Apple Tree Yard: A Novel

By Louise Doughty

Soon To Be a STARZ Mini-Series, Starring Emily Watson

Yvonne Carmichael sits in the witness box. The charge is murder. Before all of this, she was happily married, a successful scientist, a mother of two. Now she is a suspect, squirming under florescent lights and the penetrating gaze of the alleged accomplice who is sitting across from her, watching: a man who is also her lover. As Yvonne faces hostile questioning, she must piece together the story of her affair with this unnamed figure who has charmed and haunted her. It is a tale of sexual intrigue and ruthless urges—and of danger, which has blindsided her from a seemingly innocuous angle. Here, in the courtroom, everything hinges on one night in a dark alley called Apple Tree Yard.
Shot through with suspense and masterfully paced, Louise Doughty's novel is "a must read . . . if you liked The Silent Wife, you'll fall hard for Apple Tree Yard" (AARP).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jan 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9780374711313

Louise Doughty

Louise Doughty’s novel Whatever You Love was short-listed for the Costa Book Award and long-listed for the Orange Prize for Fiction. Doughty is the author of several other novels and a book of nonfiction, A Novel in a Year, based on her hugely popular newspaper column. She also writes plays and journalism and broadcasts regularly for BBC Radio 4. She lives in London.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The moment builds; it swells and builds—the moment when I realize we have lost. The young barrister, Ms. Bonnard, is on her feet in front of me: a small woman, as you probably remember, auburn hair beneath the judicial wig. Her gaze is cool, her voice light. Her black robes look chic rather than sinister. She radiates calm, believability. I have been in the witness box two days now and I am tired, really tired. Later, I will understand that Ms. Bonnard chose this time of day deliberately. She wasted quite a lot of time earlier in the afternoon, asking about my education, my marriage, my hobbies. She has been down so many different avenues that at first I am not alert to the fact that this new line of questioning has significance. The moment builds but slowly; it swells to its climax.

The clock at the back of the court reads 3:50 p.m. The air is thick. Everyone is tired, including the judge. I like the judge. He takes careful notes, raising his hand politely when he needs a witness to slow down. He blows his nose frequently, which makes him seem vulnerable. He is stern with the barristers but kindly to the jury. One of them stumbled over the words of the oath as she was sworn in and the judge smiled and nodded his head to her and said, Do please take as long as you like, Madam. I like the jury too. It seems like an acceptable cross section to me: a slight predominance of women, three black people and six Asian, ages ranging from around twenty to midsixties. Hard to believe such an innocuous group of people might send me to prison; even harder to believe it now, while they are slumped in their seats. None of them are in the perky, upright pose they all adopted when the trial began, faces bright, filled with the adrenaline of their own significance. Like me, they were probably surprised at first that the courtroom hours are so short, ten in the morning at the earliest, until lunchtime, finishing no later than four. But we all understand now. It’s the slowness of everything—that’s what’s so exhausting: we are well into the trial now and weighed down by detail. They are feeling smothered. They don’t understand what this young woman is driving at any more than I do.

And then, in the wood-paneled dock, behind the thick sheets of toughened glass, there is you: my co-accused. Before I took the stand, we were sitting side by side, although separated by the two dock officers seated between us. I had been advised not to glance over at you while the other witnesses were being questioned—it would make me look more like your conspirator, I was told. While I have been on the witness stand myself, you have looked at me, simply and without emotion, and your calm, almost blank stare is a comfort, for I know you are willing me to remain strong. I know that seeing me here, raised up and isolated, stared at and judged, will be making you feel protective. Your stare may not look intent to those who don’t know you, but I have seen that apparently casual glance of yours on many occasions. I know what you are thinking.

There is no natural light in Courtroom Number Eight and that bothers me. In the ceiling there is an arrangement of latticed fluorescent squares and there are white tubes on the walls. It’s all so sanitized and modern and stark. The wood paneling, the drop-down seats with their green cloth covers, none of it fits: the life-changing drama of why we are here versus the deadening mundanity of the procedures.

