A Special Relationship

And now... now... I was going to be desperately late for my one weekly hour with Jack. All the way south on the tube, I kept trying to use my phone - and managed to get connected to Wandsworth Council for a moment when the train briefly appeared above ground at South Kensington. But then the line went dead.

The next time I had a signal was when I alighted at East Putney station. It was eleven-twenty. I dashed down the steps, turned right and ran directly to a grubby little minicab despatch office located on a parade of shops on the next street. The despatch guy seemed a little bemused by my franticness, but he did find me a cabbie (in a battered Vauxhall) who couldn't do much in the way of speed when faced with road works on the Upper Richmond Road, with the result that I finally reached Garratt Lane by eleven-forty.

The receptionist seemed to be expecting me.

'Wait here', she said, then picked up the phone and dialled a number. After a moment, Clarice Chambers came walking down the hall.

'I cannot tell you how sorry I am', I said as I followed her back down towards the contact room. 'I was at a job interview in the West End, the guy was late, I couldn't get a cab...'

However, instead of turning into the contact room, we veered left and entered a small office.

'Please shut the door and sit down', she said. I did as requested, immediately feeling worried.

'Has something happened?' I asked.

'Yes, something's happened', she said. 'You're forty minutes late'.

'But I was trying to explain to you...'

'I know: a job interview. And judging from your clothes, I'm sure you're telling the truth. But this one-hour period is your sole chance to spend time with your son during the week. And the fact that you've missed the second visit...'

'I haven't missed it. I'm here'.

'Yes, but I sent your son home with his nanny ten minutes ago'.

'You shouldn't have done that'.

'But you weren't here, and the child was having a touch of colic...'

'Bad colic?'

'Colic is colic. But he was kicking up a bit, and as you weren't here... well, it seemed best to send them home'.

'But I tried calling'.

'I never received a message. I am sorry'.

'Not as sorry as me'.

'Next week will be here very soon', she said.

'Couldn't we arrange another visit before then?'

She shook her head. 'That would be contravening the court order. None of us here can do that'.

I shut my eyes. I cursed myself for so botching this up.

'In the future', Clarice said quietly, 'it's simply best to keep Wednesday morning completely free. You have to be here'.

This point was emphasized to me again two days later when Jessica Law came calling on me at home - buzzing me a half-hour before her arrival to ask me if I wouldn't mind her dropping by this afternoon. I knew what was coming - a verbal spanking, a 'talking to'. But Jessica Law didn't go all schoolmarmy on me.

On the contrary, she accepted a cup of coffee and several Stem Ginger biscuits, and then said, 'Now I'm sure you realize why I decided to make this rather sudden visit'.

'If I could just explain...'

'Clarice did fill me in. And do understand: I am in no way trying to berate you for what was quite evidently a mistake...'

'The thing was', I said, 'I had this job interview, and it was the only time the man could do it, and he was so late and...'

'I have read Clarice's report'.

This stopped me short.

'She wrote a report about this?' I asked.

'I'm afraid she had to. You didn't make a supervised visit with your son, as specified by a court order. Now you know, and I know, that this happened because of circumstances somewhat beyond your control. The problem is, it is still a black mark against you - and one which your husband's lawyers might try to use against you at the Final Hearing... but you didn't hear that from me, now did you?'

'No, I didn't. But what can I do to try to rectify the damage?'

'Never be late for a visit again. And I will write up a report of my own, stating that we've had this talk, and that you were delayed due to a job interview, and in my opinion, this one bit of tardiness shouldn't be classified as "irresponsible behaviour", especially as you were seeking employment at the time. How did the interview go by the way?'

I shook my head.

'Keep looking', she said, her way of telling me that, without a job, my chances in the Final Hearing would be lessened. And given that there was enough going against me right now...

But my attempts to find work were fruitless ones. If you're an outsider with few contacts, a vast global city like New York or London becomes an impenetrable fortress when you try to force your way into its economic structure. This is especially true when you have spent your professional life to date breathing the rarefied air of print journalism, but suddenly find yourself outside of your circle of contacts, not to mention your own country. And the great rule of thumb among all would-be employers in the media is always: when in doubt, discourage.

Well, I spent the next few weeks being constantly discouraged. I tried all the major American newspapers and networks, using my few contacts at NBC, CBS and ABC. No sale. I tried the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and even my old stomping ground, the Boston Post. Once again, they had their own staffers running their bureaus. And when I called Thomas Richardson, the editor-in-chief of the Post, his assistant informed me that he was otherwise engaged, but he would get back to me. This he did a few days later, with a polite, to-the-point email:

Dear Sally:

As I haven't heard from you in a while, I - presume that you will not be taking up our offer of a position back in Boston. Naturally, I am personally disappointed that you won't be returning to us - but wish you well in all future endeavours.

As soon as I received this email, I wrote him a reply, explaining that, as before, my newborn son was keeping me in London, but would the paper be willing to offer me a freelance contract for a few stories a month from this part of the world? I also played up the years of loyalty I had given to the paper, that I wasn't asking for a staff position, and also intimated (in as subtle a way as possible) that I really needed the work.

Thomas Richardson was always efficient, and his response arrived on my computer a few hours later.

Dear Sally:

If it was my call, you'd still be one of our correspondents in London. But my hands are tied by the money-men - and they are adamant: no additional staff or freelancers at any of our ever-dwindling foreign bureaus.

I'm truly sorry about this.

So that was that. I had no choice but to start working the British papers again. Here, the problem was: nobody knew who I was (and I certainly wasn't going to play the 'I'm Tony Hobbs's estranged wife' card, as it might just blow up in my face). Still, after about a week of nonstop phoning, the features editors I managed to get through to at the Guardian and the Observer asked for ideas by email and samples of my work. Well, I sent off the requisite clippings and a couple of ideas. A week went by. I made the requisite follow-up phone calls. The editors were otherwise engaged. I followed up with reminder emails. No response. Which is what I expected - as journalism works that way. Especially if - in the eyes of the people to whom you're trying to sell an idea - you're a nonentity.

Even Margaret's husband, Alexander, made a couple of transatlantic calls on my behalf, seeing if there was something for me at Sullivan and Cromwell in London. I sensed that guilt about steering me into the hands of Lawrence and Lambert was behind his efforts on my behalf (that - and Margaret probably screaming at him to redress the mess by helping me out). But as I told Alexander, I had no skills that would be of use in a law firm. His colleagues in London concurred. I was neither a legal secretary, nor a legal writer, nor did I possess any qualification at all that allowed me to practise as an attorney. So all I could do was thank Alexander for his efforts on my behalf and tell him to stop feeling guilty about the incompetent Ginny Ricks. It wasn't his fault.

But if the job search was bearing nothing, at least I seemed to be in the good books of my handlers from the Wandsworth contact centre. I showed up for my weekly visits fifteen minutes early. Clarice told me that I seemed to be bonding well (that verb again) with Jack, and he was happily awake for all our sessions, which meant that I could feed him, and change his nappy, and try to get him interested in assorted infant toys, and hold him close, and wish to God that I didn't have to hand him back at the end of the hour. I resolved not to cry anymore during these sessions, deciding that I needed to show a certain stability and equilibrium in front of Clarice, to prove that I was dealing with the enforced separation from my son, even though it was agony. But as soon as the session was over I would walk slowly out of the building, my head bowed, and stumble out into the grey, litter-strewn shabbiness of Garratt Lane, and find the nearest wall, and put my head against it, and cry like a fool for a minute or so, and then collect myself and try to get through the rest of the day.

At heart, all grief centres around the realization that you can never escape the bereavement that has stricken you. There may be moments when you can cope with its severity; when the harshness temporarily lessens. But the real problem with grief is its perpetuity. It doesn't go away. And though you are, on one level, always crying for the loss you've sustained, you're also crying because you realize you're now stuck with the loss, that - try as you might - it's become an intrinsic part of you, and will change the way you look at things for ever.

I didn't mention these cry-like-a-fool post-visitation moments to Jessica Law. All I would tell her was, 'I find this situation desperately hard'.

She'd look at me with a mixture of professional coolness and personal compassion, and say, 'I am aware of that'.

What else could she say - that, like a massive migraine, it would eventually abate? It wouldn't. We both knew that. Just as we both knew that - given the evidence stacked against me - the best I could hope for at the time of the Final Hearing was some sort of shared visitation situation.

'I do hope that you keep your expectations about a future with Jack realistic', she said during our third 'chat'.

'In other words, I'm not going to get him back'.

'I didn't say that, Sally. And a lot could happen in the four-and-a-half months. But the truth is...'

She paused, trying to find the right neutral language. I decided to cut to the chase.

'I've been declared an unfit mother - and once that's on the record, it's hard to erase'.

'Yes, I'm afraid that's exactly it. But that doesn't mean that an arrangement can't be worked out with the court. It may not be perfect. It may not give you the access you want. But it will be better than what you have now'.

After this conversation, I sensed that, in her own circumspect way, she was hinting that she didn't consider me unsuited to motherhood. Just as she was gently compelling me to grasp the reality of my situation. Whereas Sandy kept telling me not to lose hope in order to move forward, Jessica Law was inverting that same sentence: in order to move forward, you have to lose hope.

As I made my way home from my fourth supervised visit with Jack, trudging through the rain down West Hill, the American in me didn't want to accept the pragmatic pessimism which Jessica Law espoused, and which struck me as so desperately English. I wanted to embrace that old hoary American fighting spirit. No wonder the English were so privately attracted to the pastoral. It was an antidote to all that hard-headed realism - the recognition that the Elysian Fields were merely the stuff of folklore, undermined by the merciless reality of class, personal limitations, and the crushing purposelessness of life which you must still somehow confront to give order and shape to the day.

Whereas, like most Americans, I was brought up on that stale mythological idea that, with hard work and boundless optimism, you could be what you wanted to be - that the world was infinite in its possibilities and there for the taking.

In order to move forward, you have to lose hope.

The entire abstract logic of that statement was anathema to me. But as I turned into Sefton Street - and looked at the tidy terraces of middle class houses, and saw a nanny loading her infant charge into the baby seat of a Land Rover, and remembered how Jack nuzzled his head against my cheek just ten minutes earlier, and realized that, like it or not, I would have to confront the letter which currently resided in the back pocket of my jeans (a letter from Tony's solicitors, informing me that the twenty-eight-day grace period had passed, and they would now take legal steps within seven days to put our house on the market unless I accepted their financial offer) - I stopped moving. And I suddenly lost all hope.

I sat down on the hood of a car parked outside my house, and started to cry again - fully cognizant that I was weeping on the street where I lived, and unable to get myself through the doorway and into the home that would soon be taken away from me.

'Sally?'

It took me a moment to realize that someone had just called my name. Because I wasn't used to being called by my name on Sefton Street. I knew no one there. Except...

'Sally?'

I looked up. There was my neighbour, Julia Frank - the woman whom I'd met in the newsagent's all those months ago. Now standing by me, her arm on my arm.

'Sally... are you all right?'

I took a deep breath, and wiped my eyes. 'Just a bad morning, that's all'.

'Can I help?'

I shook my head.

'I'll be okay. But thank you'.

I stood up to leave.

'Cup of tea?'

'Please'.

She led me into her house, and down a corridor to her kitchen. She put the kettle on. I asked for a glass of water. I saw her watching me as I pulled my bottle of anti-depressants out of my jacket pocket, removed a pill, and washed it down with the water. She said nothing. She didn't try to make conversation. She just made the tea. And arranged cups and saucers, and milk and sugar, and a plate of biscuits. She poured me a cup and said, 'I don't want to pry, but... has something happened?'

'Yes - something's happened'.

Pause.

'If you want to talk about it...'

I shook my head.

'Fine', she said. 'Milk? Sugar?'

'Both, please'.

She poured in a dash of milk and one sugar. She handed me the cup. I stirred it. I put my spoon down. I said, 'They took my son away from me seven weeks ago'.

She looked at me with care. And then I told her everything. She said nothing. She just sat there and listened. When I finished, the tea was cold. There was a long silence. Then Julia asked, 'Are you going to let them get away with it?'

'I don't know what to do next'.

She thought about this for a moment, then said, 'Well, let's find you someone who does know what to do next'.

Eleven

FROM THE MOMENT I walked into his office, I didn't like the look of Nigel Clapp. Not that he appeared strange or threatening or abnormal. Actually, what first struck me about him was his absolute ordinariness - the sort of guy you would pass on the street and never register. He came across as a truly grey man who seemed like he was born at the age of forty, and had spent his entire life cultivating a grey functionary look, right down to the cheap grey suit he was wearing over a polyester white shirt and a grubby maroon knit tie.

I could have handled the bad clothes, the sallow countenance, the thinning black hair, the light sleety accumulations of dandruff on both shoulders, and the way he never seemed to be looking at you while talking. 'Don't judge a book by its cover', as my wonderful mom (who had a thing about needlepoint mottos) used to say.

No, what really bothered me about Nigel Clapp was his handshake. It was virtually non-existent - a brief placement of four damp, limp fingers into your right palm. It not only made you feel like you'd been given a dead mullet, but also that the purveyor of this hand had no personality whatsoever.

This perception was exacerbated by his voice. Low, monotonic, with a slightly hesitant cadence. It was the sort of voice that almost forced me to cup my ear to discern what he was saying. Coupled with the permanently stunned expression on his face (one which made him look like he'd just tumbled into an empty elevator shaft), he certainly didn't inspire confidence.

Which was something of a worry - considering that Nigel Clapp was my new solicitor, and my one hope of ever getting my son back.

Why did I end up with Nigel Clapp? Once again, I must recite another of my mother's preferred platitudes:

'Beggars can't be choosers'.

Actually, the way I found myself in the offices of Nigel Clapp was courtesy of a process that started in Julia Frank's kitchen. After hearing my story, she called a friend who worked as a deputy editor at the Guardian, handling (among other duties) a couple of weekly Law pages, which often dealt with family law cases. She outlined my situation, mentioning that I was married to a well-known journalist, but then playing coy about his name. The deputy editor told her that, as I had no income at present, I should qualify for Legal Aid - and gave her the number of a barrister named Jane Arnold, who specialized in family law cases. Julia called Jane. Who put her in touch with a friend named Rose Truman who happened to be an information officer at the Law Society (the registrar of all solicitors and barristers in England). Rose Truman in turn promised to post me out today a list of solicitors in my area who handled legal aid.

The speed at which Julia negotiated all this was dazzling. It also made me realize how little I understood about the way things worked here.

'Well, that's sorted then', she said, 'though I know my friend at the Guardian would love me to drop the name of your husband to her'.

'I don't want to spread gossip about Tony. I just want my son back. Anyway, as I told you, he's no longer at the Chronicle. He's a full-time father who's also probably trying to finish his novel'.

'And the smart bastard found a wealthy patroness to subsidize his literary endeavours. I'd put serious money on your little boy being part of the Faustian Pact they made'.

I stared into my teacup. 'That thought had crossed my mind, yes'.

'You know what I also think?' she said.

'What?' I said, looking up.

'I think you need a very large drink'.

'So do I. But I'm on these pills...'

'Are they anti-depressants?'

'Well... yes'.

'What kind?'

I told her.

'Then a large vodka won't kill you'.

'How do you know that?'

'Because I was on them during my divorce... and also because my sister's a chemist. And she gave me the all-clear for a shot of Absolut every so often. You do like vodka, I hope?'

'Yes, that would be very welcome indeed'.

She opened the freezer compartment of her fridge, retrieved the bottle of vodka, then found two glasses and poured out two small shots.

'You sure about this?' I asked.

'It never did me any harm. But, then again, I am from Glasgow'.

'You don't sound Scottish'.

'Glaswegian parents. Spent my first seven years there, then my father brought us south. Never went back - which probably means I'm completely deracinated'.

We clinked glasses. I took a tiny sip, I had forgotten how anaesthetizing frozen vodka can be. I allowed the liquid to loll about my mouth for a few moments, before letting it delightfully burn the back of my throat. After it slipped down, I let out a little sigh.

'Do I take that as a sign of approval?' Julia asked.

'You have good taste in vodka'.

'It makes up for the bad taste in men', she said, lighting up a cigarette. 'You don't mind if I indulge my filthy habit?'

'It's your house'.

'Good answer. You can stay'.

She downed her vodka and poured herself another small finger.

'May I ask you a direct question?' I said.

'Try me'.

'Did you like anti-depressants?'

'Enormously And you?'

'I'd recommend them to anyone having their child taken away from them...'

I shook my head, took another small sip of the vodka, and said, 'Sorry, that was crude'.

'But accurate'.

'How long were you on them for?'

'Nearly a year'.

'Good God'.

'Don't worry. It's not impossible to kick, especially if you're taken off them slowly. But, I must say, anytime these days that I find myself fighting off the black dog, I do think fondly back to my extended anti-depressant interlude'.

'What do you use instead nowadays?'

'Marlboro Lights and Absolut - neither of which really have the same efficacy as anti-depressants when it comes to dealing with what you're going through, which makes my ghastly divorce seem like a paper cut'.

'Paper cuts can be painful. Was your divorce really ghastly?'

'Anyone who says that they had an amiable divorce is a liar. But yes, it wasn't a pleasant experience'.

'Had you been married long?'

'Nine years. And though it went through the usual ups-and-downs during that time, I was just a little surprised when Jeffrey announced he was moving in with this French cutie he'd been seeing on the sly. I think that's the worst thing about discovering a long-term infidelity - being made to feel like such a slow-witted fool'.

'Never underestimate the male propensity for the clandestine... especially when it comes to sex. Were you devastated?'

'Yes, I was shattered. "The death of love" and all that. I read somewhere - I think it was in some Irish novel - that a divorce is worse than a death. Because you can't bury the bastard - and you know that he's off somewhere else, having a life without you'.

'And have you had a life - without him?'

'Good God, yes'.

'Anyone now?'

She took a deep drag on her cigarette.

'That's a rather direct question'.

'I'm a bloody Yank', I said, imitating her accent. 'Direct's my thing'.

'Well then to be bloody direct about it: yes, there was somebody. But it ended about six months ago'.

'I'm sorry'.

'I'm not'.

She then explained that, around the time of her divorce, the small publishers for whom she worked as an editor were gobbled up by a major conglomerate, and she was one of the casualties of this merger-and-acquisition ('They blamed it all on "economies of scale" whatever that means'.) At the time, she was living with her husband and her son Charlie in a large terraced house in Barnes. As part of the divorce settlement, Charlie resided with her, and she received just enough money to buy this cottage outright in Putney ('which puts me ahead of ninety-eight percent of the population of the planet, so I'm not complaining... even if the bastard only gives me £500 a month in child support'). But she had been able to find enough steady work as a freelance editor to keep her life ticking over.

'I make enough to give Charlie and myself a good life. And though I might not have a chap on hand right now, the fact that I still have Charlie for the next few years makes everything...'

She stopped and said, 'I'm sorry. That was thoughtless of me'.

'Don't be sorry. What you said is true. Which is why this is so fucking hard'.

'Once that list arrives tomorrow from the Law Society, find yourself a solicitor who's willing to fight your corner'.

'Against a rich woman with a lot of money and a big fat dossier of evidence against me? I doubt any solicitor is going to want to take me on', I said.

