Читать книгу Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse онлайн | страница 39

When Robin signalled that we were ready to leave the waiter quickly returned with two separate bills, no doubt relieved that our noisy party would be gone before the lunchtime trade arrived.

Robin swept the receipts across the table with his well-groomed, long fingers. ‘They’re for you, I believe.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ I took the bill for Emily and Jamie’s drinks, handing the other back to him. ‘If you go to the civic centre, you can claim it all back there.’ I knew from experience that social services covered the cost of contact in the community, with no apparent limit. If Phoebe’s parents had chosen to take her to the cinema or the theatre, the money would be diverted from already overstretched budgets to pay for the trip. In the past I had found the idea galling, particularly when the children had been removed as a result of severe abuse. I couldn’t help but feel that feckless parents were being rewarded for their appalling behaviour. Surely you can afford to pay for your daughter’s own milkshake? I thought acerbically.

‘No.’ His mouth twisted in annoyance. Phoebe stiffened. His wife eyed him warily as he tapped the bill with his forefinger. ‘My daughter has been removed for no good reason. I have to be supervised by strangers if I want to spend an hour with her.’ An edge crept into his smooth voice. ‘Do you really think I’m going to cover the cost of that sort of humiliation?’

From nowhere, an image of Phoebe’s tangled pyjama bottoms flashed into my thoughts. The memory gave me a disquieting feeling. Could it be that she had suffered abuse at the hands of this man? I banished the thought, telling myself it was natural for him to feel resentful, when his only daughter, and perhaps most treasured possession, had been snatched away from him.

My own children dropped their straws, watching us keenly. Jamie looked about ready to pounce. My son was a simple soul, without an aggressive bone in his body, but he was always particularly protective of me. I smiled at both of them to convey the message that all was well. Then all at once something in Robin’s eyes flickered and there was another change in pitch. I think he must have realised the effect his tone was having on me because his frown softened. ‘I would prefer you dealt with it now,’ he smiled amiably, ‘if you wouldn’t mind.’