Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

When we arrived, there was already a crowd of people around the bar, and as we walked through the room there was a murmur of appreciation. Someone clapped and the others joined in, although there were too few people for it to be applause, and the resulting sound was embarrassing.

You handed me a glass of champagne and took one for yourself. A man with dark wavy hair approached us, and I knew from the way your eyes lit up that this was Philip.

‘Jenna!’ He kissed you on both cheeks and I saw your hand touch his so briefly you might have thought I wouldn’t notice. So briefly it might almost have been by accident. But I knew it wasn’t.

You introduced me, and Philip shook my hand. ‘You must be very proud of her.’

‘My wife is immensely gifted,’ I said. ‘Of course I’m proud of her.’

There was a pause before Philip spoke again. ‘I’m sorry to steal Jenna away from you, but I really must introduce her to a few people. There’s been a lot of interest in her work, and…’ He stopped talking and rubbed his thumb and fingers together, winking at me.

‘Far be it from me to stand in the way of possible sales,’ I said.

I watched you work the room together, Philip’s hand never leaving the small of your back, and I knew then you were having an affair. I don’t know how I got through the rest of the exhibition, but my eyes never left you. When the champagne was finished, I drank wine, and I stood next to the bar to save the need to return. And all the time I watched you. You had a smile on your face I never saw any more, and I had a brief glimpse of the girl I saw in the Student Union all those years ago, laughing with her friends. You never seemed to laugh any more.

My bottle was empty and I asked for more. The bar staff exchanged looks, but did what I said. People began leaving. I watched you say goodbye to them: kissing some, shaking hands with others. None were treated as warmly as your curator . When there were only a handful of guests left, I went up to you. ‘It’s time to go.’

You looked uncomfortable. ‘I can’t go yet, Ian, there are still people here. And I need to help clear up.’

Philip stepped forward. ‘Jenna, it’s fine. Poor Ian’s hardly seen you: he probably wants the chance to celebrate properly with you. I’ll finish up here and you can come for your pieces tomorrow. It’s been a huge success – well done!’ He kissed your cheek, only once this time, but the rage inside me threatened to boil over, and I could not speak.

You nodded. You seemed disappointed with Philip: did you hope he would ask you to stay? Send me away and keep you there? I took your hand and squeezed it tight as you continued talking to him. I knew you would never say a word, and I slowly tightened my grip until I could feel the cartilage in your hand slipping under my fingers.

Finally Philip was finished. He extended a hand to shake mine and I had to release my grip on you. I heard you exhale and saw you wrap one hand in the other.

‘Great to meet you, Ian,’ Philip said. His eyes flicked to you, before looking at me again. ‘Look after her, won’t you?’

I wondered what you had told him.

‘I always do,’ I said smoothly.

I turned for the exit and put my hand on your elbow, my thumb digging into your flesh.

‘You’re hurting me,’ you said under your breath. ‘People can see.’

I don’t know where you found this voice from, but I hadn’t heard it before.

‘How dare you make a fool of me?’ I hissed. We walked down the stairs, passing a couple who smiled politely at us. ‘Flirting with him in front of everyone, spending the whole evening touching him, kissing him!’ As we got to the car park I didn’t bother to keep my voice down, and the sound rang out in the night air. ‘You’re fucking him, aren’t you?’

You didn’t answer, and your silence made me even angrier. I grabbed your arm and twisted it behind you, bending it more and more until you cried out. ‘You brought me here to make fun of me, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t!’ Tears ran down your face and fell in dark spots on to your top.

My fist clenched of its own accord, but just as I felt the tremor in my forearm, a man walked past us.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

I stilled my arm, and we stayed like that, two feet apart, until his footsteps faded.

‘Get in the car.’

You opened the driver’s door and got in, taking three attempts to put the key in the ignition and turn it. It was only four o’clock, but it was dark already. It had been raining, and every time a car came towards you the lights bounced off the wet tarmac, making you screw up your eyes. You were still crying, and you rubbed your hand across your nose.

‘Look at the state you’re in,’ I said. ‘Does Philip know you’re like this? A snivelling, pathetic mouse of a woman?’

‘I’m not sleeping with Philip,’ you said. You left a pause between each word to emphasise your point, and I slammed my fist on the dashboard.

You flinched. ‘I’m not Philip’s type,’ you said. ‘He’s—’

‘Don’t talk to me as though I’m an idiot, Jennifer! I have eyes. I can see what’s going on between you.’

You braked sharply at red lights, then jerked hard on the accelerator as they changed to green. I twisted in my seat so I could watch you. I wanted to read your face; see what you were thinking. Whether you were thinking about him . I could tell that you were, although you were trying to hide it.

As soon as we got home I would stop that. As soon as we got home I would stop you thinking at all.

46

Bristol Crown Court is older than the Magistrates’ Court, and solemnity murmurs through its wood-panelled corridors. Ushers walk quickly in and out of the courtroom, their flapping black gowns causing papers on the clerk’s desk to float upwards as they pass. The quiet is discomforting, like a library where the pressure of not talking makes you want to scream, and I press the heels of my hands hard into my eye sockets. When I remove them, the courtroom swims out of focus. I wish I could keep it that way: the blurred edges and foggy shapes seem less threatening, less serious.

Now that I’m here, I’m frightened. The bravado with which I have approached this day in my own mind has vanished, and although I’m terrified of what Ian would do to me if I walked free, I am suddenly just as frightened of what will be waiting for me in prison when I’m sentenced. I squeeze my hands together and dig my nails into the skin on my left hand. My mind fills with the echo of approaching footsteps on metal walkways; narrow bunks in grey cells with walls so thick no one will hear me scream. I feel a sharp pain in my hand and look down to see that I’ve drawn blood, and when I wipe it away it leaves a smear of pink across the back of my hand.

The enclosure into which I have been placed has space for several more people; two rows of chairs are bolted on to the floor, their seats flipped up as though in a cinema. A glass wall runs inharmoniously around three sides, and I twist self-consciously in my seat as the courtroom begins to fill with people. There are many, many more spectators here than at my initial hearing. On their faces isn’t the mild curiosity of the magistrates’ tricoteuses , but the violent hatred of those intent on justice. One man, olive-skinned and with a leather jacket two sizes too big for him, leans forward in his seat. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and his mouth twists in silent anger. I start to cry, and he shakes his head, curling his lip in disgust.

In my pocket is the photo of Jacob and I slip my hand around it, finding the corners with my fingers.

The legal teams have grown: each barrister has several people behind them, sitting at rows of desks, and leaning forward to mutter urgently to one another. The ushers and barristers are the only people who seem comfortable here. They joke amongst themselves in daringly raised tones, and I wonder why the court is like this; why a system would so intentionally seek to alienate those who need it. The door creaks open and another wave of people come in, uneasy and wary. My breath catches as I see Anya. She slides into the front row next to the man in the leather jacket, who takes her hand.