But the list arrived, and I discovered two things. Legal Aid wasn't entirely free. If you were destitute, with no assets, you could obtain legal representation without charge. But if, like me, you had no income, but did have part-ownership of a house, then the system operated more like a loan - in which all the costs you ran up eventually had to be repaid (with low interest, but interest nonetheless) from the eventual sale of said property. In other words, I'd be running up another debt - and one that would probably have to be settled once the house was sold from under me. At least, the legal aid rates were nothing compared to those charged by a private incompetent like Ginny Ricks.

The second thing I found out was that there were more than two-dozen solicitors within the borough of Wandsworth who handled Legal Aid cases. I didn't really know which one to choose, or where to start - so I just began to ring up every name alphabetically.

The first four solicitors on the list were otherwise engaged that morning - and, judging from what their secretaries told me, tied up for most of the week. But when I reached name number five on the list - Nigel Clapp - his secretary said that, yes, he could see me tomorrow at ten-thirty.

But as soon as I saw Nigel Clapp, I thought: no way. It wasn't just his spiritless appearance that I found disheartening. It was also his office. It was located in another sector of Wandsworth called Balham. As I was car-less and very conscious of costs, I decided to eschew a £10 minicab ride to this eastern corner of the borough, so I walked to the Putney rail station, changed trains at Clapham Junction, then rode two stops south to Balham. The trains were strewn with rubbish. The seats were stained. The carriages themselves were covered with graffiti. And the thing was: even though I still glanced with momentary distaste on such shabbiness, another part of me had come to be inured to such public squalor; to almost expect it as part of the territory. Is that what living in London did to you - make you accept the dilapidated, the shabby, as commonplace?

Balham High Road was the usual mixture of chain stores, and curious commercial left-behinds from the nine-teen-sixties (a shop that sold used professional hairdressing equipment), and the occasional signs of encroaching gentrification (designer cappuccino bars, designer modern apartment blocks). Nigel Clapp's office was located above a dry cleaner's in an archetypal redbrick Victorian house. I entered his premises by a door on a side street; a door with old-style frosted glass, on which had been painted the name Clapp & Co - Solicitors. I negotiated a constricted, ill-lit stairwell, reached another door and rang the bell. It was opened by a plumpish, matronly woman in her fifties, with what I had come to recognize as a pronounced South London accent.

'You the one here for the death cert?' she asked.

'I'm Sally Goodchild'.

'Who?' she said loudly, as if I was a little deaf. I repeated my name again. 'Oh, yeah, right', she said. 'The Legal Aid case. Come in. He's busy right now, but shouldn't be too long'.

Clapp & Co. comprised two rooms and a small waiting area, which was actually a narrow corridor, with a cheap sofa, two plastic potted plants, and a magazine rack, filled with six-month-old copies of Hello! and assorted estate agent magazines. The walls were painted a dirty shade of cream, the floors were covered in yellowing linoleum, the lighting was provided by two fluorescent tubes overhead. The sole decoration was a calendar on the wall from a local Indian take-away: With the Compliments of Bengal House, Balham High Road. The plumpish woman - Clapp's secretary and general dogs-body - worked in a small cramped office without a door. As I waited in the hallway - idly browsing through a magazine for the local branch of Foxton's Estate Agents, noticing with amazement that you could easily spend £750,000 on a family house around here - she answered a steady stream of phone calls with that brutish voice of hers, while working her way through an open packet of bourbon creams on her desk. After a few minutes, she got up and said to me, 'See if he's finally off the phone now'.

She walked over to the adjoining door, opened it without knocking, put her head inside it and said, 'Your client is here'.

Then I was ushered in to meet Nigel Clapp.

He did stand up when I entered. Then he offered me his dead mullet hand, and motioned me into the cheap orange plastic chair opposite his steel desk, and started shuffling through papers, and avoided my gaze. I noticed a couple of framed family photos on his desk, as well as a framed law degree. He must have spent a good two minutes going through my file, saying absolutely nothing, the only noise in the office coming from the traffic on Balham High Road, and the stentorian voice of his secretary next door. Clapp seemed oblivious to this high-decibel distraction - the way, I imagined, that people next to a railway track somehow became immune to the constant sound of rattling trains. My file was laid out across his desk. When he finally spoke, he didn't look up from the documents.

'So your former solicitor', he said in a voice so low and hesitant that I had to bend forward to hear him, 'she never sought leave to appeal the order of the Interim Hearing?'

'We parted company immediately after the hearing', I said.

'I see', he said, his voice non-committal, his eyes still focusing on the papers. 'And this business with the house... can you remember the names of the solicitors who handled the conveyancing?'

I told him. He wrote it down. Then he closed my file, and reluctantly looked at me for a moment.

'Maybe you'd like to tell me the entire story now'.

'When you say "entire"?'

'From... uh... I suppose... when you first met your husband to... uh... this morning, I suppose. The pertinent details only, of course. But... uh... I would just like an overall picture. So I can... uh... just have an overview, I suppose'.

I could feel my spirits tumble even further into despair. This man had the personality of a paper cup.

But still I took him through the complete tale of my marriage - from Cairo to London, to the early problems with the pregnancy, to the postnatal depression, to my extended stay in hospital, and the nightmare that I had walked into upon returning from Boston. I was absolutely frank with him - telling him exactly how I made angry verbal threats against my son, and my difficult behaviour in hospital after his birth, the sleeping pills incident, my absurd decision to seek out Diane Dexter's country home - in short, everything that Tony's solicitors could use against me.

It took around twenty minutes to get through the entire story. As I spoke, Clapp pivoted his chair in such a way that he was staring at a spot on the wall behind his computer screen. He showed no emotion as I spoke, he didn't interrupt, he didn't react to any of the more dire aspects of the tale. His presence didn't register at all. I might as well have been talking to a goldfish in an aquarium, considering the lack of reaction I was getting.

When I finally finished, there was another considerable pause - as if he didn't get the fact that my narrative was finished. Then, when this dawned on him, he turned back to my file, shuffled the papers together, closed it and said, 'Uhm... right then. We have your address and phone number here, don't we?'

'It's on the first page of the forms'.

He opened the file again, peered inside, shut it.

'So it is', he said. Then he stood up and said, 'Well, uhm, emergency Legal Aid will be available right now, although a final certificate won't be authorized until the forms have been processed. Anyway... uhm... we'll be in touch'.

This threw me. Surely he was going to answer some questions, give me his legal point of view, speak about my chances in court, hint about the strategy he might adopt, anything. But instead, I was offered his dead mullet hand. And I was so flummoxed by this I briefly squeezed his damp, flaccid fingers and left.

An hour later, I was in Julia's kitchen, accepting another shot of Absolut. I needed one.

'This guy isn't just diffident; he's one of those people who seems to be missing-in-action while still sitting in the same room as you'.

'Maybe that's just his manner', she said.

'Damn right it's his manner - and it's a completely hopeless one. I mean, at first I thought: he's just boring. Or to be more specific about it: he's about the most boring person I've ever met in my life. But then - after taking him through every damn thing that's happened to me for the last six months - what's his reaction? "We'll be in touch." And you should have seen this guy during my extended monologue. I'm positive he was doing Transcendental Meditation with his eyes open'.

'Are you certain he's just not a little shy?'

'A little shy? He came across as pathologically shy... to the point where I can't see how the hell he's going to make any inroads for me'.

'Don't you think you should give him a little time?'

'I don't have much in the way of time', I said. 'Less than four months, to be exact. And they don't call that Final Hearing final for nothing. I need someone who can, at the very least, attempt a little damage control here. I don't expect miracles. But he's like one of those freebie attorneys you read about in the States who get appointed to a capital murder case, and end up sleeping through the prosecution's summation'.

I paused. Julia just smiled at me.

'All right', I said. 'Maybe that's just a little melodramatic. But' -

'I know what the stakes are, Sally. I really do. And even though Nigel is your lawyer, I gather that you can get permission from the Legal Aid authority to change your solicitor if you put forward a good enough reason. So if you have absolutely no confidence in this solicitor, then call up the other solicitors on the list and find out when they can see you'.

I did just that the next morning, leaving three messages for three different solicitors. One of them, Helen Sanders, rang back. She didn't have time to see me face-to-face this week, but would be pleased to speak to me now. So, once again, I spent fifteen minutes telling this woman the entire saga - from beginning to end. Her verdict was stark and uncompromising.

'Whatever about the inherent unfairness of what happened to you', she said, 'the sad fact of the matter is: they do have a strong case against you. More to the point, as perhaps other solicitors have informed you, once a child is settled with one parent, the court is loath to relocate him again'.

This is exactly what the dreadful Ginny Ricks told me in the wake of the Interim Hearing disaster. So I asked Helen Sanders, 'Are you saying that my case is hopeless?'

'I couldn't make a judgment like that without studying all the relevant documents and court orders. But from what you've told me so far... well, I'm not going to lie to you: I can't see how you'll have any chance of winning residence of your son'.

She did offer to see me at her office next week, if I wanted to discuss matters further. But I simply thanked her for her time and hung up. What was there to discuss? Mine was a hopeless case.

'You mustn't think that', Julia said after I related this conversation to her.

'Isn't it better to face up to the truth?'

'I'm sure the right solicitor could dig up the right dirt on your husband's relationship with that Dexter woman, and how they set this whole thing up'.

'Maybe', I said. 'But I really need someone out there now, tracking stuff down, trying to look into Dexter's background to see if there's any dirt worth digging. And three months isn't really much time to pull all that together'.

'Don't you have any mega-rich friends who could help you hire a private detective or someone like that to snoop around on your behalf'.

The only people I knew with any substantial money were Margaret and Alexander Campbell. But I felt that, if I approached them now, it would seem as if I was demanding something back for referring me to Lawrence and Lambert. Like it or not, that would end things with Margaret. Once you've asked for money from a friend, the friendship is doomed.

'As I told you before, my only family is my sister. She's broke. My parents were schoolteachers. Their only asset was their house - and thanks to what lawyers like to call "bad estate planning" and the suddenness of their death, their one asset, their house, was largely consumed by the government. Then there was the law suit after their death'.

'What law suit... ?'

I paused for a moment, staring into my drink. Then I said, 'The one against my dad. The autopsy report found that he was about two glasses of wine over the legal limit. Not a vast amount, but he still shouldn't have been driving on it. And the fact that he hit a station wagon with a family of five in it...'

Julia looked at me, wide-eyed.

'Was anyone killed?'

'The mother, who was all of thirty-two years old, and her fourteen-month-old son. Her husband and their two other kids somehow managed to walk away'.

Silence. Then I said, 'The thing was - the husband of the woman killed... he turned out to be an Episcopal minister, and one of those very principled types who really believed in Christian axioms like turning the other cheek and not seeking vengeance. So, when it came out that, technically speaking, my father was driving while intoxicated, he insisted that the whole thing be kept out of the papers, not just for the sake of Sandy and me, but also - he told me later - for his own sake as well. 'There's been enough tragedy already. I don't want public pity, any more than I want to see you and your sister vilified because your father made a mistake.

'I think he might have been the most extraordinary man I've ever encountered... though, at the time, I wondered if his goodness was some sort of post-traumatic disorder. Isn't that an awful thing to think?'

'It's honest'.

'Anyway, Sandy and I agreed that we should settle for whatever their insurers demanded. Which was essentially all our parents' insurance policies, the house, and just about everything else. So we both came out of it with virtually nothing. Our own lawyers kept telling us we should fight our corner - that giving them the insurance policies was enough. But we felt so desperately guilty we handed it all over to the minister and his children... even though he actually called me once and said we didn't have to go so far. Can you imagine someone saying that... not seeking revenge or retribution? But it convinced us even more that we had to give him everything. It wasn't just penance. It was an act of contrition'.

'But you didn't drive the car', Julia said. 'Your father did'.

I fell silent for a while, wanting not to say any more. But then: 'You're right, he drove the car. But before he got into the car, he was with my mom at a college graduation party for me. He was having a great time, talking with all my friends, being the usual nice guy that he was. Late in the evening, I handed him a glass of shitty Almaden wine, and he said he really couldn't handle anything more, and I said - and I remember this so damn clearly - "You going middle-aged on me, Dad?" And he laughed and said "Hell no," and downed it in one go. And' -

I stopped. I looked down into the vodka glass. I shoved it away.

'I still can't get over it. All these years later. It's there, every hour of every day. And it's now been with me so long that I just consider it part of my weather system - something that encircles me all the time'.

'What did your sister say when she found out?'

'That's the thing - she never did find out. Because I couldn't bring myself to tell her...'

'Whom did you tell?'

I didn't answer. Finally she asked, 'You never told anyone?'

'I spoke with a therapist about it. But' -

'You never said a word to your husband?'

'I considered telling him around the time I got pregnant. But I thought... I don't know... I thought Tony would have belittled me for holding on to such guilt. He would have said I was being pathetic. Now I realize that, had I told him, he would have turned this admission against me in a court of law. Not just a misfit mother, but an accessory after the fact to a vehicular manslaughter'.

'But hang on - you don't really believe that you were responsible for the death of that woman and child?'

'I gave my dad the glass of wine that sent him over the limit'.

'No - you just handed him the glass and then gently teased him about being middle-aged. He knew he had to drive after the party. He knew how much he'd drunk before you showed up with that last glass of wine'.

'Try telling my conscience that. Sometimes I think that the real reason I eventually fled overseas was because I was trying to put as much geography as possible between myself and all that lingering guilt'.

'The French Foreign Legion approach'.

'Exactly - and it kind of worked for a while. Or, at least, I learned how to cohabit with it'.

'Until they took Jack away from you?'

'I guess I'm that obvious. And yes, once this all happened, I was certain that this was some sort of cosmic retribution for causing that accident; that Jack had been taken away from me because I had given my father the drink which made him crash the car which killed a little boy'.

Julia reached over the table and put her hand on my arm.

'You know that's not true'.

'I don't know anything anymore. During the last few months, all logic's been turned on its head. Nothing makes sense'.

'Well, one thing must make sense. You are not receiving some sort of divine punishment for your father's accident - because you had absolutely no role in that accident, and because it just doesn't work that way... and I speak as a semi-practising Catholic'.

I managed a small, bleak laugh.

'God knows, I wish I'd confessed all this to my sister years ago'.

'But what good would that have done?'

'Recently, I've had this enormous need to confess all to her'.

'Promise me you'll never do that. And not just because I truly believe that you have nothing to confess. It would just drop all the guilt you've been feeling for all these years right into her lap. And - this is the real Catholic in me talking now - there are many things in life that are far better left unsaid. We all want to confess. It's the most human of needs imaginable. To ask for some sort of absolution for making a mess of things - which everyone before us has done, and everyone afterwards will continue to do as well. Sometimes I think it's the one great constant in all human history: the ability to screw it up for ourselves and others. Maybe that's the most terrible - and the most reassuring - thing about life: the fact that everyone's messed up like this before. We're all so desperately repetitive, aren't we?'

I thought about that later, as I sat at home staring at the list of alternative legal aid solicitors, supplied to me by the Law Society. There was an entire section of lawyers dedicated to Family Law - and all I could think was how, for these specialists in domestic dissolution, all stories must start to overlap or, at the very least, come down to a few basic plot points: He met somebody else... We fight about everything... He just doesn't listen to me... She feels she doesn't have a life beyond the house and the kids... He resents the fact I make more money than him. And all this dissatisfaction and disgruntlement and disappointment may, in part, be rooted in the usual bad match-ups, the usual inability to cohabit. But Julia was right: it also stems from a need for turmoil, for change... all of which might be linked to that very human fear of mortality, and the realization that everything is finite. It is this knowledge which makes us scramble even harder for some sort of meaning or import to the minor lives that we lead... even if it means pulling everything apart in the process.

I winnowed my new solicitor possibilities down to four names - all of whom I chose because they were located within walking distance of my house. No doubt, they'd all tell me the same thing: you're in a no-win situation. But I still had to find someone to represent me during the Final Hearing. I was about to start phoning up these four candidates, but it was now around five pm on Friday afternoon, which meant that I would either be talking to answerphones or secretaries who were itching to get home, and certainly didn't want to be speaking to a Legal Aid case so late in the day. So I decided to start working the phones first thing Monday morning - and would now treat myself to an extended walk by the river. I was still reeling a bit from the disclosure I'd made to Julia. But I didn't feel relieved or unburdened. Nor did I take great consolation in what she said. Though others can advise you to divest yourself of all guilt, the ability to do so is always impossibly difficult. The hardest thing in the world is forgiving yourself.

I found my jacket, put on a pair of shoes, and was heading towards the kitchen bowl where I always tossed my house keys when the phone rang. Damn. Damn. Damn. A part of me wanted to let the answerphone take it - because there was a break in the weather, and I really needed an extended stroll in the open air. But being a glutton for punishment, I reached for the receiver.

'Uh... I'd like to speak with Ms... uh... Goodchild'.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Exactly the man I wanted to hear from late on a Friday afternoon. But I maintained a polite tone.

'Mr Clapp?'

'Oh, it is you, Ms Goodchild. Is this a good time?'

'Sure, I guess'.

'Uhm... well...'

Another of his awkward pauses.

'Are you still there, Mr Clapp?' I asked, trying not to voice my impatience.

'Uhm, yes... Ms Goodchild. And I just want to say that the court hearing went fine'.

Pause. I was genuinely confused.

'What court hearing?'

'Oh, didn't I tell you?'

'Tell me what?'

'Tell you that I applied for a court order this morning, insisting that your husband pay the mortgage on your house until the divorce settlement is finalized'.

This was news to me.

'You did?'

'I hope you don't mind...'

'Hardly. I just didn't know'.

'Well... uh... I just thought, considering that you were being threatened with eviction...'

'No need to apologize', I said. 'Thank you'.

'Uh, sure. Anyway, uh, it seems... well, the court decided to preserve the status quo'.

'I don't understand?'

'I obtained the order this afternoon at three. And the judge presiding over the hearing... well, over the strong objections of your husband's solicitor, the judge decreed that your husband must continue to pay the mortgage until you have worked out a mutually agreed financial settlement'.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

'Does this mean that the house can't be sold out from under me?'

'Uh... that's right. And if your husband doesn't make the mortgage payments, he will be considered in contempt of court. Which means that he could actually be imprisoned for failing to meet his commitments to you'.

'Good God', I said.

'One other thing', he said. 'His solicitor said that he wants to make an offer, vis-à-vis interim financial support for you'.

'He did? Really?'

'I think he was rather nervous about the idea that, under the circumstances, the judge might instruct his client to pay you a substantial sum a month. So they offered you £1000 a month in interim maintenance'.

'You're kidding me?'

'Is that too low?'

'Hardly. I don't want a penny of it'.

'Oh, right. But how about the mortgage?'

'That's different - because the house is a shared investment. But I certainly don't want to be supported by her money'.

'Well, uh, that's your choice. And if, uh, you want me to continue handling this matter, I will inform them of your decision'.

Was he always so self-denigrating? I paused for a nanosecond's worth of reflection, then said, 'I'm very pleased to have you in my corner, Mr Clapp'.

'Oh...' he said, sounding somewhat bemused. And then added, 'Uhm... thanks'.

Twelve

I DIDN'T HEAR from Nigel Clapp for another week. But he did send me a copy of the court order he obtained against Tony, along with a follow-up letter from Tony's solicitor confirming that his client would continue to pay the mortgage payments on our jointly owned house until such time as a legally binding agreement was reached on the disbursement of mutually owned assets. The letter also confirmed that I had turned down an offer of £1000 per month in maintenance, and let it be known that, in light of this refusal to accept said offer, his side would enter into no subsequent negotiations in regards to interim maintenance payments until such time as the final financial settlement blah, blah, blah, blah...

