by Alex Lake
She will have to do so without the presence of her mother, who has gone ahead with the plans to leave the family, plans which she made before her daughter was abducted, because, sources close to her suggest, she wanted to ‘find herself’. Her marriage, it appears, was not what she wanted, not what she deserved. It was stifling her, so, rather than work at it, she simply decided to end it.
Fine. That happens often enough in these benighted times, in this era of devalued wedlock and easy divorce.
But could she not have waited? Could she not have held off for a few months, or even weeks, if only for the sake of her daughter?
I have said it before, and I will say it again: this country, this island of Shakespeare and Milton and Churchill, Elizabeths I and II, is going to the dogs. Whatever canines that phrase refers to are feasting upon the carcass of this once great nation. And the reason for the laying low of this nation? In my mind the answer is simple: selfishness. We have lost the ability to sacrifice our own selfish interests for a greater good.
And there is no better demonstration of this than Julia Crowne. I hope she is happy. And I hope that she thinks her happiness is worth the destruction of her family.
I, I am afraid to say, cannot agree.
So that was Julia. That was what the world thought when it thought about her. She had given up feeling aggrieved at the inaccuracy of it all, at the injustice. It was pointless. All she could do was to deal with it as well as she could.
There was another document she had read that morning which stuck with her. It was from Steve Palmer, a lawyer she knew well who was now acting for Brian.
It laid out the custody terms. They were simple: Wednesday nights and every other weekend. She had seen these terms a thousand times during her career. She had even anticipated them forming part of her private life. She just had not anticipated them being this way around. She had never expected that she would be the one getting Wednesday nights and every other weekend with her daughter.
And her instinct was to fight it, to lay everything before the authorities and to trust in them to see the truth, to recognize her for what she was and not how she was portrayed. But she knew that, even in a courtroom, perception is reality, and Brian and Edna would shape that perception to meet their needs.
The risk was clear. If she fought it, they would use everything they had – the anger, the drinking, the neglect, the suicide attempt – and they would stop her seeing her daughter at all. She was being offered a deal: go quietly and you get something from this. Make a fuss and you get nothing.
The mother in her said: make a fuss. The lawyer said: take the deal.
She needed help. She needed an unbiased legal opinion. She picked up her phone and dialled her partner, Mike Sherry, the man who had hired her.
iii.
Mike sat opposite her. He looked uncomfortable in the office chair, his thighs pressed against the hard edges of the arm rest. He was in his late fifties and fighting a losing battle against obesity. In the ten years Julia had known him he had always had a paunch, but in the last couple of years it had started a slow colonization of the rest of his body, spreading around his middle to his lower back, then up to his shoulders and down his arms, and into his neck and chins. Finally, his face was thickening out, his eyes sinking into the expanding flesh of his head.
The lipid colonization had begun when he got divorced. His wife, Carla, had left him for a tax inspector, an occupation that seemed to make the humiliation even greater. A footballer, a doctor, even a virile young labourer would have made sense. But a taxman? How bad a husband and lover must Mike have been if even a taxman was a preferable alternative?
He was fighting other battles, as well. His clothes were becoming dated through lack of attention – he had plenty of money, but like many men he did not have an eye for the small increments in which the fashions in men’s business clothes evolved. His jackets were double-breasted, his trousers pleated. Nothing wrong with that, but they made him look an old fifty-something, and not a young one.
Moreover, he left a few too many weeks between haircuts, letting it become a necessity to visit the barber, and not a luxury. It all added up to give the impression of a slight shabbiness.
He lived on his own. His two daughters, Lucie and Gemma, were at university, and Julia got the impression they did not visit often. She had seen them out at a restaurant with him a couple of years back. They had been sullen and dismissive, scowling at him and rolling their eyes. In response, he was craven, simpering, pathetic. This lawyer, this competent, intelligent, tough professional fawned over his daughters like an out-of-favour courtier begging for titbits at the feet of a medieval king. It made her uncomfortable and embarrassed to see him brought so low.
It was made worse because she could see the father he had once been: successful, intelligent, adoring and adored. Now, though, he was a fallen idol to his girls, and they resented him for it.
No doubt, it contributed to the other battle he was engaged in, a battle that kept its scorecard in the broken capillaries that surrounded his reddening nose. A few times recently Julia had been alarmed to see him arrive at work, his eyes watery with a hangover. It was hard for him. Had Carla not left him he would still be who he had always been, would still have the life he had made for himself. But it was all gone now. At least Brian was young enough to start again. Hell, Mike was young enough to start again, but she didn’t think he would. She didn’t think he knew how. She was worried that it was obvious how this was going to end for Mike: alone, drunk, and bitter.
And he deserved better. He was warm, considerate, calm. As a boss he was supportive and honest. He was generous with his advice and with his money. When Julia had made partner she and Brian had been in the process of buying a house so she had not had enough money to buy in. Mike loaned it to her. It was a personal loan, with his – not the firm’s – money.
He was also a good lawyer. Not flashy, not blessed with a lacerating, brilliant mind, but experienced and thorough. Which was why she wanted to speak to him about Anna.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Good to have you back.’
