Page 47 of Two Wrongs
‘I’ve got a four o’clock appointment with Mr. McKenzie?’ My nerves turn the statement into a question as Margie, his grey-haired administrator-cum-receptionist-cum-elderly-auntie-type, gestures for me to take a seat.
‘He’ll be along shortly, hen.’Hen is a Scots endearment, sort of. A one-word-fits-all.
I sit in one of the high-backed chairs and pick up a travel magazine from the smoky glass table in front of me and begin flicking absently through pages extolling the many virtues of a holiday in the Highlands. This appointment is a follow-up to the one I’d made eight weeks or so ago, just after I’d returned from LA. At that point, I was a mess. I couldn’t concentrate. I’d gone to Dylan determined to secure a divorce, convinced that’s what I wanted, yet returned a few days later having had my chest opened up, my heart yanked out, stepped on, and subsequently rammed back into the empty cavity. I’d ended up crying in Mr. Mac’s office as he’d sympathetically patted my shoulder before sending me, tearful and breathless, on my way. He told me to make another appointment when I was feeling up to it. I probably looked like I’d never be okay, but here I sit again.
Am I feelingup toit? To ending my marriage. Probably not, though my current predicament—no, my pregnancy—has provided me with clarity on two points:
Our divorce is inevitable.
It’s time for me to be a grown-up.
‘Ms. Adams?’
I jump from my seat as my name is called, but when I look up, Mr. McKenzie isn’t standing at the door as I’d imagined he would. No, it’s someone much younger. Much taller. Broad shoulders and a tailored grey suit. Good looking, too.
‘Come on through,’ the sandy-haired suit says, turning without waiting for me to follow. ‘Ms. Adams,’ he repeats, once inside... while I stand in the reception like a dumb not-blonde, my brain somehow stuck on pause.
‘You’re not Mr. McKenzie,’ I state needlessly, belatedly following him into his office as Margie nods from behind her reception perch encouragingly. He can’t be unless the auld bugger has discovered a fountain of youth somewhere. And grown a wee bit taller. And a full head of hair. Still, he does look a little like the old man.
‘No, you’re right, of course,’ he answers, gesturing to the chair on the door side of the room as he lowers himself to another on the opposite side of the dark monstrosity of a desk. ‘I’m nottheMcKenzie, though I am a McKenzie. Alex McKenzie. I also happen to be a solicitor and the person taking over my uncle’s practice.’ I can tell from the tone this isn’t the first time he’s had to repeat this statement, though he doesn’t seem particularly interested in its effect as he begins to shuffle papers from a file.
‘Oh.’Oh.
‘I’ve had a chance to look at—’
‘Mr. McKenzie—no offence, but I’d rather come back another day and speak with your uncle. There’s no sense in me spending time repeating all I need to say. Not when we’re both busy people.’ Get me; all professional. ‘I’ve a business to run.’
I begin to stand, keen to just get away. I’d already handed over the papers to the senior McKenzie without telling him exactly who my husband was. This guy? I don’t know. He could be a movie buff. Might he have heard of Dylan? I know there’s not much chance of him divulging our marriage to anyone—client confidentiality and all that—but fuck it, I don’t want to be judged.
‘Ms. Adams, I’m sorry to say that my uncle won’t be returning. He’s retired,’ he adds rather gruffly. ‘Quite suddenly.’
I lower myself into my chair again, surprise tears teetering against my lids. Why the hell am I crying now? I mean, it’s sad and all, but it’s not like I really know the old man—not beyond our business dealings. I don’t realise I’m really crying until I find a box of tissues being edged from the corner of the desk.
Maybe I need more than time.
‘It seems very sudden.’
‘Yes, it is a... sudden decision. A sudden retirement.’ His eyes dart away, his posture agitated. Stressed.
‘Is he okay? Your uncle, I mean.’
Young Mr. McKenzie seems taken aback, his expression freezing before softening suddenly. ‘I’d like to think he will be. It’s not as though he isn’t already a few years past retirement age.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’ I try a smile on for size, finding I’m not quite ready.
‘However, this—’ He taps the blue folder with his index finger.
What happens if Dylan fights me for custody? Out of spite?
‘Yes, that.’ I swallow as I cut him off, my tongue suddenly twice as thick. ‘I’m ready to go ahead—go ahead with the divorce, I mean.’ I’d opted for a simplified divorce as they call it in Scotland; a sort of DIY deal, though Mr. Mac was helping me out with the details. ‘I became... a little upset during our last appointment and left the paperwork with him.’ I was going to discuss the pregnancy and what it might mean, implication-wise, but I’m not now. Not with him.
The younger McKenzie smiles, less warm and more satisfied as he flips the cover of the folder open. Not quite as avuncular as, well, his uncle, he outlines the paperwork ready to file.
‘I have the notes. As you’re no doubt aware, your domicile in Scotland gives the Scottish law courts jurisdiction... ’ My attention trails off, and what I hear isblah, blah, blahcoloured by a load of legalese. Mr. Mac explained it to me before; one of us needs to have lived in Scotland for six months prior to an application for a quickie divorce, and even given the international nature of our marriage, because adultery was listed as cause of our union’sirretrievable breakdown,I was good to go—good to file the paperwork—there would be no cause to wait the usual twelve-month period before doing so. He’d also said, as I was uninterested in financial support or property splits, it would be a straightforward case. Of course, he also said the matter was simplified as we had no children. I suppose, technically, we still haven’t, and the ink will be well and truly dried on our decree by the time we have.
Or rather, I will have.I can’t see into the future, but just because I want this baby doesn’t mean Dylan will. Maybe it’s fortunate I haven’t spilled the beans. Maybe I really will be going it all alone. Maybe he’ll hate me...
I’m not really listening to McKenzie the younger as my mind now works overtime, stressing over the distant possibility of Dylan wanting custody out of spite, when my brain seems to snag on something he says; something in his phrasing, really.
