Playing Nice

There’s more—the Lamberts are being offered contact visits, access to Theo’s future parents’ evenings. “I hope in time you may all of you rediscover the original spirit of cooperation with which you first approached this very difficult situation.” Miles’s face, which I can only see in profile, is a mask, his handsome jaw rigid with barely repressed fury. Clearly, he thought he had this sewn up. He probably did, too, until Lyn received that video. “This hearing has been about Theo, but I would like to remind both parties of the importance of the no order principle, and hope very much that a future hearing about David can be averted.” The judge is basically telling us that, having kept Theo, there’s little point pursuing our own claim for David, I realize. Everything’s going back to the way it was, as if Judge Wakefield is some kind of wizard who can just wave a magic wand and undo the last four months’ heartbreak. My gaze moves to Lucy, who’s wiping away tears of relief. She loves David, of course she does, and she must quietly have been as terrified of having him taken away from her as Pete and I were of losing Theo. Perhaps it was wrong of us to try to get David, after all. But the pull to rescue my biological offspring from Miles had been so very strong.

   And then it’s over. The judge clicks something on her computer and nods. The lawyers stand up, followed by the rest of us. We’ve won, I think. We’ve won. I feel Pete’s arms reach for me, pulling me into a hug. “We’ve won,” he says. I can feel his body shaking with relief as he weeps into my shoulder. “Oh God. Theo. We’ve won.”

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go and get our boy.”

100



   MADDIE



   WE BOTH GO TO pick him up from the Lamberts’. When Jill opens the front door he’s standing next to her, ready in his coat and shoes, his overnight bag beside him.

“Ouff!” he says when Pete sweeps him into a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and swinging him around and around. “Stop doing that!”

He has no idea, of course. No idea why we’re both laughing and crying and squeezing him like crazy people.

“Come on, Theo,” I say at last, disentangling myself. “I feel an ice cream about to happen.”

We walk down the steps. At the bottom Theo looks back, then waves. “Bye Moles! See you tomorrow!”

We look around. Miles is standing at the open door, watching us. There’s no expression on his face, none at all. “We’ll talk about that in the car, Theo,” I say firmly, taking his hand.

Pete says suddenly, “I’m going to say something. After all, we’ve got to give them access. Like the judge said, we should try to put things back on a friendly footing.”

   “Pete, don’t,” I say, but he’s already gone.

Seeing him approach, Miles comes forward. Pete puts out his hand and speaks—I’m too far away to catch all the words, but I think it’s, “You’ve got David and we’ve got Theo. It’s an honorable draw, yes? So let’s put this behind us. For their sake.” I see Miles take Pete’s hand and lean in close, that odd way he has of speaking to someone’s ear rather than their face. He keeps a tight hold of Pete’s hand and I can tell he’s crushing it, squeezing it with all his force. But I’m pretty sure it’s what he’s saying, not the pressure of his hand, that’s causing Pete’s face to turn white.

“What did he say?” I ask when Pete returns. He doesn’t meet my gaze.

“He said congratulations.” Pete gives a quick, tight smile. “He said the best man and woman won.”

101

 

Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 53: Email from Harvey Taylor to Peter Riley, retrieved from Peter Riley’s iPhone.



Dear Pete,

 Thank you for your email, and the link to the sad news about Judge Wakefield. As it happens, my bike is off the road for repairs, but I will in any case take note of your advice.

 Many congratulations on winning your case. If I can be of any help in the future, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.



Kind regards,

 Harvey Taylor DForenPsy, MBPsS

 Registered Psychologist



https://www.lawgazette.com/​obituary/​tributes-pour-in-for-family-judge-Marion-Wakefield

102



   PETE



   AS THE DAYS AND weeks went by with no word from Miles, we slowly allowed ourselves to relax. Which isn’t to say we weren’t vigilant. I didn’t use my bike, for one thing. Cycling in London was dangerous enough already, without worrying that someone might drive up behind me and nudge my back wheel with their bumper.

Theo was still on the waiting list for the other nursery, but we managed to get him a temporary place with a childminder a few streets away. It wasn’t a long-term solution—the childminder, Rosie, couldn’t give him any one-to-one help for his CU—but at least it was away from the Lamberts.

But somehow it all felt like the lull before the storm. What Miles had said to me when we’d collected Theo after the hearing—the things he’d hissed into my ear about Maddie—had been childish and pathetic, but it also suggested he wasn’t going to accept the court’s judgment and move on. Not that I believed a word of what he’d said, of course. I remembered how, the very first time he’d come to our house, he’d let me think Theo was the result of an affair between him and Maddie. That had been entirely deliberate, I later realized—his first attempt at playing with me, seeing how I’d react. It had been Don Maguire who’d coughed and explained what had really happened. Miles just couldn’t resist seeing what made people squirm.

   Once, I thought I saw him in his car as I was taking Theo to Rosie’s. Since her house was quite close, Theo was on his scooter—although I always made sure he stopped and waited for me before crossing any roads. On this occasion he’d gotten a little bit ahead, but he was safely on the pavement and there were no cars around, so I wasn’t too worried. An old lady was pushing a shopping basket on wheels, very slowly. Without stopping, Theo veered around her, wobbling off the pavement and onto the road. Just at that moment, a black BMW four-wheel-drive pulled out from a parking space and sped up the street toward us. “Theo!” I screamed. “Get back on the pavement!” Theo stopped dead, and instead of doing as I told him, looked over his shoulder, perplexed by the terror in my voice. He was wearing his helmet, but against the bulk of the BMW it would be useless. Then the BMW accelerated past us, and as the driver adjusted her mirror I saw it was a dark-haired woman wearing sunglasses, just another entitled north London mother driving her SUV too fast after dropping off her kids, in a hurry to get to the gym.