We Need to Have a Talk

Many thanks for the positive feedback and ideas particularly from Dalmation m, Quick.thought, Maydaypilot and rfaust 3000.

'Murder is murder,' the solicitor declares, laying his open palms face upwards on the table between us. The dapper lawyer looks as if he's just stepped out of a Victorian funeral parlour. His sombre statement echoes irrefutably around the painted block walls of the interview room. 'We might have been able to argue self-defence if you hadn't taken the kitchen knife with you and followed him home from work.'

Ian nods grimly in acceptance.

'Couldn't we claim it was someone else?' I suggest.

He looks at me over the top of his glasses. 'Not with this forensic evidence against him,' he says, tapping the manilla folder. 'No. I would strongly recommend that you plead guilty. It will be taken into account at sentencing and you'll then be eligible for parole. Also, it would avoid a jury seeing the videos, reducing the risk of them getting into the public domain.'

'How long am I likely to get?'

'Well,' the solicitor sighs, 'murder carries a mandatory life sentence.'

I gasp in horror.

'However, the judge will set a minimum term after which you'll be able to apply for parole. We will argue for a light sentence, given the provocation to which you were subjected and, if you do decide to plead guilty it's likely you will receive a twenty-year term, perhaps a little less'

I bow my head as tears stream down my cheeks.

'What about getting bail?'

'We can request it of course, but I wouldn't hold your hopes up. It's unlikely to be granted in such a serious case.'

An oppressive silence hangs in the stale air.

'I'm sorry I can't be more optimistic,' he frowns. 'If you don't have any more questions, I'll leave you to it. You'll no doubt want to discuss a few things together.' His chair screeches back across the concrete floor. He picks up his folder and taps on the steel door to be allowed out.

'I'm so sorry,' I sob, clenching Ian's hand.

'I know,' he concedes. 'But I want you to promise me something, Emily.'

'Of course, anything.'

'Promise me that you won't miss a visit and that you'll tell me all your news, all your hopes and dreams and fears. Life in here is dead. It's the same tedious monotony day after day. I want to know everything that you're doing, what you've seen, what you've heard, do you understand. I need to live through you. It's my only chance of surviving this.'

'Yes,' I agree, unequivocally.

Just then the prison officer returns. 'Your visiting time is up, Mrs Cooke.'

We both stand. Ian hugs me and kisses me on the forehead before I follow the warder out. I'm escorted to the security gates in the double row of fences topped with razor wire. I glance back as I reclaim my bag and phone. I feel terrible for Ian, detained inside that concrete bunker.

The following week I return to work. It's a mistake. The office is full but everyone falls silent as I enter. I can sense their eyes on my back as I hang my jacket up. The rumour mill must have gone into overdrive while I was away. 'Hi,' I announce in a bright and breezy voice, turning to face them. There is no response. Colleagues and friends that I had known for years avert their eyes. I do the walk of shame to my desk. I swivel in my chair and boot up the computer. But I can't log in. I think I must have pressed the wrong key, but when I try again, I get the same message - access denied. I look around but everybody is studiously staring at their screens.

At that moment the Accounts Manager opens the door. He doesn't speak a word, just simply beckons me to follow him. Eyes follow me out of the office.

'Take a seat, Emily,' he says softly, closing the door. 'How are you?'

'I'm OK but I can't seem to get into my computer.'

'Ah, yes.' He clears his throat. 'As you might have expected, rumours have been rife and people have put two and two together. Nick, for all his faults, was a very popular guy. Hence the reaction you received this morning. He was also a bloody good salesman, and it is going to be hard to replace him. We are contacting his customers, but it's inevitable we're going to lose some. The company is losing money and we are having to make savings. It's therefore, with some personal regret, that I am giving you your notice.'

'But I've got far more experience than the other staff in Accounts,' I protest.

'I know. I'm sorry. It wasn't my decision.'

'That bloody MD,' I mouth under my breath. 'He wants me out so that I can't spill the beans about his role in the affair. The bastard!'

'Obviously we don't expect you to work your notice. You'll probably want to start making job applications and I would be more than happy to give you a reference.'

