This might come as a surprise, but it was Stephanie who inspired me to set up the meeting with the lawyer. The idea came to me after hearing her list of questions at Carol’s. I knew she was withholding something and guessed what it was, the question she couldn’t ask.
Wasn’t she asking for trouble?
It hadn’t occurred to me to unpick Nicky’s diary, second-guess it. I didn’t wonder how much she had drunk, or whether her signals were clear enough or her dress too tight. Focused on Max, ashamed of him, I was more concerned with the men: too much testosterone, alcohol, privilege.
Yet Steffie’s questions—the way she went about it—made me realize there was a completely different way to view things, like looking through the other end of a telescope. Without her, I wouldn’t have known what we were up against.
After meeting her, I had the longest bath of my life, doing research on my phone until I was wrinkled like walnuts. Steffie was on to something and by no means alone in her thinking.
I was wrong. It wasn’t a case of Nicky’s allegation having merit simply by nature of its existence. In fact, that was so far from being the case, it wasn’t even in the same solar system.
It seemed shocking to me, but Steffie’s question wouldn’t only be raised in court but discussed. And that’s when I realized we couldn’t do this alone, but needed professional advice, someone with agency and knowledge and extra iron and adrenaline running through their veins. Because trying to get any kind of justice for Nicky would be the biggest uphill battle you could possibly imagine.
Thanks to Steffie, I discovered things I might never have known: that juries pulled a face, and people—the folk at home—watched the news or logged on to social media, wondering with a perplexed expression just how much that young woman who was knocked unconscious, brutally raped and left for dead was asking for it to happen.
That was the way it worked.
As a woman, it would be impossible to feel anything but the absolute fear of God when you heard what he did to her. Your next thought would be to wonder whether it could happen to you or your daughter or sister. So, then you’d look for further details because there had to be something this woman did wrong—something you wouldn’t do, something to distinguish you from her.
It wouldn’t be long before you found it. In fact, it would be prominently displayed so you couldn’t miss it. If you were lucky, there would be several to choose from. They couldn’t make it any easier for you.
Intoxicated.
Flirting.
Promiscuous past.
Provocative language.
Inappropriate attire.
Length of skirt.
Heavy makeup.
Five-inch heels.
Ambitious.
Insecure.
Attention-seeking.
Unreliable.
Prone to storytelling.
Mentally unstable.
History of substance abuse.
All you’d have to do is pick one and hang on to it. Even if you thought you were the most liberal-minded person on the planet, chances are you’d store it somewhere and get it out when you needed it. How else could you walk about freely, knowing it wasn’t going to happen to you? How could you right swipe on Tinder, date, fall in love, meet your future husband, raise daughters?
By hanging on to the thing that distinguished you from her, that’s how. There’s no other way.
And now here comes the judge and the barristers and the jury and each of them are hanging on to their own word secretly.
None of them has any personal experience of rape, aside from what they’ve seen on TV. They’re expecting violence, a dark alley, a stranger pouncing, holding her at knifepoint. So, when this young woman tells a different story, a murky one in which she was coerced against her will, they don’t buy it.
When the jury learns that she was in a relationship with the accused, a quarter of them shake their heads. Consent wasn’t needed in that case, they believe.
On hearing that she was drunk when the accused had sex with her, a tenth of them think it wasn’t rape.
When it’s divulged that she flirted with the accused over dinner, a third of the male members of the jury believe this discounts rape. And when the same men hear that she consented at first, but changed her mind halfway through the act, she has lost. The whole case collapses.
I know the facts, have gathered as many as I can in preparation. The more I’ve learned, the more I’ve come to realize that this isn’t about me. It’s not even about Nicky Waite. It’s bigger than that. It’s about all of us.
Like Holly said, you can’t draw a line where one life starts and another begins.
Maybe I’m delusional, but as I hurry to meet Priyanka on Saturday afternoon, I’ve picked a word of my own to hang on to.
Hopeful.
Deborah Scott is one impressive lady. I can’t help staring at her. She has red hair in a swishy updo, plum fingernails and is wearing a trouser suit. She’s the kind of woman who makes me wish I’d tried harder at school. I didn’t go to university and it’s never been a regret, until now.
