Chapter 5 #2
“Thanks,” he says, smiling at me with the easy warmth of a man who has absolutely no idea his wife just spent an hour discussing the dissolution of their marriage with a stranger. “How was your day? Besides the traffic.”
I look at him across the table, at the man who held my hand through twenty-three hours of labour, who cut the twins’ umbilical cords with shaking hands, who sat with me in the NICU and promised everything would be okay.
The man who sent explicit photos to a woman while I counted our daughter’s breaths.
“It was fine,” I say, and take a sip of my wine. “Nothing special.”
The gap between those two versions of my afternoon, the law office with its grey walls and detached explanations, the kitchen with its warm light and Daniel’s casual question, is so enormous I nearly laugh.
But I don’t. I just cut my chicken into small pieces and ask if he wants more bread, and somewhere in the space between those two sentences, I make a decision.
I’m going to find a lawyer who actually gives a damn.
***
The second firm occupies the ground floor of a converted Victorian style terrace house three streets over from the high street, with exposed brick walls and a waiting room that smells aggressively of lavender thanks to a diffuser pumping mist into the air at a rate that feels medically concerning.
A woman in her early thirties with a geometric haircut and a bright yellow dress greets me at the door with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just discovered both yoga and motivational podcasts and is determined that everyone else should have the same life-changing experience.
“You must be Elsie,” she says, reaching for my coat before I’ve had a chance to take it off.
“We’re so excited to meet you. Rose has been telling everyone about your consultation all morning. ”
That is, I realize immediately, not a good sign.
“She has?” I ask, watching as she hangs my coat on a hook shaped like a unicorn.
“Oh yes,” she says, nodding so emphatically her earrings, tiny silver stars, catch the light. “She said your case is the type of work she’s passionate about. Complex, emotionally nuanced, and really compelling narratively.”
It takes me a moment to translate this from Wellness Retreat into English, but when I do, the meaning is crystal clear: my husband’s betrayal, the dissolution of my marriage, the future of my five-month-old twins, it’s all just a story to them. A particularly juicy one.
The waiting room is decorated in what I can only describe as Millennial Therapist Chic, a white sofa with too many throw pillows, a coffee table made from a slab of what might be actual tree, and a gallery wall of inspirational quotes rendered in a font that suggests the designer had a stroke halfway through.
I sit on the edge of the sofa, careful not to sink too far into the cushions, and wait for Rose to appear.
She does so two minutes later, bursting through the door with the energy of someone who’s just finished watching a particularly rousing legal drama and is determined to bring that energy into the real world.
She’s in her early forties, with dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail and a pair of statement earrings that look like they were designed by someone who’s only ever seen chandeliers in movies.
Her suit is expensive but slightly too tight, her heels just a fraction too high for comfort, and her smile seems to say that enthusiasm is mandatory.
“Elsie!” she says, crossing the room with her hand already extended. “I’m Rose. It is so wonderful to meet you. Thank you for coming to us.”
The consultation room is more of the same, exposed brick, white furniture, and a desk that looks like it was purchased from the same place as the coffee table, possibly carved from the other half of the tree.
Rose gestures to a chair across from her desk, a white upholstered thing that looks like it belongs in a Scandinavian furniture catalogue, and sits down, leaning forward with her elbows on the desk.
“So,” she says, her voice dropping to what I assume is her serious lawyer tone. “You mentioned on the phone that your husband has been unfaithful?”
I nod, suddenly aware that I’m going to have to say the actual words. “Yes. Multiple women. It started when I was pregnant with the twins and… “
“And you found evidence?” she interrupts, her eyes lighting up. “Messages? Photos?”
“I found a notification on his phone,” I say, the words feeling both too small for what they’re describing. “From someone called JazzyGirl. When I looked, there were hidden apps with messaging platforms and a hookup thing.”
Rose leans forward, her expression suggesting I’ve just described the plot of a particularly riveting true crime podcast. “Hidden apps,” she says, her voice low with what sounds disturbingly like excitement. “Oh, that is fascinating.”
