42
MADDIE
I’M AT WORK, REDOING the budget for a commercial—the client has arbitrarily decided it should cost 20 percent less, but is adamant it shouldn’t look 20 percent less good—when Ingi from reception calls.
“Maddie, there are some people here to see you. From the NHS.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Is there anywhere we can talk in private?”
“The Surfer room is free. I’ll put them in there, shall I?” All our meeting rooms are named after famous commercials, which tends to confuse the clients.
Obviously, this must be to do with our claim. But I’m surprised they’ve come to see me without an appointment. Is it some kind of ambush, to catch me off guard? Or is this the way they do things here in the UK? Either way, I decide, there’s no point in getting worked up about it before I know what they want.
In the meeting room, a man and a woman are waiting. Both wear suits and open-necked shirts. The man, who’s younger, has a laptop in front of him, while the woman, who’s short and stocky, is sorting through a bulging folder of paperwork.
“Hello, I’m Maddie Wilson,” I say briskly. “I understand you want to speak to me?”
“Yes.” It’s the woman who answers. “I’m Grace Matthews, and this is Thomas Finlay. We’re from NHS Resolution, the part of the health service that deals with litigation.”
I sit down. “It’s regarding our claim, I assume.”
Grace Matthews nods, causing her glasses to slip down her nose. She pushes them up with a finger. “First of all, we wanted to assure you that the NHS takes incidents like this one very seriously. We’re working with the private clinics involved to understand what happened.”
Now it’s my turn to nod. “Good.”
“That may take some time, so please don’t worry if you don’t hear from us for a little while.”
“Of course.”
“In the meantime, we’ll need access to your patient records, to assist our investigation.” Grace Matthews takes a form from her folder and slides it toward me. “If you could sign this, to say you give your consent.”
I look down at the form. “I should probably get our lawyer to look through it first.”
“Well, of course, if you want to.” Grace Matthews sounds surprised. “It’s the standard form that anyone has to sign when clinical negligence claims are investigated.”
I think. “I’ll just step outside and call him.”
“Could you read me the form?” Justin Watts says when I’ve explained why I’m calling. I’ve only gotten through the first few lines when he stops me. “That’s all right. It’s standard for these cases.”
“Does that mean they’ll see my psychiatric records, too?”
“Yes, but since we’re claiming mental distress, those records will bolster our case, not hinder it.”
I feel uneasy. It hadn’t really occurred to me that my psychosis might be relevant to our claim, when the truth was, I would have reacted like that irrespective of whether it was Theo or David I went home with. But we’re committed to this path now. “Okay. Thanks.”
I go back into the meeting room. “He says it’s fine.”
“Good. I’ve got a pen here,” Grace Matthews says. As I sign, she says casually, “Where’s Theo now, by the way? With your partner?”
Still writing, I say, equally casually, “No, with some friends. We have a nanny share. Why?”
Grace Matthews takes her pen back. “Just curious.”
43
PETE
“HEY MATE,” MILES SAID cheerfully.
“Miles. Hi,” I said cautiously into my phone. It was the first time we’d spoken since he left our house so abruptly that night.
“Baby monitor working all right?”
“Fine, thanks.” I hadn’t actually plugged it in. The thought of Theo being watched—or even more pertinently, listened to with that omnidirectional microphone—spooked me, and our house was so small, you didn’t really need a monitor to hear him crying anyway.
“Great. Look, I’ve got a favor to ask. What was the name of the nurse who looked after Theo in the NICU, the Irish one who looked like she had the hots for you?”
“I think you probably mean Bronagh Walsh? But she didn’t have the hots for me.”
He laughed. “If you say so.”
“Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“It’s for the lawyer. He’s compiling a list of all the NHS personnel we can remember coming into contact with, for the investigators.”
I suddenly felt apprehensive. “Investigators into what?”
“How the mix-up happened, of course. Presumably they have procedures to stop that kind of thing, and in this instance they didn’t work. So they’ll want to try to find out what went wrong. Which is a good thing, isn’t it? Stop this happening to some other poor bastard.”
My feeling of anxiety was deepening. “But no one’s going to try to pin this on one of the nurses, are they? Because Bronagh was fantastic.”
“Well, if you say so, Pete. But someone cocked up, didn’t they?”
“I suppose,” I said uneasily. “So long as they don’t try to scapegoat Bronagh.”
“Who definitely didn’t have the hots for you, of course. Anyway, better go.”
“Miles…” I said.
“Yes, mate?”
“We’re good, right? There’s nothing bothering you?”
“Like what?”
“Just that we haven’t seen you for a few days. And last time we spoke I probably didn’t express myself very well. I was tired, and somehow—”
He laughed. “There you go again, Pete. Always worrying about what other people think. No, of course we’re good. I’ve just got a big push on at work. Give my love to the big man, would you? Tell him it’s a shame about Easter, but I’ll see him soon.”
* * *
—
“SO WHAT DO YOU want to do for Easter, now we’re not spending it with the Lamberts?” Maddie asked that evening.
I opened the fridge and took out a beer. “I think an Easter egg hunt is more or less mandatory, isn’t it? They’re doing one on Hampstead Heath. And there’s a lambing weekend at Forty Hall—it’ll be good for Theo to be around some animals. We should probably put in a couple of appearances at church, too, while we’re still fresh in Reverend Sheila’s memory.”