'You should have taken the money', Sandy said after I read her this letter on the phone. 'I mean, he's got his Sugar Mama covering everything. An extra grand to you a month would have bought you a reduction in financial pressure, and the ability to hire better legal counsel...'

'Like I told Clapp: there's no way I'm going to live on her money'.

'You and your dumb pride. I mean, Welcome to Divorce - where the object of the exercise is to stick it to the other party. Which is precisely what the wonderful Tony and his rich bitch are doing to you. Which is why I think you were insane to turn down the dough. You have hardly anything left to live on, and also because, from what you've told me, the legal eagle representing you isn't exactly Mr High Powered, Mr Perry Mason. The other side will eat him alive once this goes to trial. And just think of the non-event he'll entice to be your barrister. I mean, all courtroom lawyers are actors, right? So no big shot "actor" is going to work with a cipher like him'.

'I think you're being a little hard on the guy'

'Hey, I'm just repeating what you told me'.

'True - but that was before he won the mortgage payment thing... which, let's face it, has saved me from the street and kept me in the house. And yeah, you're right: he's like dealing with the world's greatest wallflower, which does worry me. But given how that upscale ineptitude at Lawrence and Lambert messed me over, I'm just a little suspicious of high-flying law firms right now'.

'But that was just one up-her-ass Limey bimbo. Surely there are some excellent divorce lawyers in London'.

'Yeah, but I can't afford one now. And you're right - it's my own damn fault for turning down Tony's money. But the thing is: for the first time since this extended bad dream started, I've actually won an argument. And that's due to my very peculiar solicitor. So why turn my back on a guy who's trumped Tony?'

Still, Sandy was right about one point: dealing with Nigel Clapp was like dealing with the number zero. It was impossible to fathom him, or to work out his legal methodology. After his success on the mortgage front, he vanished for seven days. Then, out of nowhere, he made contact with me again.

'Uhm... ', he said after I answered the phone.

'Mr Clapp?'

'I'd like to speak with Ms Goodchild'.

'That's me'.

'Really?'

'I'm pretty sure of that, yeah'.

'Oh, right. Well... uhm... names'.

'Names?'

'Yes, names'.

'I really don't follow you'.

'I need the name of everyone who's dealt with you from the social services'.

He paused - as if the effort of getting that one sentence out without an uhm had been overwhelming. Then he continued. 'I also need the names of any nannies or nurses whom you might have used'.

'Fine, no problem. Shall I email you them today?'

'Yes, uhm, email is all right'.

'You know that my first lawyer took witness statements from just about everybody - with the exception of my Health Visitor who was in Canada at the time'.

'Yes. I know that. Because I have the statements'.

'You do?'

'Uhm, yes'.

'How'd you get them?'

'I obtained copies of all court documents'.

'Sure, sure. But if you've got all the witness statements, why do you need the names of everyone again?'

'Because, uhm... well, I would just like to speak with them all again'.

'I see', I said. 'Is that necessary?'

'Well... uhm... yes, in fact'.

Later that day, while reporting this conversation to Julia over coffee in her kitchen, I said, 'You know, I think that was the first assertive thing he's ever said to me'.

'You shouldn't worry about him so much. He seems to know what he's doing'.

Four days later, I was woken up by a phone call around one in the morning. At that hour, the sound of a phone ringing can only mean two things - (1) a drunken wrong number, or (2) very bad news. In this case, however, it was a youngish sounding woman with a London accent who - judging from the static on the line - was calling from far away.

'Hello, Ms Goodchild... Sally?'

'Who's this?' I asked, half-awake.

'Jane Sanjay'.

'Who?'

'Your Health Visitor, remember?'

'Oh, yes, of course. Hello, Jane. Aren't you supposed to be out of the country?'

'I am out of the country' she said. 'In Canada. Ever heard of Jasper National Park? Way up in Alberta. Amazing place - and a long way from South London. But listen, your solicitor, Mr Clapp, tracked me down'.

'Mr Clapp found you?'

'That's right. And he explained what you've been going through - and asked me if I'd be prepared to testify on your behalf. Which, of course, I'm most willing to do, especially as I'll be back working for Wandsworth Council in just over two months' time. But the reason I'm calling - and I can't talk for much longer, as my phone card's about to run out - is just to tell you that I am so shocked that they took Jack away from you. From what he explained to me, they've done a complete stitch-up job on you. He also told me about the postnatal depression - which, in itself, should have got you off the hook. I mean, so what if you said something threatening when you were exhausted and suffering from a clinical condition? So what if you accidentally breastfed your son while taking sleeping pills? We've had far worse cases in the Borough - and I'm talking about genuine child abuse, where the mother still didn't have the child taken away from her. So as far as I'm concerned, this is outrageous. And I just wanted to let you know that I'm completely behind you, and will help in any way I can...'

I was so pleasantly stunned - and touched - by this out-of-nowhere transatlantic call that I mumbled a huge thank you, and asked her to come over for lunch as soon as she was back. Then I called Sandy in Boston and told her the news.

'That is amazing', she said, genuinely excited. 'I mean, the fact that she saw you at home with Jack is going to count for an enormous amount. And since it is her job to see how mothers are coping with their newborns, her opinion is going to carry a lot of professional weight. By the way, how did it go with Jack yesterday?'

Leave it to my sister to remember exactly when I had my supervised visit with Jack.

'He seems to recognize me now', I said. 'Or maybe I'm deluding myself'.

'No - babies do get a sense of who's around them'.

'Which means that Jack most certainly thinks of that woman as his mom'.

'He's only a few months old', Sandy said. 'He doesn't know who's who yet'.

'You're trying to humour me'.

'Yes. I am', she said. 'But the fact that he seems to know who you are... well, isn't that a great sign that you're bonding... ?'

Bonding. That word again.

'Yes, we're bonding all right... considering that we only have an hour a week to bond. Still Clarice - the woman who supervises the visits - seems pleased. So does Jessica Law - who's doing...'

'I know: the CAFCASS report for the court...'

'You do impress me'.

'Hey, I hang on to every detail you give me. But here's a question you should ask Ms Law the next time you see her: why hasn't Tony once contacted you?'

'That's a simple one', I said. 'Because he's a total coward'.

'Without question. But why you should ask Ms Law about it is because, as she's interviewing both parties in this case, she's probably in pretty regular contact with Tony. And if you sense she thinks you're all right... well, why not tell her that you're a little surprised not to have received any sort of communication from your husband? In the future you will have to be in close consultation about Jack's upbringing, no matter which one of you ends up getting residence. You see what I'm getting at here?'

I did - and so did Nigel Clapp. Without prompting from me, he raised exactly the same point the next day when I called him to congratulate him on tracking down Jane Sanjay.

'Oh, right', he said.

'But you must have spent so much time trying to figure out where she was. I mean, the legal assistant at Lawrence and Lambert didn't seem to have any luck whatsoever, since Jane was moving around Canada all the time'.

'Moving around? Really?' He sounded even more bemused. 'Because what she told me was that she had been working at the Jasper Park Lodge for the past four months. And, uhm, finding her was... well, it took two phone calls. The first to the Council. I explained who I was, and why I needed to speak with her. And although they didn't know where to find her, they said they'd call her mother on my behalf - since mothers usually know where to find their daughters. Which, uhm, turned out to be the case here. The Council gave Mrs Sanjay my number. She called me. We talked. She gave me her daughter's number in Canada. I called her. We talked. And she agreed to be a witness on your behalf at the Final Hearing. Oh, and... uhm... just in case she gets delayed in Canada or can't make it to the hearing on the day in question, I contacted the Law Society of Canada, and found the name of a solicitor in the town of Jasper, and spoke with him yesterday. He'll be taking a sworn affidavit from Ms Sanjay later in the week - which he'll also have notarized, to make certain it's admissible in an English court of law. But that's just a precautionary measure on my part'.

Then, with what almost seemed like a slight laugh, he said, 'I am just a bit on the cautious side'.

He also informed me that almost all the other people I had listed in my email had been interviewed by Mrs Keating.

'Who's Mrs Keating?' I asked.

'Oh, you don't know Mrs Keating?'

'Uh, no...', I said, stopping myself from adding: 'surely if I knew her, I wouldn't be asking you'.

'Maybe I didn't introduce you?'

'But where would I have met her?'

'At my office. You were here how many times?'

'Once'.

'Is that all?'

'Absolutely'.

'Rose Keating is my secretary'.

Well, that took some effort to get out of him.

'And she interviewed all the social services people?'

'Uh, yes. She's very good at that sort of thing'.

'I'm sure she is', I said. 'Are you happy with the new statements?'

'Happy?' he asked, as if he didn't understand the meaning of the word. 'I think they're fine, yes. But happy... ?'

There was a long existential pause on the telephone line as he pondered the semantic implications of 'happy'. God, this man was work. From our brief association to date, I could see that I would probably never understand him, let alone get to know him. After our initial meeting, all business was conducted by phone - and on the one or two occasions when I suggested I stop by and see him for a chat, he sounded almost horrified, telling me, 'No need to trouble yourself coming all the way to Balham'. I sensed he was very aware of his profound social awkwardness, his verbal hesitancy, his almost autistic inability to make even the most minor emotional connection with a client. But I now knew that he was very good at what he did - exceptionally thorough and considered. I was certain that, behind all the awkwardness, there was a private man of some emotional complexity and feeling - he did have a wife and kids, after all. But he would never let me (or probably any other client) be privy to that side of him. It wasn't as if he was one of those much doted-upon English eccentrics who played to the gallery when it came to their idiosyncrasies. No, Nigel Clapp wasn't quaint or quirky - he was downright strange. Unnervingly so... given that he was my one hope out of this nightmare.

And yet, little by little, I was beginning to trust him.

'Mr Clapp, are you still there?' I asked.

'I suppose so', he said. 'So there was something else to discuss, wasn't there?'

'I don't know, Mr Clapp', I said respectfully. 'You called me'.

'That's right, I did. Now... uhm... I think you should write a letter. You don't mind me saying that, do you?'

'No, if it is your professional opinion that I should write a letter that would be beneficial to my case, I'll write the letter. I just need to know to whom I should write the letter'.

'To your husband. I'd like to establish... uhm... that you want contact with him as regards your son's well-being in his new home... as regards how this Ms Dexter is treating him, and what his plans are for the future. I'd also like to suggest that you propose a face-to-face meeting... just the two of you... to discuss Jack's future'.

'But I really don't want to meet him right now, Mr Clapp. I don't think I could face him'.

'I can appreciate that. But... uhm... unless I am mistaken... and I could be mistaken, I have been mistaken in the past, I do make mistakes... uhm... I don't think he'll want to see you. Guilt, you see. He'll feel guilty. Unless I am wrong...'

'No', I said. 'I don't think you're wrong. In fact, my sister had a similar idea'.

'About what?' he asked. And I dropped the subject before things got more confused.

But that evening I did write the letter.

Dear Tony

I cannot begin to articulate the grief you have caused me. Nor can I fathom how you could have betrayed me and your son in such a ferocious, self-serving way. You used my illness - a temporary clinical condition, from which I am now largely recovered - as a means by which to snatch my son from me, and reinvent your life with a woman whom you were obviously seeing while I was pregnant with your son. The fact that you then manipulated the facts of my post-partum depression to claim that I was a danger to Jack is unspeakable both in its cunning and its cruelty.

But it is another, more pressing matter that compels me to write you. I am troubled by the fact that, as Jack's mother, I have been deliberately kept in the dark as to who is looking after him, whether he is being properly cared for, and if he is getting the proper maternal attention that an infant needs.

There are also questions about his upbringing - no matter what the final custody arrangements turn out to be - which we must decide together.

That is what I want to most emphasize now - the fact that, despite the desperate anguish I feel by being unfairly separated from my son, and despite my anger at your terrible betrayal - my primary concern is Jack's welfare and his future happiness. For this reason, I am willing to put aside my anguish to sit down with you for the first of what must be an ongoing series of conversations about our son and his future. For his sake, we should put all our animosities to one side and talk.

I look forward to hearing from you shortly, proposing a time and place when we should meet.

Yours

'My, you are clever', Julia said after I showed her the final draft.

'You can thank Mr Clapp for that. He made me write three different drafts before he was happy with the letter'.

'Are you serious? Mr Clapp - the original Mr Tentative - actually edited you?'

'Not only that - but he kept emailing me back with assorted suggestions as to how we could push the knife in deeper... though, of course, he would never be so crude as to suggest that we were attempting to trip up my estranged husband, even though that was precisely the object of this exercise'.

'Well, I must say that it is a most cunning letter. Because it points up your victimization without falling into self-pity. At the same time, it sticks it to him about two-timing you, and also raises all sorts of questions about his real motivations behind all this. And you then show tremendous graciousness about putting your anger to one side in order to do what's best for your son...'

Three days later, I received a letter from Tony.

Dear Sally

Considering the threats you made against the life of our son - and considering your complete lack of maternal interest in him following his birth - I find it rather extraordinary that you write me now, speaking about how I betrayed you. Especially when it is you who so betrayed an innocent baby.

As to your accusation that I was betraying you while pregnant, you should know that Diane Dexter has been a close friend of mine for years. And I turned to her as a friend for support when your mental health began to decline during your pregnancy. Our friendship only turned into something else after your breakdown and your irresponsible, endangering behaviour against our son.

She could not be a better surrogate mother to my son - and has provided Jack the safe, calm environment he needs in these early days of his life. I am most certainly aware of the fact that you - as Jack's mother - should have an important input into decisions about his future. But until I am certain that you are no longer a danger to him, I cannot sit down with you to 'talk things out'. I do hope that you are on the road to mental recovery - and have begun to face up to your injurious behaviour against our son. Do understand: I hold no grudge against you whatsoever. And I only wish you the best for the future.

Yours sincerely

Tony

c.c. Jessica Law, Wandsworth DHSS.

The letter shook in my hands as I read it. I immediately faxed a copy to Nigel Clapp, and then knocked on Julia's door. She offered coffee and commiseration.

'You know a lawyer worked with him on this', she said.

'Just like my letter'.

'Only yours was, at least, in your own voice. This missive... it sounds downright Victorian in places. "Your injurious behaviour against our son." Who uses language like that nowadays?'

'It's certainly not Tony's prose style - which is tight and clipped. And he never goes in for touchy-feely stuff, like: "I hold no ill will against you whatsoever. And I only wish you the best for the future." He holds complete ill will against me, and hopes I'll walk under a bus at the earliest possible convenience'.

'It's a divorce. And in a divorce, it always turns ugly. Especially when the stakes are so high'.

Late that afternoon, Mr Clapp rang me.

'Uhm... about your husband's letter...'

'It has me worried', I said.

'Oh, really?'

'Because it's allowed that bastard to refute everything I said in the first letter. And because it also allowed him to put on the record his contention that she "saved" my son... which besides being a total lie is also totally offensive'.

'I could see how... uhm... you might be upset by such a comment. But as regards the damage the letter might do... it's what I expected'.

'Seriously?'

'Oh yes, I am being quite serious. It's what I expected and wanted'.

'You wanted this sort of reply?'

'Uh, yes'.

Then there was another of his signature pauses, hinting that he wanted to move on to another topic of conversation.

'May I ask you if you've had any further success finding work?'

'I've been trying, but I just don't seem to be having much luck'.

'I spoke with Dr Rodale, your... uhm...'

He cleared his throat, obviously not wanting to say the embarrassing word. So I helped him out.

'Psychiatrist'.

'Yes, your psychiatrist. She told me that she will write a report, stating that, in light of your... uhm...'

'Depression'.

'Yes, your depression, she considers you still unfit for full-time employment. That will, at the very least, cover us in case your husband's barrister raises the issue of your lack of work at the hearing. But if you could find some sort of job, it would reflect favourably on your recovery from the... uhm...'

'Depression'.

'That's the word'.

A couple of days later, I received a phone call from Julia. She explained that she was in the office of an editor friend. I'd mentioned to her in one of our early chats that I had spent my summer holidays during college working as a proofreader at a Boston publishing house.

'And when my editor friend here said he urgently needed a proofreader for a big job - and his two usual proofreaders were otherwise engaged - I immediately thought of you. If, that is, you're interested...'

'Oh, I'm interested...'

The next day, I took the tube to Kensington High Street and spent an hour in the office of an editor named Stanley Shaw - a thin, quiet, rather courtly man in his mid-fifties. He worked in the non-fiction division of a major publisher and largely handled big reference volumes, including their 'Guide to Classical CDs', which was published every other year and was a vast doorstopping paperback of some fifteen hundred pages.

'Are you at all knowledgeable about classical music?' he asked me.

'I can tell the difference between Mozart and Mahler', I said.

'Well, that's a start', he said with a smile, then quizzed me about my proofreading background - and whether I could adjust to Anglicisms, and technical musical terminology, and an extensive number of abbreviations that were a component part of the guide. I assured him that I was a fast learner.

'That's good - because we're going to need the entire guide proofread within the next two months. It is going to be technically demanding - as it is a critical compendium of the best recordings available of works by just about every major and minor composer imaginable. Put baldly, it's a huge job - and, to be honest about it, not one which I would hand over to someone who's been out-of-practice as a proofreader as long as you have been. But I am desperate - and if Julia Frank believes you can do it, then I believe you can. That is, if you believe you can do it, and can have it all to me within two months'.

'I can do it'.

We shook hands on it. The next day, a motorcycle messenger arrived at my house with a large, deep cardboard box - and over fifteen hundred pages of proofs. I had cleared the kitchen table for this task - already installing an anglepoise lamp and a jam jar filled with newly sharpened pencils. There was a contract along with the page proofs. Before signing it, I faxed it over to Nigel Clapp. He called me back within an hour.

'You've got a job', he said, sounding surprised.

'It looks that way. But I'm worried about something - whether my fee will invalidate me for Legal Aid'.

'Well... uhm... you could always have them re-draft the contract, guaranteeing you full payment upon publication, which is... according to the contract... eight months from now. So we could show the court that you have been working, but that you'll be remunerated after the Final Hearing, which would keep you qualified for Legal Aid. That is, if you can manage to afford not to draw a salary right now'.

The hearing was in ten weeks' time, and I was down to the equivalent of £1500. It would be insanely tight.

'Say I asked Stanley for a third of the fee up-front?'

'Yes - that would still put you well within the Legal Aid threshold'.

Stanley Shaw was only too willing to re-jig the contract, pointing out that, 'In the thirty years I've been a publisher, this is the first time that a writer or an editor has asked for a delayed payment... which, of course, I'm most happy to facilitate'.

That evening, I did a bit more simple mathematics. I had a total of sixty-one days to do the job. Fifteen hundred by sixty-one equals 24.5 pages per day, which divided by eight made three.

Three pages per hour. Do-able. As long as I stuck to the task at hand. Didn't allow my mind to wander. Didn't dwell on the ongoing agony of missing Jack. Didn't succumb to the perpetual fear that the judge at the Final Hearing would side with Tony, and limit me to an hour a week's visit until...

No, no... don't contemplate that. Just go to work.

