Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 9 - 10 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 No more violence, but some court scenes that I suspect are based more on imagination than reality

-oOo-

Chapter 9

So that’s what we did, finding the courtroom with fifteen minutes to spare and settling into a couple of uncomfortable wooden seats in the public gallery in time to watch one or two other cases be dealt with. The presiding judge seemed disinterested in the proceedings and pushed things along as quickly as he could.

Eventually George was led in sporting a satisfyingly large bruise down the left side of his face. His lawyer painted a brief picture of him as the victim in the case, doing a not unreasonable job. The judge picked up his gavel, ready to rule when Charlotte stood.

“Your honour. If it please the court.”

“And you are?” The judge didn’t sound like he cared much.

“Charlotte Greer, your honour. Representing the accused’s wife in this and other related matters.”

“Please be brief Ms Greer.”

She was. Outlining the outstanding charge of rape, the injunction and the discovery of the money stash and subsequent Inland Revenue audit in a remarkably succinct manner, before giving a brief description of the break-in.

Interest piqued, the judge settled his gavel back onto his bench. “You neglected to mention any of this, Mr Simmons.”

“Er, I didn’t consider it relevant to the matter at hand, your honour.”

“Did you break into the house in question, Mr Bush?”

“It’s my fucking house,” he growled, fixing me with a baleful glare.

“I’ll encourage you to keep a civil tongue in my courthouse, Mr Bush. I find my head swimming with questions. Your wife took out a restraining order against you?”

“She did, your honour.”

“Which means you are required to keep a minimum distance from her. To do otherwise would mean you’d be breaking the law, you do realise this.”

“So, I’m not even allowed to go into my fu... my house?”

“By arrangement when your wife isn’t there. Not in the middle of the night. And why didn’t you use your key if this house is your property?”

“Because she changed the fuc... She changed the locks on me, your honour.”

“And why would she do that.”

“Because she’s a spiteful fucking bitch. Sorry, your honour, but she did this to me.” He pointed at his face.

The judge turned to me. “Mrs Bush?”

“He chased me into the bathroom, your honour. I hit him with a step ladder.”

“That seems a little extreme.”

“It was a small, two step thing, your honour. Made from aluminium and not very heavy. And he was roaring and charging at me at the time. I was very much afraid of what he intended to do to me.”

“And why did you change the locks?”

“Because he already came into the house and trashed the place yesterday while I was taking our boys to school. I took the front door key off his keyring when the police brought him to collect his belongings, so I can only assume he had a spare in his van somewhere.”

“Your honour, there is no proof it was my client...”

“Someone with a key to the front door – and that would be just my husband and myself – entered the house while I was out taking our children to school. While in the house, that person pulled apart the hot water pipes in the kitchen, which haven’t worked for some years...”

“Why would...?”

“The previous day I had found twenty-five thousand pounds hidden in those pipes which I then hid elsewhere. The house was subsequently ransacked with the few valuable items we possess either taken or destroyed. This included all my clothing apart from the things I’m wearing now. Perhaps I shouldn’t make assumptions, but I can’t think of anyone other than my husband, who I’m sure you know is a plumber, who would have a key to the house, who would know to look for hidden valuables in the plumbing and who would destroy all my things in what I can only believe was an act of spite.”

“May I ask how you knew of this hiding place?”

“There’s a degree of irony to that, your honour. After I was raped...”

“Allegedly raped.”

“...on Sunday, I found another roll of banknotes amounting to around five-thousand pounds stuffed down the back of the sofa. We’d been talking about the hot water in the kitchen earlier in the weekend and, given George’s reluctance to do any work around the house, I thought it would make a good hiding place for what I’d found. I had no idea he was already using it as one.”

“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded in gaining my interest. Bail is set at one-hundred thousand pounds...”

“What! Where the fuck am I going to find that kind of money?”

“Bailiff, please add a contempt charge to Mr Bush’s litany of sins. Mr Bush, the point is I rather hope you can’t find that kind of money. Evidence suggests you aren’t the sort of person I’d want back on the streets and I’d rather you remained behind bars until the cases,” he emphasised the plural, looking pointedly at George’s lawyer, “against you are resolved.” He stood. “I think we’ll take a short recess before the next one. Reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

“Well, that went as well as expected,” Charlie smiled grimly. “Can I buy you lunch? My treat.”

She headed for the exit but found her way barred by the somewhat disgruntled figure of Mr Simmons.

“You represent Mrs Bush?” he asked, then in response to Charlotte’s nod, passed across a large and well packed manila envelope.

Which made lunch not quite the enjoyable experience we’d been anticipating.

“Counter-suits,” Charlotte explained between mouthfuls of sea food chowder. “Not unexpected, but they want to bar access to contested property until this is resolved.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if he can’t use the house neither can you.”

“So where are we supposed to live?”

“Pretty much my line of response. You have no income and two dependents to look after. It shouldn’t be difficult to argue that, except...”

“Except?”

“The house is in George’s name...”

“I’m guessing everything is. He’s that kind of control freak.”

“And you signed a prenup.” She held up a piece of paper between finger and thumb.

“A what?”

“Prenuptial agreement. It means if you ever get divorced, he gets everything.”

I took the page from her fingers and scanned it. The date was the same as that on our wedding certificate and it was handwritten, but other than that it was pretty much as she’d said. If we separated, I got nothing.

“I’m not actually suing for divorce just yet though, am I?”

“No, but he is.” She picked up a second piece of paper. “It doesn’t mean this is open and shut. We can still contest it, but it won’t be quite so straightforward.”

“You mean I might lose?”

“There is always that chance. The law tends to side with the vulnerable in cases like this, except...”

“You keep doing that, you know? Trailing off just when you get to the important bit.”

