The Book of You: A Novel (25 page)

Thursday

S
HE WOKE AS
he pulled her on top of him, though he seemed to be asleep, still, and deep in a dream. “Robert,” she said softly. “Robert.” She kissed him, and those bright blue eyes of his fluttered open.

For a few seconds he seemed lost. She remembered his saying to her once that he always knew where he was when he awoke. She was glad that he could be wrong about himself sometimes, at least in a small way, if only for a tiny instant. She thought he was perfect, and that wasn’t fair to him. Nobody should know himself perfectly, she thought. Anybody who knew himself perfectly would be terrifying. He could never change. He could never be wrong. There could be no surprises.

He brought her face back to his, seeming still to be partly in his dreams, but he murmured her name and smiled and said good morning and moved his hand slowly along her back and pressed her hips down into his as he met her eye, and there was no doubt then that he’d realized where he was.

S
HE WAS REPLAYING
all of this as she looked dreamily at her own face in a cloudy metal mirror. She was in the cloakroom, the single one for the jurors attached to their small private waiting area just outside Court 12. It must be what they called a body memory; she could feel it all again, his hands on her, and his mouth, the things they did to each other. What was he thinking of, sitting with the others?

There was a piercing ache below her belly, low down on her left side, that had started while she slept and been there when he woke her up. She knew what the cause was, and that it would be gone within a few hours.

She heard them getting up on the other side of the door, heard Annie loudly reporting to the usher that “Clarissa’s in the loo.” Hurriedly, she washed her hands and came out.

M
R
. T
OURVILLE’S ROBES
were wrinkled. He was breathless, as if he’d had to chase his only witness for Doleman up all those flights of stairs and into Court 12. It was probably a lucky thing for the ceaselessly wheezing Mr. Tourville that Jason Leman didn’t need much prompting to tell his story.

“On August eighth of last year I was hanging out with Carlotta. She said she’d have sex with me for drugs. She pulled my boxer shorts off me like she couldn’t wait.”

The defendants sat forward in their chairs. Even Doleman looked almost interested.

“I know you wore a condom. Who put it on you?”

“She did, but she did it wrong. I had to redo it.”

Clearly a seasoned professional, Clarissa thought.

“I left the room to get her some vodka, and when I came back, she was gone and my wallet was empty. So I found her on the next street and I was like, where’s my money? She said she’d spent it but she’d work as a prostitute to get it back, so we walked to a place she knew and she was talking to curb crawlers, but it felt like something was off, so I got closer and she was telling one of them I’d raped her. She came right up to me and in my face and slapped me twice.”

“So this prostitute falsely cried rape against you. What did you do about that?”

“Nothing. I didn’t want to stoop to her level. I don’t hit women. I don’t hurt women. I was like, fuck this shit, I’m outta here. But the next day the police are all over me and manhandling me and I’m arrested. They never brought any charges.”

M
R
. M
ORDEN OBSERVED
Leman as if he were a cross between an insect and a gift that Mr. Tourville had accidentally given him. “Do you deplore violence against women?”

Leman leaned forward and gazed challengingly at Mr. Morden. “Sometimes.”

“You’ve served several prison sentences for assault. All of your victims were women.”

“No evidence. Just allegations.
Allegations.
Lies.”

“The guilty verdicts would suggest otherwise. Ever hear of Mary Barnes?”

“You know I have.”

“Went to hospital last month. Broken eardrum. Violence against women seems to be normal operating practice for you.”

“Again the police didn’t bring any charges. And Mary’s still my girlfriend, still living with me, so that should tell you something.”

Mr. Morden nodded his head slowly before speaking. “Yes. It does.”

T
HEY WERE TRAILING
down the stairs in their usual end-of-day formation.

Grant squinted his little maroon-colored eyes. “About six percent of the population commit all the crime there is,” he said. “Exterminate them like vermin. Problem solved.”

T
HAT NIGHT
, R
OBERT
walked with Clarissa from the station. Snowdrops encircled the grave of the mother and her two babies. She made her secret ritual prayer to them with Robert by her side.

The snowdrops reminded her of how quickly winter was dissolving into spring, and that in days the trial would be over. She loved being able to see him each day; she didn’t want that ever to end. The scent of wild garlic was in the air as they climbed the hill. It seemed only a few minutes before they were in her flat, and she noticed for the first time that the top of his head was only inches from the low ceiling. She stood before him, surprised by her own shyness.

“Do you want coffee, Robert?”

“Ah—no.” He took a long time to say “Ah,” then shot out the “no” with wry decisiveness.

“Do you want tea?”

There it was again. Smile, quick negative shake of the head, brief pause before an amused and definite “No.”

