Val made a snap decision and hung up. The sound of his voice disappeared midsentence. If only she had been able to switch it off so effectively before. She pictured his rage. Knowing him, he’d hurl the telephone across the room. That made her smile, although her hands were shaking. It felt empowering to have that control.

Nicole waved from the top of the slide and let go, her long hair flowing in a shiny curtain behind her.

* * *

Just opposite the office block where Val worked there was a dark-green-painted building with the sign Henry Trotman & Son, Family Solicitors. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said Divorce, Child Custody, Property, Wills, then First Consultation Free. She stood in the doorway, staring at the smart reception area with its leather chairs and paintings on the wall. The receptionist caught her eye and smiled, and that helped make up her mind. She pushed open the door.

“I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation. The free one, that is. If I can.” She cursed herself for being so timid.

“Of course. Let me check the diary.”

The receptionist had been so warm, and had seemed so sympathetic, that Val had been expecting the same from the solicitor. Instead, when she arrived for her appointment with Mr. Trotman (the son), his manner was businesslike and formal. He didn’t look at her directly but focused his attention on the notes in front of him or the cup of coffee at his elbow, into which he laboriously stirred two sugar cubes.

“Your husband has a right to see his daughter. You must make arrangements for access immediately, or it could make a judge look unfavorably on you,” he said after hearing her story. Val’s spirits plummeted.

“But Tony is violent. He’s been violent toward me for years and he had started to hit our daughter. She’s only five.” Her voice rose, sounding squeaky and, to her ears, unconvincing.

Mr. Trotman picked up his pen. “Do you have proof of that? Were the police called? Does your family doctor have a record of your injuries?”

Val rubbed her left wrist. “He broke my wrist once, but he told the hospital it was an accident. I’ve never told the police or our doctor.”

“Any relatives who can back up your story? Your daughter’s teachers, perhaps?”

Val lowered her head, shook it slowly.

“We can’t sue for divorce on grounds of his violence without proof, but we could try to insist that your daughter’s access visits are supervised. Is there a family member or friend who would do that?” He narrowed his eyes and she could tell he was assessing her, judging how reliable she seemed.

“I could find someone,” she said.