“He’s claiming the money you found is winnings from his gambling and that your accusation of tax fraud is a malicious lie.”

“That was your idea.”

“Yeah, and it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. If his books balance though, and he can show this came from, what was it you said, the horses? If he can do that, it puts us in a less sympathetic light.”

“Let’s hope he’s not that clever then.”

“Yes, let’s. Look, why don’t you go home? I’ve suddenly got a mountain of paperwork to do. I’ll call you later, alright? Give you an update.”

“Sure.” I stood. “Thanks Charlotte.”

“Charlie. My friends call me Charlie.”

“Thanks Charlie. You’re going above and beyond with this. Thanks for lunch too, it was greatly appreciated.”

“Yeah well, this is what I do, and people like you are why I do it.”

“Despite what my son did to yours?”

“I may have overreacted there. Jake’s done a few things in his time that’ve left me mortified.”

“Well, if you’re free Saturday, you should come to the match at my kids’ school.”

“Can’t. Jake has a different fixture.”

“No problem. I’ll send you a picture or two. It won’t be as good as live, but I think you and Jake might appreciate them.”

“Now you have me intrigued, but okay, have your mystery. I’ll call you later.”

I made use of my return ticket, arriving back at the house about one o’clock. With nothing better to do, I set about clearing up the master bedroom. He’d done a thorough job on my clothes, tearing them so badly they could never be made fit for use. If I’d had a daughter, then maybe I could have cut things down enough to make something wearable, but...

An idea flared and I hunted through the rags until I found the remains of a dark burgundy tracksuit and a mustard-coloured skirt in a similar material. Now if only Sandy had a sewing machine

I found it tucked away at the back of the cupboard under the stairs, underneath a pile of other useless junk. I’d never used one before, so I spent an hour reading the manual and experimenting. I found a couple of spelling mistakes that had me wondering how my fellow body swapper was getting on in my old job, but otherwise managed to figure out the intricacies of the beast. It would probably sell for a few hundred quid if I ended up being desperate, but for now I had another use for it.

I cut and snipped and sewed until three, then hung up the fruits of my labour. They weren’t finished, but with a bit of luck they would be tomorrow. I just needed a few things from Lidl which I could pick up on the way back from collecting the boys.

They like to advertise it as the ‘Middle of Lidl’, but to me it will always be the Random Shit Aisle. On one of our earlier visits I’d notice multipacks of girls tights in, among other things, a mustard colour. I picked up a couple of five packs – two each for Steven and his friends, but then boys weren’t likely to be gentle with them – and added them to the basket. I also picked up a multipack of lycra boxer briefs in about his size. As luck would have it, they also had some children’s tee-shirts in the right colour that would fit. They were girls’ tee-shirts, but that worked all the better.

Back home, I sewed a pair of the boxer briefs into the best of the skirts I’d made earlier while the boys were playing upstairs. The final result didn’t look half bad, but proof would be in the wearing. I popped my head into their room and for once found them behaving.

“Any homework?” I asked Steven.

He shook his head, predictably.

“So, when I take your lunch boxes out of your bags I won’t find anything in there?”

He gave me a dirty look.

“Why don’t you come and do it before tea, then you’ll be free to do what you want afterwards.”

He gave a longsuffering sigh and climbed to his feet. When we were downstairs I offered him the cheerleader’s uniform to try on.

“No,” he said.

“Just quickly to see how well it fits in case I need to make any alterations. You don’t want to look any more ridiculous than you have to when you’re out there. You’re going to have to wear it soon enough, so why not get used to it?”

“Could you have made it more girly?”

“Probably, but I thought you’d prefer it toned down a little.” I refused to acknowledge his sarcasm. “Cheerleaders are supposed to be decorative, so bright colours are expected. I took the liberty of making them at least a little subdued.”

I showed him how to put the tights on and he jammed his foot in carelessly.

“I have one spare pair for each of you and your friends. If you tear them both, you’ll be wearing socks with the skirt, which won’t look as good and will be a lot colder.”

He relented and dressed more carefully. I was pleased with the final result. Except for the sullen, simmering pre-teen wearing it, the outfit looked quite acceptable.

“What’s with these bits?” He lifted up the skirt to show the hidden yellow pleats I’d sewn in.

“You and your friends have to convince everyone you’re genuine. That’ll be easier if you look the part. You can take it off now, I know what minor adjustments I need to make. You have your first practice tomorrow, don’t you?”

He grunted, slipping the clothes off with an odd show of reluctance. I bit back on the smile, remembering the delicious feeling the first time I’d put on girl’s clothes. It put me in a unique position to understand what he was going through, yet due to the switch, an equally unique position to be unable to talk to him about it.

I let him get on with it while I pulled their tea out of the oven.

“I’ll be calling Michael down in a second so you may want to hurry up and get changed.”

He did.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“For one thing, you’ve given me no reason not to be. For another, I really don’t want to be at war with you until you leave home. One if us has to hold out an olive branch, and since I’m the grown up here, it really ought to be me.”

“What do you mean an olive branch?”

“You know the story of Noah and the ark, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“After the flood, Noah sent out doves in search of dry land. Eventually they brought back an olive branch. The first sign that the world was returning to normal, that God’s anger with the world of men was done and that he was ready to reconcile.”

“Yeah, right. Some reconciliation. Destroys almost everything then offers to make up.”

“And as long as you only consider one side in a conflict, you’ll be stuck fighting it forever, or until one of you loses outright. Do you think God just woke up angry one morning and decided to hell with them, literally?”

“I don’t know.” He’d finished changing back so I called Michael down and set about serving up the food. “Isn’t it just a story though?”

“Maybe, but even in stories people need to have reasons for their actions. Besides, this isn’t really about the Noah story, is it?”