She stood on her toes and kissed him, feeling his arms go around her. “Is there anything you want?”

His hands were sliding down her back. He was unzipping her dress. “I just want you.”

He didn’t finish taking the dress off, though it had fallen from one of her shoulders, leaving it bare. She was leading him into the living room, toward the sofa, sitting him down, unzipping his trousers but not taking them off, either, slipping off her underwear and moving onto his lap so that he was inside her, his mouth against hers as she wrapped herself around him and felt him whisper her name against her lips and she whispered back his own name and that she just wanted him, too.

Friday

S
HE TURNED HER
head to the side so her chin rested on her shoulder and her nose was close to her hair. She hadn’t washed it that morning. She’d wanted to keep the scent of his soap and his body in it, which she’d caught from brushing against him and sleeping with her head on his chest.

She breathed in once more, then straightened and looked forward as Mr. Harker called his one witness on behalf of Godfrey.

Joanna Sinclair was short and solid with black-and-blond-streaked hair that made Clarissa think of a zebra. She tottered awkwardly toward the witness box in high-heeled red shoes. Godfrey grudged her a cool nod and sat forward.

Mr. Harker began his questions, Annie huffed, and Clarissa studied Robert’s shoulders, remembering what his muscles felt like beneath her hands.

S
HE MADE A
supreme effort to surface from her daydream of Robert when Mr. Morden rose to cross-examine. “I know your first name is Joanna. Does Mr. Godfrey ever call you Jo?”

Godfrey gave his head a quick negative shake, coaching her.

“No,” Miss Sinclair said. “Nobody calls me Jo.”

“Mr. Godfrey says the phone the police seized from him on his arrest wasn’t his. That phone was used in the van that carried Miss Lockyer to London, and in the flat where she was held. Your number was saved in that phone under the name of Jo.”

“So?”

“So Mr. Godfrey sent two texts the day before his arrest. Both to ‘Jo.’ Both found in your own seized mobile. This was the first: ‘I’m on my way. I want you waiting for me naked.’ ”

Miss Sinclair’s pale face flashed red beneath her caked-on makeup. “I don’t recall receiving that text,” she said. “He could have been sending it to any number of girls called Jo.”

“Let’s try the second one. ‘Talk to you in the park ’cause this phone is gonna die.’ Can you think of any reasons why Mr. Godfrey would want to kill that phone?”

A
NNIE WAS TALKING
in a low voice in the cloakroom again. “Those two have a little boy together.” She sighed. “Hardly Romeo and Juliet, are they? Though their future’s about as bright.”

“I hope you’re wrong, Annie.”

Very lightly, Annie reached out and smoothed a stray hair from Clarissa’s eyes. “You poor sweet thing,” she said, shaking her head in affectionate wonder. “I hope so, too.”

O
N THE WAY
back to Bath that night, Clarissa sat alone, just as she’d walked to the station alone that morning. Robert had left her flat very early, kissing her good-bye when she was still half asleep and whispering that he needed to stop by his house before court.

As she stepped off the train, walked down the stairs, exited the station, she watched Robert, ten steps ahead of her. She nearly called out to him but stopped herself; it was her intractable reluctance to impose herself on anyone. The distance between them increased as he hurriedly crossed the road and walked on without turning back for even a second. Then he disappeared from her sight altogether.

W
EEK
S
EVEN

The Drying Room

Monday and Wednesday

T
HEY SPENT
M
ONDAY
morning waiting around for the boy with the purple-tipped hair.

It didn’t take long for the poker game to get into full swing. Clarissa hovered on the edges, hand-sewing the last touches of a bag for her mother’s birthday, knocking off the classic Chanel flap style in dark-blue silk that made her think of a midnight storm.

“I want one,” Annie said. “Are you taking orders?”

“And me,” said Wendy.

Clarissa smiled but only briefly lifted her eyes. “You’re both too nice.”

“The usher should take away your needle and scissors.” Sophie was arranging her cards and looking cross. “The security guards should have stopped you.”

“Yeah. Think of the damage she could do to Sparkle with those little things,” Annie said. “Are you going to tell on her?”

“The usher can see what she’s doing,” Wendy said. “He isn’t bothered. He already knew she had them anyway. From when she mended my skirt.”

Clarissa’s chair was just behind Robert’s. He couldn’t have failed to hear this exchange. His back remained straight as he concentrated on his hand. The men laughed loudly at his jokes, nodding in agreement with everything he said. She wondered if firemen were all automatically popular.

She tried to tell herself that she was wrong in thinking he hadn’t met her eye all morning, that he hadn’t looked at her or even spoken to her since he’d left her flat so early on Friday. But she hadn’t caught even a flash of the blue of his eyes.