It took me four days to cross the threshold of the 'A' composers (Albinoni, Alkan, Arnold, Adams) into the 'B's - and gradually move through the Bach family. And, my God, there were an enormous amount of works under review. Then there were the critical pros and cons - the way the editors of the Guide discussed whether, in the recording of the B Minor Mass, you should opt for the traditional kappelmeister approach of Karl Richter, or the leaner, reduced period forces of John Eliot Gardiner, or the interpretative brilliance of Masaki Suzuki, or...

That was the most intriguing thing about working on this Guide (especially to someone with as little musical knowledge as myself) - the discovery that, in musical performance, interpretation changes with every conductor, every instrumentalist, every singer. But though you can play games with metronomic markings and tempi, you can't really deviate too much from the score. Whereas all stories are always open to speculation, conjecture, even reinvention... to the point where, in the re-telling, you begin to wonder where the original narrative has gone, and how the plot line has been hijacked by the two principal protagonists, both of whom are now presenting diametrically different versions of the same tale.

'You must be going crazy, reading all that musicological stuff, word-by-word', Sandy said one evening during our daily phone call.

'Actually, I'm rather enjoying it. Not just because I'm finding it interesting, but also because it's given me something I've been craving for months: a structure to the day'.

Three pages an hour, eight hours per day - the work broken up into four two-hour sessions, with a half-hour break between each period. Of course, I had to work this schedule round my weekly visit with Jack, my bi-monthly talk with Jessica Law, my bi-monthly consultations with Dr Rodale. Otherwise, the work defined my time. Just as it helped me mark time, and accelerate the agonizing wait for the Final Hearing. Yes, I did find such intensive proofreading to be frequently exhausting. I was also simultaneously bored and overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. But there was also a certain pleasure in pushing my way deeper and deeper into the alphabet. After three weeks, Berlioz was a distant memory, as I'd just polished off Hindemith and Roy Harris. Getting through the entire recorded corpus of Mozart was a bit like a drive I once took across Canada - during which I kept thinking: this has got to end sometime. Then, in the middle of week five, I began to panic. I was just entering the big 'S' section, with wildly prolific composers like Schubert and Shostakovich to work through. Stanley Shaw (another S!) checked in with me once, reminding me that the deadline was just two-and-a-half weeks off. 'Don't worry - I'll make it', I told him, even though I myself was beginning to wonder how I'd do it. I increased my workday time from eight to twelve hours. This paid off - as mid-way through the sixth week, I had managed to finish off Telemann and was dealing with Tippett. And during my subsequent session with Dr Rodale, she informed me that I was now appearing so much more balanced and in control that she was going to begin the gradual reduction of my dose of anti-depressants. A week later, while reading the section covering all complete sets of Vaughan Williams symphonies (the Boult was the favoured recording), I received word from Nigel Clapp that we had an exact date for the Final Hearing - June 18th.

'Uhm... the barrister I want to instruct... and who does this sort of case very well... and... uhm... is also on the Legal Aid register... well, her name is...'

'Her?' I said.

'Yes, she is a woman. But perfect for your situation... sorry, sorry, that sounds all wrong'.

'I know what you're saying. What's her name?'

'Maeve Doherty'.

'Irish?'

'Uhm... yes. Born and raised there, educated at Oxford, then she was part of a rather radical chambers for a while...'

I see...

'Did a lot of... uhm... substantial work. Especially in the family law area. She's available. She does Legal Aid. She will respond to the predicament you are in'.

'And say she ends up facing a traditional judge who can't stand her politics?'

'Well... uhm... one can't have everything'.

I didn't have time yet to dwell on this potential problem, as Vaughan Williams gave way to Verdi and Victoria and Vivaldi and Walton and Weber and Weekes and - twenty-four hours to go - I was still working on Wesley, and drinking nonstop cups of coffee, and assuring Stanley Shaw that he could have a courier at my door at nine tomorrow morning, and I was negotiating the complete organ works of Widor, and somewhere around midnight, I reached the last listing (Zwillich), and suddenly the sun was rising, and I tossed the final page on top of the pile, and smiled that tired smile which comes with having finished a job, and ran a bath, and was dressed and awaiting the courier when he showed up at nine, and received a phone call an hour later from Stanley Shaw congratulating me on making the deadline. An hour after that, I was holding my baby son under the increasingly less watchful eye of Clarice Chambers, who told me that she was going to leave us alone this morning, but would be down the corridor in the tea room if we needed her.

'How about that, Jack?' I said after she headed off. 'We're on our own at last'.

But Jack was too busy sucking down a bottle to respond.

I crashed out that night at seven, and slept twelve straight hours without interruption. I woke the next morning, feeling less burdened than I had felt in months. This lightening of mood carried on into the next week - when Stanley Shaw rang me and asked, 'I don't suppose you're free to do another job?'

'As a matter of fact, I am'.

'Tremendous. Because it is another doorstopper of a book. Our film guide. Currently clocking in at 1538 pages. It needs to be fully proofed in nine weeks. Same terms as before?'

'Sounds good to me'.

'Well, come by the office tomorrow around noon - and I'll take you through the basic parameters of it, and then I can buy us both lunch somewhere pleasant, if that's agreeable'.

'You're on', I said.

Two days later, I was back at work, slowly inching my way through this fat critical compendium. And when Sandy asked me how I could mentally handle long stretches of such detailed work, I said, 'I just fall into it - and black everything else out for the next couple of hours. So it's a bit like novocaine - a temporary, fast-acting anaesthetic, which keeps everything else numb for a short amount of time. The pay's not bad either'.

Around three weeks into this job, I received a phone call from Maeve Doherty. Whatever about her childhood in Dublin, her accent was Oxbridge, tempered by a pleasant phone manner. She explained that Nigel Clapp had given her the brief. As she liked to be instructed well before the date of the hearing and always met the individuals she would be representing, she would also like to meet me as soon as our mutual schedules permitted.

Four days later, I took an afternoon off. I hopped the Underground to Temple, walked up to Fleet Street, and entered a passageway called Inner Temple, which brought me into what seemed to be a miniature Oxbridge college, of mixed Tudor and Gothic design: a small, calm enclave of the law, hidden away from London's continuous din. I came to a door, outside of which was a wooden board, upon which had been painted, in immaculate black letters, the names of fifteen barristers who made up these chambers. Miss M. Doherty was near the top of the list.

Her office was tiny. So was she, with petite features to mirror her small stature. She wasn't pretty - in fact, she almost could be described as plain - but there was an attractive studiousness about her, and the hint of a deeply strong resolve that she had latched on to as a way of countering her diminutive size. Her handshake was firm, she looked me directly in the eye when talking to me, and though she was all business, she was likeably all business.

'Let me say from the start that I do think you've been unfairly vilified. And I gather from Mr Clapp that the barrister who acted for you during the Interim Hearing was only briefed on the case around a half-hour before the actual hearing. What was his name again?' she asked, rummaging through the file. 'Ah yes, Mr Paul Halliwell...'

'You know him?' I asked, picking up the hint of contempt in her voice.

'It's a small world, the law. So, yes, I do know Mr Halliwell'.

'Well, the culpable party really was my solicitor, Virginia Ricks, of Lawrence and Lambert...'

'No, formerly of Lawrence and Lambert. She was let go last month after fouling up a very big divorce proceeding involving a very substantial Dubai client. She's now considered an untouchable'.

She then talked strategy for the better part of a half-hour, quizzing me intensely about my marriage to Tony, about his personal history, centring in on the way he shut himself away in his study all the time after the baby was born, the late nights out on the town, the fact that he was so evidently involved with Diane Dexter during my pregnancy.

'I saw that letter you wrote your husband just a few weeks ago, as well as his reply. Very adroit strategy - especially as it got him to state, in writing, that theirs was just a platonic relationship. And if Nigel Clapp's investigations into her background yield what we hope they'll yield, then we really should have an interesting case to present against them'.

'Nigel Clapp is having the Dexter woman investigated?'

'That's what he told me'.

'By whom?'

'He didn't say. Then again, as you've probably gathered by now, Mr Clapp is someone who, at the best of times, has difficulty with compound sentences. But, whatever about his interpersonal skills, he just might be the best solicitor I've ever worked with - utterly thorough, conscientious, and engaged. Especially in a case like this one - where he feels, as I do, that our client has been seriously wronged'.

'He told you that?'

'Hardly', she said with a smile. 'But we've worked together often enough that I know there are times when he's passionately committed to seeing things set right. This is definitely one of those instances. Just don't expect him to admit that to you'.

I certainly didn't expect such an admission - though when I did ask him, during our next phone call, if he had hired a private investigator on my behalf, he suddenly turned all diffident and defensive, saying, 'It's... uhm... just someone who looks into things for me, that's all'.

His anxious tone persuaded me to ask no further questions.

In the coming weeks, I concentrated on what I had to do: get this damn manuscript finished. Long days of work, the weekly visit with Jack, the twice-monthly consultations with Dr Rodale and Jessica Law, the occasional phone call from Nigel Clapp, in which he would give me an update of how the case was proceeding - and also informing me that, as things stood now (and after consultation with Tony's legal team), it looked as if the Final Hearing would last around two days. I had two further telephone conversations with Maeve Doherty, in which she cleared up a few points with me, and also assured me not to worry about whatever judge would be hearing the case - we wouldn't know his name until the afternoon before the hearing.

Then, just two weeks before the date of this Final Hearing, I received a call from Nigel Clapp. It was nearly eight at night - an unusually late time for him to be calling me.

'Uhm... sorry to be phoning so late'.

'No problem. I was just working'.

'How's work?' he said, in an awkward attempt to make conversation.

'Fine, fine. Stanley is actually talking about another proofing job to follow this one. It looks like I might have a steady income soon'.

'Good, good', he said, sounding even more distracted then ever. This was followed by another telltale Clapp pause. Then, 'If you were... uhm... free tomorrow afternoon...'

'You want to see me?'

'Well, I don't have to see you. But... I think...'

He broke off. And I knew something was very wrong.

'You need to tell me something face-to-face?' I asked.

'It would be better...'

'Because it's bad news?'

An anxious silence. 'It's not good news'.

'Tell me now'.

'If you could come to my office in Balham...'

'Tell me now, Mr Clapp'.

Another anxious silence. 'Well... if you insist...'

'I do'.

'Uhm... it's two-fold difficult news, I'm afraid. And the first part of it has to do with Ms Law's CAFCASS report...'

I felt a cold hand seize the back of my neck.

'Oh, my God, don't tell me she ruled against me?'

'Not precisely. She actually reported herself very impressed with you, very impressed with the way you have handled yourself in the wake of being separated from your son, very impressed as well with your recovery from your depression. But... uhm... I'm afraid she was also very impressed with your husband and Ms Dexter. And although it isn't her business to make a recommendation, she has let it be known that the child is in very good hands with his father and surrogate mother'.

I felt the phone trembling in my hand.

'Do... uhm... understand that this doesn't mean she's advised that the child stay with Ms Dexter' -

'And the second piece of bad news?'

'Well, this only arrived around an hour ago and... uhm... I'm still trying to digest it. It's a letter to me from your husband's solicitor, informing me that your husband and Ms Dexter are professionally relocating to Sydney for the next five years, where Ms Dexter has been engaged to start up a major new marketing concern'.

'Oh, God...'

'Yes... and their solicitor informs me they're planning to take Jack with them'.

I was now rigid with shock.

'Can they legally do that?' I managed to say.

'If the hearing goes their way and they make an application...'

He broke off. I said, 'Finish the sentence, Mr Clapp'.

'I'd really rather...'

'Finish the sentence'.

On the other end of the line, I could hear him take a deep steadying breath before saying, 'If the hearing goes their way - if they convince the judge that you are an unfit mother and an ongoing danger to your son - then you will have no say in the matter. They can take your son wherever they want to take him'.

Thirteen

'THE ISSUE HERE', Maeve Doherty said, 'comes down to one central question: where does the child best belong? That's what the court will be deciding - and because there have already been two legal decisions made in favour of the child's father, it's going to be our job to convince the judge that, at the very least, the child's best interests are served by joint residence between his mother and father, preferably with him spending more time with his mother'.

'But if Tony wins residence?' I asked.

'Then you'll have no say about where the child lives with his father', Maeve said. 'So if - as your husband's solicitors have indicated - he and his new partner are planning to settle in Sydney for several years, then they can most certainly take him there, even if you do object to being so geographically separated from your son. Naturally, should this happen, we can argue, and probably win you, visiting rights - but that will hardly be satisfactory. Unless, of course, you're willing to move to Australia'.

'Without a visa or a job? Sure'.

'Well, hopefully that won't come to pass. The problem here, however, is that two court orders have indicated that you could be considered an unfit mother, and that your alleged behaviour after the child's birth indicated that the child could potentially be harmed by you. Which is what they are going to argue again. Now we can certainly call a variety of professional witnesses who can both vouch for your mental stability, your fitness as a mother, and the fact that you were suffering from clinical depression at the time. How many statements do we have now, Nigel?'

'Eight altogether', he said. 'And... uhm... they're all very favourably disposed towards Ms Goodchild'.

'Which means we can count on eight favourable witnesses. The big sticking point, however, is the CAFCASS report. The court always pays attention to this report. It inevitably wields a considerable amount of influence on the final decision - as it can only be commissioned by the court, and it's also looked upon as the definitive statement on the case from the Social Services. Which is why I'm rather worried about this report. Because it doesn't come down firmly on your side, Sally. You concur with my worries, don't you, Nigel?'

We were sitting in Nigel's office. It was two days after the bombshell letter had arrived from Tony's solicitors, announcing his intentions to move to Australia. Though she was trying to juggle around four briefs at the same time, Maeve Doherty considered the situation serious enough to find a free hour to get down to Balham for a meeting with the three of us. Which is how I found myself making only my second visit to Nigel Clapp's office since he had started representing me.

'Uhm... in my experience', Nigel said, 'if the CAFCASS report doesn't challenge the status quo, the court will usually allow the status quo to be maintained. Which... uhm... I'm afraid to say might mean that residence will be granted to your husband, but with more generous and unsupervised visiting privileges. Which still means that they can take him to Australia. So, uhm, I'm in agreement with Ms Doherty... we need to strive for some sort of joint residence arrangement...'

'But Nigel', Maeve said, 'the problem here is not having any real ammunition against either Tony or his partner. Unless your "detective" has turned up something'.

Nigel almost managed a small embarrassed smile at the mention of his 'detective'.

'Shall I bring her in here to see what she's managed to uncover?' he said.

'Your detective's a she?' I asked.

Nigel started to blush.

'It's... uhm... Mrs Keating'.

'You're kidding me?' I said, then suddenly saw that this comment made him anxious.

'She's really rather good at it', he said.

'I can confirm that', Maeve said.

'Sorry, sorry', I said. 'I didn't mean to imply...'

'Why don't you get her in here?' Maeve said.

Nigel reached for the phone and dialled a number. From next door, we could hear Mrs Keating answer her phone with a loud, 'Yeah?'

'Would you mind coming in here for a moment, Rose - and could you please bring the Goodchild file with you'.

'Oh, yeah, right'.

She showed up a moment later. As she came in, I noticed brownish crumbs on her large floral dress. The remnants of bourbon creams, no doubt. Nigel re-introduced us. Though she had let me into the office only ten minutes earlier, she still looked at me as if I was some stranger whom she had never laid eyes on before. Nigel said, 'Ms Goodchild and Ms Doherty would like to hear the results of your investigation into Ms Dexter'.

'You want to read the report, or you want me to give you the condensed version?' she asked.

'Let's... uhm... hear the condensed version, then we can make photocopies for both of them of your report'.

'Fine by me', she said parking herself in a chair, and opening the file. 'Got all her specs here. Diane Dexter, born Leeds, 15 January 1953. Father worked for the local Gas Board, Mum was a housewife. She went to the local grammar school, a state primary. Bright girl - won a place at Leeds University in Economics. Went to London after getting her degree. Ten years in advertising. Worked for some big firms - including Dean Delaney, and John Hegarty. Then got headhunted by Apple UK to run their marketing division. Five years with them. Branched into market research. Co-founded a company - Market Force Ltd - in 1987 with a partner named Simon Chandler, with whom she was romantically linked for a time. When they broke up in 1990, he bought out her share of the firm, which she used to set up Dexter Communications, which has become super-successful over the last ten years, to the point where she's now worth around £10 million, with houses in... well, you know all that from the earlier Lawrence and Lambert report in the file.

'Now, here's what little dirt I could find on her. Two month's hospitalization in 1990 at the Priory for "psychotropic dependence" - better known as cocaine misuse. The bad news is that there were no arrests for drug possession, in fact nothing criminal whatsoever, bar a couple of points on her driving licence for speeding. And she's been totally clean since the Priory stint in '90. In fact, she's actually given talks to youth groups about her past addiction, and has also raised money for a charity that sponsored drug education programmes in and around Leeds'.

Great, I thought. A reformed druggie who's remained clear for thirteen years - and now does good charitable work as a way of making amends for her wayward past. Oh, and she's wildly successful and rich to boot.

'The cocaine angle is an interesting one', Maeve Doherty said. 'There might be something there. Anything else?'

'Besides the relationship with Simon Chandler, there have been two failed marriages: a two-year quickie to a chap she married out of university, and whom she divorced in '75. He's now a schoolteacher somewhere in Yorkshire. Then there was a six-year stint with a television director named Trevor Harriman, which ended when she met Simon Chandler in '85. In fact, Chandler was named as co-respondent in the divorce petition by her erstwhile husband. Since she and Chandler parted company in 1990, there have been a few affairs - including one with that thriller writer fellow, Philip Kimball, but nothing solid. Until she met Tony Hobbs in 1999'.

I interrupted here. 'Now Tony insisted that, from the outset, they were just friends'.

'Well', Rose Keating said, 'they may have been "just friends", but she took him on a South African holiday in '99, then scuba-diving on the Great Barrier Reef the following year, then spent a month with him in Cairo in 2001'.

'What month in 2001?' I asked.

'September'.

'That makes sense. We first hooked up in October of that year'.

'Hate to tell you this, but it was she who dropped him in September - on account of the fact that he wouldn't come back to London to live with her'.

Maeve Doherty came in here.

'Did you manage to find out when they started seeing each other again?'

She nodded. 'About twelve months ago - shortly after Mr Hobbs's return from Cairo'.

I sucked in my breath. And asked, 'How do you know that?'

'Ms Dexter's ex-housekeeper told me. He came over one afternoon to see her'.

Maeve Doherty asked, 'But did the ex-housekeeper state whether he was just visiting her or actually visiting her?'

'Oh, it was definitely the latter. He stayed with her until about one in the morning... and they didn't emerge from her bedroom until it was time for him to leave'.

... and to go home and tell me he'd been out boozing late with his chums.

Now I asked, 'And according to the housekeeper, was he regularly at her place thereafter?'

'According to the housekeeper, yeah', Rose Keating said. 'He was over there all the time'.

Maeve Doherty asked, 'I suppose Mr Hobbs's barrister could question the validity of the housekeeper's testimony... especially as she was an ex-employee'.

'That's right', Rose Keating said. 'Fired for alleged stealing'.

'Oh, great', I said.

'Yeah, but the housekeeper got legal advice and forced Ms Dexter's hand. Turns out not only did she receive a written apology from her, saying the whole charge was false, but she also got a cheque for a year's wages as a way of saying sorry'.

'And will this housekeeper be willing to testify?' Maeve Doherty asked.

