Betrayed

by Rosie Lewis

Waiters passed us with trays of food that looked too pretty to eat and, feeling oddly out of place, my stomach did a slow somersault. I was pleased to see another friendly face waiting at the large double doors leading to the Glamorgan Suite. Des was standing next to a small round table decked with dozens of champagne flutes arranged in neat lines. When he saw us he smiled broadly and handed each of us a glass, his eyes lingering on me for a moment or two.

  ‘Doesn’t she look lovely?’ Jenny asked, embarrassing me.

  ‘Aye, she does,’ Des said. He leaned in and planted a brief kiss on the top of my head, adding, ‘Shame she doesnae make the effort more often.’

  It was just the sort of comment I felt comfortable with and I laughed loudly. ‘Someone’s starting early with the charm offensive tonight,’ I said, with a playful nudge of my elbow.

  The Glamorgan Suite was a large room about the size of our local mother and toddler hall, although the wooden floor was quite different: highly polished and unscratched, without a splodge of dried paint or clump of Play-Doh in sight. Tall windows stretched the length of one side, overlooking a rectangular courtyard. At the far end of the room was a raised dance floor where band members were in the process of setting up their equipment. There were already about 40 foster carers milling around the space and a few supervising social workers that I recognised from the agency. Huddled together in several overlapping circles, I imagined their conversations drifting from the children in their care then brushing lightly over other subjects before returning quickly to fostering. It was a subject that united but also interested us and, whenever we got together, we always ended up on the same topic. I made my way across the room, stopping every so often to hug people I knew and occasionally feeling a pat on the back from an unseen hand.

  The meal was lovely – chicken fricassee and sauté potatoes with a side dish of vegetables – and it was a treat to eat something I hadn’t cooked myself. There was no one around me that I knew well and so I sat quietly at first, surveying small knots of people as they interacted around their individual tables. As I listened to their friendly banter I had a sudden memory of the incident in the café, where the girls had picked on Zadie because of the way she was dressed. Just let anyone try that again, I thought to myself. If there was so much as a hint of anyone stepping over the line in the future, heaven help them, because this time they wouldn’t get away with it so lightly.

  Irritated by the memory, I shook my head and frowned, trying to concentrate on the conversation around me. It was light and friendly and I soon found myself drawn in. Next to me was a couple from a nearby town who had been fostering for 20 years and had recently adopted a sibling group of two after attending an adoption party, where would-be adopters mingled with looked-after children hoping to find a forever family. Both local magistrates, they struck me as stern at first and I found myself wondering how a child, perhaps with little previous experience of discipline, would take to living with them, but I quickly discovered that they shared a dry gentle wit and our chatter was interspersed with regular outbreaks of laughter.

  Across the table from me sat an ex-dancer and her female partner. The pair had just passed panel and were waiting for their first placement. They were eager to hear about the children the rest of us had cared for and we were only too happy to regale them with our experiences. We all spoke so fondly that I could almost feel the couple’s longing for the phone to ring with that much-anticipated first placement so they could get started on the path of caring for other people’s children, a feeling most foster carers remember well. We finished dessert, opened more wine, although I only sipped at mine, and the evening lengthened quickly so that soon it was time for the band to play. The waiters started bringing out coffee in tall silver cafetières and tables emptied as people stood to stretch their legs and mingle.

  ‘Rosie?’ Des came over, a glass of red wine in his hand. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good,’ I said, smiling. ‘Well, better. I think Zadie’s beginning to loosen up. Emily and Jamie are getting used to her too.’

  ‘Great.’ He bumped my arm gently with his own. ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘Hmmm. There’s still some teenage parallel play going on,’ I said, smiling, ‘but we’re getting there.’

  Des eyed me as he took a sip of wine. ‘S-o … What’s the problem?’

  ‘What makes you think there’s a problem?’ I asked.

  He held my gaze.

  I stared at him, narrowing my eyes.

  ‘What can I say? It’s my party trick.’

  ‘It’s disconcerting, is what it is,’ I said with a smirk.