Michael’s head peered around the corner. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Steven said, his sullen mood returning.

Michael put on his usual puppy that’s been kicked expression.

“We were talking about Noah and the ark.”

“I thought you said the Bible was rubbish?”

“Oh? When did I say that?”

“Ages ago. I don’t really remember.”

“So, that would have been the old me then. The new me has a few different ideas.”

“I like the new you much better, don’t you agree Steven.”

“Whatever.” It wasn’t a denial, which was a step in the right direction. Also, he hadn’t just shut his brother down which was very real progress.

Michael and I chatted through tea, mine consisting of a fairly unsatisfying salad – I remembered from the last time I’d started dieting though, that the first couple of days were the hardest. Steven offered a few monosyllables every now and again, but for the most part, I listened to my youngest son talking about his day. It wasn’t particularly interesting, but I found the simple act of communicating with him left me with a pleasant warmth.

It was a school night so, once they’d both finished eating, I shooed them upstairs to get their night clothes and come back down for a wash. I managed to clear the bathroom in the time it took them to sort themselves out. I gave Michael a quick wash then dried him off, giving me ample opportunity to tickle him and cuddle him. By the time a very bemused Steven reappeared, Michael was giggling in a most uncharacteristic manner.

“Since when did you ever play with me and Michael?”

“Since I stopped having to worry about your arsehole of a father.”

“How come you’re allowed to use words like that and we’re not?”

“A fair point, but I would argue when we talk about your father, the term is justified. But your choice. Either we agree that we can use the term, but only about your dad, only in private, when it’s just the three of us, or, if you don’t think we should talk about him with that amount of disrespect, I’ll accept any reasonable punishment you suggest for having called him an arsehole. Which he is.”

Steven gave it some thought, I think tempted by the idea of deciding a punishment for me.

“You have to admit, Stevie. He is an arsehole.” Michael grinned with the realisation he could actually get away with saying something like that about his dad. The catharsis was evident in the width of his grin.

“So now you get to decide a reasonable,” I emphasised the word, “punishment for both of us, or you agree that he's an arsehole.”

“He is a fucking dickhead, isn’t he?”

“I’ll let that go this time, but I really don’t like the f-bomb...”

“You use it.”

“I have done, when provoked, but I’m trying to stop, and I’d appreciate it if you would too.

“Dickhead, we can add to the list of words we can use to describe him in private, if you like.”

“Arsehole, dickhead, poopy-pants,” Michael giggled.

“I don’t remember him ever doing that last one. Don’t you think it would be better if we just called him the names he deserves?”

“Mr Shouty! Mr Potty-mouth.”

“Those are perfect,” I said giving him an indulgent hug.

Steven’s bemused look returned.

“I have one for you too if you want it,” I offered, holding an arm out in invitation.

He looked at the cheerleader costume folded neatly on the floor and his mood darkened.

“No thanks.” He headed up to his bedroom.

Well, baby steps.

I led Michael upstairs behind him and settled him into bed.

“You know, if you went downstairs and used the toilet as soon as you woke up, we could stop using these things,” I told him patting his padded backside.

“But you said not to make any noise in the morning.”

“That was when your dickhead dad was here. Things are a little different now. I mean, I’ll be sleeping in the front room downstairs until I can get the bed fixed for one thing, in case you need me during the night.”

“I love you Mummy.” He gave me a quick hug and a sloppy kiss then dived under the bedclothes.

“I love you too, sweetie.” I stood up, hating how much effort it took, and peaked into the top bunk at the back of its occupant’s head. “Love you too, Steven.”

“Whatever,” came the muffled response.

I kissed my hand and touched it to the back of his head, more for my benefit than his, and backed out of the room.

Without a working TV, options were limited. I still had the remaining cheerleader uniforms to finish, and there was always clearing up to be done. I hunted through the detritus in the main bedroom. I didn’t feel like tackling the mess the arsehole had left me, but a little selective picking found me enough large scraps from old nightdresses that I might be able to put together something more comfortable to sleep in. I also discovered a bra and pair of panties that could be rescued after a fashion. Incongruously, my dressing gown still hung on the back of the bedroom door, untouched.

I sorted out my nightwear first, then washed and changed into it, replacing the torpedo in the process. There wasn’t much blood which suggested my phone would be beeping at me soon. Not that I had any reason to keep taking the pills. I had no intention of letting George back into my life, and I doubted anybody else would be taking an interest given my current appearance. Clear skin doesn’t count for much with most men.

I washed my daytime smalls in the sink and hung them on the drier in the bathroom for the morning. A glance at the jeans and sweatshirt judged them as fit for another day, and so folded them and put them to one side.

A fresh cup of tea made and back to the sewing machine. Underwear sewn into the skirts and a little additional tidying of hems and I was done.

I hunted through the cupboard under the stairs and found very little of any use. There was a box of old clothes, most of which were a little tight on me, but I did find another sweatshirt that was baggy enough to fit. It had a wine stain on it, but I’d noticed a bar of Vanish in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, so decided to give it a go. Twenty minutes elbow grease and I had it beaten, more or less. I added the sweatshirt to the drier, pleased that I’d have some fresh clothes for the morning.

Nine-thirty still felt early, so I dug into my phone looking for something interesting to read. It only had about ten percent charge remaining, which meant the first order of business was to seek out the charger and plug it in. I was about to begin hunting through the interweb for something to keep me distracted when it vibrated in my hand.

“Hello?” I said, answering it without reading the caller information.

“Hi Sandy.” It was Charlotte. “This isn’t too late, is it?”

“Not at all. I think you just rescued me from death by boredom.”

She was polite enough to laugh. “I just settled Jake and thought I’d update you on today’s progress.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Okay, let me start off by saying that I haven’t yet done anything that cannot be undone.”

