A Special Relationship

Oh, forget it.

I walked back into the room. The nurse helped me back into bed, repositioning the drip bag to my left. 'Now there's oatmeal, and toast, and some fried eggs, and some good strong builders' tea' -

I turned away. The nurse continued talking.

' - and after breakfast, I'm sure you'll want to go visit your baby. So what do you want to start with first?'

I ate nothing. The nurse tried to interest me in a slice of toast. I turned away.

'Okay so', she said. 'But I know that Dr Rodale will not be pleased'.

She left the breakfast by the bed. Agnes came back into the room. Standing up, I could see that she was a tall, elegant woman - despite the shell-shocked exhaustion and her slightly tentative gait.

'You were here yesterday, right?' she asked, getting back into bed. 'The American, right? Or are you someone new? My memory...'

Another of her fractured sentences. She peered at me quizzically.

'Why don't you talk? Baby got your tongue?'

She laughed hysterically. And I thought: Got it in one, sweetheart.

Then, abruptly, the laughter ceased.

'You've got to eat', she said. 'It'll get you into trouble if you don't. I mean, big trouble. I know it. Because I had it. And you don't want it. You don't want it'.

Then she lapsed into silence again.

'You are American, aren't you?'

She put her hands over her face.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry. I don't mean to keep repeating myself. But...'

And then she went quiet again.

Dr Rodale showed up around three that afternoon. My untouched lunch was by the bed. She glanced at it, then turned her eyes to my chart. What's up, Doc?

'And how are you today, Sally?'

I stared at the wall. Dr Rodale's lips twitched, then she made a note or two on my chart.

'Right... I see that you refused dinner last night, as well as breakfast and lunch today. Once again, this is your prerogative - but do understand that we are keeping you on a drip. And within the next day or two, we will have to make a decision about how to assist you out of your current state. I also gather you had a trouble-free night. Sleep well?'

No response.

'No side effects from the sedatives... bar the usual slight grogginess on waking?'

No response.

'And I see, as well, that despite several offers, you've shown no interest in seeing your son, Jack. Which, of course, is not an uncommon facet of your condition - though one which also cannot be doing either you or your child much good. Now, if you like, we do have a resident psychotherapist who can speak with you about the emotional issues you're facing. But in order for her to perform her function, you must be able to speak. Which puts us all in something of a Catch-22 situation, wouldn't you agree? So, can you please try to talk to me now?'

No response.

'I cannot emphasize how difficult you're making things for us... and ultimately for yourself'.

No response.

'Very well then. We'll talk again tomorrow'.

Then she turned her attention to Agnes. From her cowed response to this approaching figure, it was clear that Dr Rodale genuinely scared her.

'And how are we feeling today, Agnes? Appetite back?'

'I'm eating'.

'No after-effects this time?'

'My memory...'

'That's just short-term. Within another twenty-four hours, you'll be back to normal'.

'Is that the last one?'

Dr Rodale did not look up from her chart.

'We'll see'.

I pulled the covers over my head. Because I now knew - or, at least, I think I knew - the sort of treatment which Agnes had been undergoing.

But though I understood that I had to talk and eat... well, it was that old bit of tortured logic all over again: to talk I have to talk... to eat I have to eat. Which, right now, was impossible. Because though I instinctively knew how to talk and/or eat, it was as if I had lost the ability to carry out these two functions. My DOS operating system was down - and try as I wanted to, I could not trigger the mechanism that would get me to open my mouth. And though I felt a certain rising panic, it was overshadowed by a desperate inertia. I just didn't care enough about anything any more.

Tony arrived at eight that night. He had obviously been briefed by Nurse Patterson - now back on duty - because he eyed the untouched dinner tray with unease, and sat down on the bed, and looked at me with a mixture of hopelessness and distaste and worry (yes, my complex husband had the singular ability to radiate all three moods at the same time, with just a few minor facial contractions). He didn't kiss me or touch my hand - and, once again, he had a hard time looking at me straight on. But he did say 'Hello'. When that got him nowhere, he then said, 'Jack is good'.

And then, 'They're genuinely worried about you not eating or talking'.

And then, 'Okay... I'll go now'.

Is that his way of saying: 'I know when I'm not wanted'?

Agnes's husband (or partner or significant other or whoever he was) showed up that night. He surprised me. I'd envisaged some elegant, muscular Jamaican - well-dressed, exuding confident swagger and easy charm, and every other cliché about Afro-Caribbeans you care to mention. As it turned out, he was a quiet, reserved white guy in his late thirties, dressed in a standard-issue grey suit, blue shirt, dull tie; slightly hesitant in manner and careful about his comportment in this situation. But what was also abundantly clear was that he adored Agnes - and was also genuinely unsettled by her present situation. He sat next to her, holding her hand, talking in a low reassuring voice, even making her laugh on one occasion. You can never fathom other couples, can you? Never work out the spark of attraction in two such opposites, let alone the complex ties that bind, and whether they are robust enough to survive a crisis like... well, like this one.

What a grey little man he was - and how I so suddenly envied her such predictability, such ongoing stability (while well knowing that appearances are always deceptive). When Nurse Patterson arrived during the visit with my sleeping pills, I took them at once, without prompting. Because I didn't want to watch this happy scene anymore.

Once again, the sedatives did their wondrous chemical work and I slept for a massive eleven hours, waking up just after six-fifteen the next morning. God, how fogged in I felt. Because these pills didn't really induce sleep. Rather, they clubbed you over the head and left you stupefied. It took me a good twenty minutes to find the equilibrium necessary to stand up and pull myself (and my feed trolley) to the bathroom.

The day followed a similar pattern to the previous days. The Scottish nurse offered me breakfast. I remained silent. Agnes tried to engage me in conversation. I remained silent (even though I was pleased to see that a degree of mental clarity was coming back to her). She went off to play with her son Charlie. I squandered the morning staring at the ceiling, and wondering why I was squandering the morning like this, and also having no energy to do anything but squander the morning like this.

Then it was lunchtime - and I didn't eat lunch, except courtesy of the tube in my arm. Then it was three pm, and Dr Rodale walked in. Like actors in a bad play, we knew our prosaic lines off by heart. Or, at least, she knew her lines, whereas I simply had to maintain my weak, silent stance. The interview went according to form... with the good doctor making her usual noises about the increasing gravity of my situation, and then finally saying, 'I will be calling your husband at his office this afternoon to discuss your situation and the options open to us'.

Tony arrived around eight that evening. This time he did kiss me on the cheek. He did pull up a chair close to me. He did take my hand. And said, 'You have got to start eating'.

I just looked at the wall.

'Your doctor - Rodale, isn't it? - she called me at the paper and said, if you didn't start consuming solid food, she wanted to consider ECT. As in electro-convulsive-therapy. As in shock treatment. She said it was the best way to bring you out of whatever place you are right now - but she'd need my consent to do it'.

Silence. He wasn't looking at me again.

'I don't want to give my consent. But I also don't want to see you continue in this state. So' - he leaned forward ' - I'd snap out of this if I were you'.

I turned away.

'Sally, please...'

I pulled the covers back over my head. Oh why do I pull infantile stuff like this? Suddenly, he pulled the covers off me. Looking me straight on, he hissed, 'Don't force my hand'.

Then he left. And I found myself thinking, He'll sign the papers in a New York minute. And then I can assume my new role as Electro-Girl. Juice me up, Scotty...

After he was gone, Agnes got out of bed and walked over to where I lay. Her gait was still hesitant. So too the focus of her eyes. But she sounded lucid.

'It's Sally, right?'

I didn't answer.

'Well, listen up, American. My husband didn't want to sign the papers either. I mean, he begged me for a week to try to come round and eat something and act like I knew where I was. But I didn't. And when I kept tearing the feeding tube out of me... well, it left them with no choice. The night before they began the therapy, my husband sat by me and started crying, pleading with me for one last time to eat something, anything. But...'

Pause.

'... the next morning, I pulled the tube out again. And that evening, they started the ECT'.

Pause.

'Just had my fifth yesterday. Guess it's doing some good, 'cause I'm eating again, and I'm able to play again a bit with Charlie. But...'

Pause.

'... they say you only suffer short term memory loss. But that's not what I've been suffering. Kind of more like an entire section of my brain's been wiped. And I keep trying to find it - keep rooting around for it. But...'

Pause.

'... know what I think? I think all that electricity ends up frying it right out of you. Burns it to a crisp. The doctor keeps saying, once the treatment's over, it'll all come back again. But I don't believe her. Not for a moment. 'Cause' -

Pause.

'Listen to me. You can avoid this. You can. Just one mouthful of food, eh? Just one. Here...'

She pulled over the table, on which sat the untouched dinner tray of food. She reached for a bread roll and pulled off a piece of it.

'... just a piece of bread. I'll even butter it for you'.

She did just that. And put it next to my face. I turned away. She used her spare hand to pull my head back.

'Come on, you can do this'.

I turned away again. She forced me back. I turned away. Suddenly she put the roll directly against my mouth. I turned away. She yanked me back, her grip tight now. This time, she forced the bread against my teeth. Which is when I snapped, and brushed it away, and spat in her face. Without stopping to think, she suddenly backhanded me across my face. The shock was ferocious. So too was the pain. And I heard myself shouting, 'Nurse!'

Nurse Patterson came into the room.

'So... you can talk after all'.

Of course, I retreated into silence for the rest of the night. Of course, I didn't touch the dinner tray. Of course, I took my knock-out pills like a good girl, and then waited for sleep to club me. But when I woke the next morning... no, I wouldn't say that the fog had lifted, or that I was suddenly feeling reborn, rejuvenated, or at one with myself and the world. On the contrary, I still suffered from post-sedative fuzz and a general feeling of all-purpose toxicity, combined with a strange weariness... even after another eleven hours of unconsciousness. But, for the first time in days, I actually felt hungry. And when the Scottish nurse brought in the breakfast tray, I mumbled two words, 'Thank you'.

This made her look up at me, a little startled, but rather pleased as well.

'You're most welcome. Think you can eat?'

I nodded. She helped me sit up and rolled the table over the bed, and set up the tray, even opening the paper napkin for me, like a waiter in a restaurant.

'Could you drink some tea, perhaps?' she said.

I nodded again.

'I'll be right back'.

Eating was not an easy process after nearly a week. But I did manage to ingest half a bowl of porridge. It was slow going - and, once or twice, I felt distinctly queasy. But I kept at it. Because I knew I had to.

The nurse poured me a cup of tea and looked on as I ate, beaming. I realized that, to her, any patient that turned a corner was a success story.

'Don't worry about finishing everything', she said. 'You're doing grand'.

Halfway through breakfast, Agnes stirred awake. Like me, she too was on heavy knock-out pills, so it also took her a moment or two to work out where she was, and what she was doing here. But then, gradually, the world came into focus again - and she caught sight of me hovering over the breakfast tray, fork in hand.

To her credit, she said nothing. She just gave me a small nod, then got up and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she came over to my bed and said, 'Sorry about last night'.

'It's okay', I said, just about getting the word out.

'How did breakfast go down?'

I shrugged.

'That's how I felt too - first time I ate after... Then again, the food's such crap around here...'

I managed a little smile.

What I found difficult, though, was the actual act of talking. I could get a word or two out, but then something seized my larynx, refusing to let go.

'Don't sweat it', Agnes said when she saw me struggling. 'It takes time to come back'.

When lunch arrived, I managed to eat half a chicken leg and the white goo that they passed off as mashed potatoes, and a portion of perma-boiled carrots that had a decidedly plastic texture. But it was important that I make a good show of my lunch - because Dr Rodale was due in shortly - and I wanted to be absolutely certain that my rediscovered appetite was noted for the record.

She certainly walked into our room with newfound pleasantness.

'I've just heard your good news, Sally' she said. 'Breakfast and lunch. Most reassuring. And I gather you've even managed to articulate a word or two. Do you think you can speak a bit now?'

'I'll try' I said, the words taking some time to form.

'No rush', she said, clipboard and pen at the ready. 'But it would be most helpful to know...'

And she ran through the entire checklist again. My answers were largely brief - and I seemed to be using words of one syllable. But with her coaxing, I was able to answer all her questions - and, courtesy of my co-operativeness, I seemed to have brought her around to my side. Because when she was finished, she congratulated me on 'a job well done' and emphasized how her previous tough tone was a way of breaking through the barriers that had been constructed in my head, courtesy of my postnatal depression.

'Of course, the road ahead is by no means certain - and it must be negotiated with prudence. For example, do you feel ready to see Jack yet?'

I shook my head.

'Perfectly understandable', she said, 'and under the circumstances, probably sensible. You should see him when you feel ready to see him - which, we hope, will not be too far off'.

She then explained that what I was going through was undoubtedly horrible for me, but by no means unique. Now that I had started to place my feet back on terra firma, it was possible to treat my condition largely through the use of anti-depressants. With any luck, I should start to see some significant improvement within six weeks.

Six weeks? In here?

Dr Rodale saw the shocked look on my face.

'I know that sounds like a horrible length of time - but, believe me, I've seen depressions that, in their most virulent phase, have dragged on for months. And the good news is: if you start responding well to the anti-depressants, we will be able to send you home as soon as you're judged fit to go home'.

You mean, when I'm no longer a danger to myself and my baby?

But as soon as that thought crossed my head, another one cut in: Knock it off now.

'You look like you want to ask me something', she said. 'Any questions?'

'No', I said - and the sound of my voice brought another pleased look to her face.

'No questions at all?'

'I'm fine', I lied.

Eight

THE DOCTOR WAS right. Just as there is no such thing as a free lunch, so there is no instant cure for depression - no fizzy Alka-Seltzer evaporation of the black swamp into which you've plunged. Rather, it's a slow, piecemeal progression back to terra firma (whatever that is), with frequent manic diversions en route, just to make certain that you're not getting too damn cocky about the rapidity of your recovery.

Still, Dr Rodale often reminded me that I was free to leave of my own accord whenever I wished. Not that she actively encouraged me to flee the coop. Rather, I sensed that she was legally obliged to keep informing me of my freedom of movement. She also felt professionally obliged to tell me that, for my own sake, I really should stick it out in the unit until (as she so inclusively put it) 'we all feel comfortable about your return to the home front'.

The home front. As in: the place of quotidian tranquillity to which you return after bloody combat on the battlefield... though when did my London home front ever resemble a serene refuge?

Still, Tony decided to play the role of the dutiful, caring spouse - and even expressed contrition for his anger towards me when I was still in coma-land.

'You know, I was just articulating a desperate frustration... and worry', he said the evening after I started eating again. 'And it was also an attempt to help you... uh...'

Snap out of it?

'Anyway, it's good to have you back. The alternative would have been... frightful'.

But electrifying...

'Been to see Jack yet?' he asked.

I shook my head.

'No rush, none at all', he said. 'The doctor told me it's going to take a little... uh... time, and the two of you could be in here for some weeks...'

Tony did his best to mask his glee at such a respite from la vie conjugale, not to mention the broken nights of early babyhood (not that he'd had much experience of Jack's sleep terrorism, courtesy of his office eyrie).

'I've informed the editor about your... uh... condition, and he's been most sympathetic. Told me to take as much time off as we needed'.

To sit by my bed and hold my hand and keep me company? I don't think so.

But Tony proved me wrong on that one. Day in, day out he showed up at the hospital and spent at least an hour with me, always bringing me a collection of that day's newspapers - and, as I started to become more compos mentis, a steady supply of novels and back issues of the New Yorker. He even went out and splurged on a Discman with an FM radio and a very fancy pair of Bose headphones, which had a little power pack that helped block out all external noise. And he gradually brought in around twenty or so CDs from home. Much to my surprise, he showed an appreciation of my musical taste. Lots of baroque concerti grossi by Handel and Corelli. My prized 1955 recording of Glenn Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations. Ella Fitzgerald's sublime collaborations with Louis Armstrong. And Bill Evans's famous Sunday at the Village Vanguard disc - which, ever since I'd heard it in college, always struck me as the height of sophisticated cool... and did even more so now from my confined vantage point of a South London hospital.

The music became a touchstone for me - a way of measuring my gradual return to some sort of sentient state. But I was also aware of something that Dr Rodale told me: 'At first, you'll possibly wonder if the anti-depressants are doing anything. It takes a little time to bite - and it never works the same way with everybody'.

She warned me about possible side effects - and before there was any sense of the drug biting, there was no doubt that its chemical byproducts were playing games with my system. First came a desert-like dryness in my mouth, spreading rapidly to my throat and eventually (and most disturbingly) to my eyes.

'We'll get you some liquid tears to keep the eyes hydrated', Dr Rodale said. 'Meanwhile, keep drinking two litres of water per day'.

Then there was a kind of nausea - in which my stomach began to heave, but nothing followed.

'This should settle down - but you must keep eating'.

Food was Dr Rodale's big obsession - making me wonder if she'd spent a lot of time treating anorexics (or had herself been one). I suppose she had a point - because, according to Nurse Patterson, refusal to eat was a commonplace postnatal syndrome, and one that tended to exacerbate the depression, for a lot of obvious physiological reasons.

'When you don't eat', she said, 'you become even more susceptible to the downward curve'.

I was eating again - but my progress back to something approaching an appetite was slow, due, in part, to the horrendous slop they served at the hospital. So Tony began to do a Marks and Spencer's run for me every day, picking up sandwiches and salads, and even conferring with the nurses about what I should be eating.

Once again, his solicitousness surprised and pleased me. Of course, I knew he'd never articulate the reasons why he was suddenly being thoughtful and considerate.

'Does it matter what his motivations are?' Ellen Cartwright asked me. 'The important thing is: Tony is showing concern. And don't you think that's a good thing?'

