The Island Escape. Kerry Fisher
engender in my life.
I shrugged. ‘It’s not as though I’ve got a proper criminal record. It’s just a caution.’
‘A caution? What for?’
‘Actual bodily harm.’
‘Actual bodily harm? For a scratch and a bit of a bruise? That’s bloody ridiculous. What an arsehole.’
‘I shouldn’t have allowed him to antagonise me. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said about the babies. You know how devastated he was at the time. And a caution doesn’t mean anything unless I want to work in a school. Which obviously I don’t.’ I tried to smile. I loved my own daughter but had nothing like Octavia’s natural affinity with kids.
‘Could you have refused to accept the caution?’
‘Yes, but if he didn’t drop the charge, then it would have gone to court.’
‘Scott wouldn’t have done that, surely? Maybe he liked the idea of you sweating in a cell for a bit. He should have married some brainless drip, who never stands up to him. What would all his beefy business mates say if they found out his missus had clouted him one with a frying pan? He’d be a laughing stock.’
Octavia knew that Scott had a quick temper but I’d been economical with how often and how ferociously we’d argued. She simply wouldn’t get it. She’d always seen marriage as a pie chart of household chores, parenting and work, with the tiniest sliver of romance and passion. The rollercoaster ride of love and anguish that I’d experienced with Scott was alien to her, though we’d never plumbed these depths before.
Octavia had her hands on her hips, waiting for me to explain.
‘Scott made a statement. He said he would definitely press charges, so the solicitor advised me to admit “the offence”, as he called it, and agree to the caution. I just wanted to get out of here.’
Shock washed across Octavia’s face. She spoke in a low voice. ‘Robbie. Where is all of this going to end? Are you going to stay with him until he’s sucked every last bit of joy out of your life? Perhaps next time he’ll get you sent to prison. You can’t go on like this.’
‘I know that.’
Octavia was expecting me to be like her. Make a decision, there and then, pack suitcases and be gone. I owed it to Alicia to get through Christmas, at least one more time. It was a massive leap from accepting that I couldn’t live like this to separating from Scott permanently. If he went back to Australia, I’d probably never see him again. My growing- up history, the bedrock of my adult life, would be wiped out at a stroke.
There would be plenty of people celebrating that.
‘Do your mum and dad know you’re here?’ Octavia asked.
‘No. I decided I didn’t need to burden them with this latest escapade. I think I’ve probably heard enough “Oh darling!” to last a lifetime.’
‘You wouldn’t consider going to stay with them for a few days?’ Octavia asked.
‘Definitely not.’ There wouldn’t be enough room in Surrey to accommodate such a vast quantity of ‘I told you so’s.
‘Come and stay at mine, then. Bring Alicia. I’ll put Immi in with Polly. You can have her room,’ Octavia said.
‘I won’t, but thank you. Alicia’s been looking forward to spending Christmas with her grandmother for months and I’m not going to disappoint her. Scott probably didn’t mean to push it this far. It’s a cultural thing. You know how he feels about people respecting him. I suppose smacking him over the head with a frying pan wasn’t quite the adulation he thought he deserved. I imagine he’ll be grovelling apologies when I get home.’
Octavia rolled her eyes. ‘Respect. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Whatever he says now doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s downright bloody cruel. Are you really going to go home and act like nothing’s happened? Cup of tea, darling? Polish your shoes?’ She was throwing her hands up in frustration. ‘Blow job?’
Black. Or white. That was Octavia. I usually envied her decisiveness. And I loved her for her loyalty. But right now, I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on the absurdity of my life. I could see her point. I didn’t know how I was going to go home and put my Happy Christmas face on.
But going home I was.
I sat on the bench watching Roberta sign for her stuff. I was reeling from the idea that my friend, my funny, gorgeous friend, now had a police record. I had no doubt that a week from now she’d be blaming herself and make out that Scott landing her in the clink was no big deal, simply the inevitable downside of a passionate relationship. God knows why a woman like her put up with a man like him. This was the girl who got a new boater and lacrosse stick every year while us scholarship girls were fannying about in grey gym kit and blazers several sizes too big. The girl who carried off her posh name with such ease, whereas I still cursed my working-class parents for landing me with the cumbersome ‘Octavia’ in the hope that I’d be ‘someone’, someone who’d require a name that stood out. Roberta was the girl who never had to sit out at school dances, who should have glided into the perfect life, bubble-wrapped from care, struggle and worry. But she could never pick the easy option.
I watched her talking to DC Smithfield and another policeman. The faint sense of guilt I always felt surfaced again. At heart Roberta was a goody-goody, all dainty teacups, poncey art exhibitions and god-awful obscure authors. But she’d been desperate to be my friend at school, joining me on my shoplifting jaunts, though never stealing herself, hanging out with me while I smoked my dad’s fags at the park, helping me pierce my ears with a needle we’d sterilised in some hot Ribena. The fact that my dragon tattoo was on my arse rather than my shoulder was down to Roberta taking charge in the tattoo parlour.
If she hadn’t met me, she’d probably think that taking back her library books late was a walk on the wild side. I’d introduced her to the joys of rebellion and that had led her straight into the arms of Scott, the biggest rebellion of all. I wondered, not for the first time, if I could have done more to stop her marrying him. On the few occasions I’d broached the subject, she’d made it quite clear that if we were to stay friends it was a case of ‘Love me, love my feckless, repugnant choice of husband’.
I looked at my watch. Nearly three o’clock. I was going to be knackered for open day at work the next morning. I needed to be firing on all cylinders to convince sceptical parents that my outdoor nursery with its dens and mud kitchens would inspire their toddlers far more than plastic saucepans and dolls’ prams. Bed would be good right now. The dark-haired police officer was emptying a plastic bag and passing things to Roberta. I strained my ears to hear what he was saying and managed to catch, ‘Is there somewhere you can stay for the time being until you get things sorted out?’
I wondered if he’d be so bothered about a chubby, brown-haired woman with the beginnings of a double chin and no ankles – just feet stuck onto legs.
Roberta flicked her long black hair over her shoulder. The gesture was familiar. I knew she’d be dropping her head and raising her eyes, those dark brown eyes that whistled men to her. She had no idea how attractive she was. Yet another thing Scott had squashed out of her.
‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. My friend is going to take me home,’ Roberta said.
He handed Roberta a leaflet. ‘Don’t forget about the domestic abuse helpline. You don’t have to put up with it, but we can’t help you unless you report it.’
The words ‘domestic abuse’ shocked me. We’d both dismissed Scott’s outbursts as him ‘having a short fuse’. Roberta’s catchphrase was, ‘You know what he’s like.’ But the policeman was right.
I