“Understood.”

“But I have made a few assumptions that I need to check with you. Firstly, I’m assuming you don’t intend to contest the divorce.”

“God no! You have no idea how much better off we are without that shit stain in our lives.”

“Maybe some idea, but that’s from first impressions from meeting him in court, which may be misleading, so let’s say I just take your word for it. Secondly, would I be correct in assuming that you wish to challenge the prenup?”

“Again, hell yeah.”

“I figured as much. What about custody of your kids?”

“No. Whatever else is agreed, he doesn’t get the boys. He’d only ask for custody out of spite. If he won, he wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with them, nor would he care. The best of a bad lot of possible outcomes would end up with him badgering some other soppy cow into looking after them, and chances are she wouldn’t have much of a clue, or much reason to make an effort.

“They’ve been through enough with him, and I’ll give up everything else the sod might be persuaded to let me have before I’ll allow him anywhere near them.”

“So that would be a no then?”

I laughed despite myself.

“Can I offer some advice?”

“Of course.”

“If he knows, if he even suspects how strongly you feel about the boys, he’ll almost certainly use it against you.”

“I don’t care. I won’t let them be pawns in this game.”

“I won’t let it get that far, but if he’s as adamant about not having them as you are about keeping them, we have to call his bluff.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you get the kids and nothing else, which is what you’ll get anyway unless you let me try things my way.

“You’re too close to this, Sandra. You care too much about what happens to those boys. I can act more objectively if you’ll trust me to.”

“Can you promise me they won’t be drawn into this?”

“No, but I can promise you won’t get a dime out of him if you insist on keeping them out of it, and your life will be a whole lot harder if you have nothing.”

“I don’t like what you’re telling me, but I suppose I can see the sense. At least promise you’ll back out if it looks like you won’t be able to keep them out of it.”

“I don’t know...”

“Look, I can start again with nothing, but not if I don’t have my boys. I mean what if it was Jake?”

“Now how do you expect me to stay impartial if you bring my son into it?”

“I don’t want you to be impartial. I want you to make sure my kids are okay, and they won’t be if that shithead gets a hold of them.”

“Understood. Let me try it my way and if it looks like it’s not working out, I’ll back off. You have my word.”

“Alright. You’ve been on my side from the start, and after what happened to Jake you had no reason to be. If you think it’ll work, let’s give it a shot.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know what you’re thanking me for. You’re the one doing all the hard work on my behalf.”

“I guess thank you for trusting me. I know how big a deal this is for you.”

“Why do you think I trust you? Anyway, weren’t you going to update me on your progress?”

“I was. The main thing is I’ve responded to your husband’s petition for divorce saying you’re open to discussion of terms and that we’d be happy to meet with him and his lawyer at a mutually convenient date and time. I’ve also filed with the courts contesting the prenuptial agreement on a number of grounds. Firstly, it was him who filed for divorce, secondly, his abusive manner towards you and thirdly, the need for child support. We’ll see where it goes, but I think we have a strong case, especially with everything he’s done this week.

“I’ve also filed separate complaints against him for the, er, you know...”

“Rape. You can use the word.”

“For the rape then, for the infringement of his restraining order, for malicious destruction of property – that one might not stick since there’s no proof it was him – and for his most recent invasion of your home, yet again breaking the injunction against him. I cross linked the complaints so they may well decide to deal with them all at the same time.”

“How long?”

“Unknown. These things often take several months to get organised.”

“I’m going to need a job.”

“Well chances are you will anyway. I mean whatever’s decided in the divorce, he’s not going to be able to support you from prison.”

“You reckon that’s where he’ll end up?”

“I’m pretty confident, yeah. I mean the case against him is pretty damning. I’m guessing he’s so used to getting his own way he doesn’t really realise how badly he’s screwed himself.”

“Well, thanks for all you’ve done so far. When will you need me again?”

“I’ll call you. It depends how quickly either the courts or your husband’s lawyer gets back to me. In the meantime, you could ask your neighbours if they saw anything when he came round on Monday.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Right now I should get to bed. Early start tomorrow.”

“Aren’t they all when you’re a mom? I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Thanks, and good night.”

I thought I heard a noise from upstairs as I put my phone down and went to check on it. Both boys were in bed and everywhere else was clear. I chalked it up to a mild case of paranoia, which I figured was my due under the circumstances.

A short stop in the upstairs bathroom saw my teeth brushed, my face cleansed and moisturised and my other bathroom needs attended to. Turning out the lights, I headed downstairs to my temporary bed on the sofa.

For the second time in this misadventure, I enjoyed an untroubled night’s sleep.

Chapter 10

The following morning I was woken by a knock on the boarded up front door. The quality of light suggested it was barely after dawn, which at this time of year put the time around sixish. Certainly their was an uncomfortable chill in the air.

The knock sounded again and for a second my muzzy brain had me panicking about the thought of answering the door in a nightdress. It took a few seconds to realise that the weights hanging from my chest were a part of me and that I now belonged in women’s clothes. A few seconds more and I’d remembered why the world was all blurry and hunted out my glasses.

The third knock was louder and sounded like it was getting impatient. I pulled on my dressing gown and glanced at my phone, which indicated the time was earlier still than I’d guessed. I opened the curtain and tapped on the window until the moron, who seemed to expect me to open the boarded-up front of my house, noticed me.

“I have a delivery for, er, Sandy Bush.” The visor on his helmet was up and he couldn’t quite keep the juvenile smirk from his face.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes Mrs Bush. The instructions are for priority delivery, which is any time of day or night.”

“Do the instructions include waking my kids at this ridiculous time too?”

“No ma’am, but I’m er, I’m blocking the street.” He pointed at a motorcycle ticking over in the middle of the road. As usual, either side of the road was solid with parked cars.