Ellen Cartwright was the unit's resident therapist. Dr Rodale pushed pills, Ellen got you in touch with your inner idiot. But like everyone I'd met so far at the hospital, she was a serious pragmatist - and someone who also adopted a very English point-of-view about the messiness of life: there's a great deal to be said about muddling through.

Ellen favoured long, capacious skirts and big baggy linen shirts. She was in her early fifties - and from her style, her long grey hair, and her taste in sub-continent bangles, I sensed that there was a touch of the subculture veteran about her. But when it came to dealing with the complexities of my condition, she was reassuringly practical.

'You've switched countries, you've put your career on hold, you've become a mother, while all the time trying to adjust to married life with a man about whom you're frequently uncertain... and that's before we factor in the fact that the birth of your child was a difficult experience for yourself and for him. Now, when you add up all that, can you really sit there and tell me you think you're making too big a deal about all this?'

'I just feel so... I don't know... inadequate'.

'In what way?'

'Every way'.

If our conversations had a general theme, it was this long-standing feeling of inadequacy - the perennial worry of the perennial B student (which I was throughout high school and college) who never felt she was achieving her potential... who was always just about 'all right' at everything, but could never excel. And it didn't matter that I had done time on a major newspaper, or had been a foreign correspondent, or had the reputation for being very confident on the professional front. In private, the doubts always loomed - and I kept wondering when I'd eventually be found out.

'But you never were "found out"', Ellen Cartwright said, 'because you were obviously very good at what you did'.

'You're just trying to make me feel better about myself'.

'Actually, you're right - I am trying to do that. You should feel positive about such accomplishments. I mean, the way you talk about the Boston Post, you make it sound like you were hired to work the till in some supermarket. Can't you see what you've already accomplished?'

'What I see', I said, 'is someone who threatened the life of her child'.

How I wanted to see things differently. But during the first two weeks on anti-depressants, I still felt sheer, absolute terror about even just looking in on Jack. I articulated this fear on a regular basis both to Ellen and to Dr Rodale. And when Tony danced around this question all I could say was, 'I just can't see him yet'.

After two or three times, Tony had the good sense to stop asking me that question - because it was so obvious that I couldn't handle it. He didn't even mention visiting Jack - though I knew that he poked his head into the children's ward every night that he came to see me.

But Dr Rodale remained as direct as ever - and seemed to be using my inability to see Jack like my initial inability to eat: a benchmark hurdle that, once crossed, would indicate a further return to stability... not to mention a sign that the anti-depressants were finally kicking in.

Certainly, I was beginning to feel a gradual undercurrent of... what? Calmness? Not exactly - as I could still suffer from episodes of extreme anxiety. Chemically induced bliss? Hardly - as I often had to lock myself up in the bathroom to sob uncontrollably. And as for the amelioration of guilt...

'So far, I would call your progress steady and encouraging', Dr Rodale said as I entered week three of the anti-depressants. 'You're eating, your moods seem steady, you're doing positive things like reading and listening to music...'

Yes, but appearances can be deceptive. Because, every morning, when I finally climbed out of my drug induced coma, the realization of where I was (and the reasons that had brought me here) came crashing in on me with desperate ferocity. It took the next dose of anti-depressants and a long private hour with Glenn Gould on my Discman to force me into a false sense of quietude.

From the outset of my admission to hospital, Sandy was phoning constantly - initially monitoring my progress (as I found out later) by talking to the nurses. She also spoke a few times with Tony. He managed to talk her out of coming to London after my admission to St Martin's, correctly telling her that I was in no fit condition for visitors. Then, when I was back in the land of the moderately functional, I told her that it wasn't the best moment for a transatlantic visit, hinting that I really didn't want her to see me in my current condition. The fact that her eldest son had just broken his wrist in a bicycle accident kept her on the other side of the pond... to my intense relief. But we still spoke daily. We agreed a specific hour (4pm in London/11 am in Boston - when she had a half-hour break from her morning teaching load), and she'd ring a pay phone in a Visitor's Room down the hall from where I was billeted. As it was outside visitors' hours, it was always empty. Both Ellen and Dr Rodale considered it an important part of my recovery to maintain close contact with family - so the phone was considered mine for that half-hour period every afternoon.

At first, Sandy sounded like she herself needed a course of anti-depressants - or so said Tony, who actually rang her in Boston to break the news about my hospital incarceration. Even when I finally started to speak with her, her anxiety was apparent and, comme d'habitude, she had spoken to every possible leading expert on postnatal depression in the Greater Boston area. Not only that, she'd also made contact with some heavyweight Professor of Pharmacology at Harvard Med, who gave her the low-down on my anti-depressant load ('It is absolutely the right dosage for you'). And she also established telephone contact with Dr Rodale ('Well, you are my only sister', she said, when I expressed a certain wariness about such interference), whom she also thought sounded like good news.

'Oh, she is', I said in one of our early phone calls. 'As long as you obey her every command'.

'Well, at least you didn't get sent down for shock treatment - which, I've found out, is a last-ditch solution over here'.

'They use it here too', I said, thinking about poor scrambled Agnes.

'Hey, that doctor's gotten you back to some sort of equilibrium'.

'I wouldn't go that far'.

'Believe me, from the stories I've heard' -

But I didn't want to hear such stories. I just wanted to be out of here.

'You're going to have to let them be the judge of that', Sandy said, surprising me with her 'the English doctors know right' stance. 'You're still fragile. I can hear it'.

Then, just to underscore the fragility of everything, word came back about Agnes. It was nearly three weeks since she'd checked herself out, and I'd had a variety of roommates since then - all short-term internees, and all of whom I treated with polite diffidence, using my Discman and assorted reading matter to keep my distance. I was also allowed to take a walk in the hospital grounds whenever I wanted to - so, once a day, I'd put on the street clothes that Tony had brought me and spend fifteen minutes walking around the inner courtyard of the hospital. It wasn't exactly the most aesthetically pleasing of spots - as it was a concrete quadrangle, with a patch of green in the middle, around which the hospital staff cadged a cigarette. While I made my daily circle around this grubby enclosure, I always found myself thinking how easy it would be for me to escape - even though I was here of my own alleged free will. In fact, I believed that Dr Rodale encouraged me to take this quotidian walk to enforce the fact that I wasn't a prisoner, and also to get me to accept the reasons why I'd ended up here. Because I'm certain that Ellen informed her of the escape fantasy I articulated regularly during several sessions.

'So what's this "escape fantasy"?' Ellen asked me when I first brought it up.

'It's simple, really', I said. 'I get dressed and go out for my walk around the courtyard. Instead, I leave the hospital and head for the nearest taxi rank. I arrive back at our house. I pack a bag. I grab my passport. I jump the tube to Heathrow. I buy a ticket on the first plane to Boston, New York, Washington, even Philadelphia - anywhere on the East Coast...'

'And when you get off the plane in America... ?'

I shrugged.

Ellen gave me a commiserative smile.

'We all have dreams of leaving', she said.

'Even you?'

'Everybody. But what you must try to remember at all times is that you have an illness. Depression isn't a punishment for being a bad little girl. Nor is it a sign of personal weakness. It is an illness - and one from which you will be eventually released. But this is a very serious condition with which you are grappling. So serious that...'

She hesitated for a moment, then said, 'Dr Rodale and I debated whether or not to tell you what I'm about to tell you... but we decided you should hear it from us rather than from anyone around the unit. You remember Agnes Shale who shared the room with you when you first arrived?'

'Has something happened?'

'I'm afraid so. Agnes jumped under an underground train last week and was killed'.

I shut my eyes and said nothing.

'According to her husband, she'd been doing fine for the first week or so. But then, she stopped taking the anti-depressants - because, I gather, they weren't agreeing with her. The sleeplessness started again. But her husband assured us that she was bonding well with her son - and, outwardly anyway, seemed to be coping well with things. Until...'

She reached over and took a sip from a glass of water on the table by her chair.

'Now I want to be absolutely clear about something', she said. 'And it's something that you yourself need to understand. Agnes's suicide cannot be conclusively tied to the fact that she checked herself out of hospital before anyone here believed she was ready to leave. Depression is always an atypical illness - by which I mean that it can never be empirically tracked or second-guessed. So, do believe me, I am not trying to put a "See what happens if you don't listen to us" spin on this story. All I want to emphasize is that we all have to be very vigilant about your condition - because it is still a brittle one. But, given time, you will get better'.

Sandy concurred with this point-of-view when I recounted what happened to Agnes during our telephone call that afternoon.

'Your therapist is right. You definitely don't want to surrender to regression'.

Surrender to regression? My dear sister had been reading far too many self-help books again.

But I did realize that Ellen had been right to tell me the story - that it had a sobering effect, making me prudent about the status of my equilibrium and the slow tempo of recuperation.

So I kept taking the anti-depressants, and I kept talking three times a week to Ellen, and I kept talking to Sandy (who kept threatening to jump on a plane and visit me - but was far too financially strapped to do so). And when Tony had to skip a few visits because of the usual global crises, I was perfectly sanguine. By the end of week four, the crying fits that marked most days had stopped. When I weighed myself I saw that I had regained half the fifteen pounds I'd lost (and that was enough!). Dr Rodale let me give up the sleeping pills, because I was making it through the night without interruption. Every so often - whenever I felt myself edging towards that black fathomless swamp - I seemed able to skirt the edge and re-route myself back to more stable terrain. The urge to plunge into this morass was still present, but there now seemed to be a safety mechanism in place - a fragile fail-safe that kept me away from the precipice... for the moment anyway.

Then, a few days into week five, I woke up one morning and took my pills and ate my breakfast and announced to the nurse on duty that I would like to see Jack. There was no sudden lifting of the cloud that made me make this decision; no rays of sunlight streaming through the previously fogged windows of my brain. Nor did I have a massive born-again revelation about the wonders of motherhood.

I just wanted to see him.

The nurse didn't slap me on the back and say, 'Great news... and about bloody time too, thank God'. She just nodded for me to follow her.

The baby ward had a heavily reinforced steel door, with a substantial lock - a sensible precaution in a psychiatric unit. The nurse punched in a code, then pulled the door open. There were only four babies in residence. Jack was in the first crib. I took a deep steadying breath and looked in.

He'd grown, of course - by a half-foot at least. But what struck me so forcibly - so wonderfully, in fact - was the way he had lost that initial premature, post-delivery amorphous quality, and was now such a distinctive little guy. He was also fast asleep - and though I initially hesitated about picking him up, the nurse gave me an encouraging nod. So, with extreme care, I reached for him and brought him up next to me. Instead of crying, he snuggled his head against mine. I kissed him and smelt that talc-like new-baby smell which was still prevalent all these weeks after his birth. I held him for a very long time.

That evening, I asked Nurse Patterson if Jack could be moved into my room. When Tony arrived that evening, he was genuinely taken aback to see me bottle-feeding Jack.

'Well then...' Tony said.

'Yes', I said. 'Well then indeed'.

Word spread fast about my reunion with Jack. Dr Rodale was all smiles the next afternoon, informing me that 'this was very welcome news indeed', while cautioning me that I still needed to approach each day with a degree of circumspection, and with the understanding that nothing was straightforward when it came to the skewed landscape of depression.

Ellen, meanwhile, tried to get me to concentrate on one salient point. 'Jack will never remember a thing about this entire time'.

'Lucky for him', I said.

'And I think that, once you are fully recovered, you will begin to forgive yourself - even though, from where I sit, there's nothing to forgive'.

They kept me in for another two weeks. It passed quickly - especially as I was now spending my entire waking day with Jack. They moved him to the baby ward every night (as Dr Rodale insisted that I get solid uninterrupted sleep), but brought him back as soon as I was up in the morning - which meant that, when he stirred out of sleep, I was there to change and feed him. Just as he was also by my side until I went to bed at night. I even started to bring him out on my daily walk around the hospital courtyard. With the exception of sleep, the only time that I relinquished his company was during my thrice weekly sessions with Ellen.

'The general feeling is that you're just about ready to go home', she said at the start of week seven. 'The question is: do you think yourself ready?'

I shrugged. 'I have to leave here sometime'.

'Have you talked with your husband about perhaps having some help at home with Jack?'

Actually, it had been Tony himself who had brought up this issue - reminding me that, before I'd entered hospital, he'd found out the name of a child-care agency in Battersea called Annie's Nannies, and perhaps I'd like to now give them a ring. Though I told Ellen that I would be definitely investigating this possibility, there was also a part of me that felt I should try to make a go of looking after Jack myself - that bringing a nanny in would be another indication of my domestic ineptitude... especially as I wasn't working right now, and Jack was still at that stage where he was sleeping for much of the day. So I wrote a note to our cleaner Cha, asking her if she might be able to come in three additional mornings per week and keep an eye on Jack, thereby giving me a short respite from Baby Land. Tony liked this plan - especially as it was going to be around a third the cost of a full-time nanny. Ellen, however, was sceptical.

'If you can afford it, you really should consider constant help', she said. 'You're still not completely out of the woods yet...'

'I'm doing fine', I said.

'Without question. Your progress has been tremendous. But surely, you can afford a month or two of full-time nannying, just until you're at a stage where' -

But when I argued that I could easily handle my son - especially as he was still at the non-mobile stage of development - she said, 'I sense you're still feeling guilty, aren't you? And still thinking that you have to prove to the world that you are a competent mother'.

I shrugged, but didn't say anything.

'As I've been telling you since the start of our sessions together, there's absolutely nothing wrong with admitting that you can't cope with certain situations...'

'But I am coping now'.

'And no one's trying to contradict that. But you're also in the controlled environment of a hospital - where all meals are provided, somebody changes the bedclothes, and prepares the formula for Jack, and looks after him at night while you sleep...'

'Well, the cleaner will be able to do most of that for me - with the exception of the nights. And if he starts ruining my sleep again, I can always nap while she's on duty'.

'All right, that may be so - but I still get the feeling that there's a certain remorse about' -

'Did Agnes feel terribly guilty about... ?'

She looked at me carefully.

'About what?'

'About failing her son and her husband'.

'I can't talk about another patient. But... do you think about Agnes often?'

'All the time'.

'Did you become close while you were sharing the room?'

'Hardly - since I was so out of it. But... of course I think about her a lot. Because...'

I faltered. So Ellen asked, 'Because you wonder if you'll end up under an Underground train yourself?'

'Yes', I said. 'That's exactly what I wonder'.

'All I will say is what I said to you before', Ellen said. 'Agnes left before any of the hospital staff felt she was ready to leave. You, on the other hand, are leaving with our medical approval. Because we feel you're ready to get on with life again'.

'You mean, this isn't life?'

For the first time since we started out sessions, I actually managed to make my therapist laugh.

But before they sent me back to 'life', there was an extended question-and-answer session with Dr Rodale, whose primary concern was getting the ongoing pharmacological load just right. So she wanted to know every detail about my current sleep patterns, my diet, my mood swings, my sense of calm, my sense of unease, my sense of ease with Jack, my sense of ease with Tony.

'Oh, I'm certain my husband will revert to type as soon as I'm home... now that I seem to be back in the rational world'.

'So that submerging feeling you often described to me... what was the term you used again... ?'

'The black swamp'.

'Yes. The black swamp. Do you often feel yourself drawn back there?'

'Only when the previous dose of anti-depressants is starting to wear off'.

She nodded - and informed me that she wanted to ever-so slightly increase the dosage to ward off those lapses.

'Does this mean I'm going to be on anti-depressants for the foreseeable future?' I asked.

'It looks that way. But if they help you cope...'

Ah yes, so this was what I had become: a woman who needed help coping...

Still, Dr Rodale finished our session by saying that she was genuinely delighted with my recovery.

'Yours is the sort of story which helps counterbalance...'

Stories like Agnes's?

Then she told me that I could leave anytime I was ready to leave.

And so, the next morning, Tony showed up with the car around ten. Nurse Patterson was off-duty, but I'd thanked her the night before. I also thanked Ellen and Dr Rodale, having agreed to see Dr Rodale in two weeks to discuss my ongoing relationship with anti-depressants. Ellen offered me the chance to continue our sessions. I took her number and said I'd think about it. When I mentioned Ellen's offer to Tony, he said, 'Well, if you need to pay someone to tell them what a bad husband I am, go right ahead'.

As usual, this comment was delivered in a sardonic tone. But I sensed there was also a hint of guilt behind it.

Still, his comment did have the effect of transferring whatever guilt he felt on to me - and certainly didn't make me want to stretch the family finances any further by doling out £70 an hour to a therapist. My condition had stabilized, after all. The drugs were working. And if I needed to talk my dumb head off, there was always Sandy at the end of a transatlantic phone line. I was going to be just fine.

But within five days of my homecoming, Tony reverted to type.

All credit to Jack: he behaved like the perfect gentleman during his first days in Putney. He slept for five solid hours at a go. He slurped down five bottles. He didn't complain about the service, or the newness of his bedding, or the strange surroundings. Tony seemed reasonably content in his company, just as he also did low-key solicitous things like sterilizing and preparing several bottles, and even changing his diaper on two occasions. No, he didn't take the night shift when Jack woke at three am... but he did insist that I grab a nap the next afternoon while he kept an eye on the boy.

But then, after those first few days, he had to go back to the paper - and his return to work also marked the beginning of a distancing process. He started to come in late - nine, ten, even eleven. Then, one night, he called me from the Groucho Club around one-fifteen in the morning, telling me that a dinner with some Chronicle colleagues was running just a little late.

'Fine, no problem', I said. 'And the way Jack is going tonight, I'll probably be up when you get home'.

When he rolled in at five, I certainly was still wide awake - balancing Jack on my lap, trying to negotiate him through a particularly bad dose of colic, watching CNN. Tony was drunk. Seriously drunk. And not pleasant.

'What are you, my mother... ?' he asked, staring at me with unfocused eyes and equally unfocused contempt.

