Judge Wakefield begins by reminding us that this isn’t a hearing to consider evidence, only whether the case can be resolved without the court’s involvement, and if not, what evidence she’ll need at the second hearing to help her make a decision. She looks at the Lamberts, then Pete and me. “So my first question to you, through your legal representatives, is whether there is any possibility you could come to an agreement.”

   Miles’s barrister says, “My clients have tried to explore every avenue for compromise, madam, including becoming Theo’s godparents and inviting Theo to share David’s nanny. But ultimately, Theo is their son and, like any parent, they want to make the day-to-day decisions regarding his care.”

The judge nods. “Ms. Chowdry?”

“My clients have also tried to compromise—the suggestion that the applicants become Theo’s godparents actually came from them,” Anita says. “They regard Theo as their son, and believe it is in his best interests not to be removed from them at this important stage of his development.”

“Thank you,” Marion Wakefield says briskly. “This is clearly an unusual and difficult case, and for that reason alone, a fuller hearing seems necessary. I’m going to accept CAFCASS’s recommendation that there should be a more detailed report on the safeguarding issues. I’m also going to direct that Theo is assessed by a psychologist to see what impact changing families at his age might have on him.” She looks straight at me. “Ms. Wilson, I’m going to direct that you must not travel abroad without the court’s permission. And as there has been a question raised about your alcohol intake, I’m going to order that you give blood and hair samples, to be assessed for current and past alcohol intake respectively.”

An alcohol test. Anita warned me this might happen, given what Lyn said in her safeguarding letter, and also that there’s no way of disguising the amount I’ve been drinking—although the blood test will only measure what’s in my system at the time, the hair sample will show how much I’ve been drinking over the whole of the last year. I feel my cheeks burn with a mixture of anger and shame.

   Anita says calmly, “Madam, we’d like to request that Mr. Riley be allowed back into the family home. While my clients absolutely refute the suggestion that Ms. Wilson could be unfit to care for Theo, it seems illogical to raise that possibility and at the same time bar his primary carer from caring for him.”

“I accept that argument,” Marion Wakefield says. “Accordingly, I will make no direction about Mr. Riley at this time. But since the present situation is a voluntary one, by arrangement with CAFCASS, it will be up to Ms. Edwards whether she is satisfied with that.”

“I am satisfied if the court is satisfied,” Lyn says meekly.

“We would also like to ask that the court consolidate all the proceedings in Theo’s case,” Anita says.

“Mr. Kelly?” The judge turns to the Lamberts’ lawyer.

“I was going to suggest the same thing, madam.”

“Then we will have one hearing for Theo, in approximately twelve weeks’ time, and another at a later date for David.” The judge makes a note. “Is there anything else?”

There isn’t. The lawyers start shuffling papers together and the judge turns back to her computer. It seems incredible that such a momentous case can be dealt with so quickly, but of course it hasn’t been, not really. This is only the opening salvo. And thanks to CAFCASS, Miles has achieved almost everything he wanted. But Pete’s allowed to come home. That’s something.

Marion Wakefield stays at her desk, making notes, while the rest of us leave. There’s a bottleneck at the door, with both sets of parents and lawyers reaching it at the same time. “After you,” Miles says politely, just as Pete says firmly, “After you.” It’s all bizarrely civilized. Eventually Pete waves Lucy through and follows behind, and Miles gestures for me to go ahead of him. I realize he’s very close behind me—I can even feel his breath on my neck. No, not just his breath: The bastard is actually blowing on me. I’ve worn my hair up, and the sensation on my nape is unmistakable. I stop dead, outraged.

   “Such a pity about the hair test,” he murmurs. “Some people shave their heads, I gather. But then the doctors use one from down there instead. Do you wax down there, Maddie? I hope not. I picture you with curls.”

As he speaks, something insinuates itself between my buttocks. His fingers. I jump forward as if stung, and hear—feel, almost—his chuckle. Furious, I look around. His face is the picture of innocence. All three lawyers, and the judge, are looking at me. I open my mouth to say something. But what? It might look like the act of a desperate woman who didn’t get what she wanted at the hearing. A drunk, even. And who would believe that Miles Lambert was reckless enough to grope me in a courtroom?

But I can’t do nothing. So I say sharply, “Don’t do that.”

Miles only grins, the smile of a man who knows he’s winning.

84

   MADDIE

   I DON’T TELL PETE. There’s a chance he’ll storm off and confront Miles, and I suspect Miles would enjoy that. He might even be hoping he can make Pete look aggressive and hot-tempered, and by implication a bad parent.

After the hearing Pete goes to Greg and Kate’s to get his suitcase, while I go back to the house. By the time I get there I’m kicking myself for not making more of a fuss. Shouldn’t a strong, confident woman—which is what I know myself to be—have called Miles out? I’ve always fended off drunken fumbles with a firm stare and a cutting put-down, but promised myself that, if anything more serious happened, I’d stand up for myself; go to the police, if need be. I wouldn’t be a victim.

But it had been so quick, so shocking, so hard to take in.

Is that how people like that get away with it, I wonder—sheer effrontery and self-confidence? My anger is growing by the minute, but of course it’s too late now. That’s another weapon in their armory, I realize—surprise. And the ridiculous British habit of being polite, no matter what the circumstances.

   Well, I’m not British. If Miles does it again, I resolve to punch him, courtroom or no courtroom.

Pete arrives, carrying his overnight case. “Welcome home,” I say brightly. “I’d open the champagne, but…”

He nods and looks around. There’s an awkward moment. Probably no one else, looking at the two of us, would even notice it. But we don’t hug, or kiss, or fall into each other’s arms. We’re polite and cheerful and false.

Is it because of what Miles did? Because of not telling Pete? Or is it because of all the other secrets that have started to ooze their way to the surface over the last few weeks, like bubbles squelching out of mud? I want to trust Pete, of course I do, but there’s a tiny part of me that knows good people can do bad things, and that loyalty isn’t the same as certainty.