She had been to see a solicitor in the village for advice regarding access to the children, but he told her it was complicated. There was nothing to say that she had a right to have the children living with her. If she took her case to court, the court would consider what was in the best interests of the children, and she had to appreciate that they had perhaps settled into new schools by now and made new friends. They might well say that they preferred to live with their father and his new partner.
‘Well, of course they would,’ Wendy said angrily. ‘They’ve been brainwashed.’
On her way home, as the wind stung her face and made her eyes water, Wendy concluded that it was Frances (who had turned out not to be a ‘nice girl’ at all) who was at the root of the problem. Bruce could not have stolen the children without her complicity. He would not be able to manage them now if it wasn’t for Frances having given up her job to take care of them. Even some old fool of a judge would see that Bruce could not juggle his job and the care of his children alone. The question was how to remove Frances from the equation. Once she was out of the picture, the children would have to come home and she could win Bruce back … Everything could return to the way it used to be. To a time when everyone was happy.
A letter from Jamie helped to crystallize her plan. Wendy sensed the editing hand of some southern schoolteacher in play.
Dear Mummy,
We are writing letters in class so I am writing to you. Daddy and Franny are well. So is Katie. Franny says I can have a rabbit if I promise to look after it myself. Daddy is going to Belgium all next week and he will bring back special chocolate. I hurt my knee when I was in the playground yesterday because I fell over but I am fine now.
Love from Jamie xxxxxxxxxx
She waited until midway through Bruce’s week in Belgium before she telephoned, reasoning that this would minimize the chance of Frances speaking with him again before his return. She timed her call for after the children’s bedtime, thereby ensuring that it was Frances herself who answered the phone and removing the likelihood of there being any inconvenient witnesses to the conversation.
‘Hello … Is that Frances?’
‘It is. Who’s speaking, please?’ Frances sounded guarded, as if she knew perfectly well who was speaking and was already suspicious.
‘It’s Wendy. Listen to me, Frances. Don’t put the phone down. I need to talk to you.’
‘If it’s about the children or the separation, you need to speak to Bruce.’
‘No, no. It’s about Bruce. I need to speak to you.’
‘To me? What about Bruce?’
Wendy caught the note of alarm. That was good. She had got her interested. ‘There’s something I have to tell you about him. Something I can’t say on the phone. It’s something you need to know.’
‘What are you talking about? Wendy … have you been drinking?’
‘I don’t drink. Very rarely anyway.’
‘Yes, you do. You know you do. You were caught drunk driving.’
‘That all happened because I hardly ever drink. I wasn’t used to it. Someone else gave me a drink and I hadn’t realized what was in it. Believe me, I would never drink and drive on purpose. I was always the one on the Britvics so that I could chauffeur Bruce home after work dos. I bet he’s got you doing that for him now.’
A short silence at the other end told Wendy that she had hit the mark.
‘What is it that you want?’ Frances asked. ‘Why have you rung?’
‘I know Bruce is away. Jamie wrote a letter to tell me. That’s why I’m ringing you now, so that Bruce doesn’t find out. I want you to get a babysitter for the children and come up here to see me. Come on Friday night. Don’t tell Bruce anything about it and don’t mention anything to the children. Then I can explain.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Surely you can tell me whatever this mysterious thing is on the phone?’
‘Come on Friday night. I can’t tell you on the phone. And don’t tell Bruce I rang, or let anyone else know. He mustn’t find out.’
‘You’re mad,’ Frances said.
But Wendy noted that she didn’t sound very sure of herself.
In the forty-eight hours that followed, Wendy laid her plans carefully. She fluctuated violently between deciding that Frances would ignore the invitation, dismissing the whole thing as nonsense, and feeling strangely confident that she would not be able to resist turning up.
When the street lamps came on in the late afternoon of Friday, Wendy noticed that the one that usually illuminated the top end of the drive was flickering. It created a somewhat sinister effect, she thought, like something in a B-movie. She switched on the sitting room light and drew the curtains. That way, to anyone passing the house or approaching from the road, it would appear that she was in there as usual, reading or watching the TV. She took care to leave the hall and passage lights, as well as the lights in the kitchen, switched off. She did not want anyone who came up the drive to be aware of her silhouette as she stood watching them from the kitchen window. She had eased the window open an inch. It allowed a lot of cold air into the room, but it was important that she be able to call up the drive at the right moment. She huddled a coat around her as she waited, stuffing her hands into the pockets to keep them warm, not daring to leave her post and place them against a radiator. When the moment came, she would need to be on the spot
