Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'I promise to be... there', I said.

'Well, I should certainly hope so', she said.

Sandy had been away all weekend with her kids at a friend's house on the Cape - so we hadn't spoken. Immediately she could hear the fog in my voice. Immediately she guessed that tranquillizers were being taken in excessive amounts. I tried to reassure her. I failed. She pressed to know if something further had happened to tip me into this Valley of the Dolls state. I couldn't tell her about the weekend visit to East Sussex - and the sight of Jack in her arms. Part of it was due to the fact that, beneath my druggy haze, I felt so ashamed and humiliated about having gone down there in the first place. But I also knew that Sandy herself was still in a desperately fragile state. Her sadness and regret - the sense of loss for a man whom she had so clearly adored, even after he discarded her like a broken-down armchair - was both poignant and unnerving. And I knew that she would obsessively worry for the next twenty-four hours if I revealed the reality of my current mental state. Not, of course, that she wasn't terrified about the outcome of tomorrow's hearing.

'You must call me the moment you've heard the judge's decision. What did your lawyer tell you today?'

'Not much. Just... well, we'll see I guess'.

'Sally - how many anti-depressants are you taking right now?'

'The recommended dose'.

'I don't believe you'.

'Why would I...'

I shut my eyes as yet another sentence lost its way somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

'Now you're really scaring me', she said.

'Think, I dunno, maybe one too many earlier'.

'Well, don't take any more for the rest of the night'.

'Fine'.

'You promise me?'

'You have my word'.

Of course, I popped one shortly thereafter. I didn't need sleeping pills that night - because the extra dosage of anti-depressants packed a sucker punch. But then, at five that morning, I snapped back into consciousness, feeling toxic, feverish, ill. Like someone who had just crashed out of an extended flight in the druggy stratosphere... which, indeed, I had.

I sat in a hot bath for an hour, a steaming washcloth over my face for most of the time. I dried my hair, I ignored the haggard face in the mirror, I went into the kitchen and made a cafetière of coffee. I drank it all. Then I made another pot and drained it too. When I returned to the bathroom and attempted damage limitation with the use of pancake base and heavy applications of eyeliner, my hands were shaking. Toxicity, caffeine overload, terror. The most oppressive terror imaginable. Because I was about to be judged - and though I kept telling myself that Ginny Ricks knew what she was doing, I still feared the worst.

I dressed in my best black suit, and touched up my face with a bit more pancake to mask the dark rings beneath my eyes. Then I walked to the tube. On the District Line to Temple, I fit right in with the morning rush hour crowd - I was just another suit, avoiding eye contact with my fellow passengers in true London fashion, stoically dealing with the overcrowded train, the cloying humidity, the deep indifferent silence of the citizenry en route to work. Only, unlike them, I was en route to discover whether or not I'd get to see my baby son again.

I left the tube at Temple and walked up to The Strand. I was an hour early (I certainly couldn't afford to be late for this event), so I sat in a coffee bar, trying to quell my nerves. I didn't succeed. I had been warned by Ginny Ricks that my husband might not show up at the hearing ('he's not bound by law to be there - and can let his legal team handle everything for him') but even the outside chance that he might make an appearance terrified me. Because I didn't know how I'd react if brought face-to-face with him.

At ten-fifteen, I approached the High Court and walked up the steps. A young woman - plain, bespectacled, in a black raincoat over a simple grey suit - was waiting by the entrance doors. She looked at me questioningly. I nodded.

'Deirdre Pepinster', she said with a nod. 'We're this way'.

She led us through security to a large vaulted marble hall. It was like being in a church - with high vaulted ceilings, shadowy lighting, the echo of voices, and a constant parade of human traffic. We said nothing as we walked through the hall and then down assorted corridors. This was fine by me as I was becoming increasingly nervous. After several turns, we came to a door, outside which were several benches. Ginny Ricks was already seated on one of them, in conversation with an anaemic looking man in his forties, dressed in a very grey suit.

'This is Paul Halliwell, your barrister', Ginny Ricks said.

He proffered his hand.

'I've just received the witness statements this morning', he said, 'but everything seems to be in order'.

Alarm bells went off in my head.

'What do you mean, you just received the statements?' I said.

'I meant to call you about this late last night', Ginny Ricks said. 'The barrister I'd instructed fell ill... so I had to find a substitute. But really, not to worry. Paul is very experienced' -

'But he's just looking at the statements now' -

We were interrupted by the arrival of the other side. At first sight, they were like an identikit version of my team: a thin, grey man; a big-boned blonde woman, exuding high maintenance - a few years older than Ginny Ricks, but very much graduates from the same 'noblesse oblige' school. They all seemed to know each other - though, as I quickly realized, the grey man was Tony's solicitor, whereas the 'to the manor born' blonde was his barrister. I watched her watching me as she spoke with the others - the occasional cool sideways glance, during which she was sizing me up, taking the measure of me, putting a face to all that she had been told about me.

Paul Halliwell came out and pulled me aside.

'You know that this is merely an Interim Hearing, which you are not obliged to sit through, as it can be a bit stressful'.

'I have to be there', I said, wanting to add, Unlike my husband, who's sent others to do his dirty work for him.

'Fine, fine, it's obviously better, because the judge knows you really care about the outcome. Now, I'm just going to have a quick read of all this', he said, brandishing the witness statements, 'but it does seem very straightforward. The report from the doctor at hospital is the key here. Very encouraged by your progress, and so forth. About the fact that you threatened your baby... I presume you were tired, yes?'

'I hadn't slept in days'.

'And you never in any way physically harmed your son?'

'Absolutely not'.

'That's fine then. The key here is that there was nothing violently aberrant in your behaviour towards your baby that would convince the court you pose a risk to the child...'

'As I told Ginny Ricks...'

On cue, she poked her head into our conversation and said, 'I've just been told we're starting in five minutes'.

'Fear not', Paul Halliwell said. 'It will all be fine'.

The courtroom was a panelled Victorian room with leaded windows. The Judge had a large chair at the front. Facing him were six rows of benches. Tony's team sat on one side of the courtroom, his barrister in the first bench, the solicitors behind him. My barrister sat in the same bench as Tony's, but on the opposing side of the court. I sat in the second row with Ginny Ricks and Deirdre. They informed me that, at this sort of hearing, the barristers didn't have to wear wigs and the judge wouldn't be in robes.

'Nice suit, by the way', Ginny Ricks whispered to me as we waited for the judge to arrive. 'He'll immediately see that you're here - which speaks volumes about the fact that you so want your son back. And he'll also see that you're not some harridan, but eminently respectable and' -