A Special Relationship

by Douglas Kennedy

  Another hesitant pause.

  ‘Tell me, Cha.’

  ‘I don’t know her name. A woman.’

  ‘Was her name Dexter?’

  ‘I didn’t know her name.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Cha …’

  ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘Could you somehow come over this morning. I really need to—’

  ‘They told me I don’t work for you anymore.’

  ‘That’s my decision, not theirs. And I want you to keep working here.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They paid me …’

  ‘Paid you to do what?’

  ‘Paid me to stop working for you.’

  ‘But ... I don’t understand …’

  ‘They said I shouldn’t talk to you …’

  ‘Cha, you’ve got to explain …’

  ‘I have to go back to work.’

  The line went dead. I hit re-dial, and was immediately connected with a recording, informing me that the mobile phone I had been speaking to had been switched off.

  ‘They paid me …’

  ‘Paid you to do what?’

  ‘Paid me to stop working for you.’

  ‘But … I don’t understand …’

  I didn’t understand anything. Because everything right now was beyond comprehension.

  The doorbell rang. I raced downstairs. But when I answered it, I found myself facing a blond, smug-looking man in a black suit, dark blue shirt, a smart floral tie.

  ‘Are you a lawyer?’ I asked.

  He laughed a bemused laugh, while also eyeing me warily.

  ‘Graham Drabble from Playfair Estate Agents in Putney. We’re here to measure up the house …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You are Mrs Hobbs, right?’

  ‘My name is Sally Goodchild.’

  ‘Well, I was instructed by a Mr Hobbs …’

  ‘My husband. And what did he “instruct” you to do?’

  ‘Sell your house.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t tell me,’ I said and shut the door.

  He’s selling the house? But he can’t do that, can he?

  While there was one part of my brain which simply wanted to crawl upstairs into bed, pull the covers over my head, and embrace hysterical denial, another more dominant voice overrode such fatalistic logic, insisting: get a lawyer now.

  But I hadn’t a clue about London lawyers, or the English legal system, or ex parte orders. A year in this city – and I hadn’t made a single real friend. Except for Margaret. But she was another Yank. And now she was back Stateside with her lawyer husband …

  Margaret.

  Not thinking, I dialled her number in New York. It rang and rang. Finally, Margaret answered – sounding groggy and half-awake.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said, ‘I’ve woken you up.’

  ‘That’s … uh … okay, I think …’

  ‘Listen, I’ll call back …’

  ‘Sally?’ she said, finally working out who I was.

  ‘I’m really sorry about …’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to bother you so early.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  I told her everything, trying not to break down en route. When I was finished, she sounded genuinely shocked.

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘I wish it was …’

  ‘But ... he gave you no intimation before you went to the States that he was planning this?’

  ‘Nothing. In fact, while I was in hospital, he was actually supportive.’

  ‘And this woman …’

  ‘I don’t know who she is. Except that she lives in a very big house on a very desirable road opposite Battersea Park, and she has a place in the country, not to mention the current company of my husband and child.’

  ‘He can’t just snatch your child like that.’

  ‘Well, there’s a court order …’

  ‘But what was his rationalization?’

  ‘As he’s completely gone to ground, I can’t ask him. But the bastard’s trying to sell the house from under me.’

  ‘But it’s in both your names, right?’

  ‘Of course it’s in both our names. But as I haven’t a clue how the law works here …’

  ‘Alexander’s in Chicago on business right now. I’ll wait an hour until he’s up, then give him a call and try to find out the name of a good attorney in London. Meantime, you hang in there, hon.’

  She called back two hours later.

  ‘First of all, Alexander’s horrified about what’s happened – and he’s certain … certain … that you will be able to negotiate some sort of deal …’

  ‘Negotiate? Negotiate? There’s nothing to negotiate here. Jack’s my son. And I …’

  ‘Sally, hon, easy. We’re both on your side here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sorry … it’s just …’

  ‘No need to explain. What’s happened is outrageous. But Alexander’s found an excellent firm in London – Lawrence and Lambert. He doesn’t know anybody there personally – but he said that they come highly recommended. And, of course, you can use Alexander’s name when you call them. Meanwhile, I’m always here whenever you just need to talk.’

  As soon as I finished the call, I phoned Lawrence and Lambert. The receptionist was very brusque.

  ‘Is there a party you wish to speak with directly?’

  ‘That’s the thing – another lawyer recommended that I get in touch with you …’

  ‘But he didn’t give you the name of someone here?’

  ‘Uh no …’

  ‘Well if I don’t have a name …’

  ‘I need to speak with someone who deals with family law …’

  ‘We have five lawyers here who deal with family law.’

  ‘Well … could you put me through to one of them, please?’

  I was put on hold. Then, after a moment, a young woman answered. Her accent was seriously Essex.

  ‘Virginia Ricks’s office.’

  ‘Uh … does Miss Ricks do family law?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  I told her my name and explained how I had been recommended by Alexander Campbell.

  ‘And Mr Campbell knows Ms Ricks, does he?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, Ms Ricks is tied up most of the day in court …’

  ‘It is rather urgent.’

  ‘What’s your name again?’

  I told her – and gave her both my home and mobile number.

  Once I was off the phone, I had to face up to a very large question: what should I do next?

  The answer was: Nothing. There was absolutely nothing that I could do right now. Nor did I have anyone to turn to here. Nor did I know the whereabouts of Tony and Jack. Nor—

  I suddenly decided to take a gamble that, maybe, the entire country house story was just that – a story. So I called the mini-cab company, and asked them to send another car around. This time, the driver knew the way. Traffic had marginally lightened, so we made it in just fifteen minutes. Once again, I banged heavily with the big brass knocker. The housekeeper was deeply unhappy to see me.

