I DON’T TELL PETE. There’s a chance he’ll storm off and confront Miles, and I suspect Miles would enjoy that. He might even be hoping he can make Pete look aggressive and hot-tempered, and by implication a bad parent.
After the hearing Pete goes to Greg and Kate’s to get his suitcase, while I go back to the house. By the time I get there I’m kicking myself for not making more of a fuss. Shouldn’t a strong, confident woman—which is what I know myself to be—have called Miles out? I’ve always fended off drunken fumbles with a firm stare and a cutting put-down, but promised myself that, if anything more serious happened, I’d stand up for myself; go to the police, if need be. I wouldn’t be a victim.
But it had been so quick, so shocking, so hard to take in.
Is that how people like that get away with it, I wonder—sheer effrontery and self-confidence? My anger is growing by the minute, but of course it’s too late now. That’s another weapon in their armory, I realize—surprise. And the ridiculous British habit of being polite, no matter what the circumstances.
Well, I’m not British. If Miles does it again, I resolve to punch him, courtroom or no courtroom.
Pete arrives, carrying his overnight case. “Welcome home,” I say brightly. “I’d open the champagne, but…”
He nods and looks around. There’s an awkward moment. Probably no one else, looking at the two of us, would even notice it. But we don’t hug, or kiss, or fall into each other’s arms. We’re polite and cheerful and false.
Is it because of what Miles did? Because of not telling Pete? Or is it because of all the other secrets that have started to ooze their way to the surface over the last few weeks, like bubbles squelching out of mud? I want to trust Pete, of course I do, but there’s a tiny part of me that knows good people can do bad things, and that loyalty isn’t the same as certainty.
Losing Theo isn’t the only threat to our relationship, I realize. Even if we get to keep him—which, I have to admit to myself, is looking far from certain—will all the stress and suspicion leave its mark? Can we really survive this as a couple?
I’ve heard people say there are no winners in legal cases. I’m beginning to understand why.
* * *
—
MY ANGER ABOUT MILES makes me even more determined to speak to Tania, though. What he did to me fits with everything else I know about him, as well as something I read online: “For psychopaths, sex is all about gratification, conquest, risk, and reward.”
Where to start? I never took Tania’s number. But then I think of Lucy’s Facebook, all those pictures of expeditions to the zoo and park. I reach for my iPad.
Sure enough, under the list of people who’ve liked the pictures is Tania Lefebvre. I message her.
Hi Tania, it’s Maddie Wilson here. I know this will seem odd, but could I talk to you about your experience of working for Miles Lambert?
After a little while, a reply comes back.
I think you might be more interested to talk to the nanny before me, Michaela Costea (we share the same agency). Here are her contact details. Bonne chance.
Attached is a phone number.
* * *
—
“MILES LAMBERT FIRED YOU, didn’t he? He saw you going through Facebook or whatever, and using his coffee machine when you were meant to be looking after David.”
We meet in a café on Finchley Road, a small, bustling place with steamed-up windows where the owners, a family, shout to one another cheerfully in Turkish. Michaela sips her latte and nods.
“Yes. He fired me. But it wasn’t how you said.”
“What happened?”
Michaela pauses before replying. She’s a pretty girl, I decide, although her bleached-white hair does her no favors. “I didn’t behave too good myself. Listen, I’m not proud of it. But he was worse.”
“Why? What did he do?”
She sighs. “I suppose I was angry with her—with Mrs. Lambert. Who has a coffee machine and stops people using it? ‘You’re just the nanny. Here, you can drink Nescafé.’ I mean, really? So when they were out, I made myself a coffee.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t know it was his rule, of course. Everything in that house was him. And yes, while I drank my coffee I looked at my Instagram. Why not? It wasn’t like David needed me right then.”
“But Miles saw you on his camera.”
Michaela nods. “They hadn’t told me they were spying on me, either. Not in so many words.”
“And then he fired you,” I say, not quite sure where this is going. Having a hidden camera is distrustful and controlling, certainly, but I don’t think it’s illegal.
“Not then, he didn’t.” Michaela seems to come to a decision. “Okay. He comes to me that night, when she’s at her book club. ‘I’ve seen you drinking the coffee,’ he says. ‘My wife gets very angry about things like that. Personally, I think it’s a ridiculous rule. So let’s not tell her. Our secret, right?’ And then he…he…” She suddenly looks very young. “Well, you can guess the rest.”
“Ah. You slept with him?”
“Sleeping. What an English word. We say a b?ga regele-n castel when we want to be polite. Putting the king inside the castle. Yes, we did it. I told myself it was just my revenge, to pay his wife back for being so uptight.” She shrugs again, an attempt at bravura that doesn’t quite work. “I would have done it with him maybe once, then stopped. But he came to my room again a few days later. She was downstairs. I knew it was wrong but he just assumed…Somehow it was hard to say no. And then, the next time, we did it in the kitchen when she was right next door, in the playroom. We were behind the big counter in the middle, what she calls the island. He just unzipped himself and put my hand on it. I was wearing a short skirt…It was crazy stupid. If she’d come in…But you know something? I think he liked it. That we might get caught, I mean.”
“Do you think she knew?”
Michaela looks thoughtful. “I don’t think so. But she’s strange with him, actually. Like she’s a little bit scared but she also depends on him for everything. I think she only sees what she wants to see.”
“Did you ever see him be violent towards her? Or mistreat David?”
Michaela shakes her head. “No.”
That’s unfortunate in some ways. Having sex with the nanny behind Lucy’s back is gross, but it doesn’t help with the case. “And what about you? Did he ever threaten you?”
“Just once.” Michaela blinks back tears. “He came to me and said it had to stop. I was…you know, relieved, really. I told him he was right and we should never talk about it again. He said I didn’t understand. It wasn’t stopping because it was wrong. It was because he was bored with me. He threw an envelope on the bed. He said, ‘That’s five hundred pounds. I’ll tell my wife I fired you for drinking the coffee. Now get out of the house.’?” Michaela’s crying openly now, the tears running down her pale skin. “I didn’t want to get fired—the agency will drop you if it happens too often. I said I would stay a bit longer, so it looked okay, then give my notice. And I—I reminded him we had a secret. I wouldn’t have told her, but I thought he should consider what he’d done, and maybe behave a bit better. And that’s when he changed.”
“Changed how?”
“Cold. He went cold. There was nothing—no expression in his face. He said, ‘If you ever threaten me again, I will carry you down to the basement and drown you in the swimming pool. The police will think it was an accident.’?” Michaela shudders. “I believed him. I was so frightened. I took the money and packed my things right away. I wouldn’t go back to that house. Not if you paid me all the money in the world. And I told the next girl to be careful, too.”
85
MADDIE
THE WRITTEN DIRECTION FROM the judge says my blood and hair samples have to be taken by a GP. I go to Sharon Randall, a private doctor I used when I first came to London.
“And I need something that’ll stop me drinking,” I say when the samples have been sealed. “Really stop me, so the judge will know I mean it.”
“That would be disulfiram,” Sharon says immediately. “Called Antabuse in this country. But I warn you, it’s not for the fainthearted.”
“In what way?”
“You know how some Asian people can’t tolerate booze, because they can’t process acetaldehyde? Antabuse basically makes you very, very Asian. Ten minutes after you’ve taken it, if you have even the smallest sip of alcohol you’ll be vomiting in a way that makes morning sickness look like an attack of the hiccups. And you’ll be left with a throbbing headache, diarrhea, lethargy, yellow skin, and acne. In fact, you could get some of those side effects even if you don’t have a drink.”