“You’ll have to come round the back. There’s a passage a few houses down that way.” I pointed.

“No ma’am. I can’t leave my bike.”

Not unreasonable I supposed.

“Then find somewhere to park up then come round the back.”

“There isn’t anywhere.”

There would be, but he’d have to walk to find it.

“So just leave it. I’ll pick it up later.”

“It has to be signed for, ma’am. Couldn’t you open the er...” he looked at the boarded up front if the house, then at the ancient sash window which had quite obviously been painted shut.

“Could you come back later?”

He shook his head. “Priority delivery.”

“What if I wasn’t in?”

“You are in, ma’am. I was told you have children so you would be in.”

“So you knew I had children when you decided to bang on the front of my house.”

“Sometimes I have to knock quite loud to wake people up.”

“What if I just close the curtains and ignore you?”

“Well that would be a problem ma’am, because I’ve seen you. I’d have to go back to knocking.”

It’s impossible to argue with some people. Probably one of the qualities that landed him this job.

“Wait there,” I told him and closed the curtains. For a moment I was tempted just to go back to bed, but he was the sort to start knocking again if I was gone too long.

I slipped my trainers onto my bare feet and wrapped my dressing gown about me before letting myself out the back. By the time I’d walked round to him, he’d just run out of patience and had started knocking again.

“What part of ‘wait there’ didn’t you understand? Will you stop that before you wake up the neighbourhood?”

It was already too late on that front. I’d noticed several twitching net curtains and one sour faced, elderly lady had gone so far as to open her front door and stare at us disapprovingly.

I smiled and waved at her before taking the courier’s little machine and scribbling something illegible on it. He handed me a thin package, smiled cheerfully and trotted back to his motorcycle, which was mercifully and unusually quiet as he sped away.

The neighbour opposite had apparently achieved her intention of conveying displeasure and had disappeared back inside. I decided that wasn’t a bad idea given how cold my legs were becoming. I walked briskly back to the back door and shut out the morning chill.

The kettle went on. Fortunately, it was a little more efficient than the one monkey-man had broken, and by the time I’d checked the drying rack and found my things still a little too damp, it had finished its job and I had a coffee to kick-start my brain.

The envelope contained a court summons for three o’clock that same afternoon. My pre-caffeinated brain couldn’t make any sense of the charges listed.

I picked up my phone and texted Charlotte, asking her to call me as soon as she could.

Which was about an hour later, during which time I’d made up the boys’ lunch boxes, packed all the cheerleader uniforms into separate carrier bags, dried my clothes for the day with a hairdryer and changed into them. I’d also made myself a second coffee and was trying to make sense of the letter when my phone finally buzzed at me.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early...”

“No, what is it? You wouldn’t have texted me if it was nothing.”

“I had a motorcycle courier on my doorstep an hour ago. I have a court summons for three o’clock this afternoon.”

I read her the letter and she swore.

“Intimidation tactics,” she said. “Though I’m not sure what they intend to gain by them. You’ll have to go.”

“I need to pick Michael up from school at three-thirty.”

“Can’t you ask one of the other moms?”

“Pariah patch, remember? Betty-no-mates me, apart from a very accommodating lawyer who I think will also be picking up her son around that time.”

“No, I have someone I can ask. You’ll have to arrange to take your kids out of school early today. I’ll pick you up at the school at two-thirty to save time.”

“Steven’s supposed to join the football practice after school today. Will I be back in time to pick him up at five?”

“I thought he was kicked off the team.”

“He was, he is, and the others who attacked Jake. This is more to do with their punishment.”

“Can he make his own way home?”

“He’s only eleven. I wouldn’t want to.”

“Sometimes you have to. Either that or you take him out of school early too.”

“Okay. I’ll figure something out. Thanks again and I’ll see you at half two. Are you sure this is nothing to worry about?”

“Not just that, but by the time I’m done with them, they’ll regret trying this on you.”

The ritual of rousing the boys and getting them ready for school had a calming effect on me. While the boys chomped their way through their breakfasts, I told them about the court summons and what it would mean.

Michael was a little disappointed to be missing part of his art lesson, which was the last lesson of the day, but perked up a bit when I reminded him that most of the time would be clearing up.

Steven, I offered the choice.

“It’s football practice, so the cheer squad’s supposed to make its first appearance, but I won’t be able to come and pick you up, so you’d have to go home on your own. This counts as a fair reason for missing it if you want.”

“Nah, I should go. It wouldn’t be fair on the others if I didn’t. I mean I’m the one who’s supposed to be making up all the stupid chants and stuff. They wouldn’t know what they were doing otherwise.”

“I don’t know if I can respond to that without sounding patronising, but I’m impressed.”

“What’s patronising?” Michael’s question but I could see it in Steven’s eyes too.

“It’s kind of when you talk down to someone. Like me congratulating Steven for doing something we both know he should do. I don’t mean to belittle you, Steven. It’s a mature choice.”

“Well, it means I won’t have to hang about in a boring courtroom for hours.”

“True, and with that in mind, Michael, I’d like you to pick out a few toys you can play with quietly while we’re out. I’ll bring them with me when I come to pick you up.

“Steven, I really don’t like leaving you without a way of contacting me. If there’s a problem, knock on one of the neighbours’ doors and ask them to call me. You know my mobile number, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And your friends know to bring their trainers today?”

“I already told them.”

“Alright then. Let’s get you packed and ready. I’ve put your cheerleading uniform in your bag. The others are in these carrier bags.”

The back door had two keys on the ring, both of which fitted the lock. I took one off and gave it to Steven.

“Homework first when you get home, okay?”

“Sure, whatever.”