I glance around the court. The clerk, sitting one row down in front of the judge, has sagging shoulders. Susannah is in the public gallery, next to a bunch of students who came in about an hour ago and a retired couple who have been there from the start but who are, as far as I know, unconnected with our case, just theater fans who can’t afford a West End show. Even Susannah, who is watching me with her usual care, even she is glancing at her watch from time to time, waiting for the end of the day. No one is expecting any major developments at this stage.

I would like to take you back a bit, in your career, Ms. Bonnard says, I hope you will bear with me. Throughout my examination by her, she has been scrupulously polite. This does not alter the fact that she frightens me, her unnatural composure, her air of knowing something infinitely useful that the rest of us have yet to learn. I guess her to be nearly twenty years younger than me, midthirties at the most—not that much older than my son and daughter—she must have had a stellar rise through chambers.

One of the jury, a middle-aged black man wearing a pink shirt and sitting on the far right, yawns conspicuously. I glance at the judge, whose gaze is purposeful but heavy lidded. Only my own barrister, Robert, seems alert. He is wearing a slight frown, his thick white eyebrows lowered, and he is watching Ms. Bonnard intently. Later, I wonder if he registered something at that point, some clue in her apparent lightness of tone.

Can you just remind the court, she continues, when was it you first attended a committee hearing at the Houses of Parliament? How long ago now?

I should not feel relief but cannot help myself—it is an easy question. The moment has not yet started.

Four years ago, I reply confidently.

The young woman makes a show of glancing down at her notes. That was a House of Commons Select Committee on—

No, I say, actually, it was a Standing Committee at the House of Lords. I am on sure territory here. Standing Committees don’t exist anymore, but at the time the House of Lords had four of them, each covering a different area of public life. I was appearing before the Standing Committee on Science to give evidence on developments in computer sequencing in genome mapping.

She cuts across me. But you used to work full-time at the Beaufort Institute, didn’t you, before you went freelance, I mean? The, er, Beaufort Institute for Genomic Research is its full title I believe…

This non sequitur baffles me for a moment. Yes, yes, I worked there full-time for eight years before reducing my formal hours to two days a week, a kind of consultancy role where I—

It’s one of the most prestigious research institutes in the country, isn’t it?

Well, along with those in Cambridge and Glasgow, in my field, I suppose, yes, I was very…

Can you just tell the court where the Beaufort Institute is located?

It’s in Charles II Street.

That’s parallel with Pall Mall, I believe. It runs down to St. James’s Square Gardens?

Yes.

There are quite a lot of institutes round there, aren’t there? Institutes, private clubs, research libraries… She glances at the jury and gives a small smile. Corridors of power, that sort of stuff.

I’m not … I…

Forgive me, how long was it you worked for the Beaufort Institute?

I am unable to prevent a note of irritation creeping into my voice although that is something else I have been cautioned against. I still do. But full-time, eight years.

Ah, yes, I’m sorry, you’ve said that already. And during those eight years, you commuted every day, bus and Tube?

Tube mostly, yes.

You walked from Piccadilly?

Piccadilly Tube, usually, yes.

And lunch hours, coffee breaks, plenty of places to eat around there? Pubs after work, et cetera?

At this, counsel for the prosecution, Mrs. Price, gives a small exhalation and begins to lift her hand. The judge looks over his glasses at the young woman barrister and she raises the flat of her hand in response. Forgive me, My Lord, I’m getting there, yes…

My Lord. My previous experience of criminal courtrooms was limited to television drama and I had been expecting Your Honor. But this is the Old Bailey. He’s a Lord—or she’s a Lady. You may find the wigs and the ceremonial ways that people refer to each other strange or intimidating, I was advised. But I don’t find the wigs intimidating any more than the arcane forms of address; I find them comic. What intimidates me is the bureaucracy, the stenographer clickety-clicking away—the laptops, the microphones, the thought that files are accruing on me, more and more, with every passing word—the whole great grindingness of these procedures. That is what intimidates me. It makes me feel like a field mouse caught in the giant turning blades of a combine harvester. I feel this even though I must be as well prepared as any witness. My husband saw to that. He hired a top barrister, at four hundred pounds an hour, to prepare me. I have remembered, most of the time, to look over at the jury when I give my answers rather than turning instinctively toward counsel. I have taken the advice that the easy way to remember this is to keep my feet placed so that my toes are pointing at the jury. I have kept my shoulders back, stayed calm, made good eye contact. I have, my team is all agreed, been doing very well.