Watching her sitting at her desk, reading our file, I wonder what it must be like to look men in the eye and say, yeah, I’m doing what you do, buddy, only better. Watch and learn.
Beside me, Priyanka is fiddling with her nose stud, which has changed color. I’m sure it wasn’t pink before. Her eyes have changed too: gray. I look away from her, at the walls. I’ve never seen so many awards, certificates and books.
“So,” Deborah Scott says, taking off her reading glasses. “Let me get this straight—you’re the wives of the accused?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I say.
Confusion clouds her face. “And you want a legal practitioner’s perspective on how to bring this out into the open...? Why?”
Priyanka looks at me to answer.
“That’s a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately. And all I can say is that I want them to take responsibility for what they did. It’s the right thing to do.”
She raises her eyebrows, looking at us steadily in turn, and then looks back down at the file.
I’ve made copies of everything, but she’s got the diary, with key pages bookmarked for convenience, plus the original of Holly’s letter. I’ve told her everything we know, and it feels like a lot.
“Is this everything you have?” she asks.
I get an itchy feeling around my neck, down my spine. “Yes. But it’s all there—Nicky’s record of events. It’s crystal clear, isn’t it, that it was rape?”
She gathers the items, placing them painstakingly into the leather conference file I purchased specially to give Nicky the best chance of being taken seriously.
“It would appear that the account—if true—is of rape, the absence of consent being the determining factor. But in this case, it’s impossible to prove. And without proof...” She holds up her hands. “...There’s no case.”
“Surely there’s something you can do?” I say, trying to sound measured. “I read about an assault that happened forty years ago and it only just went to court.”
She smiles regrettably, doing up the clasp on my folder. “The justice system isn’t in great shape when it comes to rape. Believe you me, I’m doing all I can. But there’s been a big drop in charges, despite an increase in reports to the police. Prosecutors are being urged to drop weak cases. And I’m afraid this case wouldn’t get very far at all—not even beyond my door.”
“But they did it! I know they did! And I think they’d confess, if it was handled professionally—by someone like you.”
“It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid.”
“Why doesn’t it?”
Priyanka reaches for my hand, but I pull away. I don’t want to be comforted. I want to fight. But who am I fighting? Deborah Scott? She’s already standing up, handing me the file, the diary bulging through the leather.
“Please,” I say. “This isn’t fair. Two lives were ruined because of what they did.”
She’s standing right in front of me, a few inches taller. Her skin is flawless. I’m thinking so many things: how graceful she is, how educated, how powerful. And even she can’t help us.
She’s fading, her voice becoming muffled.
“I’m so sorry. I really am. You don’t know how much I wish things were different. I see cases like this all the time and it’s so disheartening. So many of them will never see daylight, and I know how unfair it is. But the crux of the matter is that the victim is deceased, as is the person who made the allegation, plus the offense took place thirty years ago, all of which are stacked against you. I’m sure you can see that, given the challenges facing the justice system, there’s nothing I can do. But thank you for coming in and I hope you find the closure you’re looking for... Did you know the complainant?”
I notice that her lips have stopped moving. She’s looking at me kindly, waiting.
Priyanka jumps in. “No, not personally.” She tugs my arm, gets me to stand up. “Come on, Jess. Let’s not take up any more of this lady’s time.”
“You were more than welcome,” Deborah Scott says. “All the best.”
She shakes our hands: a light powdery touch. And then we’re making our way along the creaky hallway and pulling open the doorway, going down the steps to the courtyard below.
“Jess?”
I’m looking up at the sky, thinking that it’s the same sky Nicky and Holly saw—the same earth, the same city. And yet too much time has passed and now it’s standing between us and justice.
“Say something.” Priyanka’s gazing up at me like a child, waiting for my next instruction. She seems like a good person, a good parent and teacher. I’m sure she cares. But she wasn’t cut out for this.
And as for Stephanie...
“I’ll see you later, Pree. Thanks for coming.” Setting off, I feel wobbly, depleted. I dressed up too, in my best trousers and boots. What was the point?
“Jess!” Priyanka hurries after me. “Where are you going?”