  ‘GCHQ has identified me as a person of interest for my people-reading skills,’ he said, laughing. ‘Seriously, though, I can tell there’s something on your mind.’

  ‘I have no idea, Des,’ I said. ‘There’s something,’ I said, shrugging, ‘but I don’t know what it is.’

  He patted my shoulder, told me he’d visit in the next few days for a ‘proper chat’ then drifted into another conversation with one of his colleagues. Liz, an ex-head teacher and a friend of mine, came over and gave me a hug. It was so unusual to see her wearing make-up that I almost did a double take. Liz was one of the foster carers I met up with outside of the usual courses and support groups and, while Jenny and Rachel often dressed well, Liz and I tended to wear clothes we didn’t mind crawling around in. She told me about her newest placement, Kingsley, a two-year-old boy. ‘He’s so cute! Swears like a docker, though. You’ll meet him on Monday.’ Her voice had softened with affection. ‘Still OK to meet up?’

  I nodded. ‘And you’ll meet Zadie then too. She’s not at school so I’ll be bringing her along.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  I tilted my head to one side, pursing my lips. ‘I was just saying to Des, she’s beginning to settle but my mind keeps snagging on something. I get the sense something isn’t quite right, but maybe it’s just me. I get a bit uneasy when life seems to be going too well.’

  Liz laughed. ‘Yes, I know that feeling. Oh, well, if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’ll be you, honey.’

  I smiled gratefully. ‘Let’s hope so. Although I could do with some of Des’s intuition to figure this one out.’

  ‘Yes, it’s such a shame, isn’t it?’ Liz said, reaching out to take a chocolate mint from a nearby table. ‘I wonder who we’ll get next.’

  ‘Next? But you’ve only just accepted a new placement.’

  ‘No,’ she said, waving the silver wrapper through the air and popping the sweet in her mouth. ‘I meant, who will supervise us when Des leaves?’

  I frowned, a little taken aback. ‘Leaves? What do you mean?’

  ‘Did he not say?’ She paused, sensing my unease. ‘He’s moving …’ she was nodding slowly as she spoke, as if it was information that had slipped my mind, ‘to the US.’

  Stung by the news, I turned my face away for a few seconds.

  ‘I wonder why he didn’t tell you. Sorry, I thought the two of you were friends.’ She touched my arm. ‘Are you all right, Rosie? You look pale.’

  ‘Yes, course I am,’ I said after a few beats, trying not to reveal the flips going on inside my stomach. ‘He’s probably not gotten around to it yet, that’s all.’

  Someone I didn’t recognise slipped his arm around Liz’s shoulder and she turned reluctantly towards him, her concerned eyes lingering on me for a moment or two. I was relieved to be left alone. My eyes scanned the room and I caught sight of Des’s back. He was standing in a large circle, moving his arms as he spoke with his usual effortlessness. I drifted into the shadows near the window, listening to his voice as it pitched high and loud at the tail-end of one of his anecdotes, the group around him dissolving into laughter.

  I marvelled at the intangible gift people like Des seemed to possess, the ability to reveal themselves so easily to a crowd, and yet someone like Zadie was compelled to hide away. She seemed to be gaining confidence in our company but it was still rare for her to
speak above a whisper, even when it was just the two of us together. I wished I could whisk away a fragment of whatever it was Des carried within and share it with Zadie. She was beautiful and intelligent but so unaware of her value, so lost and sad.

  Overhead, the chandeliered lights dimmed to a soft glow and candles shimmered to life on tables where napkins lay scattered beneath overturned place mats.

  ‘Everything OK, Rosie?’ Des asked softly.

  I hadn’t noticed him approach and I whirled around, startled. ‘When were you going to tell me?’ The question was out of my mouth before my mind had stopped spinning. I had rounded on him, surprising myself by the accusatory tone in my voice.