The barrister has acknowledged the judge’s authority and now looks back at me. So in total, you’ve been working in or visiting the Borough of Westminster for, what, around twelve years? Longer?

Longer, probably, I say, and the moment starts building then, there, a profound sense of unease located somewhere inside me, identifiable as a slight clutching of my solar plexus. I diagnose it in myself even as I am baffled by it.

So, she says, and her voice becomes slow, gentle, it would be fair to say that with all that commuting and walking from the Tube and lunch hours and so on, that you are very familiar with the area?

It is building. My breath begins to deepen. I can feel that my chest is rising and falling, imperceptibly at first, but the more I try to control myself, the more obvious it becomes. The atmosphere inside the court tightens, everyone can sense it. The judge is staring at me. Am I imagining it, or has the jury member in the pink shirt on the periphery of my vision sat up a little straighter, leaned forward in his seat? All at once, I dare not look at the jury directly. I dare not look at you, sitting in the dock.

I nod, suddenly unable to speak. I know that in a few seconds, I will start to hyperventilate. I know this even though I have never done it before.

The barrister’s voice is low and sinuous. You’re familiar with the shops, the cafés… Sweat prickles the nape of my neck. My scalp is shrinking. She pauses. She has noted my distress and wants me to know that I have guessed correctly: I know where she is going with this line of questioning, and she knows I know. The small side streets… She pauses again. The back alleyways…

And that is the moment. That is the moment when it all comes crashing down, and I know, and you in the dock know too, for you put your head in your hands. We both know we are about to lose everything—our marriages are over, our careers are finished, I have lost my son’s and daughter’s good regard, and more than that, our freedom is at stake. Everything we have worked for, everything we have tried to protect—it is all about to tumble.

I am hyperventilating openly now, breathing in great deep gulps. My defense barrister—poor Robert—is staring at me, puzzled and alarmed. The prosecution disclosed its line of attack before the trial and there was nothing unexpected in its opening statement or from the witnesses it put on the stand. But I am facing your barrister now, part of the defense team, and your defense and my defense had an agreement. What is going on? I can see Robert thinking. He looks at me and I see it in his face: there is something she hasn’t told me. He has no idea what is coming, knows only that he doesn’t know. It must be every barrister’s nightmare, something that finds him or her unprepared.

Below the witness stand, sitting behind the tables nearest to me, the prosecution team is staring at me too, treasury counsel and the junior next to her, the woman from the Crown Prosecution Service on the table behind them, and on yet another row of tables behind that, the senior investigating officer from the Metropolitan Police, the case officer, the exhibits officer. Then over by the door there is the victim’s father in his wheelchair and the family liaison officer assigned to look after him. I am as familiar with the cast of this drama as I am with my own family. Everyone is fixed on me—everyone, my love, apart from you. You are not looking at me anymore.

You are familiar, aren’t you, says Ms. Bonnard in her satin, sinuous voice, with a small back alleyway called Apple Tree Yard?

I close my eyes, very slowly, as if I am bringing the shutters down on the whole of my life until this moment. There is not a sound from the court, then someone from the benches in front of me shuffles his feet. The barrister is pausing for effect. She knows that I will keep my eyes closed for a moment or two: to absorb all this, to attempt to calm my ragged breathing and buy myself a few more seconds, but time has slipped from us like water through our fingers and there is none of it left, not one moment. It’s over.

PART ONE

X AND Y

1

To begin where it began—really, it began twice. It began that cold March day in the Chapel of St. Mary Undercroft in the Palace of Westminster, beneath the drowned saints and the roasted saints and saints in every state of torture. It began that night, when I rose from my bed at four o’clock in the morning. I’m not a true insomniac. I have never tossed and turned night after night or spent weeks in a dreary fug of exhaustion, gray faced and careful. Once in a while I find myself suddenly and inexplicably awake—and so it was that night. My eyes sprang open, my mind sprang into consciousness. My God, I thought, it happened … I went over what happened, and each time I went over it, it seemed more preposterous. I rolled beneath the duvet, the motion heavy, closed my eyes, then opened them immediately, knowing that sleep would not come again for at least an hour. Self-awareness: it is one of the chief bonuses of advancing age. It is our consolation prize.