“Home. And we probably shouldn’t walk together. Someone might see us. We’re not supposed to know each other, remember?”
“Since when do you care about that?”
A mum and three little children in colorful knit hats are coming along the alley toward us. I lower my voice. “Since I realized that we haven’t got a leg to stand on... Well, at least you’re happy now.”
“Happy? This isn’t what I wanted!”
“Yes, it is. You just can’t admit it, that’s all.” I stare up at the solicitor’s office, wondering what Deborah Scott’s doing now—discarding allegations that don’t involve blood, bruising, date rape drugs, dark alleys or that do involve flirting, alcohol, skimpy clothes or the passage of time. Basically, only keeping the no-brainers, if there are any.
What a job.
“Look, it’s fine...it’s over.” I hold up my hands. “You were right all along. It happened too long ago to matter anymore.”
She looks confused. “So...?”
“So it’s probably best we forget it now.” And I start to walk away.
“Jess, wait.” She runs after me, pulling on my arm. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. You heard her in there.”
“So, what now?”
I’m not even going the right way home—am heading in totally the wrong direction. Town’s manic; there are people everywhere and I didn’t expect to be left reeling.
But why didn’t I expect it? Everything I read online warned me how impossible this would be.
“Jess, please, talk to me! What’s the plan?”
“The plan?” I stop abruptly, stare at her. “I don’t know! I don’t have all the answers! Why don’t you decide something for once, instead of leaving it all to me?”
We’re standing in the middle of the pavement, forcing shoppers to go around us. The road is noisy, crowded. A tour bus is passing by, a man on the top deck speaking through a microphone.
She bites her lip forlornly, smaller than ever.
“Oh, God, Pree. I’m sorry.” I look up at the top deck of the bus, the woolly hats, indistinguishable faces. “We’re just gonna have to figure out what’s best for each of us...on our own.”
“But what about what you said about us being in this together?”
“That was yesterday. Before...” I trail off.
“It’s okay,” she says, nodding, tears brimming in her eyes. “I understand.”
I want to tell her that I didn’t mean what I said about going it alone and that I’ll call her...but my legs are thinking differently and I’m already walking away. Before turning the corner of the street, I look back, intending to wave, but she’s not there.
As I pull into the driveway, there’s a magenta glow on the horizon, the trees outlined in black like one of Holly’s charcoal sketches, and I wonder where her talent came from—whether Jack, Lee or Brooke were artistic. There are so many things we don’t know, sides to our husbands we weren’t aware of when we married them.
I gaze at the house, the porch light casting a welcoming glow. I can’t go back to how things were before. I’m convinced they did what Nicky said they did, but would never be able to prove it. The girls wouldn’t forgive me for bringing something so dangerous and unfounded to light. I’d risk losing them and probably my home too.
If only there were a way to extract him subtly, with minimal effort, just like they got rid of Nicky.
Checking that the leather file is concealed inside my rucksack, I make my way inside the house, the smell of pizza greeting me. The TV’s on very loud. And then I remember: it’s the big fireworks display tonight. That’s why town was so crazy. I’m going to have to stand there and look happy.
I step warily into the living room. Eva and Poppy are sitting either side of Max on the sofa, his arms around them. Noticing me, he smiles and I smile back.
I rub my eyes in disbelief at the kitchen clock. Nine fifteen?
“Morning, baby,” Max says, turning back to Poppy. “So, what does that do?” She’s sitting on his knee, showing him a game on her phone.
“It kills that one, Daddy. See?”
The radio’s playing Spandau Ballet’s “True.” Opposite them at the table, Eva’s tapping on her iPad. It occurs to me that I haven’t asked her in ages how her mean friend, Charlotte, is—whether she’s still getting at her. But now doesn’t seem the right time.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I flick on the kettle.
“Because you were out for the count,” Max replies. “It’s no biggie... What time are you going to see your mum?”
I go to lie as usual, before realizing that I don’t have to anymore; there’s nowhere else I need to be today. “Around two.”
“Only, I thought I’d take the girls swimming.” He taps his stomach. “Don’t want to get saggy.”
“Okay.” There’s not an inch of fat on him.
“Thought we’d go for coffee afterward, drag it out—give you some me time.”