‘I’m not sure I’m adding much value,’ Julia said.
‘Do whatever you need to do,’ he said. ‘There’s no pressure. Now, or later.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate that, Mike.’
‘I must say I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,’ he said. ‘Although, it is a treat. How are things?’
‘Not great. That’s kind of why I’m here so soon.’
‘Oh?’
‘Brian and I split up. He’s gone to live with his mum. I’m surprised you haven’t read about it in the newspapers.’
‘I don’t bother. I saw what they said about you last week. I don’t need to read any more garbage like that.’ He paused. She could sense the wheels of his lawyer’s mind turning. ‘So where’s Anna?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Julia said. ‘She’s with Brian.’
‘What do you mean, “with”?’ Mike said.
‘I mean, she’s with him at his mum’s house, and it looks like that’s where she’s staying.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Mike said. ‘Why would she be staying there? Don’t you want custody?’
Julia nodded. ‘Of course. But I don’t think I’ll get it.’
‘Why not? Why wouldn’t you?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Julia said.
Mike shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing better to be doing. But it sounds like it might go better accompanied by a beer. The Red Lion?’
‘Sure,’ Julia said. ‘Why not?’
They sat in at a table in the corner. It felt odd to Julia to see so many people after the last few weeks of isolation. The pub was filling up with the after-work crowd, young people with no families to go to, thirty-somethings having a quick one before heading back to nappies and bath time, larger groups out on a work do, and solitary drinkers putting off the inevitable return to a dark, quiet, musty home.
‘So,’ Mike said. ‘Wha
t’s going on?’
Julia took a few seconds, considering how best to tell the story.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Brian wants custody. And he’s offered me a deal. I get Wednesdays and every other weekend; he gets the rest. That way we don’t need to go to court.’
‘But why would you do that?’
‘Because it might be the best deal I get.’ Mike frowned. Julia held up her hand. ‘Let me explain,’ she said, ‘if we go to court they’re going—’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘Brian and Edna, his mother. She’s behind this. Brian would never have the balls or the brains to come up with it. So, if we go to court they’re going to say it’s in Anna’s best interests to be with Brian.’
‘It isn’t. And courts never award in favour of the father. I don’t see the problem.’
‘The problem is they’re going to paint a picture of me that means it will be in Anna’s best interests to be with her dad. They’re going to say I’m irresponsible. I didn’t show up at the school, remember—’
‘Anyone could have made that mistake. It happens all the time. You were just unlucky. You can’t be punished for that.’
‘And I was planning to leave them both, anyway—’
‘Which isn’t true.’
‘And I am unstable, as shown by what they will paint as my suicide attempt—’
‘Which was not a suicide attempt.’
‘And I have a drink problem. And an anger management problem.’
‘Which you don’t.’
‘They’ll convince the court I do.’
‘How?’
Julia paused. ‘There was … an incident. At Edna’s house.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘I … I lost my temper and hit Brian. Well, I scratched him. It left marks on his cheek. He was bleeding.’
‘Just deny it.’
‘There was some magistrate there. He saw it.’
‘But still. It’s lies and exaggerations, Julia.’
‘But taken together, in a courtroom. You can see how it would play out. I did try to kill myself, I did hit Brian, I did fail to pick up Anna, leading to her being kidnapped. Why wouldn’t the rest of it be true? They can paint a pretty horrific picture of me. You see?’
He massaged his temples. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘I see.’
‘And then they’ll refuse me custody other than under supervision. That’s the deal. I take what they’re offering, or they give me nothing.’
‘That won’t happen. The judge would at least give you what they’re offering now. They must think you’re a fit mother.’ he paused, the use of the formal fit mother awkward, ‘I mean, of course, you’re a fit mother, and by offering you this deal they recognize that. To change their mind later would be bizarre.’
‘Probably. But they would say they’d learned more or re-evaluated the situation. And is that a risk I want to take?’
Mike shook his head slowly, his eyes on hers, his teeth clenched, his face unsmiling. It was an expression that spoke both anger and disbelief. ‘What a pair of heartless bastards,’ he said. ‘I mean, really.’
‘Right,’ Julia said. ‘And I was married to one of them, although sometimes it felt like both.’
‘Don’t they feel ashamed of themselves?’
‘Brian just does what Mummy says. And Edna is not very well acquainted with shame, at least, not her own. As far as she’s concerned she’s doing this for her granddaughter. What better outcome for a child than to be brought up by Edna Crowne? All she’s doing is playing the hand she’s been dealt. Why be ashamed of that?’
Mike leaned forward. ‘Because it’s fucking appalling!’ he said. ‘Truly appalling.’
Julia smiled a wry, resigned smile. ‘Is that a legal opinion?’
‘No,’ Mike said. ‘It isn’t.’
‘So how about giving one?’
‘I need to think.’ He sipped his pint. ‘I’m going to the gents. Back in a minute.’
