I had no idea.
‘Her tennis coach,’ she said, shaking her head, the contempt still raw after the best part of a couple of decades. The door opened and she paused while Matthew carefully placed our triple espressos before us.
I sipped mine.
Maria Maldini bolted hers down in one go, like a vodka shot.
‘I never saw much of my mother after that,’ she said. ‘Rather like your daughter – Scout.’
She did not need to look at my file to name my daughter.
‘My mother was too busy concentrating on improving her groundstrokes with her tennis coach to devote much time to me or my younger brother,’ she said. ‘It is the oldest and saddest story in the world. The absent parent who does not have enough time for children they leave behind. Usually it is men who behave with such …’
She searched for the phrase she was looking for.
‘Selfish cruelty,’ she said. ‘But not always. As you know.’
Now she glanced at my file.
‘You had your interview with Cafcass?
‘Some social worker came round …’
‘Don’t tell me. I can imagine. Some sour old battle-axe who thinks that all men are rapists. Don’t worry about her. I’m the product of a home where the father was the primary caregiver, Max. And we are not going to let any of them stand in the way of you bringing up your daughter. Now tell me your story.’
It felt like there wasn’t that much to tell.
‘My ex-wife fell in love with someone else. She started a new family with him. Scout and I were left to get on with it. And we did.’
‘No problems at school? No mental health issues? No wailing for her missing mother?’
I shook my head, almost laughing at the thought.
‘Scout’s a happy, intelligent, loving little girl.’ I shrugged. ‘She’s just a great kid.’
Then I hesitated. I could not pretend that Scout was untouched by divorce. We all like to pretend that children are unharmed by divorce. We all lie to the world and to ourselves because it hurts too much to admit the truth.
‘Go on,’ my lawyer said quietly.
‘There’s a seriousness about Scout,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how else to describe it. I feel that we – my ex-wife and I, because it is my fault too as I was part of that marriage – robbed her of something. She’s different from the little girl she would have been if my ex-wife and I had stayed together. It’s a hard thing to admit – that you have inflicted this lifetime wound on your child. But it’s true.’
‘And what does she say about what happened between you and your ex-wife? What does Scout have to say about being brought up by her father? What does she say about the mother who has only had sporadic contact with her since she left?’
‘We don’t talk about it,’ I said. ‘We don’t talk about any of it.’
Maria Maldini was not remotely surprised. She nodded briskly.
‘Custody and residency proceedings were always meant to be in the best interests of the child. The reality is that for fifty years they were in the best interests of the mother. But that has finally begun to change.’
‘Look, I don’t want to get into a war about this,’ I said. ‘I want Scout to stay with me. But I don’t want to get into some ugly custody wrangle. I don’t want her hurt more than she has been already. I want to protect her.’
Maldini sighed.
‘It’s an adversarial game, Max. Because sharing doesn’t work. Sharing is a myth. There is no such thing as joint parenting. It doesn’t work for practical reasons – a child needs to go to school somewhere. And it doesn’t work for emotional reasons – most divorced couples would be very happy to never see each other again. But you have to put up a fight, Max. And most fathers don’t put up a fight. No doubt there are some men who are too busy with their new lives to fancy the school run every morning – but there are other fathers, good fathers, who feel they simply haven’t got a chance. So they don’t even put up a fight.’
She leaned forward.
‘Another triple espresso?’
‘I’m good.’
She nodded.
‘You deserve to be the primary carer. You’ve earned it. Your daughter is happy with you. It is in her best interest to stay with you – not be dragged off to some hideous house in the suburbs by – what does she call herself these days? – Mrs Anne Lewis.’
She made it sound like an alias. She made it sound as if my ex-wife did not have a hope in hell of taking Scout away from me.
‘Who knows if your ex-wife is even going to stay with her latest husband,’ my lawyer said.
‘They seem pretty settled,’ I said.
‘OK – maybe they’ll live happily ever after. But my mother’s tennis coach had a very short shelf life. After all that disruption in all those lives – and my brother has never really got over the divorce – the tennis coach soon found himself unseeded. And my guess is that your ex-wife – Anne – might find that real life intrudes on every happy ending. To your knowledge, is she working?’
‘I don’t think she’s worked since we were together. She has had a couple of kids with the new guy.’
Was I still allowed to call him the new guy?
I could in this room.
I could call him anything I liked in the chambers of Maria Maldini, Family Law LLB (Hons).
‘Anne was a model,’ I said.
My lawyer grinned at that. ‘And did she make a living as a model?’
I shrugged. ‘It was feast or famine.’
‘And her latest husband is some kind of banker in the city?’
Her latest husband! I had to smile. And she made banker sound like an insult.
‘Yes. He’s in the finance industry. A rich guy. Oliver.’
‘We’re going to bury them, Max. No wonder they’re fighting dirty.’
‘How are they fighting dirty?’
She carefully pulled a letter from the file.
‘They know how many times you were late picking up Scout. They keep bursting into tears because you raised your voice to Oliver.’ She looked at me levelly. ‘And they say you are not capable of being the primary care-giver, even though any reasonable judge would say that you have already proved yourself to be a responsible and loving father.’
She slowly stood up.
My time was nearly over.
‘But if they want to fight dirty, then we can fight dirty too,’ she said.
We stood up and shook hands.
‘I don’t mind fighting dirty,’ I said. ‘But I am not using my daughter as a weapon.’
Maria Maldini waited for more.
‘I don’t want Scout involved,’ I said. ‘I just want her to have a happy childhood. A stable childhood. A normal childhood.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ my lawyer said, glancing at her watch.
27
High summer on Hampstead Heath.
It is the time of year when the regulars – the dog walkers and the serious runners who are out on those 800 acres of forest, meadow and rolling hills whatever the season – share all that wild open space with the rest of the city.
Scout and I came out of the long shadows of the lime trees and into the dazzling sunshine of Parliament Hill, Stan padding ahead of us, his nose twitching at all the picnics that were being enjoyed across that steep green hill. He swerved at the scent of some sausage rolls and Scout called him back.
‘Stan,’ she said in her best stern voice. ‘They’re not for you.’
‘Sausage roll walks into a bar,’ I said.
‘Barman says – sorry, we don’t serve food,’ Scout said. ‘Oh my God, Daddy, everyone knows that one.’
We climbed Parliament Hill, our pace slowing, and even at the end of the long summer day, we were so high above the city that up here the air was alpine fresh.