There is no clarity or insight at that hour. There is only the endless turning and churning of our thoughts, each one more confused and circuitous than the last. And so I rose.

My husband was sleeping soundly, his breathing rasping, harsh. Men can achieve a persistent vegetative state during the night, Susannah once said to me. It’s a well-known medical condition.

And so I rose and slipped from the bed, the cold of the room frosting my skin, and took my thick fleece dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door, remembered that my slippers were in the bathroom, and pulled the door to behind me, gently, because I didn’t want to wake my husband, the man I love.

There may be no clarity or insight at that hour, but there is the computer. Mine is in an attic room, with sloping ceilings at one end and glass doors leading onto a tiny ornamental balcony at the other, overlooking the garden. My husband and I have a study each. We’re one of those couples. My study has a poster of the double helix on the wall and a Moroccan rug and a clay bowl for paper clips that our son made for me when he was six. In the corner is a stack of Science magazines as high as the top of my desk. I keep it in the corner so it won’t collapse. My husband’s study has a desk with a glass top and white built-in shelving and a single black-and-white photograph of a San Francisco trolley car, circa 1936, framed in beech and hung on the wall behind the computer. His work has nothing to do with trolley cars—he’s an expert on genetic anomalies in mice—but he would no more have a picture of a mouse on his wall than he would have a fluffy toy on his easy chair. His computer is a blank, cordless rectangle. His pens and stationery are all kept in a small gray drawer unit beneath the desk. His reference books are in alphabetical order.

There is something satisfying about turning on a computer in the middle of the night: the low hum, the small blue light that glows in the dark, the action and atmosphere both replete with the sensation that other people are not doing this right now and that I shouldn’t be doing it either. After I turned the computer on, I went over to the oil-filled radiator that stands against a wall—I’m usually the only one in the house during working hours and have my own radiator up here. I clicked the switch to low and the radiator made a clicking and pipping sound as the oil inside began to heat up. I went back to my desk and sat down on the black leather chair and opened a new document.

Dear X,

It is three o’clock in the morning, my husband is asleep downstairs, and I am in the attic room writing a letter to you—a man I have met only once and will almost certainly never meet again. I appreciate that it is a little strange to be writing a letter that will never be read, but the only person I will ever be able to talk to about you, is you.

X. It pleases me that it’s actually a genetic reversal—the X chromosome, as I’m sure you know, is what denotes the female. The Y is what gives you increased hair growth around the ears as you age and you may also have a tendency toward red-green color blindness as many men do. There’s something in that that is pleasing too, considering where we were earlier today. Tonight, right now, synergy is everywhere. Everything pleases me.

My field is protein sequencing, which is a habit hard to break. It spreads through the rest of your life—science is close to religion in that respect. When I began my postdoc, I saw chromosomes everywhere, in the streaks of rain down a window, paired and drifting in the disintegrating vapor trails behind an airplane.

X has so many uses, my dear X—from a triple X film to the most innocent of kisses, the mark a child makes on a birthday card. When my son was six or so, he would cover cards with X’s for me, making them smaller and smaller toward the edge of the card, to squeeze them on, as if to show there could never be enough X’s on a card to represent how many X’s there were in the world.

You don’t know my name and I have no plans to tell you, but it begins with a Y—which is another reason why I like denoting you X. I can’t help feeling it would be disappointing to discover your name. Graham, perhaps? Kevin? Jim? X is better. That way, we can do anything.

At this point in the letter, I decided I needed the loo, so I stopped, left the room, returned two minutes later.

I had to break off there. I thought I heard something downstairs. My husband often gets up to use the toilet in the night—what man in his fifties doesn’t? But my caution was unnecessary. If he woke and found me missing, it would not surprise him to discover me up here, at the computer. I have always been a poor sleeper. It is how I have managed to achieve so much. Some of my best papers were written at three in the morning.