'I was just up with Jack', I said, maintaining a low, subdued tone of voice.

'Well, I am not your fucking child', he said, the words slurring. 'And I don't... don't... like the idea of being... I mean, the fucking nerve of you, waiting up for me, like I'm some truant...'

'Tony', I said quietly. 'Go to bed'.

'Don't you tell me...'

'Go to bed'.

He looked at me, his eyes blinking with dim bemusement. Then he turned and staggered upstairs. Shortly thereafter, Jack finally conked out. I took him to the nursery, and then went to my room. My husband had fallen facedown on our bed, covering the entire span of it with his rumpled body. I threw a blanket over him, and unplugged the baby alarm, and brought it with me as I climbed the stairs to Tony's study, and pulled open the sofa bed, and found the duvet, and climbed under it, and fell asleep.

Then there was light in my eyes, and Tony was by my side, proffering a cup of coffee. Even though it took a few moments for my eyes to come into proper focus, I could see that he looked terrible... and terribly guilty.

'I think I owe you a very large apology', he said.

'You were drunk', I said, sounding absurdly benign.

'I was beastly'.

'Thank you for the coffee', I said, smiling sweetly.

One of the more intriguing aspects of Life on Anti-Depressants was the way it eventually whittled away all rough edges, all potential sharp emotional corners, and left you feeling curiously placid about much of the shit that life can throw at you. The doctor was right - its effects were cumulative. Though I was already registering its increasing efficacy while I was still in hospital, its tranquillizing benefits were only really beginning to kick in now that I was back on the proverbial home front. What struck me most forcibly was how the anti-depressants had softened so much of my natural contrariness; my instinctive need to talk back when challenged. It's not as if I had suddenly become programmed into robotic, hubby-worshipping complacency. Rather, I felt like I'd been dispatched to a torpid, tropical place where the general rule of behavioural thumb was: who cares? I was no longer in South London; I was beached on some super-laid-back, ganja-hazed island where all of life's vicissitudes were greeted with a stoned shrug.

All right, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit here - but the fact is, the anti-depressants numbed that part of the brain in which anger and resentment lurked. Had Tony rolled in drunk and turned nasty on me in the past, I certainly wouldn't have forgiven him after one mumbled, hung-over apology. But now, I accepted the cup of coffee, the clumsy kiss on the head, and the nervous tone of contrition.

It wasn't just the drugs that made me so ego te absolvo. There was a deep part of me that was terrified of becoming combative - fearing that it would send out warning signals about my mental stability. Anyway, considering the extremity of my own conduct in the days leading up to my hospitalization, I had to cut Tony some slack here... and let him adjust to having us around again. In turn, he spent the next two weeks being ultra-polite - if a little preoccupied. No, there were no further five-in-the-morning boozing sessions, but he was frequently held up at the paper until nine or ten several nights a week, and - of course - the novel was still flowing (or so he said). Which meant that, around midnight most evenings, he'd excuse himself and vanish upstairs.

I didn't complain. I just travelled down the anti-depressant path of least resistance. When he wanted to share our bed (around twice a week) and have sex with me, I was pleased. When he 'needed' to stay out late at the Chronicle and/or hide upstairs, I accepted it. I was just grateful that we had silently negotiated a degree of familial stability between us and that my own stability was holding up.

Another curious thing about the slow progression out of depression: you begin to crave routine. And dealing with a baby is certainly bound up in the metronomic regularity of feeds, diaper changes, the usual gaseous post-bottle discomfort, rocking him to sleep, being close at hand at all times, coping with colic, coping with another feed, another diaper change, the usual gaseous post-bottle...

More tellingly I was now so enjoying my son. Gone was the terrible fear that I couldn't handle the basics of motherhood, let alone that terrifying postnatal fear that I would do him harm. On the contrary, I now delighted in his company - revelling in the way his hand closed round my finger, the way he nuzzled his head against mine as I held him, the fact that it was so wonderfully easy to make him laugh.

'Sounds like you guys really are an item now', Sandy said to me after I mentioned the sheer pleasure I was getting from Jack's company.

'He's a terrific kid', I said.

'It's great to hear you so up. You must be relieved'.

'Just a little', I said with a laugh.

As I wasn't exactly on the lookout for great intellectual or professional stimulation right now - and also seriously wanted to keep everything on a profoundly even keel - I accepted this circumscribed domestic routine with a certain degree of relief. Cha the cleaner was on hand from nine until midday every morning - and she proved herself to be highly capable with Jack. She kept him happy while I caught up with sleep or took myself off for a walk down the tow path. She organized his clothes, dealt with all the paraphernalia of babyhood, and gave me a necessary three-hour respite from motherhood... which I was then happy to resume.

One morning, sitting in Coffee Republic on the High Street, nursing a latte, looking at all the other moms with pushchairs around me, staring out at the monocultural blandness of Putney's main thoroughfare, the thought struck me: this is my life now.

And the New England stoic in me reasoned: you have managed to survive a major tumble into deep deranged muck. You've come through - shakily, but you are functioning. You seem to have achieved an entente cordiale with your husband. You have your son - with whom you are now fully engaged. Eventually, you will find your way back to the - workaday world. But for now...

This is my life.

And it could be far worse - or marked by real misfortune.

Like my poor sister Sandy. She rang me late the next night in a state of convulsive shock. Her ex-husband, Dean, had been killed earlier that day in a climbing accident on Mount Kathadin in northern Maine. A trail guide, he'd been leading a group across a particularly treacherous corner of the mountain known as The Knife Edge, because it was just that: a thin finger of terra firma spanning a deep gorge. Dean must have traversed it several dozen times and was an experienced mountaineer. But earlier that morning a wind blew up and sent him right over the edge. They found his body a few hours later - his neck snapped like a twig, his head caved in. Instantaneous death, they figured.

'He probably never knew what hit him', Sandy said.

I thought: given that he'd fallen nearly a thousand feet, he must have been aware of what was going to hit him - that, verily, his life was about to end. But I didn't say this to her.

'Dumb bastard', Sandy said, crying. 'I always warned him about that damn mountain. You know, we climbed it on our honeymoon...'

I did remember - and always thought what a strange thing to do to celebrate a new marriage. But Dean was always outdoorsy, and Sandy was madly in love with him at the time, and love will make you do completely out-of-character things like climb a mountain, even though Sandy was the type who preferred avoiding stairs whenever possible.

'You know what really gets me: that one time we went up Kathadin together, I kept doing this big song-and-dance when we reached The Knife Edge about how I couldn't cross it; that it was just too terrifying for me, and I'd end up stranded in the middle of the trail. Know what Dean said? "I'll never leave you stranded anywhere." And, of course, I believed him'.

She started to cry again - telling me her three boys were taking the news hard, and that Dean's new girlfriend was distraught. I'd never met the woman - but I always disliked her, because of her role as the happy home-wrecker. Now, however, all I could feel was desperate pity for her - especially as she was at the back of the climbing group when the accident happened, and saw him go over.

And there was Sandy - now weeping uncontrollably over the death of a man whom, just a few weeks earlier, she was referring to as 'that scumbag ex-husband of mine'. But that's the nature of a divorce, isn't it? You find yourself loathing that person around whom your world once centred. Sometimes you cannot help but wonder if the reason you now despise him is because you still so desperately love him.

Sandy said that the funeral would be in three days' time. Immediately, I said, 'I'll be there'. She argued that I was in no fit state to cross the Atlantic; that she had the three boys to support her. But I knew that three kids under the age of twelve were going to need support of their own during this horrendous time. So I said, 'I think I can do this'. And I told her I'd get back to her within a few hours.

Tony was exceptionally sympathetic when I informed him of the news. He virtually insisted that I go - offering to get his secretary to book the ticket to Boston for me, while also suggesting that I call Annie's Nannies to see if they could find full-time round-the-clock help for four or five days.

'But won't that cost us a fortune?' I asked.

'It's a family emergency' he said.

But before I called the nanny agency, I phoned Dr Rodale - and was fortunate enough to catch her during office hours at her private rooms on Wimpole Street. She'd seen me for a fast consultation at the hospital just last week, and seemed genuinely pleased with my progress. Not pleased enough to lower my dosage of anti-depressants, but confident enough about my current stability to okay me to travel the Atlantic.

That day, Cha was in working - and when I mentioned that I would be out of the country for seventy-two hours and was having to find a full-time nanny, she told me she'd do the job for £100 a day, all in. I hired her on the spot. That afternoon, we moved one of the single beds I'd bought for the guest room into the nursery, so Cha could sleep next to Jack. When I told Tony of this arrangement, he seemed pleased with it... especially as it also meant not having to pay agency fees, let alone bringing a stranger into the house. Nor did I have to indulge in the usual paranoid fantasies about a husband left alone in a house with a nanny - as I thought that, even at his most drunken, there's no way that he would make a pass at a fifty-five-year-old Thai house cleaner.

Having received the medical all-clear and organized child care, I found myself two days later on a Virgin flight to Boston. When I got to the airport, I received something of a surprise - as it turned out that Tony had booked me into their better class of seat called Premium Economy. As soon as I checked in, I rang him at the office and said, 'Are you insane... and I mean that in the nicest possible way?'

'Aren't you pleased?'

'Of course, I'm pleased. I'm just desperately worried about the cost'.

'It wasn't too bad, really. Just three hundred more than the usual economy fare'.

'But that's still a lot of money'.

'You're still recovering from a tough business... and you need to be in reasonable shape to deal with the next few days. Sandy is going to need a lot of support'.

'I'm so grateful', I said.

'Don't be. It's the least I...'

I couldn't tell if he'd been pulled away from the phone, or had suddenly gone quiet on me.

'Tony, you still there?' I asked.

'Sorry, sorry, got...'

Another odd pause. My mobile phone was obviously playing up again.

'Listen, I've got to go', he said.

'You okay?'

'Fine, fine... just being hauled into conference, that's all'.

'Look after our great guy' I said.

'Have no fear. Travel well. Call me tonight when you land'.

'I will'.

'Love you', he said.

Some hours later, halfway over the Atlantic, it struck me that that was the first time Tony had told me he loved me since...

Well, I couldn't really remember the last time he said that.

The next three days were a nightmare. My sister was a wreck. My three nephews were in various stages of incomprehension and grief. The funeral turned into a territorial exercise, with Sandy, the children and myself on one side of the church, and Dean's family sitting on the opposite side with Jeannie (his new love), her people, and a lot of tanned, muscular types who looked like they were members of the Sierra Club (the flag of this organization covering Dean's casket). Though Dean's parents spent a little time after the funeral with their three grandchildren, everyone studiously avoided Sandy and her younger sister with the glassy jet-lagged/anti-depressant-fuelled eyes. The entire day was an ordeal - made around five times worse by the fact that, courtesy of my anti-depressants, I was forbidden to touch even the most minimal mouthful of alcohol. And God, this was one of those times when I really could have used a drink. I could not get over the internecine pettiness into which families descend... even after something as traumatic as an accidental death. Surely, Dean's demise pointed up the most salient fact of temporal existence: that everything is so desperately momentary. Yet we spend so much of our time here in endless conflict with others that we lose sight of the ephemeralness of life. Or is it because we so recognize the evanescent, fugitive nature of all endeavour that we try to give it meaning through conflict? Are we that fatuous, that preposterous?

When we got back to Sandy's house that evening, the children were so drained and exhausted that they fell into their beds and straight to sleep. At which point Sandy sat down on the sofa next to me and fell apart. I held her as she sobbed into my shoulder. She cried for nearly a quarter-hour without interruption. When she finally subsided, she dried her eyes and said, 'That asshole broke my heart'.

We sat up late that night, talking, talking. She'd received a call the day before from Dean's lawyer, informing her that everything in his estate (which wasn't much - bar a life insurance policy worth around $250,000) had been left to his girlfriend. Which, in turn, meant that Sandy's already sizeable financial problems were even more severe - as Dean's small $750 per month child support contribution was an important component of the household budget. I didn't know what to say, except that I wished I myself was well-heeled enough to give her a monthly cheque for that amount.

'You've got enough crap on your plate', she said.

At which point - as if on cue - Tony rang from London. I glanced at my watch. Seven pm in Boston, midnight in London. Much to my immense relief, all he wanted to do was see how I was doing, and to report that all was well with Jack. We'd spoken the previous nights - and on each occasion, Tony expressed genuine concern about Sandy's welfare, and also quizzed me on my own mental state. This time, he also gave me an update on Cha ('She's handling everything just fine - even if she never smiles'), and wanted to know everything about the funeral. His tone was easy, receptive. As he took down the details of my return flight ('I'll have a car pick you up at Heathrow'), he mentioned that he was doing a fast day-trip to Paris tomorrow morning. Some G7 foreign ministers thing. But not to worry - Cha had been briefed, he'd be back on the last Eurostar train tomorrow night, ready to greet me when I walked in the next morning.

When the call ended, Sandy said, 'You guys seem to be in a good place'.

'Yes - it's amazing the effect anti-depressants can have on a rocky marriage'.

'It's not just the drugs that pulled you through all this. You should also give yourself a little credit'.

'For what? Coming completely unstuck, and ending up in a psychiatric unit?'

'You had an illness...'

'So they keep telling me'.

'And you're through the worst of it now'.

'So they keep telling me'.

'And Tony's behaving himself'.

'I think we've established a kind of armistice between us'.

'Sounds better than a lot of marriages I know'.

'Like you and Dean?'

'We were doing fine... or, at least, that's what I thought. Until he heeded the call of the wild'.

'Maybe he...'

'What? Hated the fact that I'd gotten fat and dumpy?'

'Stop that'.

'But it's the truth'.

'No, the truth here is that Dean probably just needed a bit of drama in his life'.

She looked at me quizzically.

'Drama? I don't follow'.

'He might have been perfectly content with you and the boys. But then this woman came along and...'

'Yeah?'

'Maybe he saw an opportunity for drama, that's all. A new life out in the woods. Very romantic - until you realize that leading groups of tourists up and down the same mountain also gets boring. And "boring" is the one thing in life we most fear... more so than death, I think. Because it accentuates the uselessness of everything. Which is why you should never underestimate the human need for drama - it makes us believe we're all starring in this wide-screen epic of our own making, rather than getting bogged down in the usual day-to-day stuff'.

Sandy looked at me carefully.

'What was the name of those anti-depressants you're on?'

I certainly popped the specified two capsules when I woke the next morning. Then I called home. No answer in London - making me speculate that Cha must have taken Jack out for a walk in his buggy. So I called Tony on his mobile, just to say a quick hello, but received his voice mail.

'Know you're in Paris', I said, 'but I simply wanted to say a quick Bonjour and tell you that I am so looking forward to getting home, and seeing you guys'.

I spent the afternoon in a shopping mall with Sandy buying, a few baby clothes and even splurging on a Banana Republic leather jacket for Tony. I popped two more anti-depressants at lunchtime, and dropped the final two tablets right after saying goodbye to my sister at Logan Airport - in which she became teary about yet again dispatching her sister to alien terrain.

'You'll pull through this', I told her. 'Because you have to'.

Before I boarded the flight, I went to a phone and called the house in London, hoping to touch base with Cha before she went to sleep (or, for that matter, if she was still up, walking the floors with Jack). But there was no answer. I glanced at my watch: 7.15 in Boston, just after midnight in London. She was evidently having an easy night of it with the boy, and had already gone to sleep.

Which is exactly what I did after settling down into my large Premium Economy seat, silently thanking Tony for such a spontaneous act of generosity. When we were airborne, I screwed in a pair of earplugs, blacked out the world with an eyeshade, and let the tautness of the last few days give way to exhausted sleep.

Then we were in London - and as Tony said, there was a minicab driver waiting for me at the arrivals gate. We'd been shoved across the Atlantic at allegro con molto speed, and had therefore arrived forty minutes ahead of schedule. Which meant we were cruising down the M4 at 6.45 am - and I was resisting the temptation to ring home on my mobile, for fear of waking Tony or Cha.

We made Putney in record time - a mere half-hour from the airport. The driver helped me to the front door with my bag. I took out my key and unlocked it, opening it as quietly as possible. I stepped inside. And immediately knew that something was astray. The front hallway had been stripped of a collection of framed historical photographs of Old Cairo that Tony had brought back from Egypt.

Maybe he'd decided to put them elsewhere in the house...

But then, as I headed up the stairs towards the nursery, I glanced sideways into the living room. This stopped me dead. Almost all the bookshelves had been emptied, along with Tony's extensive collection of CDs, and the fancy overpriced stereo he'd treated himself to shortly after we moved in.

We'd been burgled.

I ran up the stairs, shouting for Tony. I threw open the nursery door. Nothing... by which, I mean: no crib, no playpen, no toys, no carry-chair, no Jack. I stood in the middle of the empty room - divested of all its furniture, all its toys, and every bit of clothing I'd bought for him.

I blinked in shock. This wasn't a burglary.

Then I dashed upstairs to Tony's study. It had been completely stripped bare. I rushed down to our bedroom and flung open the wardrobe. All his clothes were gone, but mine were still there. And when I charged into the bathroom, all that I found in the medicine cabinet were my toiletries.

I reeled back into the bedroom. I sat down. I told myself: this isn't making sense... this simply isn't logical. My husband and my son have vanished.

Nine

IT TOOK ME several minutes to force myself up off the bed. I had no idea where this story was going. All I knew was: I had just walked into a nightmare.

The kitchen. It was the one room in the house I'd yet to check. I stood up. I went downstairs - and immediately saw that the sterilizer, all baby bottles, and the high chair we'd bought were gone. So too was the entire stock of formula, diapers, baby wipes, and all other infant paraphernalia.

I couldn't fathom it. Someone had come along and expunged every trace of Tony and Jack from the house. No sign of them remained whatsoever.

