She didn’t want to tell Gav where she was going – it would have meant explaining what was going on with Ben, and she had no intention of sharing something that personal. So, right now, it was easier to tell a little white lie.
‘I’ve got a doctor’s appointment after lunch,’ she’d said. ‘They’ve called me in for a smear.’
‘Ahhhh.’ Gav looked horrified, as she’d known he would.
‘Sorry about the short notice, they’re running an extra clinic. You know how it is with smears, the last one wasn’t very clear so they want me to go back and…’
Gav’s face was very pink. ‘Ah, yes indeed, fine, okay. No problemo, princess. Take as much time as you want.’ He was shuffling papers on his desk and not meeting her eye. He wasn’t the sort of man who dealt well with anything vaguely gynaecological.
Her appointment at Bell & Simpson was booked for 1.30pm. Before that she had to do a viewing for Mr Timpson, the owner of the overpriced Victorian semi on the outskirts of the city, which had been languishing on the market for weeks. A young couple had finally asked to look round – Eve was so relieved she could have kissed them when she met them on the pavement outside – but Mr Timpson insisted on accompanying her as she showed them through the house, hopping from one foot to the other and pointing out features he was convinced would secure a sale.
‘Fully double glazed!’ he said, as she walked them into the sitting room. ‘Television aerial sockets in all the bedrooms!’
‘Mr Timpson, you must let me handle these viewings,’ she said afterwards, as the young couple beat a hasty retreat. She knew she wouldn’t hear from them again. ‘I realise you’re keen to help, but most buyers prefer to look at a property without the vendor being there.’
‘But you’re missing out important information!’ he’d said. ‘You didn’t mention the architraves!’
When Eve arrived at Bell & Simpson, she was five minutes late and in a foul mood.
‘The thing is,’ she explained, ‘I have custody and, when we split up, we agreed access arrangements, and everything has worked out well so far. Ben has certain times when he sees Daniel, but we’re both flexible and I never mind if he wants to change the day.’
‘That all sounds very positive,’ said the girl sitting opposite her, who looked too young to have finished her GCSEs, let alone be a fully qualified solicitor.
‘But if Ben wants Daniel to go with him to Glasgow,’ said Eve, ‘can he make that happen?’ She had decided that, rather than lying awake worrying every night, she would get a professional opinion on her situation. This young solicitor and her firm had come highly recommended by someone on a local Mumsnet forum. She wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing, but it seemed a better starting point than sticking a pin in the Yellow Pages.
‘It is permissible to modify a custody agreement if there has been a change in circumstances,’ said the girl. ‘A relocation such as this would come under that category, because it would mean it wasn’t possible for you all to continue with your existing access arrangements.’
She had beautifully manicured nails and long, elegant fingers, which she now spread out on the desk in front of her. She clearly didn’t have to do much domestic drudgery; Eve hid her own hands in her lap – she’d torn a fingernail on the door of the washing machine this morning, and the plaster she’d wrapped round it was already flapping off.
‘But if I decided to fight it, would a judge look on me more favourably?’ she asked. ‘Ben is a great dad, and I’d never claim he wasn’t. But Daniel is happy with me and he’s settled at school.’ That bit wasn’t true, but there was no point going into it right now. ‘I just couldn’t bear to see so little of him. I know he’d have to go up to Scotland in the holidays and maybe for the odd weekend, but he’s only six – it would be so disruptive for him to do more than that.’
‘A judge would make a decision based upon whatever is in the best interests of the child,’ said the girl. ‘But the process can be stressful for all concerned and it shouldn’t be necessary to have to go back to court to get a settlement. It seems to me that, if you and your former partner have a good relationship, it should be possible and would make more sense to come to an arrangement together? We do offer mediation services and, if both of you are agreeable, I could arrange an appointment with a member of our specialist team?’
Leaving the solicitor’s office, Eve felt drained. She collapsed into her car and leant back against the headrest. That hadn’t been a total waste of £120: it sounded as if a judge wouldn’t automatically insist Daniel be uprooted, if there was nothing wrong with his existing living arrangements.
But what if Ben mentioned the problems at school? She really should have done something to address that, but there was so much else going on, and it felt easier to wait for Mrs Russell to get in touch again. Which the dragon woman would undoubtedly do, if there were further problems.
She had half an hour before she needed to pick up Daniel, so there was just time to go and collect that bloody jacket, which was still at the dry cleaners. She scrambled around in her handbag for the receipt. There was so much rubbish in here, why could she never keep her bag tidy? Maybe a smaller bag would help – if she couldn’t fit so much stuff into it, she’d be forced to keep it tidy. She threw a Mars Bar wrapper onto the passenger seat, along with a used tissue and a very bruised apple that ought to have been eaten days ago. There was a sock of Daniel’s, caught up in the spokes of the small umbrella she always carried around, but never remembered to use. Right at the bottom of the bag was a folded piece of paper; pulling it out she realised it was a letter Daniel had brought home from school a couple of weeks ago, about a trip to Bristol Zoo in a couple of weeks.
‘Eve, you’re bloody useless,’ she muttered, realising she hadn’t signed the permission slip. The letter was also asking for parent volunteers. Maybe she ought to put her name down? She never did anything to help at school, and this would also be a chance to see Daniel with the other kids, look out for any signs of wayward behaviour. Despite Mrs Russell’s stinging feedback, she was still finding it hard to imagine her little boy in the role of playground bully. She found a pen and filled in her details; she’d drop the form into the school office this afternoon.
As she drove towards the dry cleaners, she wondered whether Ben would agree to some sort of mediation. God knows when he’d fit it in; he struggled to find five minutes to attend his own son’s parents’ evening, so she couldn’t see him setting aside hours to sit in a solicitors’ office, thrashing out the details of their access arrangements. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, and they would sort it out between them. But she would have to stand firm.
‘Moving our son to Scotland won’t do him any good at all, Ben,’ she said out loud. ‘You need to think about what’s best for him, not you. He’s happy where he is and it would be unfair to uproot him.’
But it was one thing being firm and decisive when she was talking to an empty car, quite another when she had to pluck up the guts to say those things to her former lover’s expensive sunglasses.