We were out the house early, which meant I had the opportunity to call in on Mrs Nullis after I’d arranged to pick Michael up early.

“I’m really not happy about Steven walking home on his own. If you cancelled the cheerleading practice for today, I’d be happier.”

“You only live ten minutes away, don’t you? And none of the roads are particularly busy. We’d be better off leaving things as they are. I mean what can go wrong?”

Quite a bit I was sure, but she was probably right. This would be the best way.

I spent the rest of the morning browsing through the local charity shops and discovering that fat women in my area didn’t donate much, nor did they have particularly good taste in clothing. I did find one or two things that would fit, one of which I didn’t instantly dislike. It was a fairly non-descript dress in a sort of silvery grey material. Not particularly flattering, but not that exciting either. I bought a thin black cardigan to go with it and was given change from a ten-pound note. The change bought me a pair of reasonably thick charcoal tights. My leather accessories had, for the most part, survived my husband’s first attack – including most of my shoes – so after a light lunch, I changed into the second dress I’d worn since my transformation and this time felt surprisingly good about myself. Inch and a half heels lifted me just enough and gave a pleasing shape to my calves. They were about as high as I’d ever worn and felt considerably more comfortable with my size and weight so much reduced – even with the extra weight I was carrying, I had to be less than two thirds my former weight.

The overall effect brought a genuine smile to both my lips and my eyes. It may have been wishful thinking, but I fancied my face looked a tiny bit slimmer too.

I kept my phone plugged in and browsed the internet on a number of unrelated matters during the early afternoon and transferred everything I thought I’d need into my oversized handbag. Phone charger included since I had no idea whether the court proceedings might outlast my battery.

I left the house at two, locked up and made my way to the school in good time to pick up Michael. Again, possibly my imagination, but I felt slightly less out of breath by the time I arrived at reception.

“I like your dress, Mummy,” Michael said as he ran to give me a hug.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Did you bring my toys?”

“Right here. Come on, let’s go and wait outside.”

Charlotte appeared ten minutes early which was just a minute after we made our way out. Michael climbed into the back seat next to Jake and I squeezed into the front. Nothing like a mini for reminding you that you’re not as slim as you’d like to be.

“Looking good girl. I thought you’d still be in your jeans.”

“Charity shop,” I said, straightening myself out. “Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but when you’re on a budget...”

“You’ll make a good impression this afternoon, which will help. Okay, everyone buckled up?”

We were. We headed out into the traffic and made it to the courthouse with fifteen minutes to spare.

“So, now we wait a while.” Charlotte waved me into a seat. “Let me go find out where we need to be. Would you look after Jake while I check around?”

Jake appeared to be used to this sort of thing and sat with Michael, asking about his toys, which made looking after the two of them a lot less demanding than just the one.

“What the fuck are you doing 'ere?”

I almost didn’t recognise myself. I sounded the same as I had on the phone, but I’d put on a noticeable amount of weight.

Conscious of Michael and Jake looking up at us, I decided to keep my response uncomplicated. “Court summons,” I said. “My husband’s accusing me of a number of things, all of which are rubbish. What about you?”

“That careless driving bollocks, innit? I swear that fucking car of yours...”

“I’ve never owned a car.”

“Yes you 'ave. You remember you told me...” He finally twigged what I was trying to tell him with my eyes. “Oh fuck, sorry. Is this, er, is this your kid?”

“My youngest, Michael, and my lawyer’s son, Jake.”

“Well, you’re a coupla little cuties, incha?” His smile was more of a grimace.

“Mum?” Michael sounded confused and a little horrified.

“Course I ain’t your fucking mum. Do I look like a fucking mum?”

“This is someone I crossed paths with about a week ago, Michael.”

“Crossed paths. That’s not bad that.”

“We found ourselves in sort of similar situations, so we've been trying to help each other as much as we can.” I turned back to my former self. “How are you getting on with that job of yours?” trying to switch the track of the conversation and avert the impending train wreck.

“Oh no, that was a waste of fucking time that was. I fucking quit.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, they said they was doing this quality control checking shit on my work and they said there was like more mistakes after I dunnit than before. I mean fucking cheek or what? Didn’t they trust me or summing? Anyway, how the fuck would they know, right?”

“They assign all of the documents to multiple checkers then compare the collective results. That way there’s a better chance of finding all the mistakes. You must have really messed up if they called you out on it.”

“Well how was I to know? I mean I made a few random changes and that was that. Anyway, they said I should buck my ideas up or they’d have to let me go. So I thought fuck this for a lark and quit. I mean they wanted me to work forty fucking hours a week. You know, what’s that all about?”

“About average for a job in my experience.”

“Well fuck it. I figured I could go on the dole or summin, only if you quit you got to wait like six weeks before you can claim. I don’t have enough money in my savings to last that long, so what am I going to do? Then I was told there’s going to be a fucking great big fine for this car rubbish. I mean like a grand or something. That’s hardly fair is it? That’ll nearly wipe me out. Then what am I gonna do?”

“You could always go back to Clarks and Spencer and apologise. You’ve been working there a long time and they may well be prepared to give you a second chance.’

“No way! They can fuck right off.”

“You need to find some sort of income, otherwise when you can’t pay your bills, they'll kick you out of the flat?”

“They wouldn’t fucking dare.”

“If you don’t pay your rent, then they certainly would dare.”

“Fuck!”

“Look, this was supposed to be good for both of us, but you need to do your part just like I’m doing mine.”

“Yeah? Just what the fuck are you doing with yours?”

“Standing up to a bully for the most part. That and looking after my children has taken most of my time of late.”

“Yeah. Your fucking children. Right.”

“They deserve to know they’re loved.”

“And what the fuck would you know about that?”