I grabbed the phone and punched in the number of Tony's mobile. I was instantly connected with his voice mail. My voice was decidedly shaky as I spoke. 'Tony, it's me. I'm home. And I must know what's going on. Now. Please. Now'.

Then I rang his office - on the wild off-chance that he might be in at seven-something in the morning. Again I was connected to his voice mail. Again I left the same message.

Then I rang Cha. No voice mail this time. Just a computer-generated voice informing me that the mobile phone I was ringing had been switched off.

I leaned against the kitchen counter. I didn't know what to do next.

The front doorbell rang. I ran towards it, hoping against hope that Tony was outside with Jack in his arms. Instead, I found myself facing a large beefy guy in his late twenties. He was in a tight, ill-fitting suit, a white shirt open at the collar, a tie dappled by food stains. He had no neck - just a straight roll of fat from his chin to his collar bone. He radiated greasy menace.

'Sally Goodchild?' he asked.

'Yes, that's me', I said.

'Got something for you', he said, opening his briefcase.

'What?'

'I'm serving you with papers', he said, all but shoving a large document in my hand.

'Papers? What sort of papers?'

'An ex parte court order, luv', he said, thrusting a large envelope into my hand.

Job done, he turned and left.

I tore open the envelope and read. It was an order given by The Honourable Mr Justice Thompson, yesterday at The High Court of Justice. I read it once, I read it twice. It didn't make sense. Because what it stated was that, after an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson the court had granted Anthony Hobbs of 42 Albert Bridge Road, London SW11 ex parte interim residence of his son, Jack Hobbs, until a further order was given.

I ran down the street until I caught up with the process server, getting into his parked car.

'You've got to explain this to me', I said.

'Not my job, luv', he said.

'Please', I said. 'I need to know...'

'Get yourself a solicitor, luv. He'll know what to do'.

He drove off.

I went back to the house. I sat down at the kitchen table. I tried to re-read the court order again. Three sentences into it, I dropped it, clasped my arms around me, and felt the sort of deep chill that sparked off a low-level internal tremor.

This can't be happening... this can't be...

I stood up. I looked at the clock on the wall. Seven fifty-seven. I grabbed the phone. I tried Tony again. His voice mail answered again. I said, 'Tony - I don't know what sort of game you're playing here... but you have to talk to me now'.

The court has granted Anthony Hobbs of 42 Albert Bridge Road, London SW11...

I got to my feet. I opened the kitchen cabinet and reached into the bowl where all car and extra house keys were kept. The car keys were gone. Which meant that he had taken the car along with...

A wave of terror seized me.

After an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson...

Why did he need a hearing? What was he arguing? What did I do that merited... ?

I reached again for the phone and called the local minicab company. They had a car at my front door in five minutes. I gave the driver the address: 42 Albert Bridge Road, SW11.

We headed right into rush hour traffic. The driver was a recent arrival in England. He had yet to master the A-to-Z atlas of city streets, and his battered C-reg Volvo was in need of a new set of shocks. But he kept humming contentedly to himself as we sat, becalmed, in eight am gridlock. He also lost his way twice - but seemed genuinely concerned by my ever-growing agitation in the back seat.

'It's okay', he said. 'I get you there'.

But it took nearly an hour to negotiate the two-mile crawl to Albert Bridge Road. When we arrived, some instinct told me to ask him to wait for a moment while I got out of the cab and negotiated the ten steps up an imposing three stories-over-basement Victorian town house. I used the brass door knocker to announce my arrival, whacking it frantically. After a moment, it was opened by a diminutive, olive skinned woman with tired eyes and a Hispanic accent.

'Yes?' she asked, looking at me warily.

Peering over her shoulder, I got a glimpse of the entrance foyer. Very minimalist. Very sleek. Very architect designed. Very expensive.

'Who lives here?'

'Miss Dexter'.

'Anyone else?'

'She has a friend'.

'What's his name?'

'Mr Tony'.

'And does Mr Tony have a little boy?'

'A beautiful little boy' she said, actually smiling.

'Are they here now?'

'They've gone away'.

'Where?'

'The country'.

'Whereabouts'.

'I don't know. Miss Dexter has a place in the country'.

'Do you have a phone number, an address?'

'I can't give...'

She began to shut the door. I put my foot in its way.

'I'm the little boy's mother. I just need to know...'

'I can't', she said.

'Please help me here'.

'You have to go'.

'Just a phone number. I'm' -

The word 'desperate' was on my lips, but I couldn't get it out, as I found myself overwhelmed by despair and shock. The housekeeper looked at me with alarm.

'Please', I whispered.

She glanced around nervously, as if somebody could be watching us, then said, 'They went to his office'.

'When?'

'Half-an-hour ago. They had to stop there before they went to the country'.

I touched the top of her hand.

'Thank you'.

I walked quickly back to the cab.

'Can you get me to Wapping now?'

En route, I tried to process the limited information I'd received. The woman was named Dexter. She obviously had money - not just for that big Albert Bridge Road pile, but also for a country place. And the fact that my husband was referred to as Mr Tony meant...

What? That he'd been around and about this house since... ?

After an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson...

I reached for my phone, about to try Tony's mobile again. But then I stopped myself, thinking that if he knew I was on my way to the Chronicle, he'd have a chance to run interference or...

What is he doing? What?

'Get yourself a solicitor, luv. He'll know what to do'.

But I knew no solicitors in London. I really knew no one here. No one at all I could call now and say...

No, this is all too absurd. This is some horrible prank, some fantastical misunderstanding which has ballooned into...

And he was so friendly on the phone when I was back in Boston. Before then, he couldn't have been more considerate when Sandy's ex fell off the mountain. Go darling, go... and here's a better class of air ticket to make your journey more comfortable. Because while you're out of town...

Stop it, stop it - you sound like one of those demented conspiracy theorists.

We approached the Wapping gates. I paid the driver £30 and then approached the security cordon - a place which Tony always referred to as Checkpoint Charlie. But instead of the Stasi on duty, I found myself face-to-face with a uniformed guard at a little visitor's booth.

'Can I help you?' he asked.

'I'm here to see my husband', I said.

'Which paper does he work for?'

'The Chronicle. Tony Hobbs - the Foreign Editor'.

'Oh right, him. And you're his missus?'

I nodded. As he rang a number, he asked me to take a seat. He spoke into the phone, explained who I was, and then heard something from the person on the other end which made him cast a sideways glance at me, as if I was potential trouble. After he hung up, he turned to me and said, 'Someone will be out here in a moment'.

'Someone?' I said, standing up. 'Didn't you speak with my husband?'

'Someone will explain...'

'Explain what?'

'She'll be here shortly' the guard said.

'Who is she?'

The guard looked a little alarmed by my raised voice. But instead of saying anything, he just turned away from me and busied himself with paperwork.

So I sat down in one of the plastic waiting room chairs, clutching myself tightly. A minute or so later, Judith Crandall walked in. She was Tony's secretary - a woman in her late fifties who had been working for the Foreign Desk since she joined the paper thirty years earlier. 'The original Chronicle lifer', as Tony called her (takes one to know one) - and someone who knew where all the bodies were buried. She was also a rabid chain smoker, and had a lit cigarette in hand as she approached me. Her face looked grim, uneasy.

'Hello, Sally', she said.

'What's going on?' I said, my voice loud again.

She sat down in the chair next to mine, and pulled it towards me, so we were huddling together conspiratorially.

'Tony resigned from the paper yesterday', she said.

This took a moment to register.

'You're lying', I said.

She took a deep drag off her cigarette.

'I wish I was'.

'Why?'

'You'll have to ask him'.

'But he's here, isn't he?'

'He was here - until about fifteen minutes ago'.

'You're lying. He's here. With Jack'.

She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit up another one.

'I am not lying', she said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. 'He left fifteen minutes ago'.

'With my son?'

'He was on his own. He showed up with his car and cleared his desk. Then he came over to a few of us and said goodbye and left'.

'Did he give you any forwarding address?'

'Albert Bridge Road in Battersea'.

'Same address that was in the court order...'

She said nothing, but looked away - which is when I knew that she was aware of everything that had happened.

'Who's this other woman?' I asked.

'I don't know'.

'You do know', I said.

'He didn't talk about her'.

'Please...'

'I'm serious'.

'Liar', I shouted.

The guard stepped off from behind his desk and approached me.

'I'm going to have to ask you to leave now'.

'Sally', Judith said, taking me by the hand, 'this is doing no good'.

'He took my child. You know that. He's disappeared with my son. And now I'm not leaving. Because I know you're hiding him. I know it!

That last sentence came out as a shriek - causing Judith and the guard to blanch. He recovered quickly, however, and said, 'I'm saying this just once: you leave now of your own accord, or I will be forced to escort you off the premises myself. And if you fight us, I will have no choice but to call the police'.

Judith was about to reach for my hand, but thought better of it.

'Please Sally, don't make him do that'.

'You know everything, don't you?' I said, my voice a near-whisper. 'You know who this Dexter woman is, and how long he's been seeing her, and why he's taken out an order barring me from...'

I started to weep. Judith and the guard backed away. I dropped into the chair, sobbing wildly. The guard was going to make a move towards me, but Judith stopped him, whispering something in his ear. Instead she crouched down beside me and said, 'You need help. Can I call someone for you?'

'Oh, is that what he told you... that I'd gone completely ga-ga and needed help?'

My angry voice prompted the guard to approach me again.

'I'll go', I said.

I stormed out of the security hut without looking back.

I found myself on a road called The Highway, staggering in the direction of Tower Bridge, but not really knowing where I was headed. A high, long wall ran the southern length of The Highway. After around twenty paces, I slumped against it - unable to move any further. Though I was still standing on my feet, I could feel myself plummeting: that same descending swoop I so associated with the initial stages of my postnatal disaster. Only this time, it was accentuated by the realization that my husband had vanished with my son - and had obtained a court order to bar me from seeing him.

Here, finally, was legal confirmation of what the world already knew: I was a disaster as a mother. Here, finally, was proof that I should do everyone a favour and walk the quarter-mile to Tower Bridge, and climb over one of the railings and -

'Ma'am, are you all right?'

It was a constable - walking his beat and finding me slumped against the wall. Looking -

Well, I must have been looking pretty damn desperate for a big city policeman to take notice of a lone woman holding up a wall.

'Ma'am... ?'

'Yeah, fine'.

'You don't sound fine'.

'I'm... uh...'

'Do you know where you are now?'

I nodded.

'Where then, please?'

'London'.

'Yes, but where exactly?'

'Wapping'.

'You're North American?'

I nodded again.

'Visiting London?'

'No - live here'.

'And you don't need help right now?'

'Just... upset... private thing... uh... a taxi'.

'You'd like a taxi?'

'Please'.

'Going where?'

'My house'.

'And where's that exactly?'

I told him. Saying Putney immediately identified me as a proper resident - because what American tourist ever ventured to that southwestern corner of the city?

'You sure you just want to go home?'

'Yes. Home. Can I go now?'

'No one's stopping you, ma'am. Could I get you a cab?'

'Please'.

He raised his hand. A taxi stopped within seconds. I thanked the constable, climbed in, gave the driver my address, then slumped across the back seat.

I was back home by ten. The silence of the house was huge. I glanced at the court order on the table, the stripped shelves, the bare nursery. I walked into the bathroom and popped two anti-depressants. I lay down on the bed. I shut my eyes, opening them a moment later out of some strange hope that I would suddenly find myself back in my restored former life. But instead, I found myself dominated by one sole horrifying realization:

They've taken Jack away from me.

I reached for the bedside phone. I dialled Tony's mobile. Again, the voice mail came on. Again I left a message.

But I knew that he didn't have to call me. He had his court order, good for two weeks. He'd gone away, with no forwarding phone number, bar his mobile - on which he could use his voice mail to screen all calls and dodge the possibility of talking with me. He had it all thought out.

But why had he resigned his job? The Chronicle was the one great constant in his life - and a place from which he would loathe being permanently separated.

I put down the phone. I picked it up - and tried Cha again. This time I got lucky. She answered on the third ring. But when she heard my voice, she was immediately nervous.

'I cannot talk', she said in her tentative English.

'Why not? What did they tell you?'

A hesitant pause. Then, 'They told me I am not working for you again'.

'When did they move everything out?'

'Two days ago. They also brought a nanny to be with the baby'.

A nanny'? What nanny?

'When you say "they", you mean my husband and...'

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 minicab 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 same 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 answerphone, 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'.

'Hey, don't beat yourself up over that', she said. 'It took me more than a year to meet anyone in London. It's that kind of a town'.

'I'm desperate to see Jack', I said.

More than desperate. It was an actual physical ache.

'I can't even begin to imagine...'

'Don't say it...'

The next forty-eight hours were hell. I tried to stay busy. I cleaned the house. Twice. I called my old bank in Boston, asked them to cash in my bonds, and wire the entire amount over to me. I took my anti-depressants with metronomic regularity - and often wondered if this pharmacological compound was keeping me in check; if, without it, I would have already descended into complete mania. Somehow I was managing to push my way through the day. I even called back Tony's secretary and apologized for the scene at Wapping the previous day.

'There's absolutely no need for an apology', Judith Crandell said. 'I understand completely'.

'But do you understand why Tony quit?'

A silence. Then, 'Sally... it's not that I am unduly loyal to Tony, it's just... I don't think it's my business to involve myself in your business'.

'But Tony told you about my... illness... didn't he?' 'Yes, he did mention that you had been... unwell'.

'So you did know a certain amount about my business. Which means you also must know something about the woman he's vanished with'.

'This is very awkward...'

'I just have to make contact with him. What he's doing is so unfair'.

'I'm sorry, Sally. But I just can't help you here'.

I phoned Tony's deputy, Simon Pinnock. He was similarly evasive (and just a little mortified) to be cornered like this by the shunned wife of his ex-boss.

'I really don't have a clue why he did what he did', he said, the nervousness showing.

'Come on, Simon', I said. 'I think you do'.

'If you'll excuse me, I'm being called into conference...'

I even tried ringing Tony's long-estranged sister - whom I'd never met (they'd had a falling out over something he wouldn't discuss with me), and who now lived in East Sussex. It took some dogged on-line digging in the BT directory to find her number. She didn't particularly want to talk with me either.

'Haven't spoken to Tony in years - so why should he call me now?' she said.

'It was just a long shot'.

'How long have you two been married now?'

'Around a year'.

'And he's already abandoned you? That's fast work, right enough. Mind you, I'm not surprised. He's the abandoning sort'.

'You mean, he's done this before?'

'Maybe'.

'That's not an answer'.

'Maybe I feel I don't need to give you an answer. Especially having adopted that tone with me...'

'I didn't adopt a tone'.

'Yes you did. And it's not like I know you or anything...'

'Well, if I've offended you, I'm very sorry. And...'

'Don't feel like talking to you anymore'.

And the line went dead.

I hit my hand against my forehead, congratulating myself on another tactical diplomatic victory. My inborn American inability to couch things in coded language caused me to strike out every time. Hadn't I learned anything in my months here?

I vowed to be on my absolute best behaviour when I met Virginia Ricks the next day. I took the tube to Chancery Lane well in advance of our appointed time, and loitered for an hour in a Starbucks until three-thirty arrived.

The offices of Lawrence and Lambert were in a narrow terraced town house, sleekly renovated inside. There was a security man on the door - who made me sign in and checked that I did have an appointment upstairs. Then I headed up in the lift to the third floor and stepped out into a pleasant, modern reception area, with chrome furniture and copies of all the daily papers on the coffee table. While the receptionist phoned Virginia Ricks, I sat down and absently glanced through them, deliberately shunning the Chronicle.

Around five minutes later, a young woman in her early twenties came out. Blonde. Big hair. Slutty suit.

'You Sally?' she asked. 'I'm Trudy. We spoke yesterday. Doing all right?'

'Uh fine, yes'.

'Great. But listen, Ginny's still tied up in court. Now we could reschedule the whole thing for Monday...'

'I really need to see her today'.

'Understood. And the good news is, she should be back at around four-thirty. So...'

I killed an hour in a branch of Books Etc on Fleet Street, then picked up another coffee and sat on a bench in Lincoln's Inn, shivering with the chill, chasing another two anti-depressants with my latte, thinking that there is always something strangely comforting about a square like this one in the midst of a city - how it gives you a sense of enclosure and shelter.

Virginia Ricks was in her late twenties. As I expected, she was blonde, slightly horsey in the face, but immaculately polished: the sort of woman who spent a good hour putting herself together in the morning before showing her face to the world. But what immediately struck me about her was a certain 'noblesse oblige' manner - a slightly flippant superiority, no doubt taught to her at a young age by the kind of upscale parents who masked their own doubts behind an overweening public face.

'Ginny Ricks', she said, hurrying into the conference room into which I had been ushered, proffering her hand. It was now almost five o'clock. As she settled herself into the chair opposite mine, she kept up a steady, nonstop line of chat:

'So sorry to be so late. Ghastly day in court. It's Sally, right? Trudy fix you up with some tea, I hope? Hope she didn't take you aback, our Trude. A bit Estuary for some of my clients' taste - but she's brilliant with all the footballers' wives we always seem to be representing. Puts them right at their ease, for some curious reason. So now, you have my complete, uninterrupted attention... though we will have to curtail things in about a half-hour. Ghastly Friday night traffic again. Know the Sussex Downs, do you? Perfect romantic weekend spot, if you're...'

But she stopped herself.

'Oh, dear', she said, half-laughing to herself. 'Can you believe such rubbish? So sorry. Well now, let's make a start. You were recommended to us by... ?'

'Alexander Campbell'.

'Sorry, never heard of him'.

'He ran Sullivan and Cromwell's London office for three years'.

'But he never had business with our firm?'

'No - he just told me, through his wife, that you were the best divorce lawyers in London'.

