Diane Jeffrey - The Guilty Mother

‘I’m thinking a big front-page splash,’ Claire continues, spreading her arms in an expansive gesture. ‘I’m thinking exclusive interviews with her son and her husband. I’m thinking never-before-seen baby photos …’

Claire continues in this vein and I tune out. I’m thinking pizza and Paddington 2 with Noah and Archie after this evening’s homework. Then I groan inwardly, remembering I’ve got to go to a Chekhov play tonight to write a review for our monthly print magazine. I can hear the rise and fall of Claire’s voice, but it sounds muffled, as if I’ve put my earplugs back in. Lost in my thoughts, I nod and shake my head in what sounds like the right places and grunt periodically.

I snap out of my reverie when Claire barks, ‘Understood?’

‘Yep.’

‘Good.’

I still haven’t a clue what she’s on about. Slade. It’s a very common surname in the Bristol area, but it does ring a bell. An alarm bell. A distant, dormant memory stirs lazily in a corner of my mind. I can’t quite bring it to the surface. Something unsavoury, though, I’m certain of that. A knot forms in my stomach. Although I can’t recall who this woman is, a voice in my head is warning me not to rouse this memory. Some strange sixth sense is telling me to stay away.

‘We’re done.’ I’m being dismissed. ‘Oh, and Jonathan? Send Kelly in here, will you? How that girl got an English degree with grammar as terrifying as hers is beyond me.’ Claire pauses and tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear, knocking the pencil to the floor. I find myself wondering if she used to have long hair as I pick it up for her.

‘Yes, of course.’ I leave the office. Poor kid. If there’s anything sharper than Claire’s features, it’s her tongue, and I think Kelly is about to be on the receiving end.

‘It’s your turn,’ I say to Kelly, slipping back into my swivel chair. I follow Kelly into the Aquarium with my eyes and then I watch Claire through the glass of her office as she paces the floor, shakes her head in an exaggerated manner, wags her finger, and finally stands still with her hands on her hips. I can’t hear what she’s saying from here, but everything in her body language indicates she’s giving our trainee reporter a severe tongue-lashing. Kelly has her back to me, but I can tell from the way she’s hanging her head and hunching her shoulders that she’s not taking this well. Claire looks up and catches me staring, so I swivel my chair round to face my laptop.

I allow myself to gaze at the wallpaper image on my screen for several seconds. It’s a holiday snap, taken nearly four years ago. Alfie and Noah, all smiles, are sitting on Gaudí’s mosaic bench in Park Güell in Barcelona. Mel, sandwiched between the boys, is looking directly at me as I take the photo with my phone.

It’s a terrible shot, blurred and overexposed, with Noah doing rabbit ears behind his mother’s head. But it’s the last picture I ever took of Mel. It was our last summer as a family.

Get a grip, Jon. Get to work!

When I type “Slade Bristol appeal” into the search engine and hit enter, I get several hits. The most recent articles online – from The Plymouth Herald , The Bristol Press and The Bristol Post – were posted yesterday. Words catch my attention as I scroll down. Will the Court of Appeal grant Melissa Slade leave to appeal? … Melissa Slade to appeal against her murder conviction .

Melissa Slade.

Seeing her full name brings it all flooding back. My hand starts to shake over the touchpad of my laptop. I’m reluctant to go any further. But then I spot a piece from The Redcliffe Gazette at the bottom of the results page. Recognising the headline, I click on it. I feel my brow furrow as I catch sight of the byline: J. Hunt. I start to read the article, but I can’t take any of it in. It’s as if I’m reading a foreign language.

I go back to the top and start again. The words themselves remain meaningless, even though I’m the one who wrote them. But I know the gist of what they say.

I glance at the date. December 2013. Just after Slade’s trial. Eight months before our holiday in Barcelona. That was another lifetime. A different life.

A few seconds ago, I’d been staring at the holiday photo I’d taken of Mel and our boys. Now I find myself looking into Melissa Slade’s mesmerising green-blue eyes as she smiles her wide white smile at me, her sheer beauty at odds with the headline below her picture.

MELISSA SLADE SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDER

This woman killed her daughter.

I’m not doing this. I’ll tell Claire to find someone else.

I’m suddenly aware of Kelly next to me, her loud sniffing filtering through my earplugs. I didn’t notice her come back. I delve into the inside pocket of my jacket, hanging across the back of my chair, and take out a clean handkerchief, which I offer to Kelly. When she has blown her nose, she manages a watery smile.

She says something, so I take out my earplugs and get her to repeat it.

‘Why’s she so hard on me?’

Claire can be hard on everyone. Because of her own quick competence and keen intelligence, she has little patience with people when she thinks they’re not pulling their weight. ‘I’m not sure, Kelly,’ I say. ‘Claire’s a perfectionist and expects high standards from everyone.’

I intend that to end the conversation, but I notice Kelly’s lower lip wobbling.

‘What did she say exactly?’ I ask. I don’t want her to start sobbing again. I don’t know how to deal with that sort of thing.

‘She said my latest copy was “unreadable due to numerous grammatical errors and spelling mistakes”.’

‘Well, that doesn’t sound too big a problem to sort out. Do you type up your stuff with the spellcheck on?’

I end up proposing to have a look at one of Kelly’s feature articles, more as a welcome distraction than out of the kindness of my heart. It’s an interesting story, about Bristol’s homeless, but it’s not particularly in-depth. While I correct it, I give Kelly a few pointers and tell her to find and interview someone living on the streets to add human interest to her article.

‘And get some photos,’ I say.

Next I read through a draft of one of Kelly’s pieces for the arts and entertainment page of our monthly print magazine. It’s a follow-up on an on-going local celebrity scandal, the sort of gossipy article I wouldn’t even glance at normally, but Kelly has written it in an appropriately sensationalist tone, and it only contains one spelling slip-up.

‘This is good, Kelly,’ I comment, which elicits a small smile.

She takes this as invitation to talk to me about her idea of setting up a weekly entertainment vlog.

‘I’ll have a word with Claire,’ I promise. ‘She should probably consider a rejuvenating facelift.’

Kelly grins, then pinches her eyebrows into a quick frown.

‘For The Rag , I mean,’ I add hastily. ‘Keep it,’ I say, as Kelly tries to hand the cotton hanky back to me. She scrunches it up in her hand.

She looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face, as if she’s trying to work me out. ‘I think my granddad is the only person I ever knew who carried cloth handkerchiefs on him.’

I’m not sure how to answer that, and I’m about to make a joke about her unflattering comparison, but I think the better of it. ‘I use them to clean my glasses,’ I say, shrugging.

It’s mid-afternoon before I can talk to Claire again. I’ve reread several articles on the Slade case, including my own. I’m still a bit hazy on some of the details, but I am clear about one thing. I’m not doing this.

It smells of cigarettes in Claire’s office. I suddenly feel like one – the itch has never completely disappeared, even after all these years as a non-smoker. I decide to scrounge a fag if she lights up, but she doesn’t appear to need one herself. She leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands.