“What do you mean?”
“For adoption.”
“Of course not,” she said.
“Didn’t you mind? Being a white woman alone with a black child?”
“You’re just the same as me, Anna. I didn’t think about it.”
We’re just the same. It was her lie, her special fantasy. Francis Aggrey would have known I was different, would have been proud of it.
A couple walk past, holding gloved hands, leather on leather. They eye my bench but don’t stop. I remember when Robert and I would rather have walked miles than have a third intrude. He was so direct, so relentless, so sure it was me and no one else. All I had to do was build my house on his assurances. Plus he knew about solid homes. His parents were thirty years married when I met him and are still married now. They have outlasted us with ease.
The sun is waning when I stand to go. I don’t open my father’s diary when I get back home. It is Sunday. I rest from Francis Aggrey.
I open my curtains when I wake up the next morning. I shower. I wash my hair and put on clothes that hang loose on me. Rose has booked an appointment with a divorce lawyer. Her office is on a high street with black letters stenciled on the display window: CAMPBELL AND HENSHAW FAMILY LAW. You can see into the waiting room, to the lone potted plant by the water dispenser, to the empty foam chairs. I am reluctant to go inside.
Rose does not approve of a two-year separation that tapers off into divorce. In her words, Robert has put my life on hold. I need the closure that a divorce will bring so I can heal and move on. I don’t know where she has picked up this language, the wording of celebrity gurus tripping glibly out of her mouth.
I push open the door and a bell rings.
“Good morning,” the receptionist says. She is about my age but she does not dye her hair.
“Morning. I have an appointment with Ms. Henshaw for eleven.”
“Your name, please?”
“Anna Graham.”
“Please take a seat. Ms. Henshaw will see you shortly.”
Everything I have read says children should be kept out of a divorce, and yet I am here because I want my daughter’s approval. I do not want to appear weak or passive to Rose. I know what it is to find a mother wanting.
There is a range of bland magazines fanned across the coffee table, neutral so as not to upset or remind people why they are here. Healthy, smiling faces but nothing sultry or semi-nude, no reminders of clandestine sex.
“Ms. Graham?”
The receptionist is standing in front of me.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Henshaw is ready now, if you’ll follow me.”
We climb up a flight of stairs. There are three doors, one with a WC sign. The receptionist knocks.
“Come in.”
The room is spacious with large windows. Ms. Henshaw rises from behind her desk. She is married, I see, when she puts out her hand to shake me.
“Anna,” I say.
“You can call me Anna also. Although if you do become my client we might find things a little confusing.”
She looks like an Anna. Her hair is light brown and her eyes are blue. Her coloring is the type that flushes after a glass of wine.
“Please, let’s sit where it’s more comfortable.”
She ushers me to the sofa. I would prefer her to remain behind the table, unseen below the waist, a professional torso.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
A notepad and pen lie still in her lap. She is wearing lavender perfume. It wafts off her like scent from a plug-in air freshener.
“I always start by asking: do you want a divorce?”
“Well I—I’ve come to see a divorce lawyer.”
“I know, but do you want a divorce?”
“I have grounds for it. My husband slept with another woman.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
There is a pause. Her questions are direct but her manner is gentle. She sweeps her hair back from her forehead. It is cut to graze her shoulders and she has styled it without a parting. It is the only impractical thing about her. Her trousers are black, her shoes are flat, and in her ears are discreet silver studs.
I feel the need to convince this sleek Anna.
“We’ve been separated for a year. A divorce is the next obvious step,” I say.
“Have you tried counseling?”
“We went for a few sessions.”
“And?”
“We stopped.”
That was all there was to it. I wasn’t suited for the probing questions of a stranger.