I'm gob smacked. There's nothing I can say. I'm determined to hold back my tears. I return to the office and collect my bag and jacket, before slinking off with my tail between my legs. I can't remember driving home. My mind is in such a whirl. As I sit down at the kitchen table, the floodgates open. I realise that without either of our incomes, we will lose our home. I'm going to have to find a job, and a well-paid one, just to keep up with the mortgage payments.

I hit the internet. There are a few positions for temporary account assistants covering maternity leave, but nothing permanent unless I'm prepared to move to London. I hadn't realised that the recession had got so bad. I spend the rest of the day updating my CV and registering with several recruitment agencies. Although they're all upbeat, reading between the lines, the prospects are gloomy.

At my next prison visit, Ian tells me he has pleaded guilty, but the sentencing hearing won't be until August, five months away. I report that I've been sacked and I haven't heard anything from the job agencies. He agrees that we should sell the house and his car and I can rent a small flat or even live with my mum.

Rather than ring Mum, I decide to go over to see her. She immediately agrees that I can go back, although she seems a little uneasy that I can't let her know how long I will need to stay. She's got used to living independently.

I put our house on the market and I'm kept busy, initially getting it clean and tidy, and then showing prospective purchasers round. It proves to be quite a popular property and we get an offer of the asking price within a couple of weeks, which the estate agent claims is a record. Even so, there are still searches and surveys to negotiate. The process is just as involved as Ian's court proceedings. In the end, we only exchange contracts and complete a couple of weeks before the hearing.

I'm still struggling to find a position in accountancy, so I have taken a waitressing job which leaves me flexible to attend interviews, hopefully. It doesn't pay well so I decide to put my furniture into storage and move in with Mum. I quickly realise why I had moved out originally. Since my dad's death, she's become increasingly anxious. She still treats me like a child; wanting to know where I'm going, what I'm doing and who I'm seeing all the time. She even waits up for me until I come in. It makes me want to scream. The days leading up to the sentencing seem to drag by interminably.

When I open the curtains on the morning of the hearing, I realise something is wrong. There is a horde of reporters outside the front gate, surrounding my car. I dress quickly and wake Mum. 'They must have found out about your affair with Nick,' she speculates. Having seen me open the curtains, they start knocking on the door and ringing the bell. 'Don't answer it,' she urges. I try to ring the solicitor, but it just goes to voicemail.

We sit in the kitchen with our bowls of cereal, under siege. I'm dreading the moment when I will have to step outside. I double check that I have everything with me. The last thing I need is to have to return through the crowd because I've forgotten something. I glance at my watch and realise it's time to go. I leave through the back door so that I can get up a head of steam before they see me coming. Grasping my car keys in my hand, I lower my head and charge into the melee.

They scream at me. 'How do you feel about your husband doing time for your adultery, Mrs Cooke?' I find it almost impossible not to reply, even though I have no idea what to say. The cameras flash in my face and I nearly drop my keys trying to open the car door. Once inside, I close my eyes and take a deep breath to steady myself. I turn the ignition and see that their faces are jammed up against the windows, still yelling at me. They only step back as I start to move off. Through my rear-view mirror, I see them scurrying to their cars to follow me into town.

I park opposite the courthouse and ignore the ticket machine. A parking fine is the least of my worries at present. I manage to get inside before the newshounds catch up. The solicitor, already in his gown, pulls me into a side room. 'What's happened?' I gasp.

'There's been a leak, either from the prosecution or the court officials,' he declares. 'I understand the press are aware of the videos, although they haven't actually seen them. So, they don't know any more details than they would once the hearing has taken place.'

'Well, that's a comfort, then,' I comment bitterly.

'The videos won't be shown in court although our defence barrister will refer to their contents as part of the provocation that Ian endured. The judge has watched them to enable him to determine their extent and set the minimum term.'

'Dirty old bastard,' I mutter. 'And what about afterwards? Will the press still surround my mum's house?'

He shrugged. 'They usually lose interest after a couple of days. It depends what other stories crop up.' He rises from his chair. 'I'm sorry. I have to brief Ian before he goes in to court. Stay in here and I'll ask an usher to reserve you a seat in the public gallery.' He sweeps out.

The minutes crawl by and I think they must have forgotten me before the usher knocks on the door and announces that the judge is about to enter. The court is full and murmurs ripple around as I'm led to a seat close to the dock. I concentrate on the front without glancing round. Ian is brought into the dock by a uniformed officer and gives me a tight smile when he spots me.