'Quite right too', she said. 'And I presume that, because you're here, you want to get divorced'.

'Not precisely', I said. And then I quickly took her through the entire story, right up to the bombshell court order. Ginny Ricks asked to see the order. I handed it over. She speed-read it.

'Evidently your husband got his barrister to convince a sympathetic judge that you were an unfit mother, and to grant this temporary order. Which, in turn, raises the unpleasant, but most necessary question: were you, in your opinion, an unfit mother?'

I shifted uneasily in my chair because I was aware that Ginny Ricks was now studying me with care.

'I don't know', I said.

'Well, let me ask you this: did you ever physically abuse your child? Shake it when it was crying, toss it across the room, that sort of thing?'

'No. I did get angry once or twice...'

'Nothing unusual there. Parents often get angry at children and say angry things. But words is cheap, as you Americans love to say'.

Actually, we don't love to say that.

'As long as you didn't physically harm your child, we're on strong ground here. And during your stay at St Martin's... you were never sectioned, were you?'

'No - it was a voluntary stay'.

'No problem then. Postnatal depression is such a commonplace thing these days. Though we will naturally investigate what evidence they used against you, the way I see it, your husband really doesn't have much of a case'.

'Then how did he get this court order?'

'You were out of the country, and his legal team obviously put together a case against you, in which it was argued that the safety of your child was at risk... oh, by the way, is it a boy or a girl?'

'His name's Jack'.

'Well, they probably chose a judge who was known for his misogynist credentials - and as you were not represented at the hearing, he heard just what they wanted him to hear...'

'But could he rule against me like that without listening to my side of the story?'

'With the alleged safety of the child in question... absolutely'.

'But does this mean that, for the moment, I'm barred from seeing Jack?'

'I'm afraid so. The good news, however, is that this ex parte order can come to an end at the next hearing, which is fixed for ten days' time - which means that we have just five working days, not counting both weekends, to build our case'.

'Is that enough time?'

'It has to be'.

'And do you also think you might be able to find out who this Dexter woman is?'

'Ah yes, the femme fatale? Another of her giggles. 'Sorry - bad joke. But yes, that shouldn't take much effort. Now - just a little spot of housekeeping. My fees are £200 an hour, I'll need to put an assistant on to this immediately to help me with the research, and she'll cost around £50 an hour. Then we will also have to instruct a barrister, though that'll only be for the hearing itself. So, say a £2500 retainer to get us started...'

I was prepared for such an initial sum, but I still blanched.

'Is that a problem?' she asked.

'No, I have it. However...'

I then explained about him stopping the bank accounts, and what the guy at Nat West told me.

'But if you never insisted on a proper joint account...' she said, with a little supercilious shrug.

'I thought it was a joint account'.

'You're obviously a very trusting person'.

'What about him trying to sell the house?'

'You are joint owners, right?'

'So I thought'.

'We'll search the Land Registry and check who owns the house. Anyway, if you put money into the house you'll get it back on divorce. And if you get to keep Jack, you'll probably get to keep the house... or, at least, while he's still at school'.

'And when it comes to getting some sort of support from my husband... ?'

'That's Monday's job', she said, glancing at her watch. 'So, Monday morning - we'll need the retainer and a list of assorted health care professionals and people who know you who can vouch for your good character and, most tellingly, your relationship with your son. That's critical...'

She pulled over a diary, opened it, and glanced down a page.

'Now Monday's rather ghastly... but shall we say four forty-five?'

'Isn't that late in the day, if we only have this week to build the case?'

'Sally... I am trying to fit you in at a time when I really shouldn't be taking on any more clients. Now if you feel you can do better elsewhere...'

'No, no, Monday afternoon is fine'.

She stood up and proffered her hand. I took it.

'Excellent. Until Monday then'.

Later that night, while talking with Sandy, I said, 'She strikes me as a bit young, but ultra-arrogant... which might be a good thing under the circumstances. She certainly seems to know what she's doing'.

'Good, because you need a bitch in your corner. And she sounds like she fits the bill'.

The weekend was endless. On Monday morning, I went to the bank. The American money had arrived. I bought a sterling bank draft for £2500. This left me with just under $6000 - or around £4000... which I could certainly live on for a bit, as long as my legal bills didn't spiral beyond the initial retainer fee.

I brought this concern up with Ginny Ricks later that afternoon. Once again, I was kept waiting more than a half-hour, as she was 'tied up' with another client.

'So sorry about that', she said, breezing in.

I showed her the list of contacts I'd drawn up. There were only four names: Dr Rodale, Ellen the therapist, my GP, and Jane Sanjay, the health visitor. I mentioned that Ellen was out of town. 'Don't worry - we'll track her down', Ginny Ricks said. She also wondered out loud if there was a friend in town - preferably English ('It will play better in front of the judge, show you've found a footing here, that sort of thing') - who could vouch for my good character.

'You see, Sally, before the next Interim Hearing next week, we will already have submitted witness statements to the judge. So the more people who have positive things to say about you as a mother...'

'I've only been a mother for a few weeks', I said.

'Yes, but surely there are some chums here...'

'I've only been in the country a few months. And I haven't really met many people...'

'I see', Ginny Ricks said. 'Well... I'll have one of our researchers get cracking on the witness statements today. One last thing: you did bring the retainer, I hope?'

I handed over the bank draft and said, 'If there's any way we could keep costs within that £2500, I would greatly appreciate it. My resources are fairly limited'.

'We'll do our best', she said, 'but if we do need to track people down and the like, it will run up things'.

'Right now, I have exactly £4000 to my name, no job, no bank account'.

'I understand your position', she said, standing up. 'And, no doubt, we'll be speaking in the next few days'.

But the next person I ended up speaking with from Lawrence and Lambert was one of their assistants. Her name was Deirdre Pepinster. She also spoke in the same horsey voice affected by Ginny Ricks - yet with a 'this is so boring' inflection with made me uneasy.

'Now I've been trying to reach this Ellen Cartwright for the past two days...'

'But I told Ginny Ricks that she was out of town'.

'Oh, right. Anyway, turns out she's on some hiking trip in Morocco - and is completely out of contact until the week after next. And Jane Sanjay, your health visitor, is on extended leave of absence. Canada, I think. Won't be back for four months at least'.

'Any chance of tracking her down?'

'It might run up the bill a little more'.

'I could take care of it. Especially as she liked me. And I think she'd say nice things...'

'Leave it with me'.

'And I'm sure I could also find out lots about the woman who's now with my husband...'

'Let us handle that as well. We too need her background information'.

'But it's more hours on the clock, isn't it?'

'We want to do the most thorough job possible'.

I didn't hear from her again until the end of the week.

'Right', she said. 'The woman in question is named Diane Dexter. Home address: 42 Albert Bridge Road, London SW11. She also owns a house in Litlington, East Sussex, and an apartment on the Rue du Bac in Paris... which is a pretty nice part of Paris, not that Litlington is shabby either. Very handy for Glyndebourne... on whose board she sits'.

'So, she's rich'.

'Quite. Founder and Chairman of Dexter Communications - a mid-sized, but highly successful marketing company. Privately owned. Very highly regarded. She's fifty, divorced, no children...'

Until now, that is.

'Any idea how or when she met my husband?'

'You'd have to hire a private detective for that. All I've been able to find out is the basic details about her'.

'So you don't know where they are now?'

'That wasn't part of my brief either. But I did get a witness statement from your GP and from Dr Rodale, who treated you at St Martin's'.

'What did she say?'

'That you had been suffering from "pronounced postnatal depression", but responded well to the anti-depressants. That was about it, actually. Oh, and I found out what happened at the ex parte hearing. Seems you threatened the life of your son one evening...'

'But that was sheer exhausted anger'.

'The problem is, you said it to your husband's secretary. Which means that a third party heard it. Which, in turn, means that there's third party evidence. The other problem is that they essentially demanded a hearing by telephone on a Saturday night in front of a judge named Thompson who notoriously sides with the father in cases involving the mental health of the mother, and was presented with this evidence in conjunction with your extended stay in the psychiatric wing of St Martin's. And you were also out of the country at the time, which, no doubt, they used to make you appear frivolous...'

'But I was at a funeral...'

'The judge didn't know that. All he knew was that you were a clinically depressed woman who had threatened to kill your baby, and then left the country at the first possibility. And as it was only a two-week order, I'm certain he had no problem signing it. Sorry...

'Now, back to the witness statements. On the Health Visitor front... it seems that Ms Sanjay just left the place she was staying in Vancouver and has hit the road, travelling around Canada, but won't be back in the UK for around four months'.

'Maybe she has an internet address?'

'You don't have it by any chance?'

I stopped myself from letting out an exasperated sigh.

'No - but if you call the local health authority...'

'Fine, fine, I'll follow it up', she said, sounding bored.

'And could you ask Ginny to call me, please. The hearing's next Tuesday, isn't it?'

'That's right. All our witness statements have to be with the court by close of business on Monday'

Which meant that she only had the weekend to track down Jane Sanjay by email... if, that is, Jane stopped in some internet café to check her email this weekend, and if the less-than-engaged Ms Pepinster bothered to even find her address.

I waited by the phone all day Friday for a call from Ginny Ricks. None came - even though I did leave two messages with Trudy.

'Sorry, but she's left for the weekend', Trudy said when I called the second time. 'But I know she'll be calling you as soon as she gets back from the country on Monday'.

Ah yes, another weekend in the country - no doubt with her 'chap', who was undoubtedly named Simon, and probably was an old Harrovian who now 'did something in the City', and spoke in the same honk as his beloved, and favoured Jermyn Street tailoring, and weekend casual by Hackett's, and no doubt had a lovely cottage on the Sussex Downs, so handy for those summer evenings at the opera at Glyndebourne, where Diane Dexter was on the board, and would be showing off her new acquisition(s) when this year's season...

I got up and went into the kitchen - to a small shelf in a cabinet where we kept assorted cookbooks and a London A-to-Z, and a UK road atlas. Litlington in East Sussex was around seventy miles from London - and an easy run from Putney. Before I could stop myself, I phoned Directory Enquiries and asked if there was a listing for a Dexter, D. in Litlington, East Sussex. Sure enough, there was such a listing. I wrote it down. For around a half-hour, I resisted the temptation to pick up the phone. Then I went back to the kitchen bookshelf and dug out a British Telecom guide to their digital phone services, discovering that if you wanted to make a call and not have your number traced (or appear on the other person's digital display), all you had to do was dial 141.

But it took another hour - and that evening's dosage of anti-depressants - to screw up the courage to make the call. Finally, I grabbed the phone, punched in 141, then the number, covered the mouthpiece with my hand, and felt my heart play timpani as it began to ring. On the fifth knell - just as I was about to hang up - it was answered.

'Yes?'

Tony.

I hung up, then sat down in a chair, wishing that I was allowed to mix alcohol with my anti-depressants. A belt of vodka would have been most welcomed right now.

Hearing his voice was...

No, not heartbreaking. Hardly that. In the week or so since this nightmare began, the one thing I felt towards my husband was rage... especially as it became increasingly clear that he had been hatching this plot for a considerable amount of time. I kept reviewing the last few months in my mind, wondering when his liaison with this Dexter woman began. Trying to fathom where he met her, whether it was a coup de foudre, or was she the predatory type who swept down on a man who (as I well knew) was fantastically weak and easily flattered. I thought back to all of Tony's late evenings at the paper, his occasional overnight trips to Paris and The Hague, and that wonderfully extended window of opportunity when I was doing time in the psychiatric unit: all those weeks when his wife and child were conveniently being looked after elsewhere, and he could do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted.

The shit. That was the only word for him. And in the midst of my insane distress about being separated from Jack, my clear, ferocious fury at my husband provided a strange sort of equilibrium; a balance to the guilt and anguish that were otherwise eating away at me like the most virulent form of cancer.

But hearing his voice on the phone was also like one of those out-of-nowhere slaps across the face that shake you out of a stupor and force you to confront the grim reality of your situation. Before this call, there was a part of my brain that was still trying to carry on as if this was really not happening. It wasn't exactly denial (to use that hateful term); more something like extreme disbelief, underscored by a fairyland need to convince yourself that, any moment now, this entire sick black farce will end and your former life will be restored to you.

Now, however, there was no sidestepping the hard cold facts of the matter: he was living in her house, with our son. And he had put into motion the legal machinery to separate me from Jack.

I had another bad, sleepless night. At seven the next morning, I rang Budget-Rent-A-Car and discovered that they had a branch in the parade of shops near the East Putney tube station. When they opened at eight, I was their first customer, renting a little Nissan for the day - £32.00 all-in, as long as I had it back by eight the next morning. 'Mind if I pay cash?' I asked. The clerk looked wary - but, after checking with a superior, he said that cash would be acceptable as long as they could make an imprint of my credit card, just in case there were any additional charges. I handed over my maxed-out Bank of America VISA card and hoped I was well on the road when-and-if they ran a credit check on it.

My luck held. He simply ran the card through his old manual machine, then had me sign several rental forms, and handed me the keys.

Traffic was light all the way south. I made the market town of Lewes in around ninety minutes - and stopped to ask directions to Litlington. It was another fifteen minutes southeast - past gently rolling fields and the occasional farm shop. Then I turned right at a sign marked Alfriston/Litlington, and found myself entering a picture postcardy image of Elysian England. I had driven into a well-heeled fantasy, of the sort that only serious money could buy. I knew I was looking for a house called Forest Cottage. I got lucky - driving down a particularly winding road, my eyes glancing at every small house sign, I noticed the plain painted marker half buried in some undergrowth. I braked and started to negotiate the steep narrow drive.

Halfway up this avenue, the thought struck me: what am I going to do when I get to her house? What am I going to say? I had no planned speech, no strategy or game plan. I just wanted to see Jack.

When I reached the top of the drive, I came to a gate. I parked the car. I got out. I walked to the gate and looked up at the pleasant, two-storey farmhouse around a hundred yards away. It appeared as well maintained as the manicured grounds surrounding it. There was a newish Land Rover parked by the front door. I decided that I would simply open the gate, walk up the drive, knock on the door, and see what would happen. There was a delusional part of me that thought: all I need to do is show my face, and Tony and this woman will be so ashamed of what they've done, they'll hand over Jack to me on the spot...

Suddenly, the front door opened and there she was. A tall woman. Very elegant. Good cheekbones. Short black hair, lightly flecked with grey. Dressed in expensive casual clothes: black jeans, a black leather jacket, a designer variation on walking boots, a grey turtleneck sweater... all of which, even from a distance, radiated money. And strapped around her neck was one of those baby slings, in which sat...

I nearly shouted his name. I caught myself. Perhaps because I was just so stunned by the sight of this woman - this stranger - with my son slung across her chest, acting as if he was her own child.

She was heading towards her Land Rover. Then she saw me. I didn't know if she'd ever been shown a photograph of me - but as soon as she caught sight of me at the gate she knew. She stopped. She looked genuinely startled. There was a long, endless moment where we simply looked at each other, not knowing what to say next. Instinctively, she put her arms around Jack, then suddenly pulled them away, realizing...

What? That she had committed the ultimate theft, the most despicable form of larceny imaginable?

My hands gripped the gate. I wanted to run up to her and seize my son and dash back to the car and...

But I simply couldn't move. Maybe it was the wallop of what I was seeing, the absolute horror of watching that woman cradle my son. Or maybe it was a paralytic sort of fear, coupled with the disquieting realization that if I overstepped the boundaries here - and created a scene - I would simply be giving them further ammunition against me. Even being here, I knew, was an insane tactic... and one that might rebound on me big time. But... but... I had to know. I had to see for myself. And I had to see Jack. And now...

She suddenly turned away from me, heading back to the house, her gait anxious, her arms clutching Jack again.

'Tony...' I heard her shout. And I was gone. Hurrying back to the car, throwing it into reverse, making a fast U-turn, and shooting back down the drive. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, I could see Tony standing beside her, watching my car disappear.

I drove nonstop out of Litlington and back to the main road, pulling over into a lay-by, cutting the engine, placing my head against the steering wheel, and not being able to move for a very long time.

After around ten minutes, I forced myself to sit back up in the seat, turn the ignition key, put the car into gear, and head back towards London. I don't remember exactly how I got there. Some basic autopilot took over. I made it back to Putney. I dropped the car back to Budget, garnering a quizzical look from the clerk behind the desk when I handed in the keys so early. An hour later, I was lying on my bed at home, having taken double the recommended dose of anti-depressants, feeling it deaden all pain, rendering me inert, inoperative for the rest of the day. That night, I also took double the dose of sleeping pills. It did the trick - comatose for eight hours, up in a fog until dawn. At which point, I started the double-dosing of anti-depressants again.

And then it was Monday, and the phone was ringing.

'It's Ginny Ricks here', my lawyer said, sounding terse, preoccupied. 'Sorry we couldn't chat on Friday - another ghastly day in court. But just to bring you up to speed on everything - Deirdre has finished all the witness statements, which we are lodging at court this afternoon. I'll be instructing the barrister today, and the hearing's at the High Court tomorrow morning at ten-thirty. You know where that is, don't you?'

'Well... uh... I'm not...'

'The Strand. Can't miss it. Ask anyone. And I'll have Deirdre positioned just outside the main entrance to spot you coming in. We'll be outside the courtroom somewhere within the building. And I presume you have something smart, but simple to wear. A suit would be best. Black even better'.

'I'll see what... sorry, I...'

I lost track of the sentence.

'Are you all right, Sally?' she asked, sounding a little impatient with my vagueness.

'Bad night...' I managed to say.

'Sounds like a desperately bad night. And I hope you'll ensure that you have a far better night tonight - because, though you will not be called upon to testify tomorrow, the judge will be looking you over, and should you seem somewhat out-of-it, that will definitely raise concerns. And additional concerns are about the last thing we need right now'.