  He studied his hands. When he looked up there was a half-cocked smile on his face. ‘I’m sorry. I was going to mention it on my last visit. There just didnae seem to be the right moment. You were busy with Zadie and …’

  I felt a little pinch in my chest. ‘So it’s true then? You’re leaving?’ I asked, finding it difficult to look at him. Turning away, I straightened the used cutlery on the table beside me and, through force of habit, swept a few crumbs from the tablecloth into my waiting cupped hand. Realising what I’d done I tutted at myself and closed my eyes, releasing the crumbs in a neat pile, back on the table.

  When I turned back to Des he was watching me with amused wonder. After a moment he frowned, a question in his eyes. ‘Well, yes, I am. An opportunity has come up on the other side of the pond. Not that they understand a word I say over there.’ He smiled wryly, his amusement dissolving quickly when he caught my expression.

  ‘When?’ I asked, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice while telling myself that whatever Des planned to do with his life was no business of mine.

  ‘As soon as they can replace me. The department is looking for a social worker to go to Boston to research a new behavioural scheme for teenagers that’s working well there. You’s know I like to travel, and besides,’ he levelled his gaze and held his hands open, palms upwards, ‘I have nothing to stay for, Rosie,’ he said simply.

  ‘But I thought …?’ I didn’t finish my sentence because I couldn’t remember her name, but Des had moved in with his partner some months earlier.

  He shook his head. ‘She left.’

  ‘Why?’

  Again he looked at me questioningly, his eyebrows tilting up a trace. Perhaps he was wondering why I considered his love life to be any concern of mine. ‘I wasnae around much, I suppose,’ he said, answering anyway. He scratched his chin, sighed and looked at me. ‘My heart wasnae in it, if I’m really honest.’

  I was working on a reply when a noise from across the room drew our attention. It was the manager of our fostering agency, tapping on a microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?’ Lesley Evans, a short woman in her mid-forties with dark hair cut into an angled bob, stood on the stage where the band members had temporarily retired their instruments and were having a drink at the bar. It was time for the presentations.

  Lesley opened with a speech, welcoming newly appointed foster carers and updating us on administrative staff changes. My mind began to wander and I thought again about Zadie and her immutable sadness. I’m not sure if it was the effect of the few sips of champagne or the heat in the room but somehow my thoughts began to float, freewheeling back through the last couple of weeks with me making no conscious effort to concentrate.

  The realisation hit me almost physically, although I knew that my subconscious had been preparing to unleash itself for days. My mind had been grappling with something since my dream and I had finally joined the dots – if, according to Islam, the sexes were supposed to be segregated, how did her brother know what position Zadie slept in? For a few moments I was in such a daze that I barely registered which carers were going up to collect their long-service awards from Lesley, or had she already moved on to commendations? I only realised that my own name had been read out when I felt the heat of everyone’s attention focused on me. Blushing, I felt Des’s hand in the small of my back, gently propelling me forward.

  With a few nerves fluttering in my stomach I made my way to the stage, the sea of faces in front of me merging into one as I tried to push Zadie from my mind and focus on what the manager was saying. Lesley gave me a warm smile when I reached her, giving my hand a vigorous shake and setting a large bouquet of flowers in my arms. ‘All of us here at Bright Heights are proud of the wonderful work you did with your last placement, Rosie. May there be many more successes to come.’

  The sound of applause wrenched all other thoughts from my mind and I realised that I had been chosen to receive that year’s special recognition award for my work with Phoebe. I was overwhelmed and chuffed as anything, but then very quickly ashamed. I thanked Lesley and hurried from the stage, suddenly conscious of the click of my heels on the hardwood floor. It was lovely that the agency had thought of me but I felt like such a fraud, accepting their praise. If truth be told, I had muddled my way blindly through the placement. Thankfully only Des knew how close I had been to giving up on Phoebe and I thought of my fostering friends, knowing that any one of them would have achieved the same result as me, perhaps sooner than I had managed to.

  Liz gave me a hug when I reached her. With her previous experience of teaching, she may have picked up that Phoebe’s strange gait and frantic, whirling arm movements were stress related rather than symptoms of autism. And then there was Jenny, so full of wisdom and able to strike up an almost instant rapport with children of any age. For a fleeting moment I wondered whether Zadie would have been better off with one of them. Being allocated a foster carer was a bit of a lottery and children had to take what they were given. The wheel had spun and Zadie happened to have landed with me. With my self-esteem dislodged, I felt a wave of pity for her.