We are asked to rise as the judge enters. Everything then seems to go into overdrive. The prosecution outlines its case in a few minutes and the defence's mitigation is not much longer. The judge sums up the case with reference to the sentencing guidelines and finally reads out his verdict; life imprisonment with a minimum term of fifteen years. He leaves and it's over.

I try to attract Ian's attention but he's already being led out through the rear of the dock. I continue to sit in a daze as the general hubbub dies away. Eventually I rise to follow, but I realise that there's a pack of reporters waiting for me in the lobby. I look around for the usher, but he has disappeared. It's then that I notice a tall gentleman approaching with a mop of white hair. As he removes his dark glasses, I recognise Richard, the host of the Valentine Soiree.

'You can't go out there,' he declares in his Oxbridge accent. 'They're like a shoal of circling piranhas. They'll strip every morsel from you and then spit you out at the end. If you want, I can ask my driver to bring the car round to the back door.' I look out at the press again and agree.

He manages to find an usher and we're led through a labyrinth of dimly lit passages until we come to a fire exit. The usher disarms the alarm and pushes the door open. There's a white 4x4 parked at the kerb. Richard sticks his nose out and scans the street.

'It's all clear,' he whispers. He thanks the usher and slips out, opening the rear door for me as I follow quickly behind. He tells me to slide across as he climbs in behind me. I start to buckle the seat belt. 'No. Lie down and cover yourself with this until we're away.' He thrusts a heavy tweed blanket at me. I lie on the seat and pull it over my head as the car starts forward. The cover is scratchy, covered in dog hairs and smells disgusting.

'Is this better than being eaten alive?' I wonder. But it's only a minute before he announces that I can come out now. I push it off and sit up.

'Actually, I'm lunching at the Dog and Gun. Just sandwiches; nothing fancy. I would be delighted if you would join me, Emily.'

I can't think of a reason why not. I figure it will allow time for the reporters to disperse before I head back to Mum's. 'Yes. That would be nice,' I thank him.

In the pub, we both order a ham sandwich with a side salad. Richard has half of bitter while I settle for a tonic water. While we wait, I tell him about my encounter with the press that morning. He's surprised that they already know about the videos and concerned that they might become public.

'I'm really sorry for what's happened,' he continues. 'I had no idea that Nick was blackmailing you.'

I nod noncommittally. As we finish lunch, he suggests that I stay at the Hall for a few days until it has all blown over. However, I'm not sure about leaving Mum to face the press on her own.

'Give her a ring and check with her.' Richard stands up. 'I need to make a couple of calls myself to stop those videos getting out. They could be very embarrassing for me and some of the other individuals who featured.'

When Mum answers, she immediately asks about the outcome of the hearing. 'Oh my God,' she cries. 'Fifteen years. Poor Ian. All because you wanted a moment of sexual gratification.'

I'm shocked at her reaction. 'He didn't have to stick a knife in,' I reply. And besides, it wasn't just a moment, it was the most exciting and thrilling six months of my life, but I wasn't going to tell her that. 'Are the reporters still there?'

'Yes, they're in the street, but I've been out to the shops and they didn't bother me.'

'Good. Look, I'm going to stay with a friend who's offered to put me up for a few days until it has all died down.'

'Who?'

'His name is Richard. You won't know him.'

'Another man! Are you sure he's not just trying to get into your knickers?'

'No Mum. He's not like that.' I didn't mention that he'd already been inside my knickers, as she put it.

I finish the call and walk over to the bar where he is settling the bill. 'I'd like to stay at the Hall if that is still OK, but I'll need to pick up some clean clothes. I've got some in storage with my furniture that we can collect so we won't have to meet the reporters.'

Eventually we draw up in the courtyard of Rigton Hall. 'Will you want the car again today, Sir Richard?' his driver asks.

'No. It would be better to wait until tomorrow to pick up Emily's car, once the mob has disappeared.'

'Sir Richard?' I query as we walk towards the side door.

'Yes,' he grins self-consciously. 'I inherited the title along with this pile. I don't use it much, although it can be useful at times, as you saw at the courthouse.'