'Oh, yes. She don't think much of Ms Dexter, that's for sure. And she also told me where and when the two of them slipped out of town for a little romantic rendezvous over the past six months. Twice in Brussels, once in Paris. Got the names of the hotels, called them up, they confirm that Mr Hobbs had company on both occasions. In fact, the concierge at the Hotel Montgomery in Brussels told me it was the same woman both times.

'Oh... one final important thing. Seems Ms Dexter miscarried a child when she was big into cocaine. The year afterwards, she tried IVF. Didn't take. Tried it again in '92 and '93, by which time she was forty, and the game was kind of over. The thing is - according to the ex-housekeeper - having a kid has become something of an obsession with her, to the point where, in the mid-nineties, she considered adopting for a while until business stuff superseded... seems she ran into a little corporate financial problem for a while...'

I looked at Rose Keating, amazed. 'How the hell did you find all this stuff out?'

She gave me a coy smile: 'I've got my ways, dear'.

Maeve Doherty said, 'The fact that they were carrying on while he was also married to you is good stuff. The fact that he has written that theirs was a friendship until your illness - and we have proof otherwise - is also good stuff. And the fact that she's been desperate for a baby all these years... well, we can certainly put two-plus-two together on that one'.

But then she looked at me directly and said, 'However, I have to be honest with you here, Sally. In my opinion, while all this evidence is useful, it still doesn't contradict, or undermine, the dirt they have against you'.

I suddenly felt in need of an extra dose of anti-depressants. Just as I suddenly saw myself down at the Aldwych, lining up with other would-be emigrants at Australia House, explaining to some bored consular official how my ex-husband and his new wife won residence of my child, and I want a visa for the Land of Oz so I'll be able to have my weekly visit with my little boy. To which the consular official would undoubtedly ask, 'And why did your husband receive residence of your little boy?'

'Uhm... Ms Goodchild?'

I snapped back to terra firma.

'You all right, dear?' Rose Keating asked me.

'I'm trying to be'.

'The problem is', Maeve Doherty said, 'the Final Hearing is in twelve days. And unless...'

Nigel Clapp came in here. 'Uhm... I think what Ms Doherty is getting at is... uhm... well, to be completely direct about it, we need to find something else on either your husband or Ms Dexter. As Ms Keating has done such a thorough job sifting through Ms Dexter's life' -

'Can you think of anything about your husband that might be useful?' Maeve asked me.

'You mean, besides the fact that he dodged marriage for years and told me he never wanted kids?'

'But he still brought you with him to London when you became pregnant', Maeve said.

'I don't know', I said. 'His life was pretty much work and the occasional girlfriend before I came along. I can't say he told me much about all that. In fact, the only time I found out anything about his old private life was when some journo in Cairo told me...'

At that moment, I heard a tiny little ping in the back of my brain; a single line of conversation that had been spoken to me around seven months ago. Something which, in my confusion at the time, I hadn't even picked up on. Until now. When, out of nowhere, it was yanked up from the dustbin of my brain and placed in front of me.

'Are you all right, dear?' Rose Keating asked me.

'Could I use your phone, please?'

I called Directory Enquiries for Seaford. The number I wanted was listed, but the person I needed to speak with wasn't there. I left a message, asking her to call me at home in London urgently. Then I went back to Nigel's office and explained whom I was trying to contact, what she said to me some months earlier, and why it might prove useful.

'It's a bit of a long shot', I explained, 'because what she said was pretty damn vague. But it's worth finding out what she meant by it'.

'Uhm... do you think you could track her down and talk to her?' Nigel Clapp asked. 'We have just twelve days'.

Twelve days. That deadline kept looming in my mind. As did the realization that Maeve Doherty had been speaking the truth: without some new evidence, the court would probably find for Tony. The record spoke for itself.

Twelve days. I rushed home to Putney and checked my messages. Just one - from Jane Sanjay, informing me she was back in the country, but was down visiting friends in Brighton for a week before starting work again. 'We'll do that lunch sometime in the future... and, of course, I'll see you at the High Court for the hearing. Hope you're somehow keeping calm...'

Hardly. I re-dialled the Seaford number. Once again, I was connected to the answer phone. Once again, I left a message. Then I went back to work on the Film Guide. But unlike my previous proofreading stints, this time I was unable to fall into the rabbit hole of work and cut off from the outside world for a two-hour stretch. This time, I kept glancing at the phone, willing it to ring. Which it didn't.

So I called back and left another message. Then I started calling at three-hour intervals.

At the end of the day, the phone did ring. I jumped. But it was Rose Keating.

'Just called to see if there was any news?' she asked.

'She hasn't rung me back yet'.

'Keep trying, dear', she said, though I also grasped the subtext of what she was saying: we need something new.

By midnight, I must have called another eight times. I slept fitfully and eventually found myself at the kitchen table around five that morning, proofing some more pages. At seven, I tried the Seaford number. No answer. I tried again at ten, at three, at six. Then, when I phoned at eight-thirty, the unexpected happened. It was actually answered. When Pat Hobbs heard my voice, she became indignant.

'Was that you calling me all the time yesterday?'

'Ms Hobbs... Pat... please hear me out...'

'Don't you go calling me by my name. I don't know you'.

'I'm Tony's wife...'

'I bloody well remember. You bothered me all those months ago...'

'It's an urgent situation'.

'Is he dead or dying?'

'No, but...'

'Then it's not urgent'.

'If you'd just let me explain...'

'Don't think I will'.

'It's just one simple question'.

'Which I'm not going to answer, no matter what it is. And I don't want you disturbing me again'.

She hung up. I rang back. The line was busy. I called back again ten minutes later. Still busy. Half an hour later. Still busy. She'd taken it off the hook. I paced the kitchen with worry. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Then I found myself reaching for the phone and calling National Rail Enquiries, and finding out that if I caught the 21.32 from Putney to Clapham Junction, and changed for the 21.51 to Eastbourne, I would arrive in Seaford at 23.22.

I threw a few things into an overnight bag - thinking that, as it was a seaside town, there must be a few bed-and-breakfasts down there. Then I ran for the train.

As I walked out of Seaford station two hours later, I caught that iodine smack to the air that hinted that the sea was near. There was one lone cab outside. I showed him the address - garnered from Directory Enquiries.

'It's just three minutes' walk from here', he said, pointing towards a Safeway supermarket opposite the station. I thanked him and started walking. The streets were empty. The lamplight was low, so all I could discern was a small main street with a jumble of Edwardian and modern buildings - including a very modern, boxy branch of Safeway. I turned right before it, and found myself on a street of lowlying shops, at the end of which were a handful of pebble-dashed bungalows. No 26 was the second from the end. It was painted cream. It had lace curtains in the windows. It also had a wooden sign above the door, informing the world that this house had been named: Sea Crest. My plan had been to seek out the house, then find a B&B nearby, and set the little travel alarm I brought with me for six-thirty, in order to be at her door by seven. She might hate the early morning wake-up call, but at least I'd have a chance of catching her before she went off to work (if, that is, she did work). But when I reached her front door, I saw that all the lights were on. So, figuring it was best to incur her wrath while she was still awake, I approached the door and rang the bell.

After a moment, the door opened slightly. It was attached to a chain. Behind the chain, I could see a woman with a very lined face and scared eyes. But the voice was as angry as before.

'What do you want at this time of night?'

I quickly put my foot into the space created between the open door and the door frame, saying, 'I'm Tony's wife, Sally Good' -

'Get out of here', she said, trying to slam the door.

'I just need five minutes of your time, please'.

'You don't leave right now, I'm calling the police'.

She tried slamming the door again.

'Just hear me out...'

'At bloody midnight? No way. Now get going or...'

'He's taken my child from me'.

Silence. This obviously gave her pause, and it showed.

'Who's taken your child from you?'

'Your brother'.

'You have a child with Tony?'

'A son - Jack. He's about nine months old now. And Tony has...'

I put my hand to my face. I felt myself starting to get shaky again. I didn't want to cry in front of this woman.

'He's what?' she asked, the voice not so hard now.

'He's run off with another woman. And they've taken my son...'

I could see a mixture of concern and ambivalence in her eyes.

'I haven't had anything to do with my brother for nearly twenty years'.

'I understand. And I promise you I won't take up more than ten minutes of your time. But please - the situation is rather desperate. Believe me, I wouldn't be here at midnight if...'

I heard her undoing the chain.

'Ten minutes, no more', she said. And she opened the door.

I stepped on to a patterned, wall-to-wall carpet. It continued down a hallway papered in a brownish floral print. The living room was off this corridor. More Axminster carpet, a three-piece suite in beige vinyl, an elderly television and video recorder; an old mahogany sideboard, on which sat a half-drunk bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream, and a half litre of inexpensive-looking gin. There were no decorations on the walls - just a different patterned floral wallpaper: sepia-toned and fading. There was a distinctive whiff of damp in the air.

'So what do you want to tell me?' she asked.

Like so many times over the past months, I worked my way through the entire story again. Pat Hobbs sat there throughout the telling, impassive, smoking one Silk Cut after another. I knew she was around ten years older than Tony - and though she wasn't chunky, her deeply ridged face and sad eyes and the elderly floral bathrobe that loosely covered her frame made her seem almost geriatric. Somewhere halfway through the story, she interrupted me, asking, 'You drink gin?'

I nodded. She got up and filled two glasses with gin, then added some flat tonic from a bottle on the sideboard. She handed me a glass. I took a sip. The flat tonic was pretty vile. Ditto the metallic taste of the cheap gin. But it was alcohol, and it helped.

It took about another ten minutes to bring her fully up to date. She smoked another two cigarettes during that time. And finally said, 'I could have told you my brother was a bastard. A charming bastard, but a bastard nonetheless. So, besides saying sorry for your troubles, what can I do about this?'

I took another steadying sip of gin, knowing that if I didn't win her over now, this entire late-night visit would come to naught. Then I said, 'Remember when we spoke some time ago, and I mentioned that Tony had just left me, and you asked me...'

I encapsulated the conversation for her, even though I remembered it, word for word.

'How long have you two been married now?' she asked me.

'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'.

I looked at her directly now and asked, 'What did you mean by "maybe"'.

She lit up another cigarette. I could see that she was weighing this all up, wondering if she should involve herself at all in my story. I was asking her to betray her brother. And though she mightn't have spoken with him for twenty years, her brother was still her brother.

She took a deep drag of her Silk Cut, then exhaled.

'I'll tell you - on one condition. You never heard this from me. Understand?'

I nodded. Now it was her turn to tell a story. Two stories in fact, though they were all part of the same central narrative. Then, when she reached the end of her tales, she stood up and went out into the hallway, and returned with an address book, and a scrap of paper and a pen. She found two numbers. She wrote them down. She said, 'Now you can deal with them. But understand: I'm to be kept out of the picture'.

I assured her that I'd say nothing about her involvement, then thanked her profusely for helping me out, letting her know that I realized what a difficult thing she had just done.

'It wasn't difficult at all'.

She stood up, indicating it was time for me to leave.

'Must get up for work in the morning', she said.

'What do you do?'

'Cashier for a building society here in town'.

'You like it?'

'It's a job'.

'I can't thank you enough...'

She waved me off. She didn't want gratitude.

'All right then', I said, picking up my overnight bag. 'But I still appreciate everything'.

She gave me a brusque nod, then opened the door. I was going to ask her where I could find the nearest B&B, but thought better of it. I didn't want to engage her further. Especially as she had already done so much.

I headed up the street in the direction of town, not particularly worried if all the B&B's in Seaford were full or shuttered for the night. If I had to sleep on a bench in the station, so be it. The gamble had paid off. A sleepless night was well worth what I had come away with. But halfway down the street, I heard Pat Hobbs's voice calling, 'Where are you going now?'

I turned around. She was standing in the doorway of her house.

'I don't know. Figure there must be a B&B or a hotel open now'.

'At nearly one am in Seaford? Everyone's in bed. Come on, I've got a spare bedroom'.

The room was narrow and musty. So too was the bed. There was a small, sad collection of old children's dolls on a window sill. She didn't say much to me, except that the bathroom was down the hall and there was a spare towel in the airing cupboard. Then she wished me goodnight.

I undressed and crawled between the sheets. I fell asleep within minutes.

Then it was morning and she was tapping on my door, telling me it was eight and she had to be at work in an hour. Pat was dressed for the building society in a navy-blue uniform with a blue blouse and a blue-and-white scarf depicting the corporate logo of the conglomerate that employed her. An old-style brown tea-pot was on a metal warmer. There was a steel toast rack with two slices of white toast awaiting me, as well as a jar of marmalade and a tub of margarine.

'Thought you might like a little breakfast', she said.

'Thank you', I said.

'Tea all right? I don't drink coffee'.

'Tea's fine'.

I sat down at the table. I reached for a slice of toast and spread it with marmalade. Pat lit up a cigarette.

'Made those calls for you already', she said.

'Sorry?'

'Them two numbers I gave you last night. I called them both already. They're both willing to see you. What are you up to today?'

'I'm free', I said, genuinely pleased and just a little surprised by such a gesture.

'That's good, because the first person - the one who lives in Crawley - said she's around this morning. And I called the rail station - there's a train from here to Gatwick Airport at 9.03, but you have to change in Brighton. You get to Gatwick at 10.06, and then it's ten minutes in a cab to her house. The other woman can't see you today. But she's free tomorrow morning. However she lives in Bristol. She's expecting you at eleven, which means you'll need to be on a train from London around nine. All right?'

'I don't know what to say, except that I'm rather overwhelmed...'

'That's enough', she said, evidently wanting to avoid any more of my effusiveness. 'Hope it goes well for you, and that's all I'm going to say about it'.

We lapsed into silence. I tried to make conversation.

'Lived in Seaford long?'

'Twenty-three years'.

'That's long. And before that?'

'Amersham. Lived with my parents until they both died. Then felt like a change. Didn't want to be rambling around their house without them. So I asked the building society to transfer me somewhere different. They offered Seaford. Kind of liked the idea of being near the water. Came here in 1980. Bought this place with my share of the Amersham house. Never moved anywhere since'.

'Were you married or' -

'No', she said, cutting me off. 'Never did that'.

She stubbed out her cigarette. I had crossed the frontier into the personal, and the conversation was now closed.

She walked me to the station. When we reached the entrance, I said, 'Thanks for putting me up again. Hope I wasn't too much trouble'.

'First time I've had anyone to stay in about seven years'.

I touched her arm. 'Can I call you, tell you how things worked out?'

'Rather you didn't', she said. And with another curt nod of the head, she quickly said 'Goodbye' and headed off.

While waiting to board the train to Gatwick, I found myself studying a map of East Sussex on the wall of the station. As my eye moved slightly northeast of Seaford, I noticed the town of Litlington - scene of my infamous arrival at Diane Dexter's gate. Using my index finger, I gauged the distance between the two towns, then held my finger up against the mileage indicator at the bottom of the map. Tony was now spending weekends just three miles from where his sister lived.

I changed trains at Brighton. At Gatwick I took a cab to a modern house on a modest estate in Crawley. The woman there granted me thirty minutes of her time, told me everything I wanted to hear, and said that, yes, she would agree to an additional interview by one of my legal team. Then I took a cab back to the railway station. While waiting for the train, I called Nigel Clapp, excitedly blurting out everything that had happened in the last twelve hours. He said nothing while I rambled on. And when I finally concluded with the comment 'Not bad, eh?', he said, 'Yes, that is rather good news'.

Which, from Nigel Clapp, ranked as something approaching high optimism.

He also said he'd make arrangements to dispatch Rose Keating down to Crawley to take a witness statement.

Around noon the next day, I called him from Bristol with more good news: I had heard exactly what I wanted to hear from my second Pat Hobbs contact, and she too was ready to make a witness statement. Once again, he was enthusiasm itself: 'You've done very well, Ms Goodchild'.

Maeve Doherty concurred, ringing me two days later to say how pleased she was with my detective work.

'It is certainly very interesting testimony', she said, sounding cautious and guarded. 'And if carefully positioned in the hearing, it might have an impact. I'm not saying it's the smoking gun I'd like - but it is, without question, most compelling'.

Then she asked me if I was free to drop by her chambers for an hour, so we could go through how she was planning to examine me when I gave evidence at the hearing, and what I should expect from Tony's barrister.

Though she only needed to see me for sixty minutes, the round-trip journey to Chancery Lane ate up two hours. Time was something of which I was in short supply right now - as I had lost over a full working day on my assorted expeditions to Sussex and Bristol, and as the Film Guide proofs had to be in before the hearing began. Once inside her chambers, I found myself kneading a piece of paper in my hands as we did a run-through of my testimony. She told me that kneading a piece of paper was something I must definitely avoid doing while being questioned, as it made me look hyper and terrified. Then she did a practice run of a potential cross-examination, terrorizing me completely, coldly haranguing me, attacking all my weaknesses, and undermining all my defences.

'Now you have me scared to death', I said after she finished.

'Don't be', she said. 'Because you actually did very well indeed. The thing to remember is that she will do more than her level best to trip you up, and to make you seem like a complete and utter liar. She will also try to make you angry. The one trick here is: do not take the bait. Keep your answers brief and concise. Avoid eye contact with her. Keep repeating the same thing, again and again. Do not deviate from your story and you'll be just fine'.

I doubted that - but, thankfully, the terror of the hearing was briefly superseded by the more immediate terror of not making the deadline. I was actually grateful for the pressure, as it did block out the fear I had. It also forced me to work fourteen-hour days for the last week. Bar the occasional trip to the supermarket for food - and a fast thirty-minute canter along the tow path by the river - I didn't leave the house... except, of course, for my weekly visit with Jack. He was crawling now, and making a wide variety of sounds, and liked being tickled, and especially enjoyed a routine I did which involved holding him above me while I lay on the floor, and then going, 'One, two, three, boom' and pulling him straight down on top of me. In fact, he thought this hilarious, and in his own monosyllabic way, kept indicating that he wanted me to repeat it, over and over again. Which, of course, I was only too willing to do. Until Clarice walked in and informed me that our hour was up.

As always, this was the hardest moment. The hand-over. There were days when I clutched Jack to me and fought tears. There were other days when he would look a little disconcerted and perturbed by having to end our fun together, and I fought tears. There were days when he'd fallen asleep or was having a crying jag or just generally feeling out of sorts, and I fought tears. Today was no different. I picked us both up off the floor. I put his head against mine. I kissed him. I said, 'Next week, big guy'

Then I handed him to Clarice. She disappeared into the next room. I sat down in one of the moulded plastic chairs and - for the first time since our initial supervised visit - I broke down. Clarice came in. She sat down beside me, and put her arm around me, and allowed me to bury my head in her shoulder as I let go. To her infinite credit, she said nothing. I think she understood the pressure I had been under - both to behave correctly and calmly in her presence, and to withstand the enforced separation of the last months with a necessary equanimity, in order not to be judged a troublemaker. Just as she also understood what I was facing in just three days' time. And how, if it didn't go my way...

So she held me and let me cry. And when I finally subsided, she said, 'I hope that, by this time next week, these supervised visits will just be a bad memory for you, and you'll be back with your little boy'.

Meanwhile, I had a job to finish - and I was determined to have it done before the start of the hearing, in order to allow me a decent night's sleep before heading to the High Court.

A few days before the hearing Sandy called me.

'So, Tuesday morning's the big day, right?'

'That's right'.

'I wish I was a Catholic. I'd have Mass said for you'.

'Divine intervention isn't going to help me now'.

'You never know. Anyway, promise you'll call me Tuesday evening'.

