Silence. The judge reached for his black cap.
‘Right,’ I said miserably. ‘So … what would you advise?’
The fight had gone out of me and I felt like writing out a cheque. Three, actually. One to each of them. Emma, Marjorie and Cecilia. Oh no, four. I probably owed Sam too. Just leave me alone.
‘I would advise doing nothing at this stage and see whether they proceed. They haven’t actually issued proceedings, just written a couple of letters. Let’s see if it’s all hot air.’
‘Yes. Fine,’ I agreed.
I liked doing nothing. I was a big wait-and-see girl. My entire married life, it occurred to me, had been like that. Wait and see what happens. It might not be so bad. It was. Always. Why did divorce get such a bad name? Surely what I’d done was as bad? This ghastly acceptance? Surely it would have been braver to leave? Something small and hard and angry formed within me. I needed it to grow. I needed to take a steer on my life, that much was clear. I couldn’t let these Shillings walk all over me. I had to see them off, not just pathetically scramble clear of them occasionally, as I had done for years, dodging their blows.
‘Cup of tea?’ Sam asked quietly. I obviously looked very shocked.
‘Please.’
This small kindness touched me, and as he went to the door to ask Janice if she wouldn’t mind, I had to blink very hard.
He came back and sat down again; said one or two comforting things about people making threats all the time, and whilst it sounded dramatic, it was quite another thing to employ a solicitor, which they hadn’t yet done. Hadn’t put money where their mouths were. And anyway, even if lawyers were involved, it was often sorted out via correspondence.
‘I won’t have to see them?’ I asked, my voice coming from somewhere distant as Janice came in with the tea.
‘Not unless it goes to court, but we’ve already decided to try to avoid that at all costs.’
I nodded. Sipped my tea as he chatted, leaning forward with his arms on his desk. He offered me a biscuit, which I took but couldn’t eat, and even though I felt numb, a bit other-worldly, I couldn’t help noticing the elbow of his suit was very worn. The right one, the telephone-propping one, and the handle of his black case beside his chair was broken and tied with binder twine. Phil wouldn’t have been seen dead in a jacket like that or with a tatty briefcase, and I thought how much I liked Sam for it; and for somehow knowing I’d needed tea and a chat before I took to the high street.
Finally, when it became apparent that I couldn’t decently, or even indecently, take up any more of his time, that I’d been in his office for a good forty minutes and we both knew his next appointment had been sitting outside a while because Janice had popped in and told us so, I got to my feet. I felt warmer from the tea, if a little trembly.
‘You going to be all right?’ It was said briskly, but there was no doubting the concern. God, he was nice. But then most people were, weren’t they? I’d just been unlucky.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you. And thank you for your advice.’
It was a shame I saw him surreptitiously consult his watch as he walked me to the door. He smiled and we said goodbye.
Outside in the street, something made me glance back up at his building, my eyes finding his window on the second floor. But if I was expecting to see him standing there watching me go down the street, hands in pockets, a wistful expression on his face, I was disappointed.
14
‘I can’t believe it.’ Angie’s mouth, painted fuchsia pink, dropped open in disbelief. She left it there for dramatic emphasis.
‘I know. Neither can I. Well, no, I can, actually,’ I said miserably.
‘But what sort of man does that?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Ropes his entire family into his extramarital affair and asks them to conspire against his wife!’
‘Phil,’ I said quietly. ‘A Phil sort of man.’
‘And – and what sort of family,’ she blinked, ‘agrees! Colludes with their son? And his mistress? Gives the relationship their seal of approval!’
I squirmed. ‘Marjorie and Cecilia,’ I said mechanically, noticing Jennie wasn’t saying anything.
She had her back to us. Strapped into a long white pinny at her Aga, she was stirring a vast vat of boeuf bourguignon ready to be put into Tupperware dishes and thence local freezers. Angie and I were at her kitchen table. Angie had popped in to retrieve a pashmina she’d lent and wanted to wear to a charity luncheon. She’d found me, pale, hunched and
