`Seriously, I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'
I hear her draw breath. Ragged, angry breath. `I came by the house this morning to pick up my post `“'
`You should have said `“ I'd have waited. Why didn't you say?'
``“ and as I was leaving I saw Mrs Barrett.'
Who lives opposite us and is a right old busybody with far too much time on her hands. This isn't good either.
`She said she saw you `“ with her.'
`Who? Look, Alex, I'm not bullshitting you `“ I don't know what you're talking about. Seriously. And why you'd believe that Barrett woman rather than me `“'
`Because she has no reason to lie!'
My turn to draw breath. We need to slow this down. Take some of the emotion out of it.
`Alex, I swear. I. Do. Not. Know. And as for seeing another woman `“ you think I even have time?'
But I know even before the words are out that was the wrong thing to say.
`Please `“ don't hang up. We haven't talked in weeks and now this? I swear to you I have not been seeing anyone else. I love you; I want you to come home. How many more ways can I say that? What can I do to make you believe me?'
Silence.
`Look, I know we have some problems. I know you want to adopt and I wish with all my heart that I felt the same way about it as you do, but I don't. And I can't let us build a family on a fault line like that. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair `“ above all `“ to any child we might take on.'
I don't need to say that. I've said it, and she's heard it, time out of mind. Back in November, she made me listen to a radio series about finding adoptive parents for a brother and sister of two and three. The foster carer, the diligent, careful social worker, the new parents who were at one and the same time overjoyed to give a home to these tiny children they'd never met and fearful they might not even like them, and the final episode, recorded months later, when the four of them had made themselves into a family, with all the same love and muddle and working-it-out-as-you-go-along every family has. I knew why Alex wanted me to hear it; of course I did. She wanted to prove to me that not everyone feels the same way as I do about being adopted. That it's possible to find love and belonging and acceptance. The proof was there, in that episode: all the people who wrote in because they were touched and moved, and those who'd felt vindicated in their own decision to adopt themselves, whatever the challenges. But then, at the end, there was a woman in her fifties who described adoption as a life sentence, who described the guilt at feeling always different `like some ghastly kind of cuckoo', the sense of disconnection, and the pain which only gets worse, not easier, the older you become. Alex stood there, frozen to the spot. I couldn't bear to look at her so I walked to the window and stared down at the garden it was too dark to see. Three days later, she told me she was leaving.
And now there's silence at the end of the line.
`Alex `“'
`It was Sunday.' Her voice is icy. `Mrs Barrett was putting out the bins and she saw a woman leaving the house. She said you two seemed very `њpally`ќ.' There's bitterness now. `Blonde. Late twenties. Very attractive,' she adds. `Apparently.'
And now I know. Both who that was and why it's causing Alex so much pain. She thinks I'm trying to replace her. With someone young enough to give me a child.
`That was Somer. Erica Somer. She's on the team. You know that.'
But Alex has never met her. She wasn't at my birthday drinks.
`Mrs Barrett didn't say anything about a uniform.'
`That's because Somer's CID now. I told you.'
`So what was she doing there? At our house? On a Sunday? At ten o'clock at night?' But there's a hesitancy now. She wants to believe me. Or at least I want to think so.
`She wanted to check something with me. And the place was a state, so she offered to help clear up a bit. That's all it was. Really.'
Silence again.
`It did look tidier than I expected,' she says eventually. `This morning.'
`I can't take the credit for that. I was going to, of course, but you've rumbled me now. And like you say, I'm a terrible liar.'
I try to put a laugh into my voice. To draw her in.
In front of me, the traffic is suddenly moving and the car behind is sounding its horn.
`Look, why don't you come over later `“ I can get a takeaway. Bottle of wine. We can talk properly.'
She sighs. `I don't know, Adam.'
`But you believe me `“ about Somer?'
Her voice is dull, unhappy. `Yes. I believe you. But I'm not ready to come home. Not yet. I'm sorry.'
And the line goes dead.
The waiting room is packed. And hacking. Testy coughs, leaky sniffs. January germs. The surgery is a converted house off the Woodstock Road. One of those Victorian semis that look quite narrow from the street, but go back a long way. The waiting room is at the rear, looking over a garden that's probably quite nice in the summer, but is ankle deep in dead and rotting leaves. The large tree at the bottom is encircled two inches thick by dingy rust-coloured needles. What's the point in a conifer, thinks Somer, if you still have to sweep up all the crap?
Even though she arrives before surgery starts she still has to wait half an hour for Dr Miller to be free. The woman is clearly frazzled. She has slate grey hair in a severe bob and a pair of glasses perched on the top of her head. Somer is prepared to bet she forgets where she's put them at least twice a day.
`Sorry, officer,' she says, moving things about on the desk distractedly. `The week after the holidays is always a bit like this. What can I do for you?'
`It's about Samantha Esmond.'
The fidgeting stops.
`Ah, yes. That was truly appalling.' The distress in her pale green eyes is genuine.
`We've now spoken to one of Samantha's friends, who thinks she might have been suffering from post-natal depression. Is that true?'
The doctor starts to tap her biro on the desk. `That is, of course, confidential medical information. I assume you have obtained the appropriate authorization?'
`I can assure you the paperwork is entirely in order. I have a copy, if you want to see it.'
She doesn't expect the doctor to take her up on it, but the woman holds out her hand. Somer reaches into her bag for the sheet. Miller pulls down her glasses, snagging her hair as she does so. She reads the page once, and then again, then puts it down on the desk and removes her glasses.
`Yes,' she says with a sigh. `Samantha did have PND. And it wasn't the first time. She'd had the same problems after Matty was born, though from what I could tell from her notes, it was much worse with Zachary. And went on much longer.'
`How did it manifest itself?'
`The usual symptoms. Listlessness, feeling inadequate, crying for no reason, problems sleeping.'
`Was she on medication?'
`Yes. I recently started her on temazepam to help her sleep and she was also taking sertraline to help with the anxiety.'
`So you considered it severe enough to need antidepressants?'
Dr Miller eyes her. `Yes, I'm afraid it was. We tried various alternatives before deciding that was the most appropriate one for her.'
Somer hesitates, but it has to be asked. `Did you ever think she might harm herself? Or the baby?'
Dr Miller sits back. `To be completely honest, we were beginning to be concerned about Zachary, but not for that reason, I hasten to add. He was having rather too many stomach upsets. We were trying to get to the bottom of it.'
`I see `“'
`But there was no suggestion he was being abused, if that's what you're thinking. As for Samantha, she was just `“ well, overwhelmed. She had Matty to deal with as well, remember. It was all too much for her.'