He disappeared into the growing throng. For the first time since she’d left Edna’s house Julia felt a sense of calm. Her mind had stopped whirring, stopped running through all the possibilities, stopped weighing this and that and imagining what a judge might say. All she had to do now was wait and see what Mike said. She might not like the answer – and the whirring might restart – but for now it was not in her hands. It was a blessed, sweet relief.
‘Are you Julia Crowne?’
A woman in her late twenties, heavyset and tending towards outright obesity, was glaring at her. She had a fierce, hard-bitten face and an aggressive demeanour, almost too aggressive, as though her tough exterior had been developed over the years in response to the knocks that life had thrown at her. Julia got the impression that, as a teenager, she had been large, not pretty, unloved, and her aggression was a way of telling the world that she didn’t give a fuck.
She was unmarried – at least, she was not wearing a wedding ring – and she had the flushed, glassy look of someone who was on the edge of being drunk.
‘Yes,’ Julia said. ‘I am.’
‘Yeah,’ the woman said. ‘Well, I’ve got something to say to you.’
iv.
Julia could picture the scene: the woman standing at the bar with her friends, one of them spotting Julia and whispering to the others is that the woman, from the news? You know, the one with the kid who got kidnapped then came back? Another replying yeah, it’s her, Julia Crowne. She’s a right bitch. And then the woman staring at her now would have said I’m going to tell her. She needs to know. The others squealing you wouldn’t, knowing that she would, that this kind of thing was her speciality, that she prided herself on her fearlessness; that she did not understand the difference between being bold and being rude and if she did, she didn’t care.
She didn’t give a fuck.
And she would have told them that and then marched over, ready to say her piece, and afterwards she would say I know it was a bit out of order but I had to say something. I couldn’t just keep quiet. You have to speak out. People can’t be allowed to get away with that kind of thing. I mean, how could she think it was ok to just be sitting there, drinking with another man? So soon? What a bitch. I had to tell her.
Julia met her gaze. ‘How can I help you?’ she said.
Now she was there, the woman seemed less confident, as though she hadn’t thought about what she was actually going to say when she reached her quarry. ‘You,’ she began, ‘you are the most, the most selfish fucking person I’ve ever known.’
‘You don’t know me,’ Julia said.
‘I know enough,’ the woman said. ‘I know enough to know that you don’t deserve to be a mother to that little girl.’
Who the hell did this woman think she was? All she knew about Julia, about Anna, about what had happened was what she had read in the press, and that was bullshit. Yet she felt she could approach Julia and tell her she didn’t deserve to be a mother?
‘Right,’ Julia said, looking away from the woman in case the sight of her roused even more fury in her. ‘Well thank you for that.’
‘There’s more,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve not finished yet.’
She was of a certain type, this woman; the type of people who were angry and bitter and wanted to make other people as unhappy as them, but who were just smart enough to understand that they could not just go around abusing people, and so they found cover for their wish to abuse people in self-righteous anger. This woman did not care about Anna. She just wanted to cause misery, and Anna was a good excuse to do so.
‘What’s your name?’ Julia asked her.
‘Juliet,’ the woman said.
‘Juliet,’ Julia said. ‘It’s a nice name. A bit like mine.’ She leaned forwards, keeping her hands on her knees so that Juliet did not see how much they were shaking with anger. ‘Well, Juliet,’ she said. ‘You know what you can do?’ Julia held up a hand. ‘Don’t answer. I’ll tell you. You can take your fat arse back t
o whatever shithole you call home. Go and read your shit books and watch crap TV and tend to your loneliness. And get used to it, because that’s going to be your life. Got that, Juliet?’
The woman stared at her, stunned. She’d been expecting apologetic stammering, or meekness, or a fleeing of the scene. Not this. Not aggression. She was the aggressive one.
‘Go on,’ Julia said. ‘Off you go. And on your way out you can think about why you don’t have kids, or a husband or a boyfriend. And if you want a clue, here’s one: it’s because you’re a disgusting blubbery whale, although, I have to say that there are probably disgusting blubbery whales out there saying “hang on a minute, don’t compare me to that horrible thing, I’m not that bad”.’
Juliet’s face creased into an expression of pure hatred. ‘You fucking bitch,’ she said. ‘How fucking dare—’
‘What’s going on here?’ Mike pushed his way through the crowd, some of who were tuning into the entertainment on offer. He had two fresh drinks in his hands: a pint of bitter and a glass of white wine.
‘That bitch is insulting me,’ Juliet said. She was breathless with anger, her chest heaving. ‘She, of all people, is—’
‘We need to go,’ Mike said. He stepped in between the woman and Julia and put the drinks on the table. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Julia grabbed her coat and bag and stood up and headed for the exit, Mike just behind her. Outside, he took her by the elbow.
‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘that wasn’t the smartest thing to do, was it? After what you were just telling me?’
‘I know,’ Julia said. ‘But I couldn’t just let her insult me. Why should I?’
‘Fine,’ Mike said. ‘We’ll get over it. You want to come to my house? For that legal opinion?’
Mike lived in a detached house in a village on the edge of the Cheshire plain. It was large and dark and felt unlived in. They sat in the living room, Mike with a large whisky in his hand, and Julia, whose car was outside, with a glass of water in hers.
