“It sure does, and you can jack this daddy any time you like.”
“Duly noted.” Rhiannon starts to squirm and cry. I’m starting to recognise what she needs by the tone, and this little angel is hungry.
“Aaaaaand that’s my boobs leaking,” I grumble, feeling the wetness in my bra like a Pavlovian response to her cries. Thank fuck for the little absorbent pads in my maternity bra. I sit down and lift my top, and Leo gently hands her to me. It took a couple of days for me to get the hang of latching, but it’s all good now, and the system works.
And my tits are HUGE.
And veiny. With sore nips.
Shaking my head to clear it of the petty vanity, I focus back on my daughter with a wry smile. Man, she reallywashungry. Good girl.
“I do love that sight,” Leo says softly.
I look up, and smile at his expression. I hope that maybe this makes up for his years of waiting for me.
Maybe if I’d gotten together with him that first day we met, we’d still be here now, married and with a baby. I like to think so, but I guess we’ll never know. Even so, something about this seems inevitable.
Fate.
Gary flies in, resting on his designated lounge perch. He shifts from foot to foot, watching the three of us contentedly. “Cockwomble,” he near-whispers.
“Good point,” Leo says, and pats his shoulder. Gary flutters down and nestles against his cheek. He’s become rather soppy since our girl arrived, and I love it. “Thanks for the reminder, Gaz.” He turns back to me. “Are you all set for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, forgetting what he’s talking about. I still have baby-brain like you wouldn’t believe, losing track of what I was saying halfway through the sentence, unable to remember if I put the milk back in the fridge or switched the oven off. The works.
“Court.” Leo isn’t judging; he knows what it’s like himself to be so distracted and tired that the bleeding obvious is no longer quitesoobvious.
“Oh, right.” I shake my head. That was a pretty big thing to forget. “Yeah, definitely.” I smile down at my baby as she finishes her latest meal. “We’re going to put that stupid fucker away, yes we are…”
“I feel ridiculous,”I complain, tugging on my hastily bought suit. I found it in a charity shop, because I don’t normally have any need for one, and it’s too tight in some places and too baggy in others. Plus, it’s a vile shade of navy blue, and I’ve had to put a camisole under my blouse because of my huge, milky, starting-to-annoy-me bazongas making the buttons strain to stay together.
Leo is next to me in a much nicer suit than mine, with a burping cloth thrown over his shoulder. He just fed Rhiannon the rest of her lunch, and any second now…
Buuuuuuuuuurp. There it is. I’m not proof against my daughter’s perfect comic timing, laughing at the rich and enthusiastic sound made by such a little lady, and my tension is eased nicely.
“Pumpkin, the suit’s not that bad,” Leo reassures me sympathetically as he wipes the spit-up from her chin and settles her again, “and hey, we can cut that thing up for more burp rags. Rhi-Rhi can throw up sour milk all over it.”
“Deal.” I look at the huge clock on the wall in the waiting area of the court. “I wonder how much longer they’re gonna be.” We were told to show up at noon, and now it’s almost two p.m. I’m not a huge fan of waiting, and I don’t remember needing to wait this long the last time I was a witness at a trial.
I need to try not to get thrown out for contempt of court this time, like I was that time a few years ago. Much as Em and Liaden love that story, and much as this is going to test my temper to its absolute limits, it’s too important.
“They probably just ran on a bit with their last witness, or something,” Leo suggests, gently swaying to make our daughter sleepy.
“Sadie Mills?” A voice down the hall calls me. I still enjoy the sound of my married name. She nods at me.
“Thank goodness,” I mutter, and kiss Leo and Rhiannon for luck before heading inside.
The courtroom is like a poshed up lecture hall, all wood and red velvet, so Peter must feel right at home. In spite of myself, my eyes automatically scan the court looking for him, and he’s changed so drastically that I almost don’t recognise him. His suit is worse than mine, nothing like the Savile Row looking schmutter he used to wear. He’s cut himself shaving in several places, and his hair looks thinner than the last time I saw him, the hairline receding right back. And he’s so gaunt, he could be an extra in one of the Romero zombie movies he had such disdain for whenever I watched them.
I don’t feel anything even vaguely resembling sympathy for him. Just a determination that he willnotget away with what he did to me. Especially given his nerve; at least Jayden Ross had the sense and the decency to plead guilty and avoid all this unpleasantness.
I look away before he sees me and go where I’m led to the seat in the witness box. I affirm, and then offer a quick smile at Alison, the barrister prosecuting my ex. Her mouth doesn’t smile back at me, but her eyes do. I like her wig. She looks like she belongs here, like she’s in her element. Like I can trust her to get the right result.
She starts off with some easy questions, and makes a point of congratulating me on recently becoming a mother.Well played.We’d discussed everything beforehand, and she thinks the jury will be baying for Peter’s blood when they find out that I was heavily pregnant when he set his goon on me.
We cover how long I was with Peter romantically, and I get rebuked by the defence when I say, “To my everlasting shame,” before I provide my answer.
Must. Not. Be. Rude.
