Playing Nice Page 9

Secret Escapes, retrieved 23:12 P.M.:

  Tremerrion House, Trevose Head, Cornwall: This stunning property offers up to ten guests luxury self-catering accommodation just a stone’s throw from the sea and the South West Coastal Path. From £8,400 pw (low season). Check availability here.

  Washington Post, retrieved 23:18 P.M.:

  MOTHER OF SWITCHED BABY SUES FOR $31M

  The mother of a girl switched at birth with another baby is suing the Virginia hospital she claims is responsible for $31 million, to compensate her for the pain and suffering she says the mix-up inflicted. The other family involved has already accepted a multimillion-dollar settlement from the state.

  The Guardian, retrieved 00:14 A.M.:

  “STAGGERING” RISE IN NHS PAYOUTS BLAMED ON NO-FEE LAWYERS

  A total of £22.7 billion—nearly one-fifth of the health service’s annual budget—is being set aside each year to settle compensation claims, new figures have revealed.

  Experts last night said the scale of the NHS’s liabilities was “staggering,” with English damages now among the highest in the world.

  MPs and other commentators have blamed the courts, saying that the UK’s broad definitions of medical negligence and malpractice, along with the rise of no-win no-fee legal firms, have made litigation “almost ridiculously easy.”

  22

  MADDIE

  I’M IN BED WHEN Pete stumbles in from his drink with Miles. I’m not asleep, but I’ve finished most of a bottle of wine myself and don’t feel like chatting, let alone cuddling, so I don’t answer when he whispers, “You awake, babe?”

  By half past five, Theo’s wriggling into our bed. We both try to ignore him, but there’s only so long you can ignore being hit over the head with a woolly rabbit. Eventually I give up and turn over. Luckily, Pete succumbed just before I did. Theo is now straddling his stomach as if riding a horse, impatiently bouncing his bottom whenever Pete stops jiggling.

  “How was last night?” I say blearily.

  “It was all right.” Pete thinks for a moment. “He brought up schools again.”

  “Bloody hell. What did you say?”

  “A very firm no. Ouff! Gently, Theo.”

  “Did he get the message this time?”

  Pete yawns. “Yes, actually. Took it quite well. That’s the thing about these City types. They don’t go in for nuance. You have to be forceful with them.”

  “Well, I’m glad you were forceful.”

  Pete gives me a look, unsure if I’m teasing. “We talked about suing St. Alexander’s, too.”

  “Gee up, Daddeee,” Theo complains. Reluctantly, Pete resumes bucking.

  “And?”

  “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Quite apart from anything else, it’ll level the playing field between us and them. Stop it being quite so asymmetric.”

  I consider. “Well, it’ll make Dad happy. And he did say he’d send us money for a lawyer.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need it. The solicitors Miles are using are no-win no-fee. If we use someone from the same firm, he thinks they can coordinate to get us both the best payout.”

  I nod. I’ve never shared Pete’s qualms about suing a hospital anyway. Like many Brits, he seems to have a love-hate relationship with the National Health Service, both incredibly proud of it in principle and totally despairing and frustrated by it in practice. To me, it seems no different from suing any other large organization that’s made a mistake. But I am a bit surprised that Miles has managed to get Pete to overcome his scruples so quickly.

  23

  Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibits 16A–C: Emails from (A) Miles Lambert to Peter Riley, (B) Peter Riley to Miles Lambert, and (C) Miles Lambert to Peter Riley.

  Hey Pete,

  Great to see you last night. Bit of a sore head on the 7:03 this morning (even skipped the run beforehand)…

  Just did a quick search for sports lessons for two-year-olds and came across these. They look ace!

  www.rugbytots.co.uk

  www.teddytennis.com

  May be worth checking out?

  Best, Miles

  Hi Miles,

  Thanks for the links. To be honest we’re pretty snowed under right now, what with Monkey Music, Swim Starz, and SmartyPilates, but I’ll add them to the list for when we have time!

  Spoke to Maddie about the lawsuit—we’re in. What do we do next? Speak to your lawyer?

