actually. Like she’s a little bit scared but she also depends on him for everything. I think she only sees what she wants to see.”

  “Did you ever see him be violent towards her? Or mistreat David?”

  Michaela shakes her head. “No.”

  That’s unfortunate in some ways. Having sex with the nanny behind Lucy’s back is gross, but it doesn’t help with the case. “And what about you? Did he ever threaten you?”

  “Just once.” Michaela blinks back tears. “He came to me and said it had to stop. I was…you know, relieved, really. I told him he was right and we should never talk about it again. He said I didn’t understand. It wasn’t stopping because it was wrong. It was because he was bored with me. He threw an envelope on the bed. He said, ‘That’s five hundred pounds. I’ll tell my wife I fired you for drinking the coffee. Now get out of the house.’ ” Michaela’s crying openly now, the tears running down her pale skin. “I didn’t want to get fired—the agency will drop you if it happens too often. I said I would stay a bit longer, so it looked okay, then give my notice. And I—I reminded him we had a secret. I wouldn’t have told her, but I thought he should consider what he’d done, and maybe behave a bit better. And that’s when he changed.”

  “Changed how?”

  “Cold. He went cold. There was nothing—no expression in his face. He said, ‘If you ever threaten me again, I will carry you down to the basement and drown you in the swimming pool. The police will think it was an accident.’ ” Michaela shudders. “I believed him. I was so frightened. I took the money and packed my things right away. I wouldn’t go back to that house. Not if you paid me all the money in the world. And I told the next girl to be careful, too.”

  85

  MADDIE

  THE WRITTEN DIRECTION FROM the judge says my blood and hair samples have to be taken by a GP. I go to Sharon Randall, a private doctor I used when I first came to London.

  “And I need something that’ll stop me drinking,” I say when the samples have been sealed. “Really stop me, so the judge will know I mean it.”

  “That would be disulfiram,” Sharon says immediately. “Called Antabuse in this country. But I warn you, it’s not for the fainthearted.”

  “In what way?”

  “You know how some Asian people can’t tolerate booze, because they can’t process acetaldehyde? Antabuse basically makes you very, very Asian. Ten minutes after you’ve taken it, if you have even the smallest sip of alcohol you’ll be vomiting in a way that makes morning sickness look like an attack of the hiccups. And you’ll be left with a throbbing headache, diarrhea, lethargy, yellow skin, and acne. In fact, you could get some of those side effects even if you don’t have a drink.”

  “It sounds perfect,” I say.

  “Y
ou’ll also need to avoid hand sanitizers, perfume, and most types of vinegar, as well as sauces that contain vinegar, such as ketchup. And if you smell someone wearing cologne, run like hell—preferably to the nearest toilet, as you’ll probably throw up.” Sharon finishes writing the prescription and hands it to me. “Here.”

  * * *

  —

  BEFORE I TAKE THE first Antabuse, I collect all the wine bottles in the house and empty them down the sink, then take them outside. As I put them into the recycling, I realize someone is hurrying down the street toward me.

  It’s that reporter, the one Pete thought was an intern. I can see why: He can’t be more than twenty. “Kieran Keenan,” he says, waving some press ID. “Could I have a word, Maddie?”

  “We’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  He says earnestly, “Well, here’s the thing, Maddie. Pete said in that article your life had been ruined by finding out your son wasn’t really yours. But I’ve recently discovered that you’re in a nanny share with the other family. Why would you do that if it’s all so terrible? According to the posts Pete wrote on the DadStuff forum, it’s been entirely amicable and friendly from the start.”

  I almost laugh out loud at the irony of it all. Everything has turned full circle, and the article Pete was made to write by Miles has become reality after all.

  I know I should probably keep quiet. But the urge to tell the truth is so strong it’s almost impossible to resist.

  “It started amicably,” I tell him. “Then it wasn’t. Which is why we’re now having to fight for custody.”

  Kieran’s eyes widen. “You’re fighting for custody?” he repeats. He has his phone in his hand, I notice. Recording me.

  I’ve already said too much, I realize. “In the family court. So you’re not allowed to report it.”