Michael snuggled into my side, his eyes wide with incomprehension as he looked back and forth between us both. I put an arm around him and smiled as reassuringly as I could.

“Hopefully enough.” I could see Charlotte approaching and waving to attract my attention. “Anyway, we have to go now. I hope your hearing goes well and you figure out how to make your life work for you.”

The three of us joined Charlotte and followed her through to a courtroom, arriving five minutes before the appointed hour. I barely registered the presence of my toe-rag husband or the angry stare he turned my way, being busy settling Michael before the judge arrived. Once again, Jake helped keep him distracted.

The judge entered and we were called to stand up.

“Why are there children in my courtroom?” he asked.

“Your honour, I’d like to apologise,” Charlotte, my agreed spokesperson, stood to answer. “My client was served with the summons at five-thirty this morning, which did not give either of us time to make more suitable arrangements.”

“This is highly irregular, Ms Greer.”

“I know your honour. Had we been given more than a few hour’s notice...”

“Your honour,” I recognised Mr Simmons from the arraignment, “the court summons was delivered to Mrs Bush more than ten hours ago, which is more time than is required by the law.”

“Your honour, given that the plaintiff in this matter is my client’s husband, he would have known that she would normally be picking their children up from school at this time, yet Mr Simmons deliberately requested this time for the hearing...”

“I requested a time that was convenient to me, as the law permits.”

“Yeah, convenient to you because you hoped my client would be unable to make alternate arrangements in time and would prioritise her children...”

The judge banged his gavel. “Ms Greer, Mr Simmons, I am not about to permit my courtroom to become a venue for you two to take pot-shots at each other. Ms Greer, your point has been duly noted and is on record. Mr Simmons, can you offer me a plausible and brief explanation why you specifically requested this time?”

“Your honour, my schedule...”

“Doesn’t look particularly full at the moment. The intention behind permitting you to request a time for a hearing such as this is so that you can arrange something that is convenient for all parties, not so that you can ambush your opponent. Be careful about how you choose to use or abuse such privileges in the future or you may see them taken away.

“In the meantime, I am concerned about having young children in the courtroom, especially given the nature of what we are to discuss. These matters are hardly appropriate to such young ears.”

“Your honour, I couldn’t agree more. I realise it’s an imposition on the court, but I was hoping there might be somewhere nearby they could wait, and perhaps someone to keep an eye on them while we take care of business.”

“Ms Greer, this is a courthouse, not a day-care centre.”

“I’m fully aware, your honour...”

He raised a hand, stopping her. “However, I do realise their being here is not your fault. Bailiff, please check in the common room to see if there’s a stenographer who’d be willing to look after a couple of young lads for an hour or two. They can use my chambers since I imagine you'll want to keep them close.”

“Thank you, your honour.”

“You can thank me by not partaking in any more grandstanding. Mr Simmons, I believe we can read out your list of complaints while we’re waiting. Keep it short if you can.”

“Yes, your honour. My client accuses the plaintiff of spurious accusations leading to his arrest, of forcibly keeping him from his own place of residence and of attacking him when he attempted to make entry into his home.”

“Nothing else?”

“I did have a few more, but those are the main ones.”

“Let’s see how we get on with these. Depending on how things proceed, I may allow you to introduce the others. Mrs Bush, would you care to respond?”

“I don’t really understand the complaints, your honour. To start, perhaps you could clarify the nature of the spurious accusations I am supposed to have made?”

“That my client, the plaintiff’s own husband, er,” Mr Simmons coughed an looked pointedly at the boys.

Fortunately, the bailiff chose that moment to return and the judge called for a brief pause while the young woman he’d brought with him came over to introduce herself and direct the boys to follow her.

“Go on,” I said to Michael. “Find a quiet corner in the room to play with your things and please don’t touch anything other than your toys.”

Charlotte had her own words for Jake, mainly about manning up and looking out for Michael, and they were gone.

“Please proceed, Mr Simmons.”

“Yes, your honour. The defendant accused my client of rape. Her own husband and in their own bedroom.” He did a reasonable job of sounding incredulous.

“Your honour, my colleague knows full well there is an established precedent for the charge.”

“It is hard to prove though, Ms Greer,” the judge said. “Mrs Bush, would you respond now?”

“He was drunk, your honour. I told him no quite clearly several times, but he said, what was it, er, 'It’s about effing time I reminded you who the effing man is in this house.’ He didn’t use effing, but...”

“We get your meaning Mrs Bush.”

“Yes. After that he tore off my underwear and forced himself on me.”

“Do we have anything other than your word that this is what happened?”

“Sufficient evidence for another judge to issue a restraining order against Mr Bush, your honour,” Charlotte chipped in.

“This evidence being? And I’d like Mrs Bush to answer.”

“Erm, I had a er, a tampon in at the time. It took a while to retrieve it and I just wanted to throw it away at first, but then I figured it might be needed as evidence. I believe it’s being tested at present to show it has my blood and his semen on it.”

“Why would you be wearing a tampon, Mrs Bush? Aren’t you taking oral contraception?”

“I wondered if this might come up.” I rummaged in my bag for a few seconds. “Your honour, this is a copy of my prescription for contraceptives from my doctor, and here is an unopened box of the pills indicated in the prescription. If you open the box, you’ll see that the instructions indicate that the pills should be taken over a period of three weeks, then stopped for the fourth week to permit my body to, er, purge any build-up of material as nature intended. I still have regular periods using this method of contraception and I was two days into this part of the cycle when my husband came home drunk in the middle of the night and forced himself on me.”

“How does this constitute proof, Mrs Bush?” Mr Simmons expression showed some considerable distaste at my explanation.

“Women don’t generally feel in the mood for sex at this point in their cycle Mr Simmons.”

“Don’t generally.”

