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Poppy: She’s doing great, but that nasty woman laughed and muttered “Trailer park trash,” when Daisy told the court she’d been living in a caravan park with her newborn son when the assault happened. The magistrate heard her. He wasn’t impressed and warned Amanda’s counsel to rein in his client, or he’d be forced to take further action.
We knew the prosecutor was going to present photographs of Daisy’s injuries, showing the extent of the damage and the countless stitches she received after the fall. They also had CCTV footage from The Meridian showing the incident unfold. No matter what kind of spin Amanda was going to put on it, the truth spoke for itself.
When it’s my turn to take the stand, I state my name, take an oath to tell the truth, and take my seat. The prosecutor is the first to address me, and since Bennett had already filled him in on my relationship with Amanda, he knows the right questions to ask.
“You knew the accused prior to the incident at The Meridian Rooftop Bar, Mr Sinclair?” he asks.
“Yes. We were engaged to be married, but broke up ten months prior to the incident.”
“How long were you in a relationship with the accused?”
“A few years. We were living together.”
“Can you tell the court why that relationship came to an end? Was it your doing?”
“Yes, it was me who ended the relationship.”
“And why did you terminate the relationship?”
“I came home one night, from dinner with my parents—it was actually a few days before the wedding—and found my fiancée in a compromising position with the pool boy.”
“Compromising position?”
My eyes move to the Judge before I answer. “I found her bent over the back of the couch, and the man I’d hired to clean my pool was …” I clear my throat before I finish my sentence, “having sex with her.”
“That’s bullshit,” Amanda spits, sitting up straighter in her chair.
The magistrate calls for order, his patience wearing thin. “You’ve already been warned, Miss Fontaine,” he says. “You will get your time to talk. One more outburst from you and I’ll consider holding you in contempt.”
“Let’s skip forward,” the prosecutor says. “What happened on the night leading up to the incident?”
“I was at the rooftop bar with my brother and a few of his work colleagues and friends. Daisy, the waitress, who I didn’t know at the time, was clearing glasses from our table when I noticed Amanda approaching. I hadn’t seen her since the night we broke up, and I guess I panicked. Since Daisy was the closest person to me, I grabbed her, asked her to forgive me for what I was about to do, and then I kissed her. I never would’ve done what I did, or involved her in my drama, if I’d known Amanda was going to assault her.”
“Pfft. I barely touched her,” Amanda scoffs. “I’d hardly call that assault. It’s not my fault she fell the way she did.”
The courtroom falls silent as the magistrate glares at Amanda, his patience finally exhausted. “I’ve heard enough. Miss Fontaine, you have been warned repeatedly. Your behaviour shows complete disregard for this court. I’m holding you in contempt and sentencing you to fourteen days’ imprisonment, along with a $2,000 fine.” He turns to the court officer. “Remove her.”
I don’t think she truly understands what’s happening until the officer approaches, asks her to stand, pulls her hands behind her back, and snaps the cuffs around her wrists.
As she’s led from the courtroom, she glances back at her attorney and screams, “Do something, you useless, pathetic fool!”
And that, right there, is karma at its finest.
Toot fucking toot.
Epilogue
Six years later …
The moment I walk through my mother’s front door, Jonah comes barrelling down the hallway, launching himself into my arms. “Hey, buddy,” I say, ruffling his hair.
“Hey, Dad.” Within a year of meeting, Daisy and I were married, and not long after, I filed the adoption papers to make Jonah officially mine.
“Did you have fun with Gigi last night?”
That’s what Mum has requested her grandchildren call her. She said Grandma, Granny, and Nanna make her sound old.
Newsflash … she is old. I’m the baby of the family at thirty-eight, and my brother is turning forty-two at the end of the month. Mid-sixties isn’t exactly spring chicken territory.
