Epilogue – Three Years Later: Roberta
I was wearing the wrong bra for sitting in a police cell.
It was sod’s law that I’d chosen today to try out my early Christmas present from Scott. But I hadn’t dressed thinking the police would confiscate my blouse as ‘evidence’. I’d dressed thinking that sexy underwear might put my husband into a more festive frame of mind.
When we arrived at the police station, the officer who’d arrested me, PC Julie Pikestaff, led me into the custody suite. I was more used to suites containing champagne and roses.
PC Pikestaff quickly explained why I’d been brought in to the custody officer behind the counter, sighing as though if it weren’t for me, she’d be stretched out on a sun lounger in St Lucia. ‘She’ll have to take her shirt off. We need to bag it up.’
The custody officer ferreted around under the desk and handed Pikestaff a white boiler suit, saying, ‘She can put this on once you’ve booked her in. Take her cuffs off.’
The creak in my shoulder blades as I brought my arms in front of me reminded me that I needed to go back to Pilates. The stunned disbelief that had enveloped me on the journey to the police station was starting to evaporate. That boiler suit epitomised how low I’d sunk.
I tried to find the voice I used at parents’ evenings when teachers were evading my questions, but I could only manage a croak of despair.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t wear that.’
People like me only came to police stations to report stolen iPads or missing Siamese cats. I was already trying to salvage any scrap of pride I had left. Rustling around in that wretched space suit might finish me off completely.
Pikestaff waved dismissively. ‘Look, it’s just something to cover you up while your blouse is examined for forensics. No big deal.’
Before she could say anything else, two policemen burst through the door, struggling to restrain a couple of girls in their mid-twenties. One had dyed black hair, thigh-length boots and the tiniest red miniskirt. The other was in a neon-pink body stocking. The Lycra had given up trying to contain her rolls of fat, her boobs spilling out like boxing gloves. The girls snarled and flailed as much as their handcuffs would allow, straining to get at each other in a torrent of abuse.
I glanced at Pikestaff. She looked bored rather than shocked. Another run-of-the-mill Thursday night.
Except for me.
These two women made Scott’s outbursts look like tea and scones with my mother’s patchwork club. The woman in Lycra spat at the policeman, saliva splattering onto his jacket. The other one was trying to stab anyone she could reach with her stiletto boots. No wonder Pikestaff was unperturbed that a middle-aged woman like me was having a wardrobe crisis.
She shuffled me over to the end of the counter, while I tried not to gawp round at the rumpus behind us. I prayed she’d keep that pair of devil women well away from me. With my Home Counties accent and aversion to miniskirts, the only common denominator uniting us was an unfortunate choice of meeting venue. The F-word didn’t trip off my tongue either, though Scott was no stranger to it.
When it was aimed at me, I felt the word land.
Pikestaff set out a sheet in front of her. I stood next to her, feeling as though I should make conversation, but what could I say? ‘Do you get many middle-aged, middle-class women in here?’ ‘Is it always this chaotic on a Thursday night?’
I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer. I took a tissue from the box on the counter, a nasty cheap affair that disintegrated, leaving me picking bits of paper off my face.
Pikestaff ignored my pathetic little sobs and started running through my details. She scribbled away, stabbing an impatient full stop onto the paper after every answer as though there was a particularly salacious murder to solve just as soon as she could wash her hands of me. ‘Age?’ Thirty-nine. ‘Colour of eyes?’ Brown. ‘Distinguishing features?’ None. ‘Empty your pockets, please. Then I’ll just need to search you.’
I looked at her to see if she was joking. There didn’t seem to be anything funny about her. No wedding ring. I wondered if she had children. It was hard to imagine her soothing anyone to sleep. The disappointing contents of my pockets amounted to a Kleenex. She patted me down. Did she really think I had a knife tucked in my trousers? She rattled a plastic bag open. ‘I need your belt and jewellery.’
I dropped in my belt and bangle. I hesitated over my necklace. My Australian opals. Scott had brought them for me all the way from his native Sydney, his first trip home after Alicia was born, thirteen years ago. I wrapped the necklace in a tissue and placed it in the corner.
I threw in the big diamond solitaire Scott had produced with a flourish on our fifth anniversary. ‘Show that to your father,’ he’d said. ‘Told you we’d survive without his handouts.’
Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of my father’s disapproval.
Pikestaff was still making notes. Judging by the concentration on her face, no ‘t’ would escape uncrossed.
I slipped off my wedding band. The skin underneath was indented. Pale and shiny after fourteen years in the dark.
‘You’re allowed to keep your wedding ring,’ she said, barely looking up.
I held it for a moment, absorbing its mixture of memories, then slowly slid it back onto my finger.
I handed her the bag and she scrawled away, listing the contents. She thrust the paper towards me. ‘Sign here, please.’ My hand was shaking so much I could barely form the letters of my name.
‘You have the right to a solicitor. Would you like me to arrange one, or do you know someone?’
‘Solicitor? No. Thank you.’ I’d never even had a parking ticket before. Surely this wasn’t going to escalate into a proper full-blown police investigation?
