JESS

It took six weeks, but we’re in agreement. That’s not so bad. Maybe with a different combination of people it might have taken less time. Some women might have shown their husbands the letters right away. Some might not have met and consulted with each other—might have gone their own ways from the start.

But I had to do it like this, couldn’t have done it any other way. I told you before that I’m ordinary, community-minded. I read once about a South African tribe where every single person had to be in agreement before a decision was made. They’d stay up all night, sometimes for days, weeks, debating, listening, until everyone was on board.

I think there’s something pure and honorable in that. After all, you need 100 percent commitment from a jury to condemn a person. Majority rule as a form of democracy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I’m saying all this like it was some master plan, like I knew what I was doing. But I didn’t. Until Stephanie rang yesterday, I didn’t even know how I felt. I’d managed to convince myself that being in a permanent state of numbness and indecision was the best I could hope for.

I’ve no idea what we’re going to do now.

We need to talk.

I meet her at lunchtime, just the two of us. I can tell right away that she’s changed, yet can’t put my finger on how. Priyanka couldn’t make it, couldn’t get away from school, but that’s fine. Because I want it to be just Stephanie and me, face-to-face, opposites united.

“You seem different,” I say, as we take our coffees to a table by the window. We’re at an overpriced deli around the corner from her workplace. I thought we deserved an upgrade from Carol’s, plus I’m tired of tiptoeing around.

“So do you,” she replies. “I like your coat.”

I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before. I glance down at myself. “Oh. Thanks. It’s new.” I pre-spent my Christmas bonus on a winter coat with lapels and everything in an effort to smarten myself up.

“What happened to your puffer jacket?”

“Gave it to some homeless guy.”

“Course you did,” she says.

I’ve ordered her a selection of pastries because she looks like she could do with them. And I certainly could. I’ve been eating like a hound lately.

“What made you change your mind?” I take a bite into a horn-shaped cake, cream spurting out, flakes of pastry showering down.

“My daughter.”

I pause before taking another bite. “What? So, she knows?”

“Yes. She found the letter.”

“Bloody hell. How did that go?” I dab my mouth, pick up my coffee, trying to absorb this information without looking horrified.

“Badly, as you can imagine... But it’s done now and she’ll keep it secret. Dan’s her stepfather, so she wasn’t as upset as she might have been. And she’s left it to me to handle. She’s a good girl, really. She cares an awful lot. In fact, she reminds me of you.”

“Oh. So is that a compliment?”

“Yes. I meant it as one.”

I nod and we exchange smiles. It feels like we’ve come a long way, the two of us.

“Steffie,” I venture gently, “if we do this...what is it that you’re expecting to happen, exactly? What do you want?”

She gazes out of the window, the sunshine lighting the downy hair on the side of her face. It makes me sad to see. Maybe because it’s proof that she’s fallible, after so much effort on her part to appear otherwise.

“I don’t know, Jess.”

“Okay. Let me put it another way, then. Is your marriage over?”

Around us, the clientele is classy, unobtrusive. A businessman is typing on a laptop. Two Italian-looking girls with dark kohl eyes and scarlet lips are laughing quietly over antipasto. Behind them, the counter is stocked with tins of panettones and amaretti in preparation for Christmas, just five weeks away.

“I’m not sure,” Stephanie says.

“Because I think mine is. I knew it as soon as I read Holly’s letter, but it’s taken me this long to admit it. No one can decide something like that overnight—not even someone like me.”

This is my way of making a small joke, but she’s playing with her coffee cup, lost in thought.

“But the fact that you want to do something, Steffie... Surely you can see it’s going to have consequences? I mean, if we do this, then we’re basically telling them we know what they did and that we want some kind of payback.”

“Of course.”

“And you’re prepared for that?”

“I...”

She doesn’t look it.

“Deciding to do something was only half the battle,” I continue delicately, trying not to startle her. “Now we have to work out what that means. And unless you share your thoughts with me, I can’t work out a solution that’ll suit everyone.”

She looks at me, her eyes tired-looking yet painstakingly made-up. “I don’t want to lose my home.”

“Okay. Go on...”

She looks down at the tablecloth, running her nail along the thread. “I can’t struggle financially. It’s nothing to do with being money-grabbing, but being secure—not having to scrimp and save and panic about where the next meal’s coming from... Not crying whenever a bill arrives...” She breaks off, glances around her. “I can’t do that.”

“No, and you shouldn’t have to. And you won’t, I promise. I’ve no intention of struggling either.” I lean forward, tapping my finger on the table. “Why should we? This isn’t about punishing us. We’ve done nothing wrong. We’re not splitting anything fifty-fifty. If we do this, it’s happening our way, on our terms.”