'I promise to be... there', I said.

'Well, I should certainly hope so', she said.

Sandy had been away all weekend with her kids at a friend's house on the Cape - so we hadn't spoken. Immediately she could hear the fog in my voice. Immediately she guessed that tranquillizers were being taken in excessive amounts. I tried to reassure her. I failed. She pressed to know if something further had happened to tip me into this Valley of the Dolls state. I couldn't tell her about the weekend visit to East Sussex - and the sight of Jack in her arms. Part of it was due to the fact that, beneath my druggy haze, I felt so ashamed and humiliated about having gone down there in the first place. But I also knew that Sandy herself was still in a desperately fragile state. Her sadness and regret - the sense of loss for a man whom she had so clearly adored, even after he discarded her like a broken-down armchair - was both poignant and unnerving. And I knew that she would obsessively worry for the next twenty-four hours if I revealed the reality of my current mental state. Not, of course, that she wasn't terrified about the outcome of tomorrow's hearing.

'You must call me the moment you've heard the judge's decision. What did your lawyer tell you today?'

'Not much. Just... well, we'll see I guess'.

'Sally - how many anti-depressants are you taking right now?'

'The recommended dose'.

'I don't believe you'.

'Why would I...'

I shut my eyes as yet another sentence lost its way somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

'Now you're really scaring me', she said.

'Think, I dunno, maybe one too many earlier'.

'Well, don't take any more for the rest of the night'.

'Fine'.

'You promise me?'

'You have my word'.

Of course, I popped one shortly thereafter. I didn't need sleeping pills that night - because the extra dosage of anti-depressants packed a sucker punch. But then, at five that morning, I snapped back into consciousness, feeling toxic, feverish, ill. Like someone who had just crashed out of an extended flight in the druggy stratosphere... which, indeed, I had.

I sat in a hot bath for an hour, a steaming washcloth over my face for most of the time. I dried my hair, I ignored the haggard face in the mirror, I went into the kitchen and made a cafetière of coffee. I drank it all. Then I made another pot and drained it too. When I returned to the bathroom and attempted damage limitation with the use of pancake base and heavy applications of eyeliner, my hands were shaking. Toxicity, caffeine overload, terror. The most oppressive terror imaginable. Because I was about to be judged - and though I kept telling myself that Ginny Ricks knew what she was doing, I still feared the worst.

I dressed in my best black suit, and touched up my face with a bit more pancake to mask the dark rings beneath my eyes. Then I walked to the tube. On the District Line to Temple, I fit right in with the morning rush hour crowd - I was just another suit, avoiding eye contact with my fellow passengers in true London fashion, stoically dealing with the overcrowded train, the cloying humidity, the deep indifferent silence of the citizenry en route to work. Only, unlike them, I was en route to discover whether or not I'd get to see my baby son again.

I left the tube at Temple and walked up to The Strand. I was an hour early (I certainly couldn't afford to be late for this event), so I sat in a coffee bar, trying to quell my nerves. I didn't succeed. I had been warned by Ginny Ricks that my husband might not show up at the hearing ('he's not bound by law to be there - and can let his legal team handle everything for him') but even the outside chance that he might make an appearance terrified me. Because I didn't know how I'd react if brought face-to-face with him.

At ten-fifteen, I approached the High Court and walked up the steps. A young woman - plain, bespectacled, in a black raincoat over a simple grey suit - was waiting by the entrance doors. She looked at me questioningly. I nodded.

'Deirdre Pepinster', she said with a nod. 'We're this way'.

She led us through security to a large vaulted marble hall. It was like being in a church - with high vaulted ceilings, shadowy lighting, the echo of voices, and a constant parade of human traffic. We said nothing as we walked through the hall and then down assorted corridors. This was fine by me as I was becoming increasingly nervous. After several turns, we came to a door, outside which were several benches. Ginny Ricks was already seated on one of them, in conversation with an anaemic looking man in his forties, dressed in a very grey suit.

'This is Paul Halliwell, your barrister', Ginny Ricks said.

He proffered his hand.

'I've just received the witness statements this morning', he said, 'but everything seems to be in order'.

Alarm bells went off in my head.

'What do you mean, you just received the statements?' I said.

'I meant to call you about this late last night', Ginny Ricks said. 'The barrister I'd instructed fell ill... so I had to find a substitute. But really, not to worry. Paul is very experienced' -

'But he's just looking at the statements now' -

We were interrupted by the arrival of the other side. At first sight, they were like an identikit version of my team: a thin, grey man; a big-boned blonde woman, exuding high maintenance - a few years older than Ginny Ricks, but very much graduates from the same 'noblesse oblige' school. They all seemed to know each other - though, as I quickly realized, the grey man was Tony's solicitor, whereas the 'to the manor born' blonde was his barrister. I watched her watching me as she spoke with the others - the occasional cool sideways glance, during which she was sizing me up, taking the measure of me, putting a face to all that she had been told about me.

Paul Halliwell came out and pulled me aside.

'You know that this is merely an Interim Hearing, which you are not obliged to sit through, as it can be a bit stressful'.

'I have to be there', I said, wanting to add, Unlike my husband, who's sent others to do his dirty work for him.

'Fine, fine, it's obviously better, because the judge knows you really care about the outcome. Now, I'm just going to have a quick read of all this', he said, brandishing the witness statements, 'but it does seem very straightforward. The report from the doctor at hospital is the key here. Very encouraged by your progress, and so forth. About the fact that you threatened your baby... I presume you were tired, yes?'

'I hadn't slept in days'.

'And you never in any way physically harmed your son?'

'Absolutely not'.

'That's fine then. The key here is that there was nothing violently aberrant in your behaviour towards your baby that would convince the court you pose a risk to the child...'

'As I told Ginny Ricks...'

On cue, she poked her head into our conversation and said, 'I've just been told we're starting in five minutes'.

'Fear not', Paul Halliwell said. 'It will all be fine'.

The courtroom was a panelled Victorian room with leaded windows. The Judge had a large chair at the front. Facing him were six rows of benches. Tony's team sat on one side of the courtroom, his barrister in the first bench, the solicitors behind him. My barrister sat in the same bench as Tony's, but on the opposing side of the court. I sat in the second row with Ginny Ricks and Deirdre. They informed me that, at this sort of hearing, the barristers didn't have to wear wigs and the judge wouldn't be in robes.

'Nice suit, by the way', Ginny Ricks whispered to me as we waited for the judge to arrive. 'He'll immediately see that you're here - which speaks volumes about the fact that you so want your son back. And he'll also see that you're not some harridan, but eminently respectable and' -

The court clerk asked us to stand as the judge was due to arrive. A side door opened. He walked in. We all stood up. His name was Merton and he was noted for taking care of business in a brisk, no-nonsense manner.

'In the great scheme of things, he's not the worst', Ginny Ricks told me before he came in. 'I mean, considering the number of genuine misogynists who could be hearing the case, we're rather lucky. He's old school, but fair'.

He certainly looked old school. A seriously tailored black suit, silver hair, a patrician bearing. He asked Tony's barrister to 'open' the case, which she did in about two minutes, telling the judge who the parties were and explaining the background to the first ex parte hearing. The judge then said that he'd read the statements and that he just wanted to hear submissions.

Paul Halliwell stood up first, his diminutive height and off-the-peg greyness suddenly making him look a little shabby in front of the thoroughbred on the bench. But he spoke in a clear, moderately thoughtful voice, and from the moment he kicked off his submission with the words 'My Lord' he narrated my side of the story with straightforward clarity and no lapses of concentration. The terrifying thing was, he was essentially winging it (how could he do otherwise?) - like one of those rent-a-padres at the local crematorium who insert the name of the deceased into the pre-ordained service. At least here, he managed to sound reasonably convincing, but the argument he presented wasn't really an argument, merely a repetition of the facts.

'As Ms Goodchild's attending psychiatrist, Dr Rodale, states in her deposition, Ms Goodchild responded well to treatment and re-bonded well with her child. As to the claim that she informed her husband's secretary that she would kill her son... uh...'

He had to glance at one of the statements.

'... her son Jack... the fact is that, at no time did Ms Goodchild ever actually physically harm her son. And though her comment may have been somewhat extreme - and one which Ms Goodchild deeply regretted from the moment she uttered it - it is important to take into account the fact that, like any new mother coping with an infant, Ms Goodchild had been suffering from extreme sleep deprivation which, in turn, can cause anyone to say excessive, unfortunate things in exhausted anger... which have no bearing whatsoever on the loving relationship that she has with her son. I would hope as well, My Lord, that the court will take into account the fact that this comment was made when my client was suffering from postnatal depression, which is a most common and fiendish medical condition, and which can make an individual temporarily behave in a manner completely out-of-character. Once again, I refer My Lord to the statement of Dr Rodale...'

A few sentences later, he wrapped it up with the comment that it struck him as cruel and unusual punishment that my son be taken away from such an eminently respectable woman like myself' -a former distinguished journalist' - because of one angry comment spoken while 'trapped within the horrendous mental labyrinth that is depression'; a labyrinth from which I had now emerged back to 'completely functional normality'. And surely, how could the court keep a child from its mother, given the lack of any violent behaviour on my part?

I judged it a rather good performance, considering the fact that he had been handed the role only minutes before curtain up. And I was pleased that he underlined the cruel extremity of the order against me - surely a sensible, no-nonsense judge like Merton would have to see the truth in such an observation.

But then Tony's barrister stood up. Ginny Ricks had told me that her name was Lucinda Fforde, and little more. Perhaps because she already knew something that I didn't... but was certainly about to find out. Fforde had the predatory instincts of a Pit Bull.

And yet, her voice - like her demeanour - was the apogee of cultivated reasonableness. She sounded so calm, so concerned, so certain. And devastatingly precise when it came to undermining everything about me.

'My Lord, my client, Mr Anthony Hobbs, would be the last to dispute the fact that his wife was once a distinguished journalist with the Boston Post newspaper. Nor would he dispute the fact that she has been through a serious psychological illness, through which he supported her with great sympathy and understanding...'

Oh, please.

'But the issue here is not about Ms Goodchild's onetime professional standing or the fact - clearly documented by her psychiatrist - that she is gradually responding to pharmacological treatment for her postnatal depression. No, the issue here is about the welfare of her son Jack - and the fact that, through her actions of the last few weeks, Ms Goodchild has raised severe doubts about both her ongoing mental stability and her ability to cope with a young infant without endangering its safety'.

And then she brought out the heavy artillery.

'Now, My Lord, you will note from the witness statement by Ms Judith Crandall - who was Mr Hobbs's secretary at the Chronicle - that Ms Goodchild rang her husband at the newspaper several weeks ago and said - and this is a direct quote - "Tell him if he's not home in the next sixty minutes, I'm going to kill our son". Thankfully, Ms Goodchild did not make good on this threat, and though her counsel can certainly argue that this heinous comment was made under duress, the fact, My Lord, is that all women dealing with newborn children suffer from sleep deprivation and its attendant lassitudes, but the vast majority of women do not threaten to kill their children, no matter how fatigued they might be. More tellingly, though one might be able to forgive one such outburst made in exhausted anger, the fact that Ms Goodchild made such a comment twice...'

I heard myself saying, 'What?' Immediately, every eye in the court was upon me, most tellingly that of the judge who looked at me with care.

Ginny Ricks jumped in before he could say anything.

'Apologies, My Lord. That will not happen again'.

'I should certainly hope not', he said. Then turning back to Lucinda Fforde, he said, 'You may continue'.

'Thank you, My Lord', she said, calmness personified, especially as she now knew that she had me. 'As I was saying, Ms Goodchild's threat to kill her child was not simply a one-off event. Following the delivery of her son, Ms Goodchild was hospitalized in the Mattingly, during which time her postnatal behaviour became increasingly erratic, to the point where, when her son was in the paediatric intensive care unit of that hospital, she was overheard by one of the nurses, telling her husband - and this is another direct quote from one of the witness statements that My Lord has before him: "He is dying - and I don't care. You get that? I don't care."'

Ginny Ricks looked at me, appalled. I hung my head.

'However, not only did she publicly proclaim her lack of interest in whether her son lived or died, she also was seen by one of the nurses in the hospital to physically yank her infant son off her breast while feeding him so that the nurse was genuinely concerned about whether or not she might hurl the child on to the floor. Once again, My Lord, this is documented in the - witness statements, taken by the nurse in question - a Miss Sheila McGuire, who has worked in the Mattingly for the past five years.

'You will also note a witness statement from the eminent obstetrics consultant, Mr Thomas Hughes, who states, very clearly, that he became increasingly concerned by Ms Goodchild's repeated emotional outbursts in hospital. As Mr Hughes clearly notes in his witness statement: "From the outset, it was clear to me that Miss Goodchild's mental condition was quickly deteriorating, to the point where myself and my colleagues at the hospital voiced private concerns about her ability to cope with the ebb and flow of postnatal care for her son."'

The ebb and flow of postnatal care... I was being eviscerated with lethal ease.

'Sadly, the concerns of Mr Hughes and his colleagues proved justified, as shortly after her release from hospital with her son, she was prescribed sedatives by her General Practitioner to help combat the insomnia she had been recently suffering. Her GP had specifically warned her not to breastfeed her child while taking these sedatives. Shortly thereafter, however, her son was rushed to hospital in an unconscious state, having ingested tranquillizers from his mother's breast milk. And upon arrival at St Martin's Hospital, the staff were so concerned about Ms Goodchild's mental state that they admitted her to the Psychiatric Unit, where she remained for nearly six weeks - as she spoke not a word and refused all food for the first few days of her stay'.

I found myself putting my hands over the top of my already lowered head, like someone protecting themselves from a series of repeated incoming blows.

She now moved in for the coup de grace - talking about how Mr Hobbs was the distinguished foreign correspondent for the Chronicle, who had just resigned his position as Foreign Editor to look after his son full-time...

Once again, I wanted to scream, 'What?' but restrained myself. I was in enough trouble right now.

She then explained that Ms Dexter was the founder and chairman of one of the most influential marketing companies in Britain, soon to be floated on the London Stock Exchange. She listed her real estate holdings, her chairmanships of assorted well-known companies, and the fact that she was planning to marry Mr Hobbs as soon as his divorce was finalized.

'Most tellingly, from the outset of this familial crisis, Ms Dexter has taken it upon herself to ensure Jack's safety and his well-being. To this effect, she has hired a full-time nanny to look after him - in adjunct to his father whom, as I mentioned before, has demonstrated his deep commitment to fatherhood by giving up his position at the Chronicle to be with his son at the start of his life.

'There is no doubt that Mr Hobbs and Ms Dexter will provide the sort of loving, secure environment in which Jack will flourish. There is also no doubt that, though Ms Goodchild may be responding well to pharmacological treatment, there are still large question marks over her ongoing stability, as proven by the fact that just two days ago, she arrived unannounced and uninvited at the gates of Ms Dexter's weekend home in East Sussex - a most disturbing visitation, and one which contravened the ex parte order issued against her a fortnight ago.

'In conclusion, may I emphasize that neither Mr Hobbs nor Ms Dexter wish Ms Goodchild ill. On the contrary, her estranged husband is deeply distressed by her current debilitated state. Nor was there any malicious or vengeful agenda behind his decision to seek an ex parte order against his wife... which was done solely to protect their child from further harm. His relationship with Ms Dexter had already been well established before this decision was made. He simply felt that, unless he moved their son out of direct physical contact with Ms Goodchild, he could be subject to further jeopardy. Ms Dexter not only provided shelter for Jack, but also round-the-clock nursing care. Considering that she is not the child's mother, her behaviour at this critical time can only be regarded as exemplary'.

And then, suddenly, it was all over. Or, at least, Lucinda Fforde had thanked His Lordship and sat down. The Judge then said he would retire to consider his decision and asked us all to return within twenty minutes when he would give judgment. Deirdre Pepinster nudged me to stand up as he himself rose and left. But I could barely make it to my feet.

Lucinda Fforde and the solicitor came down the right hand side of the court, avoiding me as they walked by. Paul Halliwell followed.

'I'm sorry' he said. 'But I can only play the hand I'm dealt'.

Then he too left.

I sank down in the seat again. There was a very long pause. Then Ginny Ricks said, 'You actually went to that woman's country house this weekend?'

I said nothing.

'And why didn't you tell us about the sleeping pills incident? Or the threats you made against your child? I mean', I heard Ginny Ricks say, 'if you had been direct with us, we could have' -

I stood up.

'I need to go to the loo'.

I headed out, but my knees started buckling. Deirdre Pepinster was there to catch me.

'Steady on', she said.

'Stay with her', Ginny Ricks said in a voice so dismissive it was clear that they now considered me to be completely damaged goods - to be jettisoned from their lives twenty minutes from now, when this entire embarrassing episode was behind them.

I wanted to tell her what an incompetent Sloaney little bitch she was. Remind her how she failed to garner all the necessary facts from me, how she treated my case like an addendum to her ultra-busy life, how she failed to instruct my barrister until ten minutes before the hearing (and I don't care if he was a last minute substitute - she could have found a replacement last night), and how she was now trying to blame me for her complete slipshodness.

But I said nothing, and allowed Deirdre Pepinster to help me into the loo, whereupon I locked myself in a cubicle, fell to my knees and spent five long minutes divesting my stomach of its entire contents.

When I emerged from the stall, Deirdre Pepinster regarded me with nervous distaste, looked at her watch, and said, 'We'd best be getting back'.

I managed to swill some tap water around my mouth before we left. When we reached the court, I saw a look pass between Deirdre and Ginny Ricks.

Then the court clerk announced the entry of the judge. We all stood up. The side door opened, the judge walked in. He sat down. So did we. After clearing his throat, he began to speak. He spoke nonstop for just five minutes. When he was finished and the courtroom was empty, Ginny Ricks leaned over to me and said, 'Well, that's about as bad as it gets'.