  I left soon after the motivational speeches and as I drove home I worried how I would cope on my own, without Des around. Though I rarely called on him for help, knowing that he was unreservedly on my side gave me a confidence boost whenever things got a little bumpy.

  Gripped by the uncomfortable feeling that events were slowly unravelling, my thoughts turned back to Zadie. Apart from my impression that something with her brother wasn’t quite right, I still knew very little about her. But I had a feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach that it wouldn’t be too long until I found out more.

  Chapter 9

  Lying in bed that night, I couldn’t stop myself going over and over Chit’s knowledge of Zadie’s sleeping habits, but with the arrival of daylight my unease seemed a little bit petty. Picturing Chit as he guided his sister out to the lavender fields, with a chivalrous arm careful not to make contact with her clothing, I dismissed my anxiety as paranoia. It was a respectful, gentle gesture and he had been perfectly polite.

  Stowing the milk back in the fridge at about 6.30 a.m., I came to the conclusion that I had been over-dramatising the situation because I was anxious about Des leaving and hurt that he hadn’t thought enough of me to tell me the news himself. But whatever way I looked at it, the clock was ticking. Zadie was in voluntary care and could be taken by her father at any moment. Strictly speaking, families are supposed to give the local authority 28 days’ notice if they wish to withdraw their agreement to voluntary foster care, but it rarely happened that way. I needed to get Zadie talking, and soon.

  I sat at the dining table sipping my coffee and watched Zadie through the patio doors as she bounced on the trampoline. It was something she had taken to doing in the last few days and was spending increasingly more time on it. I presumed the exercise was her way of relieving some stress; she certainly threw all of her energy into it, but there was something oddly manic in the way she launched herself into flips and dives, especially so early in the morning. She was such a placid, gentle-natured girl and yet she was throwing herself around with as much vigour as Jamie and his friends, whenever they got together on it. Knowing that anorexics often exercised obsessively, I began to won
der whether Zadie was suffering from an eating disorder. It was another mystery to add to the rapidly growing list.

  After nigh on an hour of intense exercise she came in, her face rosy pink with exertion. It being Sunday, we had nowhere in particular to go and so, while Emily and Jamie caught up on their homework, Zadie sat in the dining room using the computer. I tried to limit the amount of time the children spent on screens so about an hour after she had logged on I invited her to join me in the garden.

  She immediately tensed, twirling her fingers in the front of her black robe. ‘Don’t look so suspicious,’ I said, laughing as I opened the back door. ‘I thought that while Emily and Jamie are busy we might play a game of cards or maybe have a chat.’

  Horrified at the prospect of talking, she quickly opted to play a game. ‘But I don’t know how to play cards,’ she said, biting her lip.

  It was the reply I’d been counting on. ‘We’ll do something else then,’ I said as we walked towards our swing at the end of the garden. Glancing sideways, I could see that her robe was once again at the sharp, receiving end of her anxiety. After giving it the customary tug, she twisted the linen across her stomach so tightly that when she let go a silvery web of tight creases was left behind.

  I sat at one end of the swing and patted the seat next to me, remembering how Phoebe, just a few years younger than Zadie, had found it much easier to talk to me when we were in the garden. It was while we sat together on the swing that I began to get a sense of how traumatic Phoebe’s past had been. Some children, I have noticed, find face-to-face chats confrontational and are far likelier to open up if sitting side-by-side or when riding in the back of a car, and with Phoebe it had certainly been that way.

  Zadie sat a couple of feet from me and stared into her lap, her fingers flicking at the bands on her wrist. I was pleased to see that her hands were looking less raw – the bands were clearly doing their job. I started telling Zadie about Phoebe, although I didn’t use her real name and glossed over most of the details. ‘And there was a memory game she used to love. Shall we give it a try?’