'You'll definitely be hearing from me'.

I hung up. And worked that night until three, then fell into bed, and got up again at seven, and worked straight through (with an hour's nap somewhere in the middle of the day) until seven next morning. At which time, I sat in a bath, and congratulated myself on finishing this endless proofreading job.

The manuscript went off by motorcycle courier at nine. I headed off to the public baths in Putney shortly thereafter and spent an hour doing laps in the pool. Then I went off and had my hair done, and took myself to lunch, then crossed the road to the local cinema and sat through some romantic drivel starring Meg Ryan, then collected my one suit from the dry cleaner's, and was home by five, and received a phone call from Maeve Doherty - telling me that she had just been informed of the judge who would be hearing the case.

'His name is Charles Traynor'.

'Is he a reasonable judge?' I asked her.

'Well...'

'In other words, he's not reasonable'.

'I would have preferred someone else besides him. Very old school. Very play it by the book. Very traditional...'

He sounded exactly like the last guy I faced. I asked, 'Are you saying that he hates women?'

'Now to call him a misogynist might be just a tad extreme. But he does have a rather orthodox viewpoint on family matters'.

'Wonderful. Did you ever argue a case in front of this Traynor guy?'

'Oh, yes. And I have to say that, when I came up against him five years ago, Charles Traynor struck me as the worst sort of Old Etonian: stuffy, conceited, and someone who clearly couldn't stand everything I stood for. Yet, by the end of the hearing, I completely respected him. Because - whatever about his High Tory demeanour and his questionable attitudes towards women (especially those who work for a living) - he's also scrupulously fair when it comes to the application of the law. So I certainly wouldn't fear him'.

I decided to put all such fears on hold for the night - because I knew they would all come rushing in at daybreak. So I forced myself into bed by nine and slept straight through until the alarm went off at seven the next morning.

As I snapped into consciousness, there was a moment or two of delicious befuddlement until the realization hit:

This is it.

I was at the High Court just after ten-fifteen. I didn't want to get there too early as I knew I'd just loiter with intent outside the main Gothic archway, getting myself into an advanced stage of fear. As it was, I was clutching the Independent so tensely on the Underground journey to Temple that it had started to fray. The court was already in full swing by the time I arrived, with be-wigged barristers walking by, accompanied by solicitors lugging hefty document cases and anxious-looking civilians, who were either the plaintiffs or defendants in the legal dramas taking place within this vast edifice. Nigel Clapp appeared, pulling one of those airline pilot cases on wheels. Maeve Doherty was with him, dressed in a very conservative black suit - having explained to me during our meeting the previous week that, like the Interim Hearing, there would be no wigs, no robes. Just dark suits and (as she dryly noted) 'the usual dour formalities'.

'Uhm... good morning, Ms Goodchild', Nigel said.

I attempted a smile and tried to appear calm. Maeve immediately detected my anxiousness.

'Just remember that it will be all over in a few days - and we stand a very good chance now of changing the situation. Especially as I spoke with those two witnesses yesterday on the phone. You did very well, Sally'.

A black cab pulled up in front of us. The door opened - and for the first time in over eight months, I found myself looking at the man who was still, legally speaking, my husband. Tony had put on a little weight in the interim, but he still looked damnably handsome, and had dressed well for the occasion in a black suit, a dark blue shirt, and a tie which I'd bought on impulse for him at Selfridges around a year ago. When he caught sight of me, his hand covered his tie for a moment, before he gave me the smallest of nods, then turned away. I couldn't look at him either, and also deflected his glance. But in that moment, an image jumped into my brain: climbing aboard that Red Cross chopper in Somalia, and catching sight of Tony Hobbs seated opposite me on the floor, giving me the slightest of flirtatious smiles - one which I met in turn. That's how our story started - and this is where it had now brought us: to the steps of a court of law, surrounded by our respective legal teams, unable to look each other in the eye.

Tony's barrister, Lucinda Fforde, followed him, along with the same solicitor she used for the Interim Hearing. And then Diane Dexter emerged from the cab. Viewed up close, she did not contradict the image I had of her: tall, sleek, elegantly dressed in a smart business suit, tight black hair, a face that was wearing its fifty years with relative ease. I wouldn't have described her as a beautiful woman, or even pretty. She was handsome in a quietly formidable way. Having caught sight of me on the steps of the High Court, she looked right through me. Then, en masse, the four of them walked by us into the building, the two barristers exchanging pleasantly formal greetings with each other. It then struck me that with the exception of Nigel Clapp, who was in his usual shade of mid-grey, all the other participants in this little drama were all dressed in black, as if we were all attending a funeral.

'Well', Maeve said, 'it looks like we're all here. So...'

She nodded towards the door and we all walked in. Maeve led us through the High Court's vast foyer. We turned left, crossed a courtyard, and entered The Thomas More Building, which, according to Maeve, was largely used for family law cases. Then, it was up two flights of stairs until we reached Court 43: a large chapel-like courtroom in bleached wood, much like the one in which the Interim Hearing was held. There were six rows of benches. The judge's bench was positioned on a raised platform. The witness stand was to its immediate left. Beyond this was a doorway, which (I presumed) led to the judge's chambers. As before, we were on the left side of the court; Tony and Company to the right. There was a court stenographer and a court clerk positioned at the front. Maeve had already explained to me that, as Tony was making 'application' to retain residence of Jack, he had been (legally speaking) cast in the role of applicant... and since I was being forced to 'respond' to this application, I would be known in court as the respondent. Tony's team would be opening the case and presenting their evidence first. His barrister would have already submitted her skeleton argument to the judge (as Maeve had submitted hers). Witnesses would be called, largely to corroborate the statements they had made. After each 'examination in chief' Maeve would be permitted to cross-examine the witnesses, then Lucinda Fforde could re-examine, if she desired.

'We've largely gone over to the French inquisitorial model when it comes to family law', Maeve explained to me when we met in her chambers, 'which means that, unlike the States, neither side can interrupt the other's examination of a witness unless it is absolutely crucial'. After the applicant's case had been presented, we would give our evidence. Then after our case was presented, there would be closing arguments. We'd go first, with Tony's barrister to follow. Then Maeve would be allowed to make a response, after which Tony's barrister would have the final word.

'And I know what you're going to say: that is completely unfair if you happen to be the respondent. Which is, I'm afraid, absolutely right. But that's how the system works - and there's precious little any of us can do about it. Except to make absolutely certain that they won't be able to pick apart anything we've presented to the court - which is my job'.

Whereas my job was to sit there and wonder if I'd ever live with my son again.

Maeve Doherty positioned herself in the front row of the courtroom. I sat with Nigel Clapp directly behind her. Tony's side had exactly the same seating arrangements. I glanced at my watch. 10.31 am. The judge had yet to arrive. I knew already from Maeve that the hearing would be closed to members of the public, so the visitors' pews at the back of the court would remain empty. But then, suddenly, the main door opened and I heard a very familiar voice say my name.

The voice was that of my sister, Sandy. I turned around. There she was, looking tired and disorientated, and dragging a roll-on suitcase behind her. I stood up, stunned. I said, 'What are you doing here?'

My tone wasn't wildly enthusiastic - and she picked up on this immediately.

'I just thought I should be here'.

Tony craned his neck, and appeared stunned to see her in court.

'What are you looking at?' she snapped at him, and he instantly turned away. Then she turned to me and whispered, 'Aren't you pleased I'm here?'

I gave her a quick hug and whispered, 'Of course, of course. It's just a shock, that's all. Did you just arrive?'

'Yep. Just took the subway in from Heathrow. I suppose you can find a bed for me for a couple of nights'.

I managed a small smile. 'I think that can be arranged. Who's looking after the kids?'

'You know my neighbours, the Fultons? Their two are away at summer camp, so it was no sweat for them to...'

But we were interrupted by the court clerk announcing: 'Please stand'. I motioned Sandy to find a pew, and I went racing back to my spot next to Nigel Clapp. He was already standing.

'My sister', I whispered to him.

'Oh... uhm... right', he said.

The rear door opened, and Mr Justice Charles Traynor walked in. He was in his early sixties. Large. Imposing. Well-upholstered. With a full head of steel hair and an imperial bearing that immediately let it be known he thought a great deal of himself. His three-piece black suit was immaculate. So too was his white shirt and a school tie which I guessed to be Eton (and which Maeve later confirmed to be correct). He took his place on the bench. He bowed to us, we bowed to him. He nodded for us to sit down. He removed a pair of half-moon spectacles from the breast pocket of his suit and placed them on his nose. He cleared his throat. The clerk called the court to order. Traynor peered out at us. I could see him catch sight of the lone visitor in the back row.

'And whom might you be?'

Nigel quickly whispered an explanation to Maeve Doherty, who rose and said, 'My Lord, that is the sister of the respondent, who has just arrived from the States to be with Ms Goodchild for the hearing. We ask the court's permission to allow her to stay'.

Traynor looked towards Lucinda Fforde.

'Does the applicant's counsel wish to raise any objections to this visitor?'

'One moment, please, My Lord', she said, then leaned back and had a quick sotto voce conversation with Tony and his solicitor. After a moment, she stood and said, 'We have no objections, My Lord'.

'Very well then - the visitor may stay'.

I avoided turning around and looking at Sandy right then - for fear she'd do something mildly triumphalist and well-meaning, like giving me the thumbs up.

Traynor cleared his throat. Then, without any fancy preamble or explanatory comments, he asked the applicant's barrister to begin presenting her client's case.

Lucinda Fforde stood up with a little bow of the head towards the bench, and began to speak.

'My Lord, having been in receipt of my statement, you are in no doubt aware that this is, without question, a desperately sad and tragic case...'

With that, off she went, painting a picture of an intensely successful professional man - Anthony Hobbs, 'one of the outstanding journalists of his generation' - who had found himself involved with a woman about whom he knew very little, and who became pregnant only a few short weeks into their liaison. Of course, Mr Hobbs could have played the cad and turned his back on this woman. Instead, upon learning of his transfer back to London, he asked if she would like to accompany him - and, in fact, regularize their situation through marriage. Now though there's no doubt that Ms Goodchild had a most difficult pregnancy, and also had to cope with a most severe postnatal depression, her behaviour became exceptionally erratic, to the point where...

And then - as in her opening at the Interim Hearing - she listed and embellished everything they had against me. My initial anguished statement in hospital that I didn't care if Jack lived or died. My increasingly erratic behaviour while at the Mattingly. My threat to kill him. The sleeping pill poisoning incident. My incarceration in the psycho ward. The wondrous steadfastness of my husband through all of this...

At which point, in the back of the court, there was a loud angry exhalation of breath. Sandy. Lucinda Fforde stopped in mid-speech, and craned her neck to see who caused this interruption. So did Maeve and Nigel Clapp, where Mr Justice Traynor simply peered over his bi-focals and asked, 'Did somebody say something?'

Sandy hung her head, avoiding all those accusatory eyes.

'See that it doesn't happen again', the Judge said crisply, in a tone that indicated the next time he would not be polite about it. Then he asked Lucinda Fforde to continue.

She picked up from where she left off, outlining Tony's decency, and how he stood by me even after I spoke of murdering our son, and how he turned, in despair, to his old friend, Diane Dexter, who offered shelter from the maniacal...

And so forth. And so on. I had to hand it to her: she was brisk. She was concise. She was tough. She left the listener in no doubt that I had turned infanticidal - and that, as horrible as it was to separate a mother from its child, there was no choice in this instance. To allow the child back with its mother now, she argued, would only put him back in renewed jeopardy - something, she was certain, the court didn't want to facilitate. Especially as the child was so happily settled with his father and Ms Dexter.

Now I had heard most of these arguments before. But it still didn't lessen the impact of hearing them again. Like all good barristers, Lucinda Fforde was a brilliant persuader - and one who, in clear, precise, rational language, turned me into a terrifying wretch who so didn't know what she was doing that she seriously considered killing her son.

It was now Maeve's turn to outline our case, and she did so with impressive lucidity and compactness - brevity (she told me) being one of the virtues that Traynor preferred. She began by quickly reminding the judge of my journalistic background, my long-standing work as a foreign correspondent with the Boston Post, my ability to cope admirably as a journalist and a woman in the Middle East. She then detailed, in about three sentences, my whirlwind romance with Mr Hobbs, falling pregnant at the age of thirty-seven, reaching that 'now or never' juncture that a woman approaching forty reaches on the question of motherhood, deciding to come with him to London, and then being hit with a nightmare pregnancy.

She took him through my decline and fall - her language economic, rigorous, and devoid of melodramatic pity for what had befallen me. She was a first-rate storyteller - and she had Traynor's full attention as she pressed forward to the end of her opening statement.

'Though Ms Goodchild has never denied that - while in the throes of a clinical depression - she once expressed lack of concern about the child's survival, and once uttered a threat against her son, she never carried out this threat, nor committed any violent action against him. She also openly admits that, while suffering from sleep deprivation and her ongoing postnatal depression, she did accidentally breastfeed her son while taking sedatives - an incident for which she still feels ongoing remorse.

'But those three incidents I've just outlined are the entire sum total of the "crimes and misdemeanours" that my client has been accused of committing by the applicant. And out of these three incidents, the applicant manipulated the facts to initially obtain an emergency ex parte order against Ms Goodchild - a hearing that conveniently took place while she was out of the country at a family funeral. The applicant has since further exploited these incidents to win the Interim order, granting him residence of the child, essentially condemning Ms Goodchild as an unfit mother, and, with the exception of one pitiful hour a week, separating my client from her infant son for the past six months. I say that the applicant has acted in a ruthless, opportunistic fashion against his wife - and all for his own gain'.

She sat down. There was a moment's pause. Then Lucinda Fforde stood up and called her first witness: Mr Thomas Hughes.

In he marched, dressed in an excellent suit, his demeanour every bit the arrogant Harley Street specialist. He stepped into the witness box, took the oath, and then nodded with a certain old boy politeness to Mr Justice Traynor. It was at that moment that I noticed they were wearing the same school tie.

'Mr Hughes, you are considered, are you not, one of the leading obstetrics specialists in the country', Ms Fforde began, and then reminded the court that his witness statement had been submitted earlier. But just to verify the details of this statement, was it his opinion that Ms Goodchild's behaviour was abnormally extreme while under his care at the Mattingly Hospital?

He launched into this subject with reasoned relish, explaining how, in all his years as a consultant, I was one of the most aggressive and extreme patients he had encountered. He then went on to explain how, shortly after the birth of my son, the nurses on the ward had reported to him about my dangerously 'capricious and volatile behaviour'.

'Desperate stretches of crying', he said, 'followed by immoderate bouts of anger, and an absolute lack of interest in the welfare of her child - who, at that moment, was resident in the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit'.

'Now, in your witness statement', Lucinda Fforde said, 'you emphasize this latter point, noting how one of the nurses reported to you that Ms Goodchild said - and this is a direct quote: "He is dying - and I don't care. You get that? I don't care'."

'I'm afraid that is correct. After her son was recovering from jaundice, she became extremely unsettled in front of the entire maternity ward, to the point where I had to verbally calm her down and inform her that her behaviour was most unacceptable'.

'Now it has been clinically argued that Ms Goodchild was in the throes of a postnatal depression during this time. Surely, you have dealt before with other patients suffering from this sort of condition?'

'Of course. It is certainly not an atypical condition. However, I have yet to deal with a patient who reacted in such a profoundly aggressive and dangerous manner - to the point where, when I heard that her husband had sought a court order to remove the child from her, I was not at all surprised'.

'Thank you very much, Mr Hughes. No further questions at this juncture'.

Maeve Doherty now stood. Her voice was cool, level.

'Mr Hughes... I'd like to ask you when you had Ms Goodchild bound to her hospital bed'.

He looked startled. 'I never ordered that at all', he said, his tone indignant.

'And when did you have her heavily tranquillized?'

'She was never heavily tranquillized. She was on a modest anti-depressant to deal with the postoperative shock she suffered from her emergency Caesarean...'

'And when you had her committed to the psychiatric wing of the Mattingly...'

'She was never committed, she was never heavily tranquillized, she was never bound to her bed'.

Maeve Doherty looked at him and smiled.

'Well sir, having stated that, how can you then say that she was a dangerous patient? Surely if she had been a dangerous patient, you would have ordered her to be bound...'

'It is true that she did not commit acts of physical violence, but her verbal behaviour...'

'But, as you just said, she was suffering from postoperative shock, not to mention trying to cope with the fact that her son was in Intensive Care. And there was an initial worry about whether the child had suffered brain damage during the delivery. Now, surely, under such circumstances, one might expect the patient to be rather agitated'.

'There is a large difference between agitation and...'

'Rudeness?'

Traynor came in here.

'Please refrain from putting words in the witness's mouth'.

'Apologies, My Lord', Maeve Doherty said, then turned back to Hughes.

'Let me put it to you this way: if we have agreed that Ms Goodchild wasn't violent or so extreme in her behaviour, then how can you justify your claim that she was one of the most extreme patients you have ever dealt with?'

'Because, as I was trying to say earlier, before you interrupted me, her verbal abusiveness was so immoderate'.

'In what way immoderate?'

'She was thoroughly rude and disrespectful...'

'Ah', Maeve said loudly. 'She was disrespectful. Towards you, I presume?'

'Towards me and other members of the staff, yes'.

'But specifically, towards you, yes?'

'She did act in an angry manner towards me'.

'Did she use obscene language, did she hurl insults at you, or call you names... ?'

'No, not exactly... But she did challenge my medical judgment'.

'And that is extreme verbal abuse, in your book?'

Hughes glanced at Lucinda Fforde, like an actor asking for a prompt.

'Please answer my question', Maeve Doherty said.

'My patients usually don't question me like that', he said.

'But this American one did - and you didn't like it, did you?'

But before he could reply, she said, 'No further questions, My Lord'.

The judge turned to Lucinda Fforde and asked if she'd like to re-examine.

'Please, My Lord', she said, standing up. 'Mr Hughes, please repeat for me the comment which one of your nurses reported as being said by Ms Goodchild when told about her son'.

Hughes's lips twitched into a relaxed smile. Then he wiped that off his face and stared at me with cold ire.

'She informed me that Ms Goodchild said: "He is dying - and I don't care. You get that? I don't care."'

'Thank you, Mr Hughes. No further questions'.

He looked to the judge, who informed him he could step down. Then, glowering at Maeve Doherty, he left the court.

Next up was Sheila McGuire - the ward nurse who had shopped me to Hughes about the breastfeeding incident. She seemed desperately nervous and ill at ease on the stand, and had a handkerchief between her hands which she continued to knead. Maeve knew she was going to be the second witness, and told me that a useful passive-aggressive tactic against someone who would be testifying against me was to catch her eye, and simply stare at her throughout her testimony. I did just that - and it did have the desired effect, as her discomfort level increased proportionately. But she still managed to recount the entire story about how I yanked Jack off my breast in anger while feeding him, and had to be restrained from throwing him across the room.

During cross-examination, Maeve Doherty cornered her on her use of the word, 'yanking'.

'Now, explain this to me clearly', Maeve said. 'Ms Goodchild just suddenly yanked the child off her breast in fury at having been bitten...'

'Well, it wasn't exactly a yank!

'By which you mean what?'

'Well, she yanked, but she didn't intentionally yank.. '.

'I'm sorry, I don't follow'.

'Well... Ms Goodchild had been suffering from acute mastitis...'

