“Mum,” I say as we take our coffees and walk out into the sunshine. “What will you do if the verdict is guilty?” If he’s guilty, I want him to be found guilty. I don’t want him to be acquitted just because he’s my father. All the same, I’m sad that it’s come to this and that he could spend the next years in prison.
“It won’t make a difference to me, really. I won’t be the one going to prison.” She says this airily but I know that she feels the same ambivalence as me: the desire for justice but also the regret that someone we love could have done this terrible thing.
She’s looking in the other direction. “Darling, isn’t that your old bodyguard?”
I turn and look, expecting to see Martin. He’s said he’d come by the trial to say hello, but perhaps he’s been too busy with new clients. I don’t mind much. We let him go a few weeks after he replaced Dieter, as the hate mail had stopped and Dad’s lawyer had a letter from Celeste saying she was sorry and that she was seeking help. I was so relieved. I couldn’t wait to forget all about bodyguards.
Catching sight of him, I
feel a dropping sensation. It’s not Martin. It’s Dieter. He’s standing at the curb half a dozen doors down from the courthouse, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. He’s smart in a dark suit and tie, which is fitted well over his tall, strong frame. His dark hair is neatly combed, though some of the locks are a little unruly and are being ruffled in the light breeze.
No word for months and months and then he turns up now? He can go to hell.
“Oh, yes, so it is. Shall we?” And I breeze past my mother and head inside.
Dieter’s there when we leave the court at the end of the day, except my mother doesn’t notice him. Only I do, over the swarm of press around us, all shouting questions. My mother’s face is white and pinched and her hand grips mine. We haven’t had time to process the verdict yet. Guilty.
Hailing a cab, I push my mother inside, get in after her and slam the door. We peel away from the curb, and past Dieter. Our eyes lock as the car gains speed. All I can think is, It’s finally over.
* * *
The entrance to the Slade is awash with sunshine and students as I walk quickly up the steps. A few look at me twice, as if recognizing me from the time I spent here as Adrienne’s bodyguard.
Inside, I find her sitting alone at a cafeteria table, head bent over a sketchbook. The light is hitting the curve of her cheek just so and for a moment I watch her, reluctant to disturb the perfection of this peaceful tableau.
Even though she probably won’t thank me for this, she deserves an explanation about why I broke things off with her in the hospital. I could see in her eyes outside the courthouse that she doesn’t understand—how could she, when I never explained? I don’t want not understanding to lead to bitterness. Maybe once this is done both of us will be able to move on.
“Hey.”
She looks up, her eyes vague and unfocused, and then she catches sight of me and her eyes harden. “Oh. Hey.”
“Can I sit down?”
She shrugs and puts down her pencil. Her hair is still that beautiful shade of pastel pink and her eyeliner is thick and dark. Today’s sweater is pale pink, too, and is pushed up to her elbows. She looks well. Annoyed, but well.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Fine.”
She’s not going to make this easy for me, but I never expected her to. “I saw you outside the court. I wanted to see how you were, after the verdict.”
She shrugs. “My father’s going to prison. I’m dandy.”
I wait, hoping that she’ll elaborate, but she doesn’t. I glance at the open sketchbook. “What have you been doing since I saw you last?”
“Oh, you know. Classes. And I’ve got some illustration work for a children’s book of fairy tales. It’s my first commission and it’s taking up a lot of my time.” She looks meaningfully into my eyes as she says this, as if hoping I’ll get the message and go away.
“That’s great. I’m so pleased for you.” She doesn’t ask me what I’ve been doing, so I say, “I’ve started my own personal security firm. It sounds like we’re both doing well.” Adrienne gives me a look that could strip paint off a car, and I realize she didn’t tell me she was well, just that she was doing things.
“How do you feel about the verdict?”
She looks down at her notebook, frowning. When she speaks again she’s thoughtful rather than angry. “I’ve been reading over the summaries and analyses of the trial. It’s helped. The day-to-day proceedings were so dense and strange, but I think that the jury made the right decision.”
I nod and say quietly, “Yes, I think they did, too. I’m sorry, Adrienne.” I don’t mean that I’m sorry her father is going to prison. I mean I’m sorry that any of this happened.
She nods, seeming to understand. Then she starts to pack up her things. “I have to go.”
I watch the quick movements of her fingers, feeling a wash of regret. She only just started to open up to me. “Wait, please. I wanted us to talk properly.”