“I don’t need me time,” I say emotionlessly.
“Well, it couldn’t hurt. I know you’ve got a lot going on.”
“Is Grandma getting worse?” Eva looks up from her screen.
“Yes, she is.” I take my mug of tea over to the window, surveying the icy lawn. The sun is trying to break through the fog. When it does, the red berries on the firethorn hedge will look spectacular. It’s the first frost I’ve noticed this autumn. There may have been others, but I wouldn’t have had a clue—have been elsewhere, preoccupied.
As I look at the trees, the roots, the soil, I feel envious. Everything around me seems solid, grounded. I’m the only one that’s adrift.
I’m locking the car door, two bunches of carnations and winter jasmine in my arms, when someone calls to me. “Do they help?”
I look about the car park, but can’t see anyone. I begin to walk toward the building, when the voice calls out again. “Do they help...the flowers?” This time I turn to see an elderly lady on the other side of the wall, near the compost heap. She nods at the bouquets I’m holding.
“Oh, I see...” I take a step toward her, embarrassed by my mistreatment of her garden. “I’m not sure. I buy them for my mum.”
“Who are the other ones for? Yourself? I’m sure you need them just as much.” She touches her hair into place, adjusting her cardigan in the way that elderly people do when speaking to strangers.
“No. But that’s a nice thought... They’re for Mum’s carer.”
“Well, I expect she appreciates them. I know you bring them every Sunday.”
My cheeks flush. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been tossing them over the wall. I really should have...well, not done that.”
“Oh, don’t you worry.” She flaps her hand. “If we can’t help each other out in times of need, then it’s a poor state of affairs. What’s a few dead flowers on a pile of eggshells and whatnot?”
“Well, that’s very kind of you.” I smile, turning to go. “I’d better be getting on.”
“You take care now.”
As I walk away, I can feel her watching me. I’ve never noticed her before. I’m not attentive to old Mary in the office either. I haven’t noticed the frosts. I haven’t considered my girls’ needs. I haven’t asked Eva whether Charlotte’s still giving her a hard time; I haven’t spoken to Poppy one-to-one in ages.
I’m a hypocrite for being angry about Holly. I’m no better than anyone else, caught up in myself and my own concerns, not paying enough attention to what’s going on around me.
I scowl, muttering to myself as I enter Beechcroft, the doors whooshing open. Olivia isn’t at the desk, so I leave her flowers there, heading through to Mum’s room with such a sense of routine that I’m barely conscious of my actions.
She’s asleep, so I continue on around the side of the bed, heading for the vase, when I catch sight of her face and gasp, dropping the flowers.
There’s a nasty swollen bruise on Mum’s cheek.
“Damn!” I’m picking up the smattering of carnation petals from the floor, when Olivia appears, smiling. “What happened?” I ask.
She takes a moment to realize what I mean. “Oh. She had a fall. I did think about ringing you, but it was in the middle of the night.”
“Well, you should have,” I say gruffly.
She looks taken aback. “I’m sorry, Jess... I’ll keep you updated in the future.”
What’s wrong with me? Now I’m making Olivia apologize?
I drop the petals into the wastepaper basket. “It was just a shock, that’s all.”
“I understand. It won’t happen again.”
I try to smile. “It’s fine. Don’t take any notice of me. I’m just having a bad day.” I approach Mum tentatively, peering at the bruise. “Is she all right?”
“Yes. It looks worse than it is. And we’ll put crash mats down in case it happens again.” Somewhere down the corridor an alarm is beeping. She points in its direction. “I have to...”
“That’s okay. Go. And please forget what I said.”
Sinking onto the bedside chair, I hold my head in my hands, looking at the petals underneath the bed that I missed when cleaning up.
I knew this would happen. Mum never falls. And now—because I kept using that as an excuse—she fell.
Taking off my coat, I sling it onto the floor in frustration, something falling from the pocket. I pick it up, baffled, before remembering that I took Holly’s bracelet from the storage unit.
I examine it over by the window. The cheap metal is tarnished, the black twine threadbare in parts. There’s a tiny charm that I can barely see without my glasses. I hold it up to the light to inspect it. I think it’s a key.