looks at me closely. ‘If I offended you, I’m sorry.’ He pauses a moment. ‘But I don’t think I did, did I?’
I flick a glance at him. ‘No,’ I say.
‘I know it’s a serious case, Jen. I take it seriously, don’t worry. I’ll do my bit for Rhea.’
‘I’m glad,’ I tell him. If I need to pretend that’s what happened, fine. That upset me too. Just not as much as thinking Bill had blabbed, that I was in a room of people who Know.
Dan smiles at me and I can feel the warmth of our connection starting. Rebuilding.
Then Tim reappears with the drinks.
We clink our glasses, although I don’t know why.
‘To Rhea,’ says Dan.
Tim nods sagely. ‘Yes. To Rhea. Well said.’
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What are your counsel doing now, Rhea? They are clinking glasses in an overcrowded pub. And what are you doing? Sitting in a cell wondering when you’re next going to see your daughter.
‘I should get going,’ I say.
‘Oh, already?’ cries Tim. As if I’ve made up my son, made up my caring responsibilities.
‘Minesweep for me, Dan?’ I ask him.
‘With pleasure,’ he returns. ‘See you soon. Take care.’ This time we both know that we’re going for a kiss on both cheeks. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says softly into my ear. I wonder if he means about the case.
‘Let me escort you out,’ Tim says.
‘There’s really no need,’ I tell him, but he’s already on his feet.
Outside, I’m ready to go, but Tim takes my elbow slightly and pulls me away from the doorway into the quiet side street.
‘Jen, I really am sorry about before. And look, about you having to leave early – it’s difficult for you. Lucy giving you a dressing-down the other day, you getting on with Dan just now but having to go … well, look, I don’t want to speak out of turn again. But I can recommend a very good child minder.’
‘I can’t afford a child minder, Tim.’
‘Well, you should be able to, Jen. Let me put in a word with Bill. Least I can do. And I’ll message you her details.’
‘OK, but I really think –’
‘Of course, of course, it’s up to you. Just think about it, OK? Keep your options open.’
‘Thanks, Tim. I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t want us getting off on the wrong foot, you know. I’m looking forward to having your input on this case. We’ll catch up when I’ve spoken to Rhea again. And we can use that murky past of yours, yes?’
I feel a chill again. I laugh. He laughs back.
‘Good, you see – we can laugh about it now. I’m such a chump. Always misjudge situations. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening.’
‘Thanks, Tim. I’ll type up my notes of the con tomorrow.’
‘Good stuff. Say hello to the little one for me.’
And so we part.
I haven’t had enough vodka to feel a warm fondness for him. But I am grateful. Again. There was a glow with Dan. If I had a child minder – or even a babysitter – I could have stayed there a little while. And if he does call me (about me, not about the case) I could do something other than lunch or an invitation to read a bedtime story to a ten-year-old. So yes, I’ll think about it.
Back at the office, I put the Rhea Stevens file in the boot of my car. On a whim, I flick again to her photo. I stroke it with one finger. ‘We’ll help you,’ I say.
Tim, Dan, and I. We’ll make a good team. I know we will.
That night, after Josh is in bed, I’m just dimming the lights and putting my feet up on the sofa when my mobile phone glows. You know, my proper mobile (not the one under the bed). A call in.
Oh. It’s that number.
I hate these calls. Like a pointless routine doctor’s appointment – a waste of everyone’s time.
I’d better answer, though.
‘Hi,’ I say, my voice hushed. Josh wouldn’t go to sleep until we’d read about a million chapters of The BFG together. The last thing I want is to wake him. I’ll need matchsticks under my eyes tomorrow as it is.
‘Ms Sutton?’ It’s the woman this time – Sarah.
‘Of course.’
‘Hi, Ms Sutton, it’s –’
‘I know who you are.’
A pause.
I can hear her think ‘Rude ungrateful bitch’ then regather her professionalism.
‘Well, Ms Sutton, I’m just checking in, to see everything’s OK.’
‘All fine,’ I say.
I don’t tell her about the shop windows, the notes on dashboards, the strange comments today at work.
‘Just the odd bit of paranoia,’ I say. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Do you need another medical referral?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t.’
That’s how they coped with me in the first two years. Doped me up on Valium and Seroxat and God knows what else. Sang the old lullabies to get myself through, never mind the baby. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy … a hitman to come and kill us if he or his housemates ever find us. Postnatal depression my arse. Justified fear for your own life and the life of your child. Horrified at what desperation had driven me to – the fear not just of Mick, but also of having no future to offer my little baby. Hunched on the sofa, terrified that Chloe would turn up.
But do you know what? I fucking missed Chloe. I missed her every day. Even though the thought of her surfacing again, some time, scared the shit out of me. That’s what happens when you’re ripped away from someone, even when it’s for your own good. And Mum. Of course I missed Mum. After everything, I just wanted a hug from her.
‘Well, if there’s anything you do need, or if you think there’s anything unusual, let me know, won’t you?’ says Sarah.
‘I’m thinking of getting a child minder,’ I tell her.
A bit of a pause. Consulting
