When I get home, I glue myself to the news. They’re about to make an appeal. Must be about a hundred journos at his mother’s house now. I pour myself a coffee and take my seat, almost excited, almost as if I’m at the movies and it’s gone dark and I’m about to be entertained. The front door of his mother’s house opens. Joanna and Alistair walk out and stand on the veranda. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. They dangle heavily at her sides, then anchor themselves in the pockets of her jeans. Her face is white. Her eyes are not red. She’s not crying. She should. It looks wrong that she’s not. In fact, she looks cold and hard and not very likeable. She doesn’t usually look like this. She usually looks pretty and approachable, the type of girl I would have wanted to be mates with had she not fucked my husband and my life. ‘Our baby, Noah,’ Alistair says, using all the skills years in PR and politics taught him, ‘was taken from our car two days ago, 6.50 p.m., fifteenth of February.