'Otherwise known as inflammation of the breast which can calcify the milk flow, yes?'

'It doesn't always calcify, but it can cause a terrible blockage which can be deeply painful'.

'So her breasts were profoundly swollen and painful, and then her son clamped down on her swollen nipple, and she reacted the way anyone would react if suddenly subjected to sudden pain'.

'Do please desist from leading the witness', Traynor said.

'Apologies, My Lord. I will rephrase. Nurse McGuire, would you say that Ms Goodchild jumped in pain after her son bit down on her nipple, yes?'

'Yes, that's true'.

'So the yank you speak about - it wasn't a deliberate, pre-meditated movement, was it? It was, in fact, nothing more than a shocked reaction?'

'That's right'.

'So if we agree that she had a shocked, instinctive reaction to pull her son off her breast, then can we also agree that, for a moment, it seemed like she was about to hurl the child'.

'Absolutely'.

'But she stopped herself, didn't she?'

'Well, we were there to...'

'Did you make a grab for the baby?'

'Uh... no'.

'So Ms Goodchild stopped herself. No further questions'.

There was a short ten-minute adjournment after McGuire stepped down, during which Sandy came hurrying up to where I was conferring with Nigel and Maeve.

'I'm so sorry', she said, sounding deeply contrite. 'It's just, when that woman started painting that bastard as some sort of noble knight...'

I put my hand on her arm, signalling her to stop. Then, turning back to Nigel and Maeve, I said, 'I'd like you to meet my sister, Sandy, in London on a surprise visit from Boston'.

Nigel stood up and gave her his usual dead mullet handshake. Maeve smiled tightly and said, 'I can understand why you reacted the way you did. But if you want to help your sister, please take heed what the judge said, and don't do that again'.

The second half of the morning was taken up with testimony from two other nurses from the Mattingly, both of whom confirmed Mr Hughes's opinion that I had been trouble incarnate while on the ward. Maeve managed to puncture some of their criticisms - but the point was still made that, in the eyes of the hospital nurses and my consultant, I had been seriously bad news.

Then, just before lunchtime, came my great friend, Jessica Law, author of the CAFCASS report which essentially let it be known that, though I was on the road to recovery, Tony Hobbs and Diane Dexter had provided an exemplary environment for Jack.

'I have no doubt in my mind', she said under questioning from Lucinda Fforde, 'that Sally Goodchild is conscious of the fact that she went through a desperately traumatic period, which made her do and say things which she regretted saying. I also have no doubt that, when she recovers fully from her condition, she will be a most conscientious and caring mother. The reports I have received from Clarice Chambers - who has supervised all of her visits with her son - have been nothing short of exemplary. Ms Goodchild has also managed to find work as a freelance proofreader, and is beginning to find her way in this new endeavour. In short, I am most impressed by the courage and the tenacity she has shown under exceptionally difficult circumstances'.

But then she began to wax lyrical about Chez Dexter. How the Divine Ms D. stepped into the breach and 'magnificently' provided for Jack's needs. How Mr Hobbs appeared to her as a most caring and devoted father who was also clearly most happy in his relationship with Ms Dexter, and had put his career on hold to care for his son on a full-time basis. How there was also a full-time nanny to supplement Mr Hobbs's child care. How she could not find fault with this arrangement, and how she was certain that Jack was - and this was the killer comment' -in the best place he could be right now'.

I expected Maeve Doherty to take her apart, to make her reiterate her positive assessment of my condition, and then question her about the real workings of the Hobbs/Dexter household.

But instead, she just posed one question.

'Ms Law, in your considered opinion, doesn't Jack Hobbs deserve to be raised by both his parents?'

'Of course he does. But...'

'No further questions'.

I was stunned by the brevity of this cross-examination, and by the way Maeve didn't look at me on the way back to her place. Then Lucinda Fforde rose to re-examine.

'And I too just have one question for you, Ms Law. Would you mind confirming that the last sentence you spoke during my examination-in-chief was: "I am certain Jack is in the best place he could be right now"'.

'Yes, that is what I said'.

'No further questions, My Lord'.

And we broke for lunch.

Once Mr Justice Traynor was out of the room and Tony and Co. swept out, looking most pleased with themselves, I turned to Maeve and said, 'May I ask you why... ?'

She cut me off.

'Why I didn't try to pull Jessica Law apart? Because Traynor immediately gets his back up if anyone attacks a CAFCASS report, or the author behind it. Though he may be an Old Tory, he does have a strong respect for professional opinion. And yes, what she said just now was harmful to us. But it would have been more harmful if I began to question her judgment, or insinuate that she had been entranced by the other side... which is obviously the case. Trust me here - Traynor would have turned against us on the spot'.

'But what about the damage she's done?' I asked.

'Let's see what this afternoon brings', she said. Then she said that she and Nigel needed to go over a few things during lunch.

So Sandy and I retreated to a nearby Starbucks.

'Just like home', she said looking around. 'Except for the price. Jeez, how do you afford it?'

'I don't', I said wearily.

'Please don't tell me how heavy I look', she said, wolfing a Fudge Brownie, washed down with sips of a Mocha Latte with whipped cream. 'I know how heavy I am - and I am going to be addressing that issue just as soon as the summer is over'.

'That's good, Sandy', I said, staring into my paper espresso cup.

'You should eat something', she said.

'I'm not hungry'.

'You know, I think your barrister did a great job with that awful doctor and that Irish idiot of a nurse. But I still don't understand why she just let that social worker woman off with just' -

'Sandy, please...'

She looked at me with a mixture of jet lag, confusion and hurt.

'I shouldn't have come, should I?'

'I'm not saying that'.

'No, you're right. I'm just shooting my fat old mouth off...'

'Stop that', I said, taking her by the hand. 'I am very pleased you're here'.

'You're not just saying that'.

'No, really. Because you could not have been a better sister to me during this entire horrible business. Without you, I would have gone under. But...'

'I know, I know. The tension's unbearable now'.

I nodded.

'That's why I decided I had to come over here', she said. 'Because I would have found it absolutely unbearable to be sitting in Boston, wondering how the hell this was going'.

'Not good, is what I'm thinking right now'.

'All right, maybe she didn't score with the social worker, but look how she dismembered Mr Big Shot Consultant...'

'The "social worker", as you call her, counts for everything in this case. Her report is like the alpha and the omega to the court - because it is court commissioned. You heard what Maeve said - the judge takes her word more seriously than anyone else's. Which is why this is looking so bad. Not that I didn't know that from the moment I read the CAFCASS report. But I really thought Maeve would stick it to her'.

'Especially since, I bet you anything, Ms Social Worker walked around Ms Rich Bitch's designer house, saw the photos of her with Tony and the Missus at Downing Street, was probably flattered to death to be taken so seriously by such a player, that she turned all star fucky... excuse my American'.

'You're excused', I said. 'And I think you're right'.

'Who's up next this afternoon?'

'My wonderful husband'.

'I can't wait'.

I had to hand it to Tony, his testimony was masterful - a true performance, of the convincing sort I used to see him trot out in front of some heavyweight Arab foreign minister, from whom he wanted something. Tony in the witness box became Anthony Hobbs of the Chronicle: erudite, serious, a man of gravitas, yet also one of great compassion, especially when it came to dealing with his tragically wayward wife. Encouraged to wax humanitarian by Lucinda Fforde, he took her through the entire story of my breakdown, how he tried so hard to help me through it, how I rejected his support, and how he still stuck by me even after I threatened the life of our son.

Then he went into his 'friendship' with Diane Dexter - that, yes, it had always been a flirtatious friendship, but it had never been anything other than that, until his marriage began to disintegrate, and he began to fear for the safety of his son. And then he made an impassioned 'new man' spiel about how fatherhood had been the best thing that had ever happened to him, how he had never really understood the remarkable joy and pleasure that having a child could bring to your life, just as he could not ask for a more remarkable (yes, he used that word twice) partner than Diane Dexter (and he looked directly at her as he sang her praises), and he was desperately, desperately distressed by the fact he had no choice but to take Jack away from my 'self-destructive rampage', but he did hope that - once I found my equilibrium again - I could perhaps play a role in his life. For the moment, however, he was fully committed to being Jack's 'principal carer', which is why he had decided to give up his job on the Chronicle, and how - when they moved to Australia next month - he would also not be seeking full-time employment for at least another year or so, in order 'to be there for Jack'.

As Tony went on with this at one with his inner child routine, my growing sense of rage was only mitigated by the fear that Sandy might start making nauseated sounds in the back row.

Then Maeve Doherty stepped up to the plate. She looked at him with cool detachment.

'Now then, Mr Hobbs', she began. 'We've just heard your appreciation of the joys of fatherhood. Which, of course, is most commendable. Just out of interest, sir, why did you wait so long before having children?'

'My Lord', Lucinda Fforde said, sounding truly annoyed. 'I really must object to this line of questioning. What on earth does this have to do with the matter at hand?'

'Let the witness answer the question', Traynor said.

'And I'm happy to answer it', Tony said. 'The reason I didn't have children until I met Sally was because of the nature of my profession, and the fact that, because I was a nomadic journalist - wandering from war to war, foreign capital to foreign capital - I simply never had the chance to meet someone, settle down. But then I met Sally - and her pregnancy coincided with my return to London and the foreign editorship of the Chronicle. So this seemed like the ideal moment to make a commitment both to her and to fatherhood'.

'And before this, you simply had no experience of fatherhood?'

'No, none whatsoever'.

'You're obviously making up for lost time'.

'Ms Doherty... ', Traynor said witheringly.

'I withdraw the comment. Now Mr Hobbs, let's turn to another pertinent issue here... your decision to leave the Chronicle. You worked for the Chronicle for over twenty years. Is that correct?'

'Yes, that's right'.

'One of their most distinguished foreign correspondents, covering, as you mentioned, a goodly number of wars, not to mention being the Chronicle's man in Washington, Tokyo, Frankfurt, Paris, Cairo. And then, just over a year ago, you were re-called to London to become the Foreign Editor. Were you pleased about this re-call?'

'My Lord, I must object again', Lucinda Fforde said. 'This is deviating from the...'

'Do let us complete this witness's cross-examination', Traynor said. 'Please answer the question, Mr Hobbs'.

'It was... yes, I'll admit it... it was rather difficult to adjust at first to office life again. But I did settle in...'

'Even though, some months later, you not only quit the foreign editorship, but also resigned from the paper. And during this same week, you also decided to end your marriage to Ms Goodchild, to seek an emergency court order in order to gain residence of your son, and move in with Ms Dexter. Quite a number of life changing decisions in just a matter of days, wouldn't you agree?'

'The decisions I made were all predicated on the danger I perceived my son to be in'.

'All right, let's say you did decide it was important that you be at home with Jack for a while. Surely the Chronicle has a reasonably enlightened management, and surely, had you gone to them and said you wanted a leave of absence for personal matters, they would have been sympathetic. But to quit your job just like that, after over two decades with the paper? Why did you do that?'

'It wasn't "just like that", it was a decision which had been building for some time'.

'Ah then, so you really didn't readjust to life behind a desk at Wapping... ?'

'Not precisely. It was just time to move on...'

'Because?'

'Because I had discovered other ambitions'.

'Literary ambitions, perhaps?'

'That's right. I was writing a novel'.

'Ah yes, your novel. In her witness statement - which you have undoubtedly read - Ms Goodchild reports that, after your son came home from hospital, you became increasingly preoccupied with your novel, locking yourself up in your study, sleeping up there as well, making your wife deal with the broken nights, the four am feeds, and all the other messy bits of child care'.

Tony had anticipated this question and was completely prepared for it.

'I think that is a profoundly unfair interpretation of the situation. After Sally lost her job...'

'Didn't your wife have no choice but to give up work because of a medical condition which threatened her pregnancy?'

'All right. After my wife was forced to give up work, I was the family's only source of income. I was putting in nine - to ten-hour days at the Chronicle, a newspaper at which I was no longer happy, and I was also attempting to fulfil a long-standing ambition to write fiction. On top of that, I was also coping with my highly unstable wife who was in the throes of a major depression...'

'But who was still coping with all the difficult business of child care. You didn't have a nanny at home, did you Mr Hobbs?'

'No - but that's because finances were a little tight'.

'So your wife had to handle all that herself. And for someone in the throes of a major postnatal depression, she handled all that rather remarkably, wouldn't you agree?'

'She spent nearly two months in a psychiatric ward'.

'Where your son was looked after as well. Leaving you plenty of time to develop your friendship with Ms Dexter into something else...'

Traynor let out one of his exasperated sighs.

'Miss Doherty, please resist the temptation to conjecture'.

'Apologies, My Lord. Now when your wife did leave hospital - and it should be pointed out that, recognizing she did have a problem, she remained in that psychiatric unit of her own accord - did you not find her a calmer, more rational person?'

'From time to time, yes. But she was also prone to terrible mood swings'.

'As befitting anyone battling with clinical depression'.

'She worried me constantly'.

'Even though there wasn't a specific incident in which you thought that the child's life was in danger?'

'You don't think that breastfeeding a child while on an extremely high dosage of sedatives is endangering a child?'

'Mr Hobbs', the Judge said, 'you are not asking the questions here'.

'Nevertheless I will answer it, My Lord', Maeve said. 'Though it is true that your son ended up in hospital after this incident, it's also very clear that a mistake had been made on the part of your wife. A mistake made when she was suffering from both depression and extreme sleep deprivation. A mistake she made while you were getting your eight hours, fast asleep on the sofa in your study'.

She paused for emphasis. Then her voice lost its steely chill and she became dangerously pleasant again.

'A very simple question, sir: did Ms Goodchild do anything after her return from hospital to make you fear that the child's life was in danger?'

'As I said before, she suffered from severe mood swings which made me fear that she might lash out'.

'But she didn't lash out, did she?'

'No, but...'

'And on the subject of her earlier outbursts, let me ask you this: have you never said something foolish in anger? An anger fuelled by postoperative shock and clinical depression?'

'I've never suffered from either of those conditions'.

'That is fortunate. But you've never said something in anger?'

'Of course I have. But I've never threatened a child's life...'

'Returning to your book...'

This sudden veering away from the subject immediately worried me. It showed that Maeve had conceded a point to him, and was trying to cover her tracks by moving on as quickly as possible.

'Now, I gather you have received an advance for your novel?'

Tony looked surprised that she knew this information.

'Yes, I've recently signed a contract with a publisher'.

'Recently - as in four months ago?'

'That's right'.

'So, up until that point, what did you do for income?'

'I had very little income'.

'But you did have Ms Dexter...'

'When she knew that Jack was in danger, Ms Dexter... Diane... did offer to take us in. Then when I decided to look after Jack full-time, she offered to take care of our day-to-day running expenses'.

'Now you say you're looking after Jack "full-time". But isn't it true that Ms Dexter has hired a full-time nanny to look after Jack?'

'Well, I do need time to work on my book'.

'But you said the nanny is full-time. So how many hours a day do you write?'

'Four to five'.

'And what does the nanny do the rest of the time?'

'All the other duties associated with child care'.

'And so, after the four to five hours of writing time, you're with your son'.

'That's right'.

'So you really didn't leave the Chronicle to look after your son full-time. You left the Chronicle to write your novel. And Ms Dexter was there to conveniently subsidize that endeavour. Now, Mr Hobbs: your advance for this novel of yours. It was £20,000 if I'm not mistaken?'

Again, Tony looked thrown by the fact that she knew this sum.

'That's right', he said.

'Not a vast sum - but about average for a first novel. And if I'm not mistaken, Ms Dexter hired Jack's nanny from a firm called Annie's Nannies, just down the road from you in Battersea'.

'I think that was the name of the firm, yes'.

'You think? Surely a committed father like yourself would have been in on this nannying decision from the start. Now I checked with Annie's Nannies - and it seems that the average cost of a full-time nanny is, before tax, around £20,000 per annum. Which means your advance just about covers the cost of your son's child care, but nothing else. Ms Dexter does all that, doesn't she?'

Tony looked at Lucinda Fforde for guidance. She indicated that he had to answer.

'Well... I suppose Diane does cover the bulk of the costs'.

'But you yourself bought your wife's air ticket to the States when she had to rush back after her brother-in-law's death'.

'Ex brother-in-law', Tony said.

'Indeed. But your wife rushed back to comfort her sister, is that not right?'

'Yes, that's true'.

'Did you encourage her to return to the States?'

'I thought her sister needed her, yes'.

'Did you encourage her, Mr Hobbs?'

'Like I said, it was a family emergency, so I thought that Sally should be there'.

'Even though she was very worried about being away from her son for several days?'

'We had child care... our housekeeper'.

'Answer the question, please. Was she concerned about being away from her son for several days?'

Another nervous glance towards Lucinda Fforde.

'Yes, she was'.

'But you encouraged her to go. You bought her ticket. And while she was out of the country, you went to court and obtained the ex parte court order that temporarily granted you residence of your son. Is that the correct sequence of events, Mr Hobbs?'

Tony looked deeply uncomfortable.

'Please answer the question', Traynor said.

'Yes', Tony said, in a low voice, 'that's the correct sequence of events'.

'One final question. Did you buy your wife an Economy class ticket to Boston?'

'I don't remember'.

'Really? Because I have the ticket here, and it's a higher priced Premium Economy ticket. You don't remember buying her this more comfortable class of travel?'

'I let my travel agent handle the details'.

'But surely you instructed him about which class she should travel in? I mean, the difference between an Economy and a Premium Economy ticket is over three hundred pounds'.

'He might have offered me the Premium Economy ticket as an option, and' -

'Because you wanted her to be comfortable on her flight to and from Boston, you approved the extra expenditure?'

'Yes, I suppose so'.

'And having flown her Premium Economy to the States, you then went to court to obtain the order effectively barring her from seeing her son... ?'

Lucinda Fforde was on her feet. But before she could say anything, Maeve cut her off.

'No further questions', she said.

Tony did not look happy. Though he'd managed to deflect a few of her attacks, he was also someone who hated to be wrong-footed. And I thought she'd done a rather good job of that.

'Re-examination?' Traynor asked in that slightly bored voice of his.

'Yes, My Lord', Lucinda Fforde said. 'And it is just one question, Mr Hobbs. Please remind us again why you felt it necessary to seek an emergency order, taking residence of your son'.

'Because I feared that she might fall into one of her dangerous moods again and, this time, actually carry out her threat to kill him'.

I gripped my hands tightly together, trying to force myself to stay silent. I had to admire Lucinda Fforde's supremely clever tactical logic: after all the palaver of a cross-examination, return to just one central point and undermine all the other points scored earlier against her client by one reiteration of an absolute fucking lie.

When Tony was told he could step down, he returned to his seat next to the Dexter woman. She gave him a little hug and whispered something into his ear. Then her name was called to enter the witness box.

She looked very impressive, standing up there. Poised, assured, just a little regal. I could understand what Tony saw in her. She possessed a certain glamour quotient which I knew he always craved. Just as I also knew that he probably took one look at her property portfolio - and her taste in interior decor - and realized that she was a great catch. Just as she - a woman who had recently edged into fifty - would have admired his professional accomplishments, his worldliness, his sardonic wit, and his need to flee the entrapments of home and office. And then there was the little fact that he came accompanied by a child...