Ten

THE JUDGE DIDN'T look at me as he talked. He seemed to be speaking to some nether place, located on the floor just beyond his desk. But his crisp voice was aimed directly at me.

His 'judgment' was brief and to the point. After due consideration, he saw no reason to change the initial ex parte order - and therefore he was allowing this Residence Order to stand for the next six months, until 'The Final Hearing' regarding residence could take place. However, he was adding a few provisos to the original order. Though he concurred that the safety of the child was paramount, he also ordered that 'the mother be allowed weekly supervised contact at a contact centre within the borough of her residence'. He also commissioned a CAFCASS report, to be filed five weeks before the Final Hearing which he fixed for six months' time, 'at which time the matter will be decided once and for all'.

Then he stood up and left.

Lucinda Fforde leaned over and proffered her hand to Paul Halliwell. From the brevity of the handshake and the lack of conversation between them, I could sense that this was a mere end-of-hearing formality. Then she and her solicitor hurried off, a quick nod to Ginny Ricks, hearing finished, job done, on to the next human mess. My barrister had a similar approach. He packed up his briefcase, picked up his raincoat, and left hurriedly, muttering 'We'll be in touch' to my solicitor. Even though he had only been parachuted into the case today, he too looked decidedly embarrassed by the outcome. Nobody likes to lose.

Deirdre Pepinster also stood up and excused herself, leaving me and my solicitor alone in the court. That's when she sighed a heavy theatrical sigh and said, 'Well, that's about as bad as it gets'.

Then she added, 'Like Paul Halliwell, I've always said about cases like these: I can only play the hand I'm dealt. And I'm afraid you've dealt me a busted flush. Had I only known...'

I wanted to respond to her - to tell her exactly what I thought of her. But I kept myself in check.

'I just need', I said, my voice shaky, 'a translation of what the judge just said'.

Another weary sigh. 'A Residence Order is exactly what it sounds like. The court decides with whom the child should reside - and in this instance, the judge has decided to maintain the status quo of the last order. Which means that your husband and his new partner will have residence of your son for six months - which is when there will be what the judge called "A Final Hearing", at which time you will be able to argue your case again and hopefully work out a more favourable custody arrangement. For the moment, however, as he said, you will be granted supervised contact at a contact centre - which essentially means a room in some social services office in Wandsworth... where you will have an hour to be with your child once a week, under the supervision of a social worker, who will be there to ensure that the child comes to no harm. CAFCASS stands for "Child and Family Court Advisory and Support Service". And the CAFCASS report which he commissioned means that, in the ensuing six months, the court reporter will be investigating your background, and that of your husband and his new partner. And to be absolutely direct about it, given the case they have compiled against you, I honestly don't see how you will be able to change the court's opinion. Especially as, by that time, the child will be overwhelmingly settled with his father and his new partner. Of course, should you wish to instruct us to take the case...'

I raised my head and stared directly at her.

'There is absolutely no chance of that', I said.

She stood up, gave me another of her supercilious shrugs, and said, 'That is your prerogative, Ms Goodchild. Good day'.

I was now alone in the courtroom. I didn't want to move from this spot. A court had declared me an unfit mother. For the next six months, my sole contact with my child would be a weekly sixty minutes, with some social worker standing by in case I went psycho. And Ginny Ricks was right: given the evidence stacked against me - and given the wealth and hyper-social standing of Ms Dexter - the chances that I would be granted custody of Jack, or even permitted to see him on a regular, unsupervised basis, were around nil.

I had just lost my son.

I tried to fathom that - to reason it out in my head.

I had just lost my son.

I kept playing that phrase over and over again in my head. The enormity of its meaning was still impossible to grasp.

After ten minutes, the court usher came in and told me I would have to leave. I stood up and walked out into the street.

I made it to the Temple Underground station. When the train came hurling down the platform, I forced myself against a wall and clutched on to a waste bin - to ensure that I didn't pitch myself under it. I don't remember the journey south, or how I got back to the house. What I do remember is getting to the bedroom, closing all the blinds, unplugging the phone, stripping off my clothes, getting under the covers, and then realizing that, though I could try to block out the world, the world was still there, beyond the bedroom window, indifferent to my catastrophe.

Not having a clue what to do next, I stayed in bed for hours, the covers pulled up over my head, wanting the escape of oblivion, yet being denied it. This time, however, I didn't find myself hanging on to the mattress as if it was the sole ballast that was keeping me from going over the edge. This time, though I felt an intense, desperate grief, it wasn't overshadowed by a feeling of imminent collapse or a downward plunge. I didn't know if it was the cumulative effect of the anti-depressants, or some chink in the armour-like depressive veil. All I realized was that I wasn't sinking any longer. My feet were on terra firma. My head was no longer fogged in. The view ahead was clear - and thoroughly dismal.

So I forced myself out of bed, and forced myself to take a hot-and-cold shower, and forced myself to tidy the bedroom, which had become something of an uncharacteristic dump over the last few days. When I broke down - a wave of sobbing that hit me shortly after I finished hanging up the last pair of cast-aside jeans - I didn't find myself falling into oblivion. I was simply convulsed by sadness.

I plugged the phone back in around four. Immediately it rang. It was Sandy. From the sound of my voice, she knew the outcome. But when I detailed the findings of the judge - and the supervised access I would have to Jack - she was horrified.

'Jesus Christ, it's not like you're an axe murderer'.

'True - but they certainly gave their barrister enough ammunition to depict me as someone who was on the verge of catastrophe. And I certainly didn't make life easier for myself by...'

'Yeah?'

And then I told her about my weekend trip down the country, apologizing for not informing her before now.

'Don't worry about that', she said, 'though you should know you can tell me anything... like anything, and I won't freak. The thing is, surely the court must have been sympathetic to the idea that you just had to see your son - which isn't exactly an abnormal instinct, now is it? And, like, it's not as if you pounded on their door at three in the morning, wielding a twelve-gauge shotgun. You just stood at the gate and looked, right?'

'Yes - but also the barrister representing me hadn't been properly briefed'.

'What the fuck do you mean by that?'

I explained about the slapdash approach of my solicitor. Sandy went ballistic.

'Who recommended this bitch to you?'

'The husband of my friend Margaret Campbell...'

'She was that American friend living in London, now back in the States, right?'

Sandy certainly had a terrifying memory.

'Yes, that's her'.

'Some friend'.

'It's not her fault, nor her husband's. I should have researched things a little bit...'

'Will you stop that', she said. 'How the hell were you to know about divorce lawyers in London?'

'Well, I certainly know a thing or two about them now'.

Later that evening, the telephone rang and I found myself talking to Alexander Campbell.

'Hope this isn't a bad time', he said. 'But your sister called Margaret at home today, and told her what happened, and how this woman - Virginia Ricks, right? - behaved. And I just want to say I am horrified. Truly horrified. And I plan to call Lawrence and Lambert myself tomorrow' -

'I think the damage has been largely done, Alexander'.

'Damage for which I feel responsible'.

'How were you to know?'

'I should have checked with other London colleagues about the best divorce firms'.

'And I shouldn't have accepted the first lawyer I spoke with. But... there it is'.

'And now?'

'Now... I think I've lost my son'.

Margaret also called that night to commiserate, and to say how bad she felt.

'Did they fleece you, those lawyers?'

'Hey, you're married to a lawyer - you know they always fleece you'.

'How much?'

'It's irrelevant now'.

'How much?'

'A retainer of twenty-five hundred sterling. But I'm sure the final bill will come to more than that'.

'And how will you cover it?'

With my ever-diminishing funds, that's how.

In fact, the Lawrence and Lambert bill arrived the next morning. I was right about it running beyond the original retainer - a cool £1730.00 above the initial £2500.00 - every expense and charge laid out in fine detail. I also received a phone call from Deirdre Pepinster. She was as laconic as ever.

'One thing I wanted to raise with you yesterday - but didn't think you needed more bad news...'

Oh, God, what fresh hell now?

'I checked the Land Registry. The house is in both your names...'

Well, that's something I guess.

'But before the hearing yesterday, we heard from your husband's solicitors. Seems he wants to sell up straight away'.

'Can he do that?'

'According to the law, each party who co-owns a house can force a sale. But it takes time and the divorce courts can stop it. Now, if you'd had residence of your child, that would be a different matter altogether. No court would allow the house to be sold under you. But in this situation...'

'I get it', I said.

'They have made an offer - a settlement offer, I should say'.

'What is it?'

'Uh... Ginny Ricks said we won't be representing you from now on'.

'That's absolutely correct'.

'Well, I'll just fax it to you then'.

It showed up a few minutes later - a lengthy letter from Tony's solicitors, informing me that their client wanted to expedite the divorce, and to be as generous as possible under the circumstances. As their client 'would be retaining residence of his son', there were no child support issues to deal with. As I'd had an extensive journalistic career before moving to London, his client would argue that alimony was also not an issue here - as I was perfectly capable of earning a living for myself. And as their client had put 80% of the equity into the house, he could also expect to receive 80% of whatever profit the sale yielded (but given that we only owned the house for seven months, that profit wouldn't be enormous). However, wanting to be generous in this instance, he was offering the following deal: as long as I didn't contest residence, I would, upon the sale of the house, receive not just the £20,000 equity I had invested in it, but the £7000 for the loft conversion (as I had paid for this myself), plus an additional £10,000 sweetener, plus 50% of whatever profit the sale yielded. If, however, I didn't accept this offer, they would have no choice but to take this matter to court, whereupon...

I got the point. Settle fast or be prepared for shelling out even more money in legal fees. Money which I simply didn't have right now.

There was one small respite in this otherwise politely couched, but completely threatening letter: I had twenty-eight days to reply to this offer before legal action ensued. Which meant that I could dodge dealing with it for a bit. Especially as I had more pressing concerns to confront right now. Like my severe lack of money. Though I was expecting an increased bill, there was a part of me which hoped that, given the negative outcome of the case, Lawrence and Lambert might have reduced their costs. What an absurd idea - and just to pour battery acid into the wound, their invoice for the additional £1730.00 was marked: To Be Settled Within Fourteen Days.

Of course, I wanted to crumple up this invoice and dispatch it to the nearest circular file. Or find another lawyer and sue Ginny Ricks for complete professional incompetence. But I also knew that, if I dodged this bill, Lawrence and Lambert would not only come after me, but might let word get around that, not only was I an unfit mother, but a deadbeat to boot. So I went to the bank that afternoon and bought a £1730.00 sterling draft, and posted it to Lawrence and Lambert, and sat in a coffee bar on Putney High Street, pondering the fact that my net worth was now around £2500 - enough to see me through the next few months, as long as I didn't employ another lawyer to fight the custody case.

I had to admire Tony's solicitors: their offer was ferociously strategic. Accept our terms and you come out with a little money to get your life re-started again. Turn us down - and we will embroil you in a legal battle that you cannot afford, and which will end up having the same result: Jack stays with Tony and that woman.

Of course, there was a significant part of me that wanted to simply agree to their shitty terms and be done with it - to take the money, and try to find a new place to live and a job, and attempt to negotiate, over time, a shared custody agreement. But that would mean Jack growing up, looking upon that woman as his mother - whereas I would be some damaged parental adjunct, whom he would eventually come to regard as the person who had failed him by being unable to cope with motherhood. Judging from their behaviour so far, I had no doubt that Tony and that woman would do their best to poison him against me. But even if, in due time, they became equitable and fair-minded, I would still have been legally blocked by them from raising my son. And that was something I simply couldn't accept.

'You don't sound as shaky as I'd expect', Sandy said that night when she phoned me.

'Oh, I'm shaky all right', I said. 'And I find myself crying spontaneously. But this time I'm also angry'.

Sandy laughed.

'Glad to hear it', she said.

But my anger was also tempered by the realpolitik of the situation. Legally and financially, I'd been trumped. For the moment, there wasn't a great deal I could do about it... except attempt to present an exemplary face to the world.

Which meant, from the outset, adopting a certain mind-set when it came to the social workers at the contact centre who were now dealing with me. I could not come across as arrogant or enraged, or someone who believed it was their inalienable right to raise their child. In their eyes, the Interim Hearing order said it all: I had been declared dangerous to my child's well-being. It didn't matter that facts had been manipulated against me by a very clever barrister, or that I had been suffering from a clinical condition. I couldn't play the blame game here. Like it or not I had to somehow accept that I was at their mercy.

So when a woman named Clarice Chambers phoned me from Wandsworth Social Services to suggest that my first supervised visit start in two days' time, I agreed immediately to the time she suggested and showed up fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

The 'contact centre' was located in a grim, modern, breeze-block building, just off Garratt Lane in Wandsworth. It was situated near a squat ugly tower block called the Arndale Centre - which was known locally as one of the easiest places in the borough to score a vial of crack.

Certainly, my fellow unfit mothers at the contact centre looked like they had all borne witness to assorted domestic horrors, not to mention the trauma of being legally cut-off from their children. There were four of us waiting on a bench in a hallway with scuffed linoleum and dirty concrete walls. My three bench mates were all young. One of them looked like she was no more than fifteen. Another had the sort of zombie eyes and shell-shocked demeanour that made me wonder what controlled substance she was on. The third woman was vastly overweight, and was about to burst into tears at any moment. We said nothing while waiting for our names to be called.

After ten minutes, a woman appeared from a reception area, and said 'Sally Goodchild', then directed me to Room 4, straight down the corridor, second door on my right. Walking down towards the room, I felt fear. Because I didn't know how I'd react to the sight of my son.

But he wasn't there when I went in. Rather, I found myself face-to-face with Clarice Chambers - a large, imposing Afro-Caribbean woman with a firm handshake and a firm smile. I noticed immediately that this room was set up as a nursery - with soft toys, and a playpen, and animal wallpaper that looked forlornly incongruous under the harsh fluorescent lighting and broken ceiling tiles.

'Where's Jack?' I said, my nervousness showing.

'He'll be with us in just a minute', she said, motioning for me to sit down in a plastic chair opposite her own. 'I just want to chat with you for a bit before you have your visit with your son, and to explain how this all works'.

'Fine, fine', I said, trying to steady myself. Clarice Chambers gave me another sympathetic smile, and then said that I should now consider this day and hour - Wednesday, eleven am - as my time with Jack. His father had been informed of this fact - and Jack's nanny would be bringing him here every week. She would not be present during these visits - only myself and Clarice. However, if I wished, I could nominate a friend or family member as the supervisor for these visits - but, of course, this individual would first have to be vetted by Wandsworth social services to assess their suitability for this role.

'I'm still new in London, so I don't really know anybody who could...'

I broke off, unable to continue.

Clarice touched my hand. 'That's fine then. I'll be your supervisor'.

She continued, explaining how I could bring any toys or clothes I liked for Jack. I could play with him. I could hold him. I could simply watch him sleeping. I could also bottle feed him, and Clarice would act as liaison between the nanny and myself to find out what sort of formula he was drinking, and what his feeding routine was right now.

'The only thing you cannot do is leave the room with him unaccompanied. Nor, I'm afraid, can you be left alone with him at any time. Supervised contact means just that'.

Another firm, we're going to get along just fine, aren't we? smile.

'I know that this is all rather artificial and difficult for you. But we can try to make the best of it. All right?'

I nodded.

'Right then', she said, standing up. 'I'll be back in a moment'.

She disappeared into an adjoining room and returned a moment later, holding a familiar carry-chair.

'Here he is', she said quietly, handing him over to me.

I looked down. Jack was fast asleep. But what struck me immediately was just how much he'd grown in three weeks. He'd filled out a bit, his face had more definition, more character. Even his fingers seemed longer.

'You can pick him up if you want', she said.

'I don't want to disturb him', I said. So I placed the carry-chair on the floor beside me, reached down and, using my right index finger, stroked his clenched fist. His hand unclenched, his fingers wrapped around mine, and he held on to me, still sleeping soundly.

That's when I lost the battle I'd been waging ever since I arrived here. I started to cry, putting a hand across my mouth to muffle the sobs and not wake him up. Once I glanced up at Clarice Chambers and saw her watching me with a cool professional eye.

'I'm sorry' I whispered. 'This is all a bit...'

'You don't have to apologize', she said. 'I know this is hard'.

'It's just so good to see him'.

He didn't wake for the entire hour... though his fist did unclutch after around ten minutes, so I simply sat by him, rocking him in his chair, stroking his face, thinking just how serene he was, and how desperate I was to be with him all the time.

Clarice said nothing for the entire hour, though I was conscious of her watching me - seeing how I related to Jack, how I was handling the highly charged emotionalism of this situation, and whether I seemed like a stable, balanced individual. But I didn't try to play to the gallery, or put on a big maternal show. I just sat by him, happy for the temporary contact.

Then, before I knew it, Clarice quietly said, 'It's time, I'm afraid'.

I gulped and felt tears sting my face.

'All right', I said.

She gave me another minute, then walked over to us. I touched his face with my hand, then leaned over and kissed his head, breathing in his talcum powder aroma. I stood up and walked to another corner of the room, staring out a grimy window at a trash-strewn courtyard as she picked up the carry-chair and left. When she came back, she approached me and asked, 'Are you all right?'

'I'm trying to be'.

'The first time is always the hardest'.

No, I thought. Every time will be hard.

'Remember - you can bring clothes and toys for him next week', she said.

As if he's a doll I can dress up and play with for an hour.

I shut my eyes. I nodded. She touched my arm with her hand.

'It will get easier'.

I went home. I sat down on the bed and cried. This time, however, the crying wasn't underscored by that physical sensation of plummeting which I so associated with the start of an extended depressive jag. This was simply another ferocious expression of grief - and one over which I had no control.