  Best, Pete

  Pete,

  I’ll call you.

  M

  24

  MADDIE

  LATER THAT DAY, I get a Facebook request from Lucy. I’m not really into social media—I sometimes dip into it as an alternative to reading before I drift off to sleep, but only for a few minutes; I certainly never manage to get to the bottom of my news feed. But I accept Lucy’s request and spend a few minutes glancing through her posts on my phone while I eat a sandwich at my desk.

  The first thing I notice is that she has only thirty-eight friends. I might be a low-frequency user, but even so I’ve managed to collect a couple of hundred—contemporaries from college, girlfriends, colleagues, neighbors, people I’ve met on shoots, even a few clients. It seems incredible that anyone could have such a small social circle. She hasn’t posted much, either—just photographs of David, mostly. Lying on a mat in what looks like a specialist sensory room. In a physiotherapy chair, with the comment, “Trying really hard!” On a breathing ventilator—“Hopefully just a brief trip back to intensive care!” In a ball pool, immobile and a little forlorn, staring at the camera with an anxious expression. With each one, looking at his elfin features, I feel an echo of the same maternal tug I felt when I held his light, slender body in my arms. I think of the last time we took Theo to a ball pool, the exuberance with which he’d flailed his legs, kicking the colored balls into a volcanic blur before deciding to hurl them two at a time at a fair-haired little girl playing in the far corner. We’d had to wade in and forcibly haul him out, his tiny body writhing and kicking so hard in protest that his shirt actually came away in our hands, like podding a broad bean.

  I scroll on through the feed, hungry for more images of David. Most of Lucy’s posts aren’t even real posts, just shares of funny videos that already have millions of views, warnings about scammers, or appeals for children with cancer to be sent a thousand Christmas cards. But finally I reach some pictures of David in his cot at home, posted over a year ago. There’s an oxygen tube up his nose—you can just see the cylinder under the cot—and a bundle of wires snaking from under the sheet that suggests the presence of a monitor. He looks so vulnerable and, yes, so like me that something in my heart opens to him. That’s my baby, I think with a sudden stab of longing. My firstborn. From inside my womb. Unexpectedly, I find I’m blinking back tears, right there in our open-plan office. That’s the little boy whose body my body failed. I feel a pang of anguish that this delicate, fair-haired creature will never burrow under a pile of colored balls then erupt through them like a jack-in-the-box, the way Theo did.

  And even sadder that I’ll never cuddle him in his sleep and drowsily inhale the scent of his hair, the way I sometimes do with Theo.

  I hover my finger over the post and press LIKE.

  * * *

  —

  THAT EVENING I SHOW Pete. “There but for the grace of God.”

  He studies the picture. “Sweet, isn’t he?”

  “It made me cry at work.”

  “Really?” He seems surprised.

  “You feel it, too, don’t you?” I press. “When you look at that picture, you must feel sorry for him.”

  Pete frowns. “I see a cute little boy, that’s all.”

  “But do you think they love him? Really love him, I mean, the way we love Theo? Or do you think his…” I hesitate. “His problems make it different?”

  “Mads, of course they lo
ve him,” Pete says patiently. “After all, if the switch had never happened and David was part of our family, we’d love him, wouldn’t we? Why should the Lamberts be any different? Besides, you heard what Lucy said—sometimes the bond is even stronger when they need you more.”

  “Hmm,” I say. I wonder if Pete is being completely honest with me, or if my feelings about David are a can of worms he’d rather not open, in case everything gets feminine and messy.

  As I take the iPad back, I see I’ve got fourteen notifications. Lucy has been through all my posts, liking every photo of Theo and adding comments—“Such a handsome fellow,” “Sooooo adorable.” I picture her doing the same thing I did earlier, eagerly scrolling through my Timeline, devouring every image of her birth son. I wonder if, like me, the experience made her cry.

  25

  MADDIE

  ON SATURDAY, THEO SWALLOWS salt.