He is a kindly man, my husband, large, balding. Our son and daughter are both in their late twenties. Our daughter lives in Leeds and is a scientist too, although not in my field, her speciality is hematology. My son lives in Manchester at the moment, for the music scene, he says. He writes his own songs. I think he’s quite gifted—of course, I’m his mother—but he hasn’t quite found his métier yet, perhaps. It’s possibly a little difficult for him having a very academic sister—she’s younger than him, although not by much. I managed to conceive her when he was only six months old.

But I suspect you are not interested in my domestic life, any more than I am interested in yours. I noticed the thick gold wedding ring on your finger, of course, and you noticed me noticing, and at that point we exchanged a brief look in which the rules of what we were about to do were understood. I imagine you in a comfortable suburban home like mine, your wife one of those slender, attractive women who look younger than their age, neat and efficient, probably blond. Three children, at a guess, two boys and one girl, the apple of your eye? It’s all speculation, but I’m a scientist, as I’ve explained, it’s my job to speculate. From my empirical knowledge of you I know one thing and one thing only. Sex with you is like being eaten by a wolf.

Although the heater was on low, the room had warmed up quickly and I was becoming drowsy in my padded leather chair. I had been typing for nearly an hour, editing as I went, and was heavy headed, tired of sitting upright and tired of my sardonic tone. I scanned through the letter, tightening the odd phrase here and there, noting that there were two places when I had been less than frank. The first was a minor untruth, one of those small acts of self-mythologizing where you diminish or exaggerate some detail as a form of shorthand, in order to explain yourself to someone—the aim concision rather than deceit. It was the bit where I had claimed that I write my best papers at three in the morning. I don’t. It’s true that I sometimes get up and work in the night, but I have never done my best work then. My best work is done at around 10:00 a.m., just after my breakfast of bitter marmalade on toast and a very large black coffee. The other place where I had been less than truthful was more serious, of course. It was where I referred to my son.

I closed the letter, titling the file VATquery3. Then I hid it in a folder called LettAcc. I spared a moment to observe myself in this act of artifice—as I had when I reapplied my lipstick in the chapel. I slumped in my chair and shut my eyes. Although it was still dark outside, I could hear a light chirrup and tweeting—the optimistic overture of the birds that stretch and flutter in the trees as dawn breaks. It was one of the reasons we moved to the suburbs, that peeping little chorus, although within a few weeks I found it irritated as much as it had once pleased me.

A one-off, that’s all. No harm done. An episode. In science, we accept aberrations. It’s only when aberrations keep happening that we stop and try to look for a pattern. But science is all about uncertainty, accepting anomalies. Anomalies are what create us, viz. the axiom the exception that proves the rule. If there was no rule, there couldn’t be an exception. That’s what I was trying to explain to the Select Committee earlier that day.

*   *   *

There was snow in the air, that’s what I remember about that day, although it had yet to fall. That dense and particular chill the air seems to have just before—the promise of snow, I thought as I walked toward the Houses of Parliament. It was a pleasing thought because I had new boots, half boots, patent leather but with a small heel, the sort of boots a middle-aged woman wears because they make her feel less like a middle-aged woman. What else? What was it that caught your eye? I was wearing a gray jersey dress, pale and soft, with a collar. I had a fitted wool jacket on top of the dress, black with large silver buttons. My hair was freshly washed: maybe that helped. I had recently had a layered cut and put a few burnt-almond highlights in my otherwise unimpressive brown. I was feeling happy with myself, I suppose, in an ordinary kind of way.

If my description of myself at that time sounds a little smug, that’s because I am—I was, I mean, until I met you and all that followed. A few weeks before, I had been propositioned by a boy half my age—more of that later—and it had done my self-confidence no end of good. I had said no, but the fantasies I had for some while afterward were still keeping me cheerful.