“I specifically didn’t, and I told him repeatedly. He ignored me and went right ahead.”

“This is still your word against his, I think you'll find.”

“That's as may be, Mr Simmons, but had the intercourse been consensual, don't you think he'd have given me the opportunity to remove the tampon rather than ramming it home like a gunpowder charge in a cannon?”

“Mrs Bush, we can do without such graphic imagery.”

“Sorry your honour.”

“Anyway, your honour,” Charlotte picked up the baton, “this evidence was compelling enough for Judge Feldman to issue a restraining order against Mr Bush and for the Crown Prosecution Service to file a charge of rape against him. The truth of the matter will be decided in the courts. In the meantime, I believe the complaint of spurious accusation has been answered.”

“I'm inclined to agree. Mr Simmons, I hope your evidence for the other complaints is more compelling.”

“Actually, your honour,” Charlotte had the bit between her teeth, “the other complaints hinge on the first. Mr Bush wasn’t forcibly kept from accessing his house by my client as much as by the restraining order.”

“Your client changed the locks...”

“After the house was ransacked by someone who had access to a front door key.”

“If you’re trying to insinuate...?”

“Simply stating facts. The door was not forced. The only keys that fit the lock were in the possession of your client and mine, and Mrs Bush was taking her children to school at the time.”

“All circumstantial...”

“Yes, as was your client cancelling the house insurance just shortly before the break-in. As was a particular focus of the vandalism being the hot water pipes in the kitchen which my client had earlier discovered were being used to hide a significant amount of money. As was one major focus of the damage being my client’s possessions, specifically her clothing.

“Mrs Bush called me shortly after the break-in and it was me who recommended she have the locks changed. Mr Bush could have contacted my client to arrange access to the house had he wished. Instead, he chose to violate the restraining order on two occasions. The first, my client has photographs. The second, Mr Bush broke down the front door and attempted to attack her...”

“You have no proof of what happened that night.”

“Sandy, would it be alright to ask Michael?”

I wasn’t keen, but since the matter had been raised. I agreed and the bailiff went to fetch him from the back room. The judge spoke to him gently and asked him to say what had happened the last time his father had come home.

“It was in the middle of the night,” he replied. “There was a lot of banging and crashing, then Mummy came to hide in our room. Steven called out saying, ‘She’s in here Dad’...”

“Steven is your brother, yes? How did he know it was your father?”

“We all know what Daddy sounds like when he’s angry. Anyway, he came stomping up the stairs and tried to come into our room. Mummy stopped him at first, but no-one stops Daddy when he’s angry, so she came away from the door just before Daddy smashed it open. Then she jumped on him, pushing him back out. Then she ran back downstairs. Daddy was so mad, he roared like a big angry bear and chased after her. Then there was another crash and things went quiet until Mummy came back upstairs with a policeman to see if we were alright.”

“Thank you, Michael. Now this is important. Did anyone tell you to say these things, like your mummy, or Jake’s mummy.”

“No. It’s what happened.”

“Did your mummy tell you to say anything.”

“She said to tell the truth, and I did.”

“Thank you, Michael, you can go to your mother now. Mr Simmons, does this comprise the full extent of your client’s complaints against the defendant?”

“Er, well there were a few other matters, your honour.”

“Anything that’s likely to improve your client’s case?”

“No your honour.”

“I’m not pleased. I do not take kindly to having my time wasted, and I would have expected you to know better. Your complaints are dismissed with a degree of prejudice on my part. Your client to pay all court costs, including a penalty for wasting Mrs Bush’s time and for the inconvenience imposed upon her. Shall we say five-hundred pounds?”

“Your honour! That hardly seems reasonable.”

“No, I agree. Let’s make it a thousand then. Perhaps it’ll persuade you to think twice before bringing frivolous complaints into my courtroom in the future. Mrs Bush, my sincerest apologies for what we've put you through. If you leave your bank details with the front desk, Mr Simmons will make sure payment of the penalty is made to you by the end of the day, won’t you Mr Simmons?”

“Er, yes your honour.”

The judge left and Jake reappeared carrying Michael’s bag of toys.

“A thousand fucking quid! What the fuck is that about!”

‘It’s, er, actually worse than that. You’ve been instructed to pay court costs too.”

“So how the fuck much is that going to be?”

I didn’t hear the response as I wanted to get Michael out of there and home as quickly as possible, but the outraged bellow that followed us down the corridor was the most satisfying thing I’d heard all week.

“I didn’t do anything wrong did I Mummy?”

I crouched down in front of him and took hold of his shoulders.

“Of course not sweetie. Why would you think that?”

“Daddy sounds pretty mad.” Something of the old whinge had returned to his voice.

“That’s because Daddy tried to do something bad, only the judge noticed and decided to punish him.”

“He’s not going to come after us, is he?”

“Very soon he’s not going to be able to come after anybody for a long, long time.”

“Your mommy’s right, Michael. Now how would you like to get a bite to eat before I take you home?”

“You say it wrong.”

“What?”

“It’s mummy, not mawmy.” The last was a little exaggerated.

“Well, where I come from it’s always been mommy. You mind if we agree to think different on that?”

“I suppose.”

“Great, so how about that food?”

“We’d love to, Charlie, but we should get home to Steven.”

“There anywhere we can eat near your place?”

“We have a chip shop.”

“Great. We’ll fetch Steven then go get some fish and chips. Climb aboard. Come on girl, days like this don’t happen often enough and we gotta celebrate.”

“Alright then, sounds like a plan.”

Traffic was mercifully light for once and we even found a parking spot close to the house. I climbed out of the car, tipping the seat forward to let Michael out. There was something different about the house. It had a door again, and sitting crouched in front of it with his knees held tightly to him was a little figure in burgundy and mustard.