  We’re having a relaxing morning. Pete and Theo are downstairs making pancakes—butter and lemon for Pete, Nutella for Theo, vanilla and maple syrup with extra-thick batter for me, what back in Australia they call a pikelet. From what I can hear, Pete has his work cut out preventing Theo from dropping eggs on the floor, or mixing Nutella and maple syrup in some crazy new concoction. For my part, I’m lazing in bed, thinking how lucky I am to have a domestic god for a partner, when I hear Pete roar, “No!”

  “What’s up?” I call.

  “Jesus!” Pete says. It takes a lot to make him swear in front of Theo, so I run down.

  Pete has the tub of cooking salt in his hand. Theo, who’s clambered onto a chair and is now sprawling across the kitchen table, is looking both pleased with himself and slightly apprehensive. In the middle of the table is a big mound of salt and a spoon.

  “I turned around and he was just gobbling it up,” Pete says. He’s gone white.

  “I’ll call 111,” I say, reaching for my phone. I get through to a recording saying that the NHS helpline is currently experiencing high levels of demand. I ring off. “Perhaps we’d better go to the emergency room. Just in case.”

  “You’re meant to make them drink water.” While I’ve been on the phone, Pete’s been googling. “Though no one seems a hundred percent sure. Hang on. Someone on DadStuff may know.”

  “I’m not sure an internet forum is the best way to deal with this.” I take Theo over to the sink, trying not to sound as alarmed as I feel. “Okay, Theo. That stuff really isn’t good for you, so I need you to drink a very big glass of water.”

  I find a pint glass in the back of the cupboard and fill it to the brim. He drinks about a third—he’s clearly very thirsty.

  “I’ll put some Ribena in it,” Pete says. He only lets Theo have Ribena as an occasional treat, so this is almost guaranteed to make Theo drink more.

  I press REDIAL and get the same recorded message.

  “It’s Saturday morning,” Pete points out. “If we’re lucky, the wait at the emergency room might only be a few hours.”

  We look at each other. I know exactly what he’s thinking. Two years ago, we made the decision to get my bump checked out, just in case, and it saved our baby’s life.

  I ring off. “Emergency room it is, then.”

  “Yuck,” Theo says helpfully, licking his lips and making a face. “More ’bena?”

  As I drive us to the hospital, I reflect how, not long ago, something like this would have given me flashbacks to the NICU, maybe even a panic attack. But time is a great healer. It helps, of course, that Pete’s pretty sure Theo didn’t eat more than a few spoonfuls. “I literally turned my back on him for a minute,” he says, turning around to check on him.

  “Don’t beat yourself up. He’s a two-year-old. He probably thought it was sugar.”

  In the back, Theo’s gone very quiet. When I pull up outside the emergency room and Pete lifts him out of the car seat, he throws up.

  By the time I’ve found a parking space and joined them in the hospital, Theo’s flopped in Pete’s arms, looking very pale, and Pete’s talking to a nurse.

  “Don’t worry,” she’s saying. “It’s hard to do much damage eating salt—it’s an emetic, so you did the right thing by giving him plenty of water and letting him get it out of his system. You can stay to see one of the doctors if you want, but he’ll probably just go on being sick for an hour or two. Give him plenty of fluids and make him comfortable.” Theo chooses that moment to lean out of Pete’s arms and throw up again, splattering vomit all over the shiny hospital floor. Pete starts to apologize and the nurse laughs.

  “There’ll be plenty more of that before the weekend’s over. I’ll call a cleaner. And find you something for him to be sick in.”

  She brings us a cardboard bedpan. Theo has by now gone hot and sticky and doesn’t want to leave Pete’s arms, so I sit beside them, holding it. He vomits three more times before he eventually perks up.

  “I think we can probably risk the journey home now,” Pete says.

  The nearest parking space we can find is a street away from where we live, so it’s only when we reach our house on foot, with Pete carrying a tired and floppy Theo, that we see Miles and Lucy outside our front door. Miles is holding a backpack.

  “What the hell?” I say to Pete under my breath.

