“OH, PETE. PETEY PETEY Petey.”

It was Miles, calling on my mobile. I’d emailed him my article, with a request for a couple of quotes. But I could tell from his tone he wasn’t happy.

“It’s only a first draft, obviously,” I said. “If there’s anything you don’t want me to use, just say.”

There was a short silence. “It’s not right. None of it. I’m sorry, Pete.”

“In what way?” I said, confused. “I mean—it’s true, isn’t it? We are working things out between us.”

“Of course. But eyes on the prize, yes? Think how this is going to read to whoever’s given the job of working out how big a check they should be writing us. This looks like mitigation, Pete. Instead of mental distress and anguish, everyone’s getting along like one big happy family. The way this is written, you’d think we should be paying them.”

“Ah.” I hadn’t thought of it like that. “So you don’t think I should write anything?”

“I’m not saying that. In fact, a newspaper article could provide us with a very good paper trail. But you need to recast it. Basically, ever since I knocked on your door, your life’s been a living hell, yes? Every time you look at Theo’s sweet little face, you find yourself staring into another man’s eyes. Your family’s been violated and your relationship with your child upended—”

“Hang on,” I said anxiously. “Stuff hangs around online forever these days. I wouldn’t want Theo to read it one day and think I found it difficult to love him.”

“Fair enough,” Miles allowed. “But there might be other ways. You mentioned that Maddie experienced mental health issues after the NICU. Maybe the shock of all this has brought some of her symptoms back.”

“I’ll have to ask her,” I said. “I have a feeling she might not be too keen on that.”

“Well, tell her it could be worth an extra half mil. That should be enough to convince her.”

30

Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 18B, attachment sent by Peter Riley to several newspaper feature editors.

This is a story that will strike fear into the heart of every parent.

This is a story about two broken families, who, just when they were finally recovering from tragedy, heartbreak, and mental illness, were dealt a fresh blow of unimaginable horror.

Because the shocking truth is that, at any moment, a stranger could knock on your door and announce that the child you have fed, bathed, played with, taught the letters of the alphabet to, parented for two whole years, isn’t yours. And everything you thought you knew about your family could be blown apart in an instant.

I know, because that is what happened to my partner and me…

31

    PETE

I REWROTE THE PIECE the way Miles had suggested. It wasn’t as good—if I’m honest, part of my motivation for doing an article in the first place had been to celebrate the way we were all dealing with this: It was two fingers up to people like Jack Wilson who thought cynicism and distrust were the only correct responses to a problem like ours. But I could see Miles’s point, and in any case pitching it as an update to my successful mental health article made it easier to place. The Daily Mail picked it up immediately, although they couldn’t say when they’d run it. When the sub who was fact-checking it emailed me back with some queries, I saw they’d added a headline: TWO YEARS AGO, A BOTCHED BIRTH LEFT MY WIFE PSYCHOTIC. NOW A DNA TEST REVEALS: IT ISN’T EVEN OUR BABY.

I went to see a solicitor at the medical malpractice firm Miles was using, at their gleaming office with a view over Tower Bridge. I’d had a vague idea that no-win no-fee lawyers were all hustlers, but Justin Watts was bright and personable and charming, clearly a product of the kind of expensive private school Miles would have liked Theo to attend.

He made me go through the whole story again. “Well,” he said when I was done, “as actions go, this one seems pretty straightforward—legally speaking, that is. I’ll get a letter of claim off and we’ll see what they come back with. Presumably you’re aware that St. Alexander’s has had its NICU downgraded to Level Two?”

I hadn’t been. “Why? What happened?”

“Their mortality rate last year was nearly two percent higher than the national average. That might sound small, but it equates to a jump from four deaths a year to nine. Something’s not right over there, so Level Three services have been transferred to Guy’s while an investigation’s carried out. It’s good news for you, though. The trust will be hoping they can reopen as a Level Three as quickly as possible, so the last thing they’ll want is you kicking up a stink. This has quick settlement written all over it.” He tapped my article, lying on his desk. “But hold off getting this published for now, yes? The hospital might well prefer to keep the whole episode quiet, in which case this is only useful leverage until you actually run it.”

I nodded. It would annoy the Mail to be told they couldn’t print the piece yet, but every editor is used to being told that articles are sub judice. “And I really don’t have to pay you anything?”

“Well, there’ll be some expenses that’ll need to be covered as they arise. But once we enter into the Conditional Fee Arrangement, you won’t pay for my time unless we win. At that point, we’ll charge our fees in full plus a success fee, both of which will get settled by the other side as costs. They’ll have to pay back your expenses, too.”

“And if we lose?”

“If we lose, in theory the boot’s on the other foot and you have to pay their costs. In practice, you’ll take out what’s called after-the-event insurance to cover that possibility. And you can add the insurance premium to the costs the other side has to pay if you win.”

It all sounded too good to be true. I had to remind myself that this was how things worked, that it was someone else’s fault we were in this situation in the first place. “And do you know…” I hesitated. It seemed poor taste to ask How much, but Justin was ahead of me.

“We’ll ask for two million. I doubt we’ll get quite that much, but it’s good to start high. Of course, that’s nothing to what the Lamberts will be asking for.”

“Why’s that?” I’d assumed we’d get roughly the same.

“Because of David’s disabilities. Maddie was told by the doctor who performed her cesarean that her baby might have been starved of oxygen—correct?”

I nodded.

“And later, when you sent her that picture from the NICU, it was of Theo being treated for possible oxygen starvation with a cooling blanket. But, assuming the babies had already been swapped by then, it was the wrong baby who was being cooled. The Lamberts can make a good case that David’s problems were exacerbated by negligence—and with those like him now living longer and costing more, the payout could potentially be in the very high tens of millions.”

* * *

—

MY SECOND MEETING THAT day was with our local vicar, to talk about the christening. The Reverend Sheila Lewis lived in a tiny modern rectory next to the church, a complete contrast with Justin Watts’s sleek office. As it was the afternoon, I had Theo with me, but for once he was on his best behavior, happily playing on the floor with an ancient nativity set.

“Will it be a problem that Theo’s older than most kids are when they’re christened?” I asked.

Reverend Sheila shook her head. She was small and smiley and energetic—I’d heard from other parents that she’d had a successful career as a biochemist before becoming a vicar. “The only requirement is that the godparents have also been baptized. And that they’re prepared to take their duties seriously, of course. Can you vouch that’s the case here?”

“I’ll have to check with them—the baptism bit, that is. I’m sure they’ll take their duties seriously.” Something made me add, “We haven’t actually known them very long.”

Reverend Sheila raised her eyebrows. “Choosing a godparent isn’t a decision to be made lightly.”

“It wasn’t. Quite the reverse.” I looked around, but Theo was still engrossed in the nativity set, cheerfully impaling the Virgin Mary on the ox’s horns. “It’s quite an unusual situation, as it happens,” I said quietly. “They’re actually Theo’s real parents.”

For the second time that day, I found myself relating the story of the mix-up at St. Alexander’s. Reverend Sheila listened with a rather more quizzical expression than Justin Watts had.