But as Lucinda Fforde took her through a review of her witness statement, it was clear how she was playing this game: the great friend who found herself falling in love with her great friend, but knew she couldn't break up his marriage (especially right after he-and-his had just had a baby). But then, his wife had her 'mental crisis', Tony was desperately worried about little Jack's safety, she offered a room in her house, one thing led to another, and...

'I must emphasize', she said, 'that this wasn't a coup defoudre. I think I can speak for Tony when I say that we both had these feelings for each other for quite a number of years. Only we never had the opportunity for involvement before now'.

Then Lucinda Fforde took her through these newfound maternal feelings: how she felt completely committed to Jack, how she only wanted the best for him, and how she was taking a considerable amount of time off work to be with him.

'This is possibly the central reason why I decided to relocate to Sydney for several years. My company is opening a new office there. I could have farmed out the job of getting it up-and-running to one of several colleagues. But I felt that it would be good to take myself out of the London rat race for a few years, and also give Jack the opportunity of being raised in Sydney'.

She would also be working her schedule to make sure that she would have ample time with him. And she went on to describe the house she had rented in Point Piper - right on the water and near excellent schools (when that time came). As she went on in this estate agent vein, I found myself clutching my hands together again in an attempt to keep myself under control. Because I wanted to tell her just what a lying bitch I thought she was.

But then, finally, she came around to the subject of me.

'I've never met Sally Goodchild. I certainly hold nothing against her. On the contrary, I feel so desperately sorry for her, and can only imagine what the horror of the past few months must have been like. I'm certain that she regrets her actions. And God knows, I do believe in rehabilitation and forgiveness. Which is why I would never bar her from Jack, and would welcome an open visiting arrangement in the future'.

As soon as she said that, I had a picture of myself, jet-lagged out of my brains after a twenty-six-hour flight to the bottom of the world, staying in some flea-bag motel, then taking a bus out to her palatial harbourside house, to be greeted by a little boy with a thick Aussie accent, turning to the Dexter woman and saying, 'But mum, I don't want to go off with her for the day'.

Diane Dexter finished off her testimony for Lucinda Fforde with the statement: 'I do hope that Ms Goodchild will make a full recovery - and that, one day in the future, perhaps we can be friends'.

Absolutely. In fact I'll tell you exactly when we can be friends. On the twelfth of never.

Maeve Doherty stood up and smiled evenly at the woman in the witness stand.

'You've been married twice in the past, haven't you, Ms Dexter?'

She didn't like that question and it showed.

'Yes, that's right', she said.

'And did you try to have children during these marriages?'

'Yes, of course I tried to have children during these marriages'.

'And you did have a miscarriage around 1990?'

'Yes - I did. And I know what your next question will be and I'd like to answer it...'

The Judge came in here. 'But you must first let Ms Doherty pose the question'.

'I'm sorry, My Lord'.

'But yes, I would be very pleased to know what you thought my next question would be?' Maeve said.

Dexter looked at her with calm, steely anger: '"Did you, Ms Dexter, miscarry the baby because of drug abuse?" To which my answer would be: Yes. I was seriously abusing cocaine at the time, and it provoked a miscarriage. I sought professional help after this tragedy. I spent two months at the Priory Clinic. I have not used or abused drugs since then. If I now drink a glass of wine in the course of an evening, it's an event. And my charitable work on drug education in schools is well-known'.

'And you also attempted several IVF treatments in 1992 and 1993, both of which failed?'

Again, Dexter was taken aback by the revelation of this information. 'I don't know how you found out those facts, but they are correct'.

'Just as it's also correct that the Harley Street specialist you were seeing at the time then told you there was no chance of you conceiving again?'

She looked downwards. 'Yes, he did tell me that'.

'And since then, you did try to adopt in... when was it?.. 1996, but were turned down because of your age and your single status?'

'Yes', she said, her voice barely a whisper.

'And then Tony Hobbs appeared in your life again, now back in London, now a new father with an infant child, and a wife who was suffering from profound clinical depression...'

Dexter looked at Maeve with barely contained rage.

'As I made clear earlier...'

'Now let me ask you this, Ms Dexter: if an acquaintance was to run into you on the street where you live, and saw you pushing Jack along in his pram, and ask: "Is he your child?" how would you respond?'

'I'd say: yes, I'm his mother'.

Maeve folded her hands across her chest, and said nothing, letting that comment fill the silence in the courtroom. A silence that the judge broke.

'But you are not his mother, Ms Dexter', he said.

'Of course I'm not his biological mother. But I have become his surrogate mother'.

The judge peered at her over his half-moon spectacles, and spoke in that half-weary voice he so preferred.

'No, you haven't. Because it has yet to be legally determined whether or not you will be assuming the role of surrogate mother. The child in question has a mother and a father. You happen to live with the father. But that does not give you the right to state that you are the child's mother, surrogate or otherwise'.

'Any further questions, Ms Doherty?'

'No, My Lord'.

'Re-examination, Ms Fforde?'

She looked seriously disconcerted. 'No, My Lord'.

'Then we'll reconvene after a ten-minute adjournment'.

Once he was out of the court, Maeve sat down next to Nigel and myself and said, 'Well, that wasn't bad at all'.

'Why did the judge so jump on her comment about considering herself his mother?' I asked.

'Because if there's one thing Charles Traynor hates more than barristers who try to attack a CAFCASS report, it's the new partner of someone in a divorce dispute, going on as if she's the newfound parent. It goes completely against his sense of propriety or familial fair play, and he always jumps on anyone who tries to play that card'.

'Which is why you walked her into it?'

'Precisely'.

Sandy came down and joined us.

'You were brilliant', she said to Maeve. 'You really shoved it in the face of that nasty little' -

'That's fine, Sandy' I said, cutting her off.

'Sorry, sorry' she said. 'I think I'm suffering from Tourette's today'.

'Otherwise known as jet-lag', I said.

Maeve turned to Nigel and said, 'Hobbs did score one off me, didn't he?'

'I think you actually... uhm... did rather well there, considering...'

'That he won the point with that "I've never threatened a child's life" comment'.

'I don't think it was a hugely damaging blow', he said. 'Especially after what you did to Ms Dexter'.

'What now?' I asked.

'I... uhm... think that's it for the witnesses. So I presume the judge will reconvene just to formally end the proceedings and tell us all to be here at nine tomorrow morning'.

But when the judge returned, Lucinda Fforde had a little surprise for us.

'My Lord, we have a last-minute witness we would like to call'.

Traynor didn't looked pleased - as he probably pictured himself at home an hour from now. Instead...

'And why has this witness been called at the last minute?'

'Because he's resident in the United States - in Boston, to be specific about it' -

I turned around and looked at Sandy, wondering if she had any idea whom they were planning to call. She shook her head, looking as nervous as I now felt.

' - and we were only able to obtain his statement the day before yesterday and fly him in last night. We apologize to the court for the lateness of his arrival. But he is crucial to our case and' -

'May I see his statement, please?' the judge asked, cutting her off. 'And please give a copy as well to Ms Doherty'.

She handed the statement to Traynor and to Maeve. My barrister scanned the document and didn't look pleased. In fact, she noticeably stiffened. The Judge looked up from his copy of the statement and asked, 'And is Mr...' He peered down at the document again. '... Mr Grant Ogilvy here now?'

Grant Ogilvy. The name rang a distant bell somewhere.

'Yes, My Lord', Lucinda Fforde said. 'He can testify immediately'.

'Well, what say you, Ms Doherty? You can raise all sorts of objections to this, should you wish to... and I would be obliged to back you up'.

I watched Maeve - and could see her thinking fast. She said, 'My Lord, with your permission, I'd like a five-minute consultation with my client before I make a decision'.

'Five minutes is fine, Ms Doherty. Court will stand in recess'.

Maeve motioned for me and Nigel to follow her outside. She found a bench. We grouped around it. She spoke in a low voice.

'Did you ever see a therapist named Grant Ogilvy?' she asked.

I put my hand to my mouth. Hint? They found him?

I suddenly felt ill. Now I was certain to lose Jack.

'Ms Goodchild', Nigel said, his voice filled with anxious concern, 'are you all right?'

I shook my head and sat down on the bench.

'Can I read what he told them?' I asked.

'Read it fast', Maeve said, 'because we need to make a decision in about four minutes'.

I read the statement. It was what I expected. Then I handed it to Nigel. He lifted his glasses and glanced right through it.

'Uhm... isn't there some sort of patient/doctor confidentiality agreement about this sort of thing?' he asked.

'Yes, there is', Maeve said, 'except when - as in this case - there is a child protection issue. Then the cloak of confidentiality can be breached. But I'm sure we could challenge it, and hold things up for weeks, and incite Traynor's ire in the process. And the other thing is: from what I've read here, this all happened so damn long ago that I can't imagine Traynor will consider it substantive evidence against your character. You look sceptical, Nigel'.

'In... uhm... all honesty, it is a risk. And I'm sorry to say this, Ms Goodchild, but it could call into question aspects about your character. Even though, personally speaking, I don't find that it changes my perception of you whatsoever'.

'The problem here', Maeve said, 'is that tomorrow, we want to spring two surprise witnesses on them - which I always thought was going to be a tricky manoeuvre, but which Traynor will more readily allow if we've already accepted their surprise witness. It is a gamble - but one which I think is worth taking, as our witnesses will have far more bearing on the case than theirs will have. But, ultimately, it has to be your decision, Sally. And, I'm afraid, you need to make it right now'.

I took a deep breath. I exhaled. I said, 'All right. Let him testify...'

'Good decision', Maeve said. 'Now you have exactly three minutes to tell me everything I need to know about what happened back then'.

When we returned to the courtroom, Maeve explained our position to Mr Justice Traynor.

'In the interests of expediting the hearing, and not causing any further delays, we will accept this last-minute witness'.

'Very well', Traynor said. 'Please call Mr Ogilvy'.

As he walked in, I thought: fifteen years on and he still looks almost the same. He was in his mid-fifties now. A little heavier around the middle, somewhat greyer, but still wearing that same sort of tan gabardine suit that he was sporting in 1982. The same blue Oxford button-down shirt and striped tie. The same horn-rimmed glasses and brown penny-slot loafers. He kept his line of vision aloft as he walked to the witness stand, so as not to see me. But once he was on the stand, I stared directly at him. He turned away and focused his attention on Lucinda Fforde.

'Now Mr Ogilvy - to confirm your statement, you have been a practising psychotherapist in the Boston area for the past twenty-five years'.

'That's right'.

'And after the death of her parents in a car accident in 1988, Ms Goodchild was referred to you as a patient?'

He confirmed this fact.

'Well then, could you also please confirm what Ms Goodchild told you in the course of one of her sessions'.

For the next ten minutes, he did just that - recounting the story in just about the same way that I recounted it to Julia. He didn't try to embellish or exaggerate anything. What he said was a reasonable, accurate rendering of what I told him. But - as my eyes bore into him - all I could think was: you haven't just betrayed me, you have also betrayed yourself.

When he finished, Lucinda Fforde looked at me and said, 'So, put rather baldly, Ms Goodchild gave her father the drink that sent him over the limit and caused him to crash the car' -

'I thoroughly object to this line of questioning, My Lord', Maeve said, genuinely angry. 'Counsel isn't simply surmising, she is also writing fiction'.

'I concur. Please rephrase, Miss Fforde'.

'With pleasure, My Lord. Though Mr Goodchild informed his daughter that he was over the limit, she still gave him the glass of wine. Is that correct?'

'Yes, that's correct'.

'And later that night, he crashed his car into another vehicle, killing himself, his wife, a young woman in her thirties, and her fourteen-month-old son?'

'Yes, that's correct'.

'And did Ms Goodchild share this information with anyone else but you?'

'Not to my knowledge'.

'Not with her one sibling, her sister?'

'Unless she did so in the last two decades, no. Because, at the time, one of the central themes of her conversations with me was the fact that she couldn't confess this fact to her sister. She couldn't confess it to anyone'.

Suddenly, I heard a long choked sob behind me. Then Sandy stood and ran out the back door of the court. As soon as she was outside, her crying reverberated in the hallway outside. I started to stand up, but Nigel Clapp did something very un-Nigel Clapp. He grabbed my arm and caught me before I could give pursuit, whispering quickly, 'You mustn't leave'.

Back up front, Lucinda Fforde continued on.

'What therapeutic advice did you give Ms Goodchild at the time, sir?'

'I told her she would be better off making a clean breast of things with her sister'.

Lucinda Fforde turned towards the back of the courtroom. 'Wasn't that Ms Goodchild's sister leaving the court just now?'

Then, after the requisite dramatic pause, she said, 'No further questions, My Lord'.

Maeve Doherty stood up and simply stared at Grant Ogilvy. She held this glare for a good thirty seconds. He tried to meet her contemptuous gaze, but eventually turned away. Mr Justice Traynor cleared his throat.

'You won't be kept here much longer, Mr Ogilvy', Maeve said. 'Because I really don't want to spend much time talking to you'.

She too paused for effect before commencing her cross-examination.

'How old was Ms Goodchild when she saw you as a patient?'

'Twenty-one'.

'How old was her father when he died?'

'Around fifty, I think'.

'Ms Goodchild handed him a drink at that party, yes?'

'Yes'.

'He refused'.

'Yes'.

'She said, "How middle-aged." And he drank the drink. Is that right?'

'Yes'.

'And you believe, because of that, she should be held culpable for the fatal accident he had several hours later?'

'I have never been asked to comment on her culpability'.

'But you've been brought all this way across the Atlantic to sully her character, haven't you?'

'I was brought here simply to relate the information she told me'.

'While she was a patient of yours, yes?'

'That's right'.

'Aren't there laws in the United States about patient/doctor confidentiality?'

'I'm not a doctor. I'm a therapist. And yes, there are laws. But they mainly have to do with criminal malfeasance'.

'Now if Ms Goodchild didn't speak with anyone else about this, how on earth did Mr Hobbs's people find you after all these years, and why did you agree to be brought over here?'

'Because they asked me to testify, that's why'.

'And what are they paying you for your trouble?'

'My Lord, I do hate to interrupt yet again', Lucinda Fforde said, 'but this is improper'.

'Oh, please', Maeve hissed. 'He's obviously not over here for altruistic reasons...'

'We are running out of time, Ms Doherty' Traynor said. 'Is this line of questioning likely to take matters further?'

'I have no further questions for this... gentleman!

Traynor heaved a huge sigh of relief. He could go home now.

'The witness is dismissed. Court is adjourned until nine am tomorrow morning'.

As soon as Traynor had left the court, I was on my feet, racing out the back door in search of Sandy. I found her on a bench in the hallway, her eyes red, her face wet. I tried to touch her shoulder. She shrugged me off.

'Sandy...'

The door of the courtroom opened, and out came Grant Ogilvy, accompanied by Tony's solicitor. Before I could stop her, Sandy was in his face.

'I'm going back to Boston in two days', she yelled, 'and the first thing I'm going to do is make certain everyone who counts in your profession knows what you did here today. You understand? I am going to fucking ruin you. Because you fucking deserve it'.

A court usher, hearing her raised voice, came running towards the scene. But Tony's solicitor shooed him away.

'It's over now', he whispered, and hustled a wide-eyed and deeply distressed Grant Ogilvy out of the building.

I turned toward Sandy, but she walked away from me. Maeve and Nigel were at the door of the courtroom, looking on.

'Is she going to be all right?' Maeve asked.

'She just needs to calm down. It's a dreadful shock for her'.

'And for you too', Nigel added. 'Are you all right?'

I ignored the question and asked Maeve, 'How much damage do you think he did?'

'The truth is: I don't know', she said. 'But the important thing now is: go deal with your sister, try to stay calm, and - most of all - get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow will be a very long day'.

I noticed Nigel had Sandy's roll-on bag beside him.

'She left this behind', he said. 'Anything I can do?'

I shook my head. He awkwardly reached over and touched my arm.

'Ms Goodchild... Sally... what you were just put through was so dreadfully wrong'.

Then, almost shocked by this show of emotion, he nodded goodbye to me.

As I went off to find Sandy, I realized that that was the one time Nigel Clapp had ever called me by my first name.

Fourteen

SANDY WAS WAITING outside the court, leaning against a pillar.

'Let's get a cab', I said.

'Whatever'.

In the ride back to Putney, she didn't say a word to me. She just leaned against one side of the taxi, exhausted, spent, in one of those dark states that I got to know during childhood. I didn't blame her for being in such a black place. As far as she was concerned, I had betrayed her. And she was right. And now I didn't have a clue about how I should (or could) make amends for such a huge error of judgment.

But I also knew enough about Sandy to realize that the best strategy right now was to let her get through the big monstrous anger phase of this freeze-out. So I said nothing to her on the way out to Putney. When we reached the house, I made up the guest bed and showed her where the bathroom was, and let her know that there was plenty of microwavable food in the fridge. But if she wanted to eat with me...

'What I want is a bath, a snack, and bed. We'll talk tomorrow'.

'Well, I'm going to take a walk then'.

What I wanted to do was knock on Julia's door and ask her to pour me a vodka and allow me to scream on her shoulder for a bit. But as I approached my front door, I saw a note that had landed on the inside mat. It was from her, saying:

Desperate to know how it went today... but had to go out to a last-minute business thing. I should be home by eleven. If you're still up then and want company, do feel free to knock on the door.

Hope you got through it all.

Love, Julia

God, how I needed to talk to her, to anyone. But instead, I took what solace I could from a walk along the river. When I got back I found that Sandy had indeed eaten a Chicken Madras and had taken her jet lag and her anger to bed early.

I picked at a microwaved Spaghetti Carbonara. I stared blankly at the television. I ran myself a bath. I took the necessary dose of anti-depressants and sleeping pills. I crawled into bed. The chemicals did their job for around five hours. When I woke, the clock read 4.30 am - and all I could feel was dread. Dread about my testimony today. Dread about yesterday's debacle with Sandy. Dread about the influence that Grant Ogilvy would have on the judge's decision. Dread, most of all, that I was now destined to lose Jack.

I went down to the kitchen to make myself a cup of herbal tea. As I walked by the living room, I saw that the light was on. Sandy was stretched out on the sofa, awake, lost in middle-of-the-night thought.

'Hi', I said. 'Can I get you anything?'

'You know what really kills me?' she said. 'It's not that you gave Dad that last drink. No, what so fucking upsets me is that you couldn't tell me'.

'I wanted to, but...'

'I know, I know. And I understand all your reasons. But to keep that to yourself for all these years... Jesus Christ, Sally... didn't you think I'd understand? Didn't you?'

'I just couldn't bring myself to admit...'

'What? That you've been carrying fifteen years worth of guilt for no damn reason? I could have talked you out of your guilt in a heartbeat. But you chose not to let me. You chose to keep stagnating in the fucking guilt, and that's what really staggers me'.

'You're right'.

'I know I'm right. I may just be a fat little suburbanite...'

'Now who's trading in self-hate?'

She laughed a cheerless laugh. And said, 'I don't know about you, but I've always hated my last name. Goodchild. Too much to live up to'.

She pushed herself up off the sofa. 'I think I'll try to get two more hours of sleep'.

'Good idea'.

But I couldn't sleep. I just took up her place on the sofa, and stared at the empty grate in the fireplace, and tried to fathom why I couldn't bring myself to tell her what I should have told her, why I dodged the absolution I so craved. And why every child wants to be a good child - and never can really live up to the expectations of others, let alone themselves.

Somewhere over the next few hours, I did nod off-and then found myself being nudged by Sandy, who had a mug of coffee in one hand.