  ‘I told you, they are not here.’

  ‘I just want to make certain …’

  I pushed past her into the house. The housekeeper yelled after me. I went from room to room, shouting my son’s name. The house was large with high minimalist decor, good art, sleek modern furniture. I dashed up a flight of steps, and poked my head into a large master bedroom, then headed down a corridor, stopping dead when I saw …

  A nursery.

  Not just any nursery. The same identikit nursery as the one we had at home. The same wallpaper. The same cot and wardrobe and chest of drawers. The same revolving night light which played a lullaby as it turned. The sa
me colourful mobile suspended above the cot. It was as if his room had been picked up and transposed completely to this house. And it made me realize the extent of the planning that had gone into this operation.

  The housekeeper came rushing in, furious, unnerved.

  ‘You leave now, or I call the police.’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ I said.

  I’d asked the driver to wait for me outside.

  ‘I’d like to go back to Putney now.’

  Halfway there, however, I realized that I had run off without any cash.

  ‘I need to stop at a cash machine, please,’ I said.

  We pulled up in front of a Nat West machine on West Hill – possibly the ugliest section of road in South London. I fed in my card, hit the numbers, and was greeted with the following message on the screen:

  This Account has been closed. Please contact your local branch should you have any further queries.

  Instantly I re-fed the card into the machine and pressed the necessary numbers, and once again read:

  This Account has been closed. Please contact your local branch should you have any further queries.

  Account closed? He couldn’t have …

  I rifled through my wallet until I found an AMEX card which I held jointly with Tony. I fed it into the machine. I punched in the Pin Number. I read:

  Card No Longer Valid.

  No, no, no. I saw the driver glance at me with concern. I checked my purse. My net liquid worth was £8.40 – and the round-trip fare was bound to be at least £20. I tried my own account, into which my Boston Post salary used to be paid. It had been largely depleted over the last few months since I was no longer employed by the Post. Whatever remaining funds were left over from the paper’s final payout to me had been transferred to our joint account – to help cover the mortgage and also pay for some of the final renovations to the house. But I was still hoping that there might be a little cash left in it – so I punched in the PIN number requesting £200. The screen message read:

  Insufficient Funds.

  I tried £100. The message read:

  Insufficient Funds.

  I tried £50. Bingo. Five ten pound notes came sliding out towards me. My new liquid worth was £58.40.

  Actually, it was £36.40 by the time I paid off the driver.

  Back at the house, I rang the bank. The customer services representative confirmed that the joint account I held with Tony had been closed down two days ago. Ditto our shared VISA card – though the good news was that the outstanding balance of £4882.31 had been paid off. How kind of him.

  ‘What about any outstanding funds in the joint account?’ I asked. ‘Where did they end up?’

  ‘There were no outstanding funds. On the contrary, there was an overdraft of £2420.18 ... but it’s also been cleared.’

  ‘Let me ask you something: don’t you need the written permission of both parties to close down a bank account?’

  ‘But the account was always in Mr Hobbs’s name. He just added you as an adjunct signatory ten months ago.’

  An adjunct signatory. It said it all.

  I tried to reason all this through. Tony quits his job. Jack’s nursery is exactly replicated in the house of that Dexter woman. And our bank accounts are both closed, after debts of around £7300 are paid off.

  What the hell was going on here?

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ Sandy said after I called her and horrified her with a detailed account of my London homecoming. ‘He’s met some rich bitch. And the way he’s set the whole thing up makes it pretty damn clear that he wanted you to find out about the whole set-up straight away. I mean, he could have used your own address in the court order. Why didn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe because he wanted you to know immediately about his new life. I mean, imagine if he had just disappeared with Jack, without letting you have his new address. You’d have the cops on his tail. This way … you know exactly what’s happened …’

  ‘But not why it’s happened.’

  ‘To hell with why. He’s taken Jack. You’ve got to get him back. But the first thing you’ve got to do is find a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m waiting for someone to call me back.’

  ‘How are you going to pay for it?’

  ‘Remember the bonds Mom and Dad left each of us?’

  ‘Mine were cashed in long ago.’

  ‘Well, I’m about to do the same. They should be worth around $10,000 now.’

  ‘That’s something, I guess.’

  ‘But if I don’t have any other income …’

  ‘One thing at a time. Get on to the lawyer. Now.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, suddenly feeling exhausted.

  ‘More importantly, do you have some friends in town who can look after you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I lied. ‘I’ve left a couple of messages.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ she said. And then her voice cracked. ‘Jesus, Sally – this is horrible.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is.’

  ‘And I wish I could jump a plane right now …’

  ‘You’ve got enough to cope with.’

  ‘You won’t do anything stupid …’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Now you have me scared.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  But the truth was: I had me scared too.

  I called back Virginia Ricks at three pm that afternoon. I was connected to her voice mail. I left a message. I called back at five pm. This time, I was connected to her secretary again.

  ‘Like I told you before,’ she said, ‘she’s out at court all day.’

  ‘But it is urgent. Genuinely urgent. And I desperately need …’

  I broke off, covered the mouthpiece with my hand, and started to sob. When I was finally able to speak again, I discovered that the line was dead.

  I called back. Now I found myself on voice mail 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 on to voice mail. 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 anti-depressants. 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 answer-phone, 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 mobile phone, stuck somewhere in traffic. Her voice was crisply cadenced, plummy.

  ‘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 residence 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 pre-judging 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 towards 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 toe-hold here whatsoever. And it’s all my own fault.

  ‘No – I really don’t know many people around town.’