‘That’s what you tell Emma.’
‘It’s true.’
‘I know, but I expected him to be different. I feel as though he’s become familiar over this past week. I’ve seen him every day - always immaculately dressed and polite. He nods and smiles to the court staff. He bows when the jury enters the room. He has these long lashes like a girl and the bluest eyes. Arctic blue. I can almost see the snow blowing across them. Makes you wonder.’
‘About what?’
‘If he really firebombed that house . . . killed that family.’ She pauses, searching for words. ‘The other defendants look like thugs and bovver boys, grinning at each other and guffawing. Novak Brennan looks almost serene. He doesn’t fidget or squirm. He hardly shows any emotion at all, except when he glances at his sister in the public gallery. She’s been there every day.’
‘Which way are the jury leaning?’
Julianne shrugs. ‘It’s too early to tell. So far it’s all been about the prosecution case.’
She glances at the menu, giving me an opportunity to look at her without making her feel self-conscious.
‘Are you staring at me again?’
‘No.’
‘Good. So what are we going to do about Charlie?’
‘The police aren’t going to charge her.’
Surprise on her face. ‘That’s great. What happened?’
‘Ronnie Cray sorted it out.’
‘You made some sort of deal.’
I don’t answer. Normally, Julianne would fight against the idea, but this time she says nothing.
‘How is Sienna?’ she asks, switching her concern.
‘In a lot of trouble.’
‘Did she do it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she had a reason.’
Our meals have arrived. In the lottery of ordering, Julianne has again triumphed. Her choice looks healthier and more appetising. She’ll eat half and push the rest around her plate.
‘So what are we going to do about Charlie?’ she asks between mouthfuls.
‘She made a mistake.’
‘She broke the law! I talked to the school counsellor today and she recommended a therapist. He has a practice in Bath.’
‘I’m a psychologist.’
Julianne puts down her fork. ‘You’re her father. I’m sure there is some sort of conflict of interest there.’
She’s right, of course, but I still baulk at the idea of my daughter talking to a stranger, revealing things that she wouldn’t tell her parents.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Robin Blaxland.’
‘I could check him out . . . ask about him.’
‘And not scare him off?’
‘No.’
‘We still have to punish her,’ she says.
‘I saw the video of what happened. She tried to pay the driver but didn’t have enough money. She only panicked when he locked the doors. I think she was frightened it was going to happen again, the kidnapping.’
‘She should never have gone to the hospital without our permission.’
‘I know. Maybe we could ground her for a few weeks.’
‘School and home.’
‘Tough but fair.’
I like talking with Julianne like this - discussing anxieties and tiny victories, the happenstances of family life. Her long fingers toy with the stem of her wine glass.
‘Do you want to go to dinner on Saturday night?’ I ask.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m going out.’
‘Who with?’
‘Harry Veitch.’
My heart jerks like a hooked fish. Harry is an architect. Rich. Divorced. One of his houses was featured on
‘How long have you been . . . ?’
‘We haven’t.’
‘So this is your first date?’
‘It’s
There is an edge to her voice. She’s waiting for me to say something negative. I glance at my food, no longer hungry. I didn’t see this coming. Didn’t even contemplate it. Harry is older than I am - by at least ten years. He’s one of those big-boned former rugby players who struggle with their weight when they give up competing but never lose their self-belief.
Julianne speaks. ‘Harry wants to thank me for helping him choose a colour scheme for one of his new houses.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say.
There is a long embarrassed silence. The silence of separation. Worse - the silence of possible divorce. I can see the future flashing before my eyes. Julianne will marry Harry ‘big-boned’ Veitch and spend her new life choosing colour schemes for his McMansions. The girls will have a new father. At first they won’t like him, but Harry will bribe them and make them laugh. He’ll be jolly old Harry. Rich old Harry. Ho, ho, ho Harry. He laughs like that: ‘Ho, ho, ho.’
‘What did you say?’ asks Julianne.
‘Nothing.’
‘You sounded like Santa Claus.’
‘Sorry. So where is he taking you?’
‘To a new restaurant. He knows the owner or the head chef - something like that.’
‘What about the girls?’
‘Charlie can babysit.’
‘I’ll do it.’
Julianne arches an eyebrow. ‘Charlie’s old enough.’
‘I know.’
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘You’ll have to let go one day.’
Is she talking about the girls or herself?
‘I don’t want to let go.’
Her pupils dilate slightly and she releases my hand, folding her arms beneath her breasts like a teenager. I’ve upset her now. She changes the subject.
‘Charlie says you kissed Miss Robinson.’
‘She gave me a peck.’
‘On the lips?’
‘Some people peck on the lips.’
‘I’ve always found that kind of creepy,’ she says playfully. ‘It was Miss Robinson who suggested Charlie see a therapist. Apparently, some of the teachers are worried about her.’
‘Miss Robinson didn’t mention anything.’
‘That’s because she was flirting with you.’
The silence stretches out and is far more uncomfortable than it should be after so many years of