The word lands like a slap, fascinating, not horrifying or devastating or any of the other adjectives that might actually apply to the situation. Fascinating, like I’ve described an unusual bird sighting or an interesting documentary rather than the complete destruction of my marriage.
“The messages go back to when I was pregnant,” I continue, watching her face carefully.
“And then…“ I pause, the next part still hard to say despite having practiced it several times.
“Then I found messages from when the twins were in NICU. He was texting one of the women about when they could meet up.”
Rose’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly. “While your children were in intensive care?” she asks, and there’s something in her voice, not sympathy or outrage but something closer to appreciation, like I’ve just delivered an especially juicy plot twist.
“Yes,” I say, my stomach turning. “He sent her a photo from the hospital bathroom. While I was sitting with our newborns.”
“This is genuinely one of the more compelling cases I’ve seen this year,” Rose says, making a note on the pad in front of her. “The NICU detail is particularly powerful. That’s going to resonate with the judge.”
It takes me a moment to process what she’s just said, that my daughter’s struggle to breathe, my son’s jaundice, the worst moment of my life, is “powerful” and “compelling” to her.
A detail that will “resonate with the judge,” like we’re discussing a character in a novel rather than actual human beings.
“I have screen recordings,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I expected. “Of everything.”
“Excellent,” Rose says, nodding enthusiastically. “Those will be very helpful. Judges appreciate clear documentation.”
I sit in the white chair, watching Rose make notes on her pad, and it hits me that this is not going to work.
This woman with her statement earrings and her performative empathy sees my life as content, a story to be packaged and presented, complete with dramatic reveals and emotional beats timed for maximum impact.
She doesn’t see me, or the twins, or the fact that this is not a plot but my actual existence. She sees a case. A compelling one.
The rest of the consultation passes in a blur of questions that feel increasingly intrusive, how did you feel when you found the messages?
Did you confront him immediately? Have you told anyone else?
Each delivered with the eager interest of someone gathering material for a particularly salacious anecdote.
I answer politely, my voice on autopilot, while a growing part of me wonders how I ended up here, explaining the worst moment of my life to a stranger who’s taking notes on how “effective” my emotional reactions are likely to be in court.
When Rose finally finishes, sliding a brochure across the desk with the practiced movement, I take it without looking at it. “I’ll need to think about it,” I say, standing up. “And check my schedule for a follow-up.”
“Of course,” Rose says, her smile firmly in place. “These are important decisions. Take your time. But I will say…“ she leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “…you have a very strong case. Emotionally speaking. Judges respond to that.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and make my way back through the waiting room with the geometric-haired receptionist calling “It was so lovely to meet you!” after me as I grab my coat from the unicorn hook and escape into the cold afternoon air.
In the car, my phone sits in the cup holder, the screen dark and peaceful, and after a moment I pick it up and call Luca.
He answers on the second ring. “Els,” he says, his voice warm with the tone he uses when he’s trying very hard not to sound worried. “How did it go?”
“No,” I say, the single word containing everything I can’t voice right now.
There’s a pause, brief but noticeable, and then Luca says, “Understood, moving on,” without asking for clarification or details or anything else. Just complete, immediate acceptance of what I’m ready to share.
It’s one of the reasons I love him.
“I’m coming to the café,” I say, putting the car in reverse. “I need to not think about this for a bit.”
“You got it,” Luca says. “I’ve got a blueberry scone with your name on it. Literally. I wrote your name on it in Sharpie because Barry tried to claim it was his.”
I laugh despite myself, a short, startled sound that doesn’t quite make it all the way to a real laugh but is closer than I’ve come today. “See you in ten,” I say, and hang up before he can hear the catch in my voice.
Page & Grounds is as I left it this morning, warm and slightly chaotic, with the comfortable disorder that comes from a space that’s seen too many real conversations to worry about looking perfect.
Luca is behind the counter, his back to the door as he restocks the pastry case, and Liv is at the small desk in the corner, her headphones on and her expression focused as she works on something that requires both a ruler and a significant amount of swearing.