They say there's nothing like a good cry to expunge all the pent-up sorrow you carry with you. But when I finally brought myself under control, and faltered into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, I found myself thinking: That did me no good whatsoever.

I thought: if I am permanently kept from him, will this ever stop? Will I ever come to terms with it?

The next six days were bleak. My sleep was broken - despite the ongoing use of knock-out pills. I had little appetite. I left the house for the occasional foray to the corner shop or Marks and Spencer. I found myself devoid of energy - so much so that, when I did go down to St Martin's Hospital for a consultation with Dr Rodale, she immediately commented on my wan appearance.

'Well, it's not been an easy few weeks', I said.

'Yes', she said, 'I did hear about the court order. I'm very sorry'.

'Thank you', I said - though I was silently angry at her for her professional reserve, her refusal to tell me I had been so desperately wronged, especially when she knew that I was incapable of physically harming my child, and that I had been in the grip of a monstrous ailment over which...

No, no. I wasn't going to play the don't blame me card again. I was simply going to face the reality of the situation and...

... but why the hell couldn't Dr Rodale tell me what she must know: that the court decision was so manifestly unfair?

'And how do you feel in yourself right now?'

She had quickly moved us back into the realm of pharmacological questioning. All right then: you want straight answers, you'll get straight answers. So I met her gaze and said, 'I cry a lot. I find myself angry a great deal of the time. I think what's happened to me is completely unjust and underhand'.

'And those "downward spirals" you used to describe?'

'They're not so frequent. It's not that I don't get low - I do all the time - it's just that I seem to be able to dodge the black swamp. But that doesn't mean I'm exactly happy...'

Dr Rodale's lips contorted into a dry smile.

'Who is?' she said quietly.

At the end of our interview, she announced herself once again pleased with my progress, and appeared even more gratified by the knowledge that the anti-depressants had proved so effective.

'As I told you from the outset, these sorts of drugs take time to build up in the system - and to demonstrate their efficacy. But the fact that you seem to be avoiding the "black swamp" shows that they have made considerable positive impact. You may not be happy, but at least you're functioning again. Which is good news. So I see no need to alter the dosage for the time being. But on the unhappiness front... have you been in touch with Ellen Cartwright?'

Actually, she called me the day after I saw Dr Rodale, apologizing profusely for being incommunicado when my solicitor's assistant came chasing her for a witness statement.

'The message on my answerphone was a bit garbled', she said, 'so I didn't exactly understand why she needed this statement from me. Something about a court proceeding...'

I informed her about that proceeding, and its outcome. She sounded appalled.

'But that's scandalous', she said. 'Especially as I could have told them... Oh God, now I feel dreadful. But how are you feeling?'

'Horrible'.

'Would you like to start our sessions again?'

'I think that would be a good idea'.

'Fine then. One thing, though - you know that I just do NHS locums at St Martin's - and only for anyone who's resident in the unit. So if you want to see me, it will have to be on a private basis'.

'And what's the charge?'

'It's £70 per hour, I'm afraid. But if you have private health care...'

'We were with BUPA, but I'm pretty sure I've been taken off the policy'.

'Well you should still give them a call, and if you're still covered they will tell you how many weekly sessions they're willing to cover - and for how long. You'll also need a reference from Dr Rodale - but that will be no problem'.

I did call BUPA as soon as I finished speaking to Ellen. The 'customer service representative' on the other end of the line asked me for my name, my address and my policy number. Then, after a moment, she confirmed what I already suspected: 'I'm afraid your policy has been cancelled. You were insured under your husband's policy - which, in turn, is part of a group company policy. However, he left his job and the policy was cancelled. Sorry'.

I did some math. Even if I restricted myself to a session a week between now and the full hearing in six months' time, I would still end up paying £1680 for Ellen's therapeutic service - an impossible sum, given that I didn't have a job. So it looked like I would simply have to make do with my anti-depressants and my extended transatlantic phone calls with Sandy.

'You have to find a new lawyer', she said the night I discovered I had been dropped from our private health scheme. 'Especially as you're going to have to deal with the house thing very soon'.

'Maybe I should just accept his offer'.

'No way...'

'But it's a no-win situation, no matter what I do. Tony knows this too. And he's got that woman behind him - with all the money they need to break me. Which is what they're certainly trying to do. As much as I'd like to say climb-every-mountain stuff like, "They won't bring me down," the fact is they can, and they will'.

'Whatever you do, don't agree to anything until you get yourself another attorney'.

'I can't afford another attorney right now'.

'You're going to have to go back to work, aren't you?'

'I want to go back to work. I need to go back to work. Before I go completely crazy'.

I articulated the same sentiment to a Ms Jessica Law, the CAFCASS reporter, who visited me at home for what she described as a preliminary interview. She was around my age, wearing subdued clothes, wire-rimmed glasses, and a sensibly direct manner. From the moment I opened the door, I could see that she was sizing me up, trying to work me out, and see whether all the reports she had undoubtedly read about me tallied with how she herself perceived me. Her early enforced pleasantness - a tone of voice which said, 'Let's try to get through this uncomfortable business as reasonably as possible' - hinted that she was expecting a harridan, still in the throes of a major psychological rupture. I could also tell that she was taking in everything about my bearing, my manners, my dress sense (well-pressed jeans, a black turtleneck, black loafers), and my material circumstances. She noticed my collection of books and classical CDs, and the fact that I served her real cafetiére coffee.

She then quickly let it be known that this was business.

'Now I know this can't be the easiest of situations for you...' she said, sugaring her coffee.

'No, it isn't', I said, thinking: just about everyone I've met in the social services have used that expression' -this can't be easy for you'. Is that an acknowledgment of my so-called 'pain', or their way of informing me: but there's even more discomfort to come?

'I plan to see you two or three times in all before I submit my report. I would normally see you on the first occasion with your husband, but given the sensitivity of the situation, I decided against that in your case. I will see him separately. What I would like to point out is that, in no way should our conversations be considered as cross-examinations. You're not on trial here. My goal is simply to give the court an overall picture of your circumstances'.

You're not on trial here... it's just a little chat. How wonderfully English. I was, without question, on trial here - and we both knew it.

'I understand', I said.

'Very good', she said. She bit into a Stem Ginger biscuit, contemplated it for a moment before swallowing, then asked, 'Marks and Spencer?'

'That's right', I said.

'I thought so. Delicious. Now then... I note from your file that you moved to London just under a year ago. So I suppose a reasonable first question might be: how are you finding life in England?'

When I recounted this question to Sandy later that night, she said, 'You've got to be kidding me? She actually asked you that?'

'And they say Americans are deficient in the irony department'.

'Well, did you furnish her with the appropriate ironic answer?'

'Hardly. I was very polite, and moderately truthful - saying that it hadn't been the easiest of adjustments, but that I had also been ill for the past few months and therefore couldn't really judge the place from the standpoint of someone who wasn't yet a functioning part of it. Which is when she asked me if it was my intention to become "a functioning part of England" to which I said, "Absolutely" - reminding her that I had been a journalist before coming to England, and had also been a correspondent here until my high blood pressure bumped me out of my job'.

'I should be able to find work here', I said. 'Because there's so much journalistic work in London'.

'So, should you regain residence of your son', she asked, 'or should the court agree to shared residence, you would plan to raise him in England?'

'Yes', I said, 'that would be the plan - because he would then have access to both parents'.

'Smart answer', Sandy said. 'Did your interrogator approve?'

'I think so. Just as I also think she doesn't disapprove of me. Which is something of a start. Still, the critical thing now is to find work - and show that I can once again be a functioning member of society'.

'But do you think you're actually ready for work? I mean' -

'I know what you're about to say. And the answer is: I have no choice. I need the money, and I also need to show the powers-that-be that I can work'.

But finding a job proved to be a complex task. To begin with, my professional contacts in London were nominal - two or three newspaper editors whom I'd met during my short stint as correspondent here, and a CNN producer guy named Jason Farrelly, with whom I had become moderately friendly when he did a four-month stint in Cairo around two years ago. He had since been downgraded to the Business News ghetto in the London bureau. But he was the senior producer of CNN Business News Europe - which meant that making telephonic contact with him wasn't easy as all senior news producers in big bureaus make it a point to be too busy to return your calls. So after leaving five messages, I decided to try my luck with one of the newspaper editors I'd met a few months earlier. Her name was Isobel Walcott. She was the deputy features editor of the Daily Mail. I'd taken her out to lunch when I was working on a piece about the decline and fall of London manners, as she had written a jokey little book on the subject. I remembered her as someone who combined a cut-glass accent with a propensity for dropping the word 'fuck' into casual conversation; who drank about five glasses of Sauvignon Blanc too many, but who also told me towards the end of the lunch, 'If you ever have a feature idea that might work for the Mail, do give me a bell'.

Which is what I decided to do now. I even managed to dig out the business card she'd given me, and found her direct number. But when she answered and heard my name, she asked curtly, 'Have we met?'

'I was the Boston Post correspondent who took you out to lunch a couple of months ago, remember?'

Suddenly, her tone went from abrupt to dismissive.

'Oh, yes, right. Can't really talk now...'

'Well, could I call you later? I have an idea or two for a feature, and as you did say that if I ever wanted to write for the Mail.. '.

'I'm afraid we're rather top-heavy with features right now. But tell you what... email me the ideas and we'll see. All right? Must dash now. Bye'.

I did email her the two ideas, not expecting to hear from her.

I expected right.

I also tried phoning someone who worked on the Sunday Telegraph magazine - a guy named Edward Jensen, whom I remembered as friendly - and had known Tony when they were both doing journalistic stints in Frankfurt. Once again, I had his direct number. Once again, I wasn't received well. Only unlike Walcott, he wasn't curt - rather, somewhat nervous.

'You've caught me at a bad time, I'm afraid', he said. 'How's Tony?'

'Well...'

'Oh, God, how foolish of me. I had heard...'

'You'd heard what?'

'That the two of you... uh... dreadfully sorry. And I gather you've been unwell'.

'I'm better now'.

'Good, good. But, uh, I'm due in conference any moment. Could I call you back?'

I gave him the number, knowing he wouldn't call me back.

And he didn't.

Judging from his embarrassed tone, it was clear that word had spread through Media London about our breakup. As Tony was the man with all the connections, the world was hearing his side of the story. Which meant that Edward Jensen had evidently been informed that I had gone ga-ga and threatened the life of my child... and should therefore be dodged at all costs.

At least, Jason Farrelly finally returned my calls. And, at least, he was outwardly friendly... though he made it known pretty damn fast that (a) he was super-busy, and (b) there was absolutely no hope of any work at Cable News Network right now.

'You know the cutbacks we've suffered since the merger. Hell, I'm lucky to be still in a job... and, believe me, Business News is not my idea of a good time. Still, so great to hear from you. Enjoying London?'

This was the American approach to the dissemination of bad news: be ultra-friendly, ultra-enthusiastic, ultra-positive... even though what you were actually communicating was ultra-negative. Whereas the English approach to giving inauspicious tidings was either bumbling mortification or sheer rudeness. Somehow I preferred the latter approach. At least you knew what you were getting - and your expectations weren't raised by a surfeit of false bonhomie... like the sort that Jason Farrelly practised.

'But hey, it would be great to see you, Sally. And you never know, maybe, I don't know, maybe we can find something for you here'.

I was suspicious about this last comment, but as it was about the first halfway positive thing that anyone had said to me for a while, I wanted to believe that, perhaps, he could help me out.

'Well, that would be just terrific, Jason'.

'One problem', he said. 'I'm being dispatched to run the Paris bureau for the next three weeks... our head guy there had to rush back to the States after a death in the family... so I'm only here for another two days. And my schedule's completely full'.

'Well, mine's pretty empty - so if you could just find a half-hour...'

'Would nine-fifteen tomorrow morning work?'

'Whereabouts?'

'You know a restaurant in the Aldwych called Bank? They do breakfast. I won't have much time. Half-an-hour max'.

I got my one decent black suit dry-cleaned, and dropped £30 I couldn't really afford to spend on a cut and a wash at a hairdresser's on Putney High Street, and showed up fifteen minutes early at Bank. It was one of those ultra-chic foody emporiums - all chrome and glass and sleek lines and braying well-dressed clients, talking loudly over the din of the action, even at breakfast time. Jason had reserved a table in his name. I was shown to it, and ordered a cappuccino, and read the Independent, and waited.

Nine-fifteen came and went. Nine-thirty came and went... by which point I was genuinely anxious as I had to be back in Wandsworth at eleven for my weekly supervised visit with Jack. Which meant I simply had to leave the restaurant by nine forty-five. I kept asking the waitress if she'd received a message from him. Sorry, nothing at all.

And then, just as I was calling for the bill, he showed up. It was nine forty-three. He looked a little frazzled, explaining that the Hang Seng had done this fantastic out-of-nowhere rally first thing this morning, it was a big deal story, and, well, you know how it is, don't you?

I did - but I also knew that I couldn't stay. At the same time, though, I didn't want to explain to him why I was leaving - and how I was now only allowed supervised contact with my son. I knew this was the one chance I'd have to pitch myself to him, and hopefully garner some sort of employment which, in turn, was crucial both in terms of earning a living and proving to the Wandsworth social services that I was a responsible person who could be trusted to bring up her son and attend to his needs.

So I decided to take a risk and splurge on a fast taxi directly to Garratt Lane after the meeting. And I explained to Jason that I really had to leave by ten-fifteen, no later. He ordered coffee, I joined him for a second cappuccino. For the first twenty minutes of our time together, he talked nonstop, telling me about the horrendous internal politics of CNN since the merger, and the number of lay-offs, and how nobody who had been made redundant in Atlanta was finding jobs in the 'news information sector', and how his ex-boss was now selling books at a local branch of Borders, work was so tight. The situation at CNN Europe, however, was a little better - because all their bureaus were streamlined operations, giving them room to hire freelancers on a short-contract basis.

I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking: he's going to offer me something. But then, suddenly, he changed the subject and said, 'You know, Janie and I are separating'.

Janie was his wife of four years. Like Jason, she was just thirty. Blonde, pert, aggressive, and (when I met her in Cairo) already voicing frustration that journalists made such dismal money (she had been a realtor in Atlanta before her marriage).

'When she met me, she was in her mid-twenties, a Georgia girl who thought it was dead glamorous to have an Ivy League boyfriend who was already a CNN journalist at twenty-five. But she hated the moving around - you remember how she complained all the time in Cairo and then she truly loathed the French when we were in Paris... but hey, I can say this now, she's the sort of American who always hates the French. And when London came up, I figured getting her back into the Anglophone world might help the marriage. Boy, was I wrong. The French were like fellow Confederates compared to the Brits. "The most depressing, ill-mannered, stenchful people I have ever had the misfortune to meet" and please excuse the Scarlett O'Hara accent'.

'Did she actually say stenchful?' I asked, wanting to sound politely interested, but also becoming increasingly worried about the passage of time. I glanced at my watch. Ten-ten. I had to cut him off, and somehow make my pitch. But now he was going on about how, just three weeks earlier, she'd returned from a fortnight's visit to Atlanta to inform him that she'd fallen in love with her former high-school boyfriend...

'And no, his name's not Bubba. But it is Brad. And he is one of the biggest property developers in Atlanta, and a keen golfer, and the sort of guy who probably drives a big White Merc, and' -

I cleared my throat.

'Oh, hell', he said, 'listen to me running off at the mouth'.

'It's just... I really have to go in about two minutes'.

'How are things yourself?'

'My husband and I broke up'.

'You're kidding me. But didn't you just have a kid?'

'That's right. Listen, Jason... you know I'm a very adaptable journalist. I've written copy, I've covered wars, I've run a bureau' -

'Sally, you don't have to convince me. Hell, you taught me so damn much those couple of months I was in Cairo. The problem here is lack of budget. I mean, I've been told to cut two staff-' -

'But you just said that CNN Europe was hiring freelancers...'

'They are. But not, for the moment, in London. If you wanted to try for six months in Moscow or Frankfurt, I'm pretty sure you'd have a very good shot at it'.

'I can't leave London', I said.

'Then there's really nothing I can do'.

'All I'm asking for, Jason, is something even part-time. Two, three days a week. More if you can - but the thing is: I really need the work'.

'I hear you, Sal. And God knows, I'd love to help. But Atlanta has tied my hands in this regard. Anyway, like I told you on the phone, I'm off tomorrow to run the Paris bureau for a month...'

I glanced at my watch. Ten-eighteen.

'Jason, I have to leave'.

'Hey, no problem. And I'm really sorry. But let's keep in touch, eh? Like don't become a stranger on me, okay?'

'I won't', I said and dashed for the door.

Outside, the traffic on the Aldwych was flowing freely. But there was a problem. I couldn't find a cab. At least a dozen of the black beasts drove by me - all with their lights off. I waved frantically in their direction, hoping one of them might have forgotten to turn their light on. Not a chance. At ten twenty-five, I realized emergency action was required, so I started running towards the Embankment Station - a ten minute stroll at the best of times. My hope was to find a taxi heading down The Strand, and tell him to step on it. Around ten cabs passed me by, all with passengers. My gait now turned into a canter. As I ran, I used my mobile to call Directory Enquiries, and get the number for the Wandsworth Contact Centre. But the operator couldn't find a specific listing for a Contact Centre under Wandsworth Council, so she gave me the general number for Wandsworth Council. But it rang around twelve times before someone answered and put me on hold, by which time I was at Embankment tube, my suit now drenched with sweat, my expensive hairstyle a shambles, and with only fifteen minutes to get to Garratt Lane. Even if a helicopter had been standing by, it's doubtful I would have made it in time. But I had no choice but to hop the District Line and fret like a lunatic all the way to East Putney - cursing Jason for his tardiness, and wasting my time by not being able to tell me over the phone what he already knew: there were no jobs going at CNN London.