A Special Relationship (43 page)

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 co-habit. 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 breast-fed 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.’