Page 56 of Cuckoo

Maggie thinks for a moment. ‘I suppose I may have been a bit harsh on her, if it turns out hewasstringing her along,’ she admits.

‘Thank you. No further questions.’ Grosvenor turns on her heel and strides away from Maggie, who shoots me a side-glare.

I feel my face heat up. I imagine myself through this woman’s eyes. A sad, pathetic loser on trial for murdering my boyfriend’s other lover. For the millionth time, I wonder how my life has panned out this way. And then the painful realisation hits me: Maggie will leave court today and forget about me, perhaps occasionally bringing me up as a pieceof dinner-party entertainment, an anecdote to laugh at. The thought that I am worth nothing more than that makes me feel hollow inside.

Chapter Forty-Eight

It’s funny, the things we remember. You remember a film character, but not the name of the film. Or a landmark, but not when you visited it last. My childhood feels like a strobe light. Flashes of memories and then darkness; no context or framing, often leaving me confused and unsure if what I remember is the whole story. Am I misremembering or was it as bad as it now seems?

For example, I remember being ten, crying in my room after Mother had shouted at me. That’s the light part, but beforehand all is dark. I can’t remember what we argued about, what she said to trigger my tears. I can’t remember if it was my fault or hers. But what I do remember is hearing her next door to my bedroom, on the phone to a friend. I tried to stifle my sobs, embarrassed that she had the power to reduce me to a weeping little baby. And in the moment when I’d swallowed the last of them, I heard Mother say, ‘She’s having a tantrum as we speak… Yes, I know, you’d think she’d have grown out of that by now. I’m so bored of her crying all the time, but I leave her to it and eventually she exhausts herself.’

I remember hearing her say those words so clearly that it’s as though she’s standing next to me right now, whispering them in my ear. I recall how my tears dried almost instantly,to be replaced with venomous loathing for her. Mother had a total disregard for anyone else’s emotions. She certainly didn’t care in the slightest about my feelings. There was never any apology after a fight, never a conversation or compromise after an argument. All there was for me was shouting, followed by tears, followed by silence. I was ten when I decided that I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry anymore. I’d set my jaw and curl my fingers into tight fists and tell myself that if she didn’t care about my feelings enough even to check on me, then I would just have to take care of them myself; and that meant not allowing myself to cry.

Of course, I’m human. I have cried since then. I cry at the Battersea Dogs Home advert on television. I cried reading that book about the little girl with cancer. I cried watching the news when the war broke out in Ukraine. I cried when Noah proposed. And again when he left me. But I didn’t cry over Mother again. Not while she was alive anyway.

Chapter Forty-Nine

After the judge winds up proceedings for the day, Grosvenor tells me she’s going to pull an all-nighter to rework her strategy to match Dodgson’s, which she feels is now to paint me as an unstable woman who can’t control her own actions.

I spend my time outside the courtroom torturing myself with what I have learned. Thoughts circle round and round in my head. Why did Noah lie to Maggie about me? Who the hell is Mads? Was she truly his girlfriend, or just another innocent woman who has been dragged into this messy, demeaning soap opera?

Why would he take Lilah to his stupid Christmas party instead of me? I imagine her swanning around in a glitzy sequined dress, his hand on the small of her back as he guides her around the room, introducing her to his colleagues. Her head would be thrown back in laughter and his colleagues would be eyeing her closely and playfully asking Noah where he got her from and if she had any sisters.

The reality of my situation hits me so hard then that it hollows me out. Noah is embarrassed about being seen with me.

My skin crawls with the utter humiliation of realising that the fiancé I am so proud of is utterly embarrassed by me. To the extent that he wouldn’t even introduce me to hiscolleagues, and took his more beautiful and talented mistress to meet them instead. I expect to cry, but I don’t. I no longer can. I am such a poor excuse for a woman that he hid me away. I drove him to lie because of how terrible I am, how embarrassing my existence is. So far, this moment of realisation has been the worst; even more painful than the realisation that my fiancé was living a double life. This one feels so deeply personal that every interaction I have ever had with Noah is now tainted by the notion that part of him would always have been noticing all my flaws. And he packed them away until they reached a point when he decided that his wife-to-be was such an embarrassment he was unwilling to be publicly linked with me. He may as well have stabbed a knife through my heart.

I was fourteen. I arrived home from school and there was a box on my bed, wrapped with a silk ribbon. Mother was standing by the door beaming at me, watching closely for a reaction.

‘What’s this?’ I asked, trying to make my expression one of excitement rather than apprehension. For a single unsettling and bizarre moment, I considered the theory that there was a decapitated human head bleeding out through the box and onto my bedsheets.

‘A gift!’ Mother announced. I glanced at her and did not see the usual darkness lingering behind her gaze, only a genuine flicker of enthusiasm.

‘A gift?’ I repeated, unsure how to approach the situation. ‘What have I done to deserve it?’

There had to be a loophole, some sort of trick. Maybe not a decapitated head, but I wouldn’t put it past her to have dropped a snake in there, or some other sort of shock-factor prank, just to see my reaction.

‘Nothing. I just thought I’d spoil my daughter,’ she said. ‘Go on, go on, open it!’

She flapped her hands at me and, despite my nerves, I felt myself begin to get excited. She was in such a good mood, perhaps it truly was a kind gesture? There had been a handful of previous occasions when she suddenly wanted to play the Best Mother of All Time role and would take me out for the day, spoil me, buy me McDonald’s burgers and silly little gifts, and laugh at everything I said. Perhaps this was one of those days.

I sat myself on the bed and untied the ribbon, taking care to fold it in case Mother wanted to reuse it, afraid to upset her, to upset this moment.

When I lifted the lid off the box, my breath was short, filled with anxiety but also with hope. I peered in and there lay a pair of stiletto heels in my size. I blinked, then remembered myself and broke into a huge grin. ‘Oh, wow, Mother! What beautiful shoes!’

I hated them. They were so far from anything I would usually have worn, but I took them out and made a big show of admiring them with their pointed toes and heels that were at least five inches high. ‘I got them for our dance class!’ she announced.

My hands froze, still holding the shoes in front of me. ‘Dance class?’

‘Yes, darling. I’ve signed us up for a dance class together – I thought it would be fun! A little mother–daughter bonding?’

I kept my face straight, afraid to let my emotions show. I did not want to attend a dance class, and certainly not with Mother. ‘Wow,’ I said weakly, words failing me.

‘Yes, we shall go tomorrow and you can wear your new shoes. I have a matching pair!’

She looked so excited, I actually felt guilty for not being excited with her. She wanted to spend time with me. Finally, she was taking an interest in me. ‘Great,’ I told her, and she looked pleased for once when she left me in my room, shiny black shoes resting in my lap.

Of course, the dance class that followed was a shit show.

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