  “Don’t ask me.” He sounds mystified. “Miles did mention something about teaching Theo to throw a rugby ball. But we never made a firm arrangement.”

  “Bugger.” I plaster a smile across my face. “Hi there!”

  “Hey, big man!” Miles says to Theo. “Hey Pete, Maddie. Lucy’s baked cookies.”

  “And brought you a bottle of wine,” Lucy says anxiously. “I hope you don’t mind us randomly turning up like this. We were just around the corner, and David’s with the nanny, so…”

  “No, it’s great to see you!” I say brightly. “Though it’s lucky you found us in, actually. We’ve just been to the emergency room.”

  “Nothing dramatic, I hope?” Miles looks concerned.

  “Only a bit of salt Theo swallowed. We’re all a bit hot and vomitty, I’m afraid.”

  “Then it’s a bad time,” Miles says, picking up on my hint. “We’ll come back another day.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a foam rugby ball. “I’ll leave this with you. I bought it on the interweb—apparently they’re easier to catch than those little leather ones.”

  Theo immediately reaches for the ball, perking up as always at the sight of a new toy. Pete says, “Well, maybe we could give it a quick try. The park’s only just around the corner.”

  “Shouldn’t Theo be taking it easy for a while?” I ask pointedly.

  “We won’t be long,” he says mildly. “The nurse said to stay quiet for an hour or two, after all, and we’re well beyond that. What do you say, Theo? Quiet time or park?”

  “Park!” Theo says immediately, as Pete surely knew he would.

  * * *

  —

  “THEY’RE ALL GETTING ON like a house on fire, aren’t they?” Lucy says, when they’ve gone and I’m making the two of us tea.

  I nod, though actually I’m wondering about the origins of that phrase. Are houses on fire really a good thing? Or is it one of those innocuous idioms that actually refer to some horrible disaster, like the Great Fire of London or the Black Death?

  “Miles really likes Pete,” she adds. “This is so good for him. He doesn’t have many male friends.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised. I’d assumed someone as good-looking and charming as Miles would have a huge social circle.

  “He used to see a lot of his rugby teammates, the Mayfair Mayflies. But then he damaged his knee and had to stop playing. And he works in a very small office now he’s left Hardings and set up on his own—it’s just him and three others.”

  I nod. “It’s the same for Pete, working from home. There’s a group of dads from
the NICU who meet up occasionally, but most of the time they only seem to interact on DadStuff.” I glance at her. “Thank you for liking those pictures of Theo, by the way.”

  “Oh, they’re gorgeous. Miles enjoys going through them over a drink when he gets back from work. Most of those likes were his, actually.”

  “Miles uses your Facebook account?” I say, surprised.

  Lucy nods. “He doesn’t have one of his own—he always used to say he didn’t know why people bothered. But it’s different now.” She hesitates, then says in a rush, “In fact—if you were able—I mean, I know Pete’s the primary carer, but if between you, you could perhaps post, say, one picture every day…And we’d do the same for you, of course. It’s such a good way of keeping on top of what they’re doing, isn’t it? And this period when they’re small is so precious. They’ll grow up so quickly.”

  “I’ll ask Pete. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” I’m generally too busy to keep up with the stream of pictures he takes of Theo, so gradually he’s stopped sending me all but the most photogenic ones. But it looks as if he’s found a receptive audience now.

  * * *

  —

  AT SOME POINT THE door crashes open and they all charge in. Miles has Theo on his back, horsey-style, Theo’s feet sticking straight out from under Miles’s arms, his little face beaming with excitement over Miles’s shoulder. Pete’s carrying the foam rugby ball, his jacket and trousers streaked with mud.

  “Good time?” I ask.

  “Theo just trounced the All Blacks twenty-nine nil on his very first appearance in the England lineup,” Miles says proudly. “And he’s got a pretty hefty tackle on him already.”

  “Great,” I say. “Though I thought they didn’t actually do tackling now, in school rugby. Isn’t it all meant to be played by touch?”