Robert was talking about an actor in a spy film he’d just seen. “He’s a hunk.” There was more riotous laughter at one of his jokes. Clarissa didn’t laugh. She didn’t think it was funny.

She pricked herself with the needle. A drop of blood fell from her finger and onto the fabric.

“I wonder where he is?” she said softly, thinking of their missing fellow juror. “It’s not like him not to turn up. There must be something wrong.”

“Clarissa’s right,” Robert said, making her heart clutch.

Grant guffawed. “Put him in the cells overnight with the boys. He’ll be Sparkle’s new bitch. But first the judge is gonna call him into his chambers and spank him.”

The others laughed—Robert, too—but Clarissa did not.

T
HEY DIDN’T TAKE
their seats in the jury box until noon. The judge looked solemn. “I am sorry to say that Mr. McElwee is unwell. It is permissible to drop down to a jury of eleven, or even to the legal minimum of nine. But my preference—as long as it does not result in too long a delay—is not to lose any jurors at this late stage. I am therefore dismissing you until Wednesday morning, when the doctor hopes Mr. McElwee will be able to return. If he is not, then I will discharge him from this jury and we will resume without him.”

O
N
W
EDNESDAY MORNING
all twelve of them filed into Court 12 as usual.

The trial was almost over, Clarissa thought. The room seemed to be spinning. She studied the soft brown hairs on the back of Robert’s neck, and the faint snail trail of clean sweat behind his right ear. She wanted to smell him, to nestle her face between his shoulders. She’d have to go away from here, out of this building, back into a world where she would no longer see him every day, the world where he wasn’t. Though she wasn’t sure how much she liked this new version of the world she was about to lose, where he no longer seemed to want to look at her.

She fantasized a blizzard. Anything to shut the court down, to delay the end, to give herself more time with him. She’d counted on days and days of defendant testimony and counter testimony, but they’d blown away without even beginning as Doleman, Sparkle, and Godfrey all declined to go into the witness box.

She felt a funny quiver, low down and in the center of her belly. Then it was gone.

Mr. Morden scanned the jurors, meeting each of their eyes as he began his summing up.

Her head was so foggy and tired she couldn’t pay attention. Besides, she’d listened carefully enough when he first said it all. By the time she tuned in again, he was finishing. She was so confused by how many minutes had passed since he started, she wondered if she was getting ill.

She was the worst juror ever. Mr. Williams was sitting down before she even realized he’d ever stood up. Then Mr. Belford was on his feet, and once more her mind wandered. Had her brain, after seven weeks, reached true saturation point?

Mr. Tourville was the only one who didn’t cast a sleeping spell upon her. “Mr. Doleman is no rapist. He is no kidnapper. He is no drug dealer. He is a hardworking family man who was in gainful employment until his arrest. He is the long-term partner of a beautiful young woman. He is the loving father of their young son. Mr. Doleman is guilty of only one thing. He made some very bad choices in his friends. You cannot send him to jail for that. Oh, no. You cannot.”

C
LARISSA WAS SHIVERING
on the platform, waiting for them to unlock the train doors so she could board. Only Sparkle’s barrister and Mr. Harker still had to do their closing speeches. Then there’d be the judge’s instructions. She’d need to be more alert.

A hand brushed her shoulder. She wheeled around, surprised to find that the hand belonged to Robert, who was apologizing for startling her.

Her own words were out before she could stop herself. “Come back with me.” She tried to smile. “You’re an addiction.”

“So are you.” His voice was low, as if he were whispering to her in bed. “But I can’t tonight. You see that, don’t you? We’re about to go into deliberation. Last week . . . we should have waited. I’m glad we didn’t, but we should have. I’m cautious. I know I haven’t behaved as if I am, but I am. I should have explained. Once this is over . . .” he said. “It won’t be long . . .” he said.

He was practiced at breaking bad news; he did it every day at work, much worse news than this. She could feel her face growing warm. Still, she couldn’t keep herself from saying what she did: “If you change your mind . . . I mean, even if it’s late . . .” But she saw he was a man who never changed his mind about anything, big or small, once he’d made it up. She’d known that from the start, really. She hated begging him; she didn’t want him at any cost.

There was a click of the lock release as the lights on the train doors switched from amber to green. Robert swung a door open for her, and she stepped carefully over the gap.

She made herself turn to half look at him, standing on the platform, just a few feet away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Robert.” She tried again to smile, but something weak and weird took over her face instead. “I need to . . . do some things,” she said feebly.

“I understand,” he said. “Clarissa,” he said. “I might . . .”

“Good night,” she said, and she walked quickly through the carriage. It was her turn not to look back.