“Does Priyanka agree with that?”

“Yes.”

I’ve not spoken to her about it yet. But she wants out of her marriage—told me to do whatever it takes to make this right.

I’m interpreting that as: tell them we know, make them pay. In no shape or form does it mean make us pay.

There’s a pause in the conversation as Stephanie selects a pastry, taking a dainty bite, icing sugar sprinkling over her plate. I’m not really watching her, though. I’m thinking about how we can do this with minimal damage to ourselves.

At that moment, one of the Italian girls with the dark kohl eyes turns to look at the wall clock, her eye drifting over to me, meeting my gaze.

And then something occurs to me.

“Steffie.” I rap the table in front of her to get her attention. “I’ve got an idea... I’m not sure if you’re aware, but we met with a solicitor and there’s nothing we can do about this legally speaking.”

She nods, holding a manicured hand in front of her mouth as she chews. “Priyanka told me.”

“But we do have a secret weapon.”

“We do?”

“Yes. Lucy O’Neill, Nicky’s friend who was there on the night at the club. She’s been emailing me, saying she has something to tell us and wants to meet. I think she feels guilty about what happened to Nicky.”

“Why?” Stephanie asks.

“Why?”

Sometimes, she really is slow to catch on.

“Because of the rape,” I whisper.

“But she didn’t do it.”

“No, but she was there.”

It goes so quiet that I can hear the businessman’s hands clicking softly on his keyboard.

“What does she want to talk to us about?” Stephanie’s reapplying her lipstick after eating the pastry, even though she’s about to drink her coffee. Sure enough, she leaves a red mark on the cup, which she wipes off with her napkin.

“I dunno. I’ve not replied to her emails.”

“So, what does your idea have to do with her?”

“Well, I spoke to Nicky’s other friend, Kim, and I use the term friend in the loosest possible way. She...” I’m about to say she sounded like Stephanie, the way she blamed women for everything, but I stop myself just in time.

“And?”

“Well, it turns out that Kim was the only one who saw anything and she swears...” I lower my voice. “...That it wasn’t rape. But what if we asked Lucy to say that she saw what happened? Then we’d have a witness.”

She blinks at me, mouth open. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Only if we were going through the legal system, but we wouldn’t be. This would be personal, just between us and our husbands, so we could tell them what we liked.” I hold out my hands, shrug. “How would they know?”

She doesn’t look sure. I give her a minute.

“So...we use it as a bargaining tool...to get what we want?”

“Exactly!” I say too enthusiastically. The businessman glances over, eyes full of logistics, not even seeing me. I lower my voice again. “We’d have to stick to our story, mind you—work it all out beforehand.”

She looks worried, a frown trying to crack the makeup on her forehead.

“But it needn’t be complicated,” I add. “In fact, the simpler the better. We just need to work out what we want and then go for it.”

“Okay...” she says uncertainly. “But would Lucy do that? Isn’t it a lot to ask?”

“Only one way to find out.” I pull my phone from my bag, tap it.

“You’re not calling her now, are you?”

“No. Just checking I’ve still got her details. I went on a rampage the other day, clearing my contacts... I’m surprised you’re still in here.”

“I’m sorry.”

I laugh at the look on her face. “Don’t be daft. I was kidding.” I put away my phone, smile at her. “You’re here now, aren’t you? You’re part of this now, right?”

To my dismay, she wells up. And I realize then what’s different about her now: she likes me.

All afternoon, I’m agitated, huffing and puffing in my seat, being too heavy with the hole punch. I expect Gavin notices. Mary definitely does; she hovers, offering cappuccinos, and I try to be nice, I really do, especially since my encounter with the old lady and the compost heap. But in truth, she’s a pain in the backside and I could do with the space to think.

I want to think about how to approach Lucy. I don’t know what we’ll do if she says no. I don’t have a plan B.

I’ll never forget the look of relief on Stephanie’s face at the idea of getting what she wanted. Women like that—so groomed and unapproachable—always seem like the sort who get everything their own way. But you’d be surprised.

What she said about struggling, crying over bills. That obviously came from personal experience. And it really got to me. In some respects, I’m doing this more for her than for me. That may sound crazy. But at this point, nothing sounds sane anymore.

On Tuesday 17 Nov, at 16.12 p.m., Jess Jackson <jess_jackson@firestar.com> wrote:

On Tuesday 17 Nov, at 17.33 p.m., Lucy O’Neill <lucyoneill1970@image.com> wrote: