‘Are you certain he’s just not a little shy?’
‘A little shy? He came across as pathologically shy ... to the point where I can’t see how the hell he’s going to make any inroads for me.’
‘Don’t you think you should give him a little time?’
‘I don’t have much in the way of time,’ I said. ‘Less than four months, to be exact. And they don’t call that Final Hearing final for nothing. I need someone who can, at the very least, attempt a little damage control here. I don’t expect miracles. But he’s like one of those freebie attorneys you read about in the States who get appointed to a capital murder case, and end up sleeping through the prosecution’s summation.’
I paused. Julia just smiled at me.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Maybe that’s just a little melodramatic. But—’
‘I know what the stakes are, Sally. I really do. And even though Nigel is your lawyer, I gather that you can get permission from the Legal Aid authority to change your solicitor if you put forward a good enough reason. So if you have absolutely no confidence in this solicitor, then call up the other solicitors on the list and find out when they can see you.’
I did just that the next morning, leaving three messages for three different solicitors. One of them, Helen Sanders, rang back. She didn’t have time to see me face-to-face this week, but would be pleased to speak to me now. So, once again, I spent fifteen minutes telling this woman the entire saga – from beginning to end. Her verdict was stark and uncompromising.
‘Whatever about the inherent unfairness of what happened to you,’ she said, ‘the sad fact of the matter is: they do have a strong case against you. More to the point, as perhaps other solicitors have informed you, once a child is settled with one parent, the court is loath to relocate him again.’
This is exactly what the dreadful Ginny Ricks told me in the wake of the Interim Hearing disaster. So I asked Helen Sanders, ‘Are you saying that my case is hopeless?’
‘I couldn’t make a judgment like that without studying all the relevant documents and court orders. But from what you’ve told me so far … well, I’m not going to lie to you: I can’t see how you’ll have any chance of winning residence of your son.’
She did offer to see me at her office next week, if I wanted to discuss matters further. But I simply thanked her for her time and hung up. What was there to discuss? Mine was a hopeless case.
‘You mustn’t think that,’ Julia said after I related this conversation to her.
‘Isn’t it better to face up to the truth?’
‘I’m sure the right solicitor could dig up the right dirt on your husband’s relationship with that Dexter woman, and how they set this whole thing up.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But I really need someone out there now, tracking stuff down, trying to look into Dexter’s background to see if there’s any dirt worth digging. And three months isn’t really much time to pull all that together.’
‘Don’t you have any mega-rich friends who could help you hire a private detective or someone like that to snoop around on your behalf.’
The only people I knew with any substantial money were Margaret and Alexander Campbell. But I felt that, if I approached them now, it would seem as if I was demanding something back for referring me to Lawrence and Lambert. Like it or not, that would end things with Margaret. Once you’ve asked for money from a friend, the friendship is doomed.
‘As I told you before, my only family is my sister. She’s broke. My parents were schoolteachers. Their only asset was their house – and thanks to what lawyers like to call “bad estate planning” and the suddenness of their death, their one asset, their house, was largely consumed by the government. Then there was the law suit after their death.’
‘What law suit … ?’
I paused for a moment, staring into my drink. Then I said, ‘The one against my dad. The autopsy report found that he was about two glasses of wine over the legal limit. Not a vast amount, but he still shouldn’t have been driving on it. And the fact that he hit a station wagon with a family of five in it …’
Julia looked at me, wide-eyed.
‘Was anyone killed?’
‘The mother, who was all of thirty-two years old, and her fourteen-month-old son. Her husband and their two other kids somehow managed to walk away.’
Silence. Then I said, ‘The thing was – the husband of the woman killed ... he turned out to be an Episcopal minister, and one of those very principled types who really believed in Christian axioms like turning the other cheek and not seeking vengeance. So, when it came out that, technically speaking, my father was driving while intoxicated, he insisted that the whole thing be kept out of the papers, not just for the sake of Sandy and me, but also – he told me later – for his own sake as well. ‘There’s been enough tragedy already. I don’t want public pity, any more than I want to see you and your sister vilified because your father made a mistake.
‘I think he might have been the most extraordinary man I’ve ever encountered … though, at the time, I wondered if his goodness was some sort of post-traumatic disorder. Isn’t that an awful thing to think?’
‘It’s honest.’
‘Anyway, Sandy and I agreed that we should settle for whatever their insurers demanded. Which was essentially all our parents’ insurance policies, the house, and just about everything else. So we both came out of it with virtually nothing. Our own lawyers kept telling us we should fight our corner – that giving them the insurance policies was enough. But we felt so desperately guilty we handed it all over to the minister and his children … even though he actually called me once and said we didn’t have to go so far. Can you imagine someone saying that … not seeking revenge or retribution? But it convinced us even more that we had to give him everything. It wasn’t just penance. It was an act of contrition.’
‘But you didn’t drive the car,’ Julia said. ‘Your father did.’
I fell silent for a while, wanting not to say any more. But then: ‘You’re right, he drove the car. But before he got into the car, he was with my mom at a college graduation party for me. He was having a great time, talking with all my friends, being the usual nice guy that he was. Late in the evening, I handed him a glass of shitty Almaden wine, and he said he really couldn’t handle anything more, and I said – and I remember this so damn clearly – “You going middle-aged on me, Dad?” And he laughed and said “Hell no,” and downed it in one go. And—’
I stopped. I looked down into the vodka glass. I shoved it away.
‘I still can’t get over it. All these years later. It’s there, every hour of every day. And it’s now been with me so long that I just consider it part of my weather system – something that encircles me all the time.’
‘What did your sister say when she found out?’
‘That’s the thing – she never did find out. Because I couldn’t bring myself to tell her …’
‘Whom did you tell?’
I didn’t answer. Finally she asked, ‘You never told anyone?’
‘I spoke with a therapist about it. But—’
‘You never said a word to your husband?’
‘I considered telling him around the time I got pregnant. But I thought ... I don’t know ... I thought Tony would have belittled me for holding on to such guilt. He would have said I was being pathetic. Now I realize that, had I told him, he would have turned this admission against me in a court of law. Not just a misfit mother, but an accessory after the fact to a vehicular manslaughter.’
‘But hang on – you don’t really believe that you were responsible for the death of that woman and child?’
‘I gave my dad the glass of wine that sent him over the limit.’
‘No – you just handed him the glass and then gently teased him about being middle-aged. He knew he had to drive after the party. He knew how much he’d drunk before you showed up with that last glass of wine.’
‘Try telling my conscience that. Som
etimes I think that the real reason I eventually fled overseas was because I was trying to put as much geography as possible between myself and all that lingering guilt.’
‘The French Foreign Legion approach.’
‘Exactly – and it kind of worked for a while. Or, at least, I learned how to cohabit with it.’
‘Until they took Jack away from you?’
‘I guess I’m that obvious. And yes, once this all happened, I was certain that this was some sort of cosmic retribution for causing that accident; that Jack had been taken away from me because I had given my father the drink which made him crash the car which killed a little boy.’
Julia reached over the table and put her hand on my arm.
‘You know that’s not true.’
‘I don’t know anything anymore. During the last few months, all logic’s been turned on its head. Nothing makes sense.’
‘Well, one thing must make sense. You are not receiving some sort of divine punishment for your father’s accident – because you had absolutely no role in that accident, and because it just doesn’t work that way ... and I speak as a semi-practising Catholic.’
I managed a small, bleak laugh.
‘God knows, I wish I’d confessed all this to my sister years ago.’
‘But what good would that have done?’
‘Recently, I’ve had this enormous need to confess all to her.’
‘Promise me you’ll never do that. And not just because I truly believe that you have nothing to confess. It would just drop all the guilt you’ve been feeling for all these years right into her lap. And – this is the real Catholic in me talking now – there are many things in life that are far better left unsaid. We all want to confess. It’s the most human of needs imaginable. To ask for some sort of absolution for making a mess of things – which everyone before us has done, and everyone afterwards will continue to do as well. Sometimes I think it’s the one great constant in all human history: the ability to screw it up for ourselves and others. Maybe that’s the most terrible – and the most reassuring – thing about life: the fact that everyone’s messed up like this before. We’re all so desperately repetitive, aren’t we?’
I thought about that later, as I sat at home staring at the list of alternative legal aid solicitors, supplied to me by the Law Society. There was an entire section of lawyers dedicated to Family Law – and all I could think was how, for these specialists in domestic dissolution, all stories must start to overlap or, at the very least, come down to a few basic plot points: He met somebody else … We fight about everything … He just doesn’t listen to me … She feels she doesn’t have a life beyond the house and the kids … He resents the fact I make more money than him. And all this dissatisfaction and disgruntlement and disappointment may, in part, be rooted in the usual bad match-ups, the usual inability to co-habit. But Julia was right: it also stems from a need for turmoil, for change ... all of which might be linked to that very human fear of mortality, and the realization that everything is finite. It is this knowledge which makes us scramble even harder for some sort of meaning or import to the minor lives that we lead … even if it means pulling everything apart in the process.
I winnowed my new solicitor possibilities down to four names – all of whom I chose because they were located within walking distance of my house. No doubt, they’d all tell me the same thing: you’re in a no-win situation. But I still had to find someone to represent me during the Final Hearing. I was about to start phoning up these four candidates, but it was now around five pm on Friday afternoon, which meant that I would either be talking to answerphones or secretaries who were itching to get home, and certainly didn’t want to be speaking to a Legal Aid case so late in the day. So I decided to start working the phones first thing Monday morning – and would now treat myself to an extended walk by the river. I was still reeling a bit from the disclosure I’d made to Julia. But I didn’t feel relieved or unburdened. Nor did I take great consolation in what she said. Though others can advise you to divest yourself of all guilt, the ability to do so is always impossibly difficult. The hardest thing in the world is forgiving yourself.
I found my jacket, put on a pair of shoes, and was heading towards the kitchen bowl where I always tossed my house keys when the phone rang. Damn. Damn. Damn. A part of me wanted to let the answerphone take it – because there was a break in the weather, and I really needed an extended stroll in the open air. But being a glutton for punishment, I reached for the receiver.
‘Uh ... I’d like to speak with Ms ... uh ... Goodchild.’
Wonderful. Just wonderful. Exactly the man I wanted to hear from late on a Friday afternoon. But I maintained a polite tone.
‘Mr Clapp?’
‘Oh, it is you, Ms Goodchild. Is this a good time?’
‘Sure, I guess.’
‘Uhm … well …’
Another of his awkward pauses.
‘Are you still there, Mr Clapp?’ I asked, trying not to voice my impatience.
‘Uhm, yes … Ms Goodchild. And I just want to say that the court hearing went fine.’
Pause. I was genuinely confused.
‘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 £1000 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 th
e disbursement of mutually owned assets. The letter also confirmed that I had turned down an offer of £1000 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 regards 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 non-event 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.’
A Special Relationship Page 35
