Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

But I knew better. I was the architect of my own disaster. I had nobody to blame but myself. And now...

Now I was desperate for a friendly, reassuring voice. So, at eight that morning, I rang the private number that Ellen gave me, 'in case of any emergency', as she said at the time. Well, this definitely qualified as an emergency, which meant I hoped she'd be sympathetic about the earliness of the call.

But I didn't speak to Ellen - instead I got her answerphone, which informed me that she was on annual leave and would be back three weeks from now.

Three weeks. I couldn't last three weeks.

I made myself some tea. I ran a bath. But I was terrified of getting into the bath, out of fear that Tony would ring and I wouldn't hear the call. And the phone was on the far side of the bedroom - well away from the bath, which meant that it might take me a good seven rings before I reached it, by which time I would have missed the call, and then...

All right, this was completely manic logic - I could find an extension cord and move the phone closer to the bath, right? - but I couldn't latch on to any sort of logic just now. I was in the deepest trouble imaginable - and the same damn question kept replaying itself inside my head: what can I do now?

Once again, the answer was: Nothing... until the lawyer calls.

Which she finally did around nine-thirty that morning. From her mobile phone, stuck somewhere in traffic. Her voice was crisply cadenced, plummy.

'Sally Goodchild? Ginny Ricks here. My secretary said you called yesterday. Something urgent, yes?'

'Yes, my husband's vanished with our son'.

'Vanished? Really?'

'Well, not exactly vanished. While I was out of the country, he got a court order giving him residence of my baby...'

'You know', she said, cutting me off, 'this is probably best discussed face-to-face. How are you fixed at the end of the week... say Friday around four pm?'

'But that's two days from now'.

'Best I can do, I'm afraid. Lots of divorcing couples right now. So Friday it is then, yes?'

'Sure'.

'You know where to find us?'

And she gave me an address in Chancery Lane.

When Margaret called me that afternoon for a transatlantic update, I mentioned that I had managed to get an appointment with someone from Lawrence and Lambert.

'Well, that's a start'.

'But she can't see me for two days, and... I don't know... maybe I'm pre-judging her on the basis of one fast phone call, but her tone was so damn supercilious'.

'They're all a bit like that', she said.

'Alexander doesn't know of anybody else over here?'

'I can ask him again, but by the time I get back to you it will be tomorrow, and by the time you call the firm and get an appointment...'

'All right, point taken'.

'Don't you have some friends there who can point you towards some lawyer they know?'

Here was that question again: don't you have friends in London? The long answer to which was: I arrived here pregnant. A few months later, I ended up being confined to quarters with high blood pressure. Since then... well, let's not go through that happy scenario again. So, no - I've found no toe-hold here whatsoever. And it's all my own fault.

'No - I really don't know many people around town'.

'Hey, don't beat yourself up over that', she said. 'It took me more than a year to meet anyone in London. It's that kind of a town'.

'I'm desperate to see Jack', I said.

More than desperate. It was an actual physical ache.

'I can't even begin to imagine...'

'Don't say it...'

The next forty-eight hours were hell. I tried to stay busy. I cleaned the house. Twice. I called my old bank in Boston, asked them to cash in my bonds, and wire the entire amount over to me. I took my anti-depressants with metronomic regularity - and often wondered if this pharmacological compound was keeping me in check; if, without it, I would have already descended into complete mania. Somehow I was managing to push my way through the day. I even called back Tony's secretary and apologized for the scene at Wapping the previous day.

'There's absolutely no need for an apology', Judith Crandell said. 'I understand completely'.

'But do you understand why Tony quit?'

A silence. Then, 'Sally... it's not that I am unduly loyal to Tony, it's just... I don't think it's my business to involve myself in your business'.

'But Tony told you about my... illness... didn't he?' 'Yes, he did mention that you had been... unwell'.

'So you did know a certain amount about my business. Which means you also must know something about the woman he's vanished with'.

'This is very awkward...'

'I just have to make contact with him. What he's doing is so unfair'.

'I'm sorry, Sally. But I just can't help you here'.

I phoned Tony's deputy, Simon Pinnock. He was similarly evasive (and just a little mortified) to be cornered like this by the shunned wife of his ex-boss.

'I really don't have a clue why he did what he did', he said, the nervousness showing.

'Come on, Simon', I said. 'I think you do'.

'If you'll excuse me, I'm being called into conference...'

I even tried ringing Tony's long-estranged sister - whom I'd never met (they'd had a falling out over something he wouldn't discuss with me), and who now lived in East Sussex. It took some dogged on-line digging in the BT directory to find her number. She didn't particularly want to talk with me either.

'Haven't spoken to Tony in years - so why should he call me now?' she said.

'It was just a long shot'.

'How long have you two been married now?'

'Around a year'.

'And he's already abandoned you? That's fast work, right enough. Mind you, I'm not surprised. He's the abandoning sort'.

'You mean, he's done this before?'

'Maybe'.

'That's not an answer'.

'Maybe I feel I don't need to give you an answer. Especially having adopted that tone with me...'

'I didn't adopt a tone'.

'Yes you did. And it's not like I know you or anything...'

'Well, if I've offended you, I'm very sorry. And...'

'Don't feel like talking to you anymore'.

And the line went dead.

I hit my hand against my forehead, congratulating myself on another tactical diplomatic victory. My inborn American inability to couch things in coded language caused me to strike out every time. Hadn't I learned anything in my months here?

I vowed to be on my absolute best behaviour when I met Virginia Ricks the next day. I took the tube to Chancery Lane well in advance of our appointed time, and loitered for an hour in a Starbucks until three-thirty arrived.

The offices of Lawrence and Lambert were in a narrow terraced town house, sleekly renovated inside. There was a security man on the door - who made me sign in and checked that I did have an appointment upstairs. Then I headed up in the lift to the third floor and stepped out into a pleasant, modern reception area, with chrome furniture and copies of all the daily papers on the coffee table. While the receptionist phoned Virginia Ricks, I sat down and absently glanced through them, deliberately shunning the Chronicle.

Around five minutes later, a young woman in her early twenties came out. Blonde. Big hair. Slutty suit.

'You Sally?' she asked. 'I'm Trudy. We spoke yesterday. Doing all right?'

'Uh fine, yes'.

'Great. But listen, Ginny's still tied up in court. Now we could reschedule the whole thing for Monday...'

'I really need to see her today'.

'Understood. And the good news is, she should be back at around four-thirty. So...'

I killed an hour in a branch of Books Etc on Fleet Street, then picked up another coffee and sat on a bench in Lincoln's Inn, shivering with the chill, chasing another two anti-depressants with my latte, thinking that there is always something strangely comforting about a square like this one in the midst of a city - how it gives you a sense of enclosure and shelter.