He leaves me in the sitting room while he goes to sort out a room for me. He tells me dinner will be at seven so I spend a fruitless afternoon checking messages on my phone to see if there are any replies to my job applications. It's full of unknown numbers wanting me to call back.

There is only Sir Richard, his wife Victoria and myself dining. The room is a grand space with a high stuccoed ceiling designed to entertain large dinner parties. It seems empty and sad with only the three of us perched at one end of the table. He has changed into more formal attire while Victoria is in an evening gown. Although I had dressed smartly for the hearing, I'm completely underdressed for this setting. But my apologies are waved away.

Victoria remains sullen and silent throughout the meal. I try to hold up my end of the conversation, recounting what had happened since Ian's arrest. Richard sits up when I tell him that I had lost my job. 'I'll make some enquiries. I might be able to get you something.'

As he walks me up to my room, I mention Victoria's subdued demeanour. 'Yes. I'm sorry. She's going through a difficult period at the moment,' he replies, but then changes the subject. 'Breakfast will be DIY in the morning, in the kitchen.'

The bedroom is the same one I had stayed in previously, though I'm not sure he is aware of it. It's located at the front of the Hall and overlooks the driveway. I hadn't noticed how dark and quiet it was before. I am used to the lights and noise of the city. Here the darkness outside is solid and the only sound is the melancholy hooting of an owl. Nevertheless, I sleep well and feel refreshed and ready to face the day as I slip downstairs.

Richard is already up. 'I've had some more thoughts,' he announces as I make myself a slice of toast. 'You could move into the Dowager's Cottage. It's only small but we've just had it renovated as a holiday let. Unfortunately, it's taken a bit longer than planned and we've missed the summer season. We can walk over and you can have a look this morning if you're interested.'

'Sounds lovely,' I say, 'but I need to get a job to be able to pay the rent.'

'Don't worry about the rent. It would be standing empty anyway.'

After coffee he points out the single storey cottage in front of a small copse of trees. It's fronted by a veranda, but the turf path snakes round to the back where a builder's van is parked on the gravel. A radio is playing inside.

I can smell the paint as soon as I enter the hallway. The painters, in their white overalls, are in the front bedroom, glossing the woodwork. There's also a joiner crouched in the living room fixing skirtings and architraves. It is all very tastefully decorated in a cottage style. However, when we enter the kitchen, I'm stopped by the breathtaking view of the main house and its gentle sweep of lawn down to the lake. The kitchen door opens on to the sheltered platform which has the same outlook. I immediately fall in love with it.

As I'm gazing at the panorama, I hear a vehicle crunching on the gravel and a minute later, the foreman, a short dumpy man in brown overalls, joins us. He reports that the work should be finished in a couple of days.

Richard is obviously relieved. 'By the way, this is Emily who I mentioned to you on the phone. She's the accountant.'

'An account assistant actually,' I correct him.

'But you'd be able to sort out their books and tax, wouldn't you.'

'Oh, yes. I've got ten years' experience of doing precisely that.'

'Sounds good,' the foreman says. 'We all take a fixed rate per hour from the company.' He tells me the figure and asks if I would still be interested. I quickly calculate that it won't be much less than my previous salary and agree enthusiastically. He proffers his hand for me to shake. And that is it. The shortest interview I've ever had.

'Where's their office?' I ask Richard as we head back to the house.

'They're based in the old stables in the courtyard. They don't work exclusively for me, but I give them all the jobs on the estate. It's solid quality work, but they're just a bit disorganised. Once you've got their books in order, I'm sure you could help them with planning their business properly. Incidentally, what do you think to the cottage?'

'It's beautiful,' I gush.

'Well, if you think you'll be comfortable there, you can move in as soon as they've finished.'

It is actually the end of the week before they complete and clear all the debris away. I'm able to get my furniture out of storage and move in on the Saturday morning. It's a pretty hectic day but by midnight I've got it all unpacked and I collapse into my old bed.

I wake up late on Sunday morning and it's almost midday by the time I've showered. After lunch, I shuffle around arranging my belongings just as I want them and getting acquainted with my new home. It's decorated in pastel shades which makes it surprisingly light, considering the thick walls and small windows. Finally satisfied, I wander out onto the veranda and decide to eat my evening meal out there.