Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Forty-Nine

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 his colleagues, 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.

It was a Latin dance class, the teacher a sleazy bloke called Javier with greased black hair and a blinding white smile that made simps like my mother weak at the knees. She had nattered non-stop on the journey to this random hall, reapplying her lipstick before going inside. My performance was abysmal. I’d no coordination, no sense of rhythm. I flailed around pathetically, trying desperately to keep up with everyone else, to keep Mother happy, not to spoil the big day she had imagined when she’d booked the class and bought us matching shoes.

Javier tried to come over and help me but I saw Mother frown and so I quickly batted him away, assuring him I wanted to get there on my own. Mother told him she could do with extra help instead. As he held her hands from behind and showed her how to roll her hips, I ploughed on, determined not to disappoint her.

‘You’re rather clumsy, Claire, darling,’ she said to me in a low voice, brows furrowed in reproach.

I sashayed away from her, desperate to find some hidden talent in myself that would make her proud. But minutes later my heels began to burn, and soon my feet were all I could focus on, the steps that Javier was trying to teach us going right over my head as I was distracted by the dull ache from my squeezed-together toes, the searing burn in the back of my heels with every step I took.

Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I paused, wincing as I peeled off the shoes. Ribbons of skin hung limply from my blistered heels. The insides of my shoes were covered in blood. I could feel Mother’s glare from across the room as I dared to pad over to her barefoot, my high heels abandoned at the side of the hall. I couldn’t bear to put them back on and my lacerated feet were stinging at the kiss of the cold air. My face heated at the realisation that I had left bloody patches on the floor where I had removed the shoes.

I smiled at her, tried to continue as we had been before, but she tilted her face away and ignored me for the rest of the lesson. When we were back in the car, she let rip.

‘You hate the beautiful shoes I’ve bought you! I paid for this dance class for us but you ignored me the whole time and left blood all over the place… Just imagine what Javier must have thought. The absolute state of you! That’s the last time I treat you to anything nice. You are so ungrateful. You’re spoilt. Spoilt rotten.’

The words stung at first. But their impact faded as I realised the sting in my heels was even worse.