It was the third time I had appeared before a government committee and I knew the routine by then—I had been presenting to them the previous afternoon, in fact. At the entrance to Portcullis House, I pushed through the revolving doors and slung my bag onto the conveyor belt of the X-ray machine with a nod and a smile at the security man, remarking that I had worn my chunky silver bracelet on my second day to make sure I would get the free massage. I turned to be photographed for my Unescorted Day Pass. As the previous day, I made the arch go beep-beep and raised my arms so that the large woman guard could come and pat me down. As a pathologically law-abiding woman, I’m thrilled by the idea that I need to be searched: either here or at an airport, I’m always disappointed if I don’t set off the alarm. The guard felt along each arm, brusquely, then turned her hands and placed them in a praying position so that she could pass the edges of them between my breasts. The male guards stood and watched, which for me made the body search more ambiguous than if they were doing it themselves.

I like your boots, the woman guard said as she squeezed them lightly with both hands. Bet they’ll be useful. She stood, turned, and handed me my pass on its string. I slipped it over my neck, then had to bend slightly to press it against the pass reader that made the second set of glass doors swing open.

I wasn’t up before the committee for another half hour—I had arrived early enough to buy a large cappuccino and seat myself beneath the fig trees in the atrium at a small round table. I scattered a crust of brown sugar across the top of my coffee, then, while I read through the notes I had taken the previous day, ate the remaining crystals by licking my forefinger and sticking it in the small paper packet. On the tables around me were MPs and their guests, civil servants, catering staff on a break, journalists, researchers, secretarial and support staff … Here was the day-to-day business of government, the routines, the detail, the glue that holds it all together. I was there to help a committee pronounce on recommended limitations to cloning technology—most people still think that’s what genetics is, as if there is nothing more to it than breeding experiments, how many identical sheep we can make, or identical mice, or plants. Endless wheat crops; square tomatoes; pigs that will never get sick or make us sick either—it’s the same unsubtle debates we’ve been having for years. It was three years since my first presentation to a committee, but I knew when I was asked to appear again this time I would be rehearsing exactly the same arguments.

What I’m trying to say is, I was in a good mood that day, but other than that, it was really ordinary.

But it wasn’t ordinary, was it? I sat there, sipping my coffee, tucking my hair behind my ear when I looked down at my notes, and all that time, I was unaware that I was being watched by you.

*   *   *

Later, you described this moment in great detail, from your point of view. At one point, apparently, I looked up and gazed around, as if someone had spoken my name, before returning to my notes. You wondered why I did that. A few minutes later, I scratched my right leg. Then I rubbed at the underside of my nose with the backs of my fingers, before picking up the paper napkin on the table next to my coffee and blowing my nose. All this you observed from your table a few feet away, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t recognize you if I looked your way, because I didn’t know you.

At 10:48 a.m., I closed my folder but didn’t bother putting it back in my bag, so you knew I was on my way to a committee or meeting room nearby. Before I stood up, I folded my paper napkin and put it and the spoon into my coffee cup, a neat sort of person, you thought. I rose from my chair and smoothed my dress down, back and front, with a swift brushing sort of gesture. I ran my fingers through my hair, either side of my face. I shouldered my bag and picked up the file. As I walked away from the table, I glanced back, just to check I hadn’t left anything behind. Later, you tell me that this is how you guessed I had children. Children are always leaving things behind, and once you have developed the habit of checking a table before you walk away, it’s hard to break, even when yours have grown up and left home. You didn’t guess how old my children were, though, you got that wrong. You assumed I had had them late, once my career was established, as opposed to early, before it got under way.

I strode away from the café table confidently, according to you, a woman who was on her way somewhere. You had the opportunity to watch me as I walked all the way across the wide, airy atrium and up the open staircase to the committee rooms. My stride was purposeful, my head up, I didn’t look about me as I walked. I seemed to have no sense I might be being observed, and you found this attractive, you said, because it made me seem both confident and a little naïve.

Was there any inkling, for me, that day, as I sipped my coffee? You wanted to know that later, egged me on to say that I had sensed your presence, wanting me to have been aware of you. No, not in the café, I said, not a clue on my part. I was thinking about the easiest way to explain to a committee of laypeople why so many of our genes are nonfunctioning as opposed to protein coding. I was thinking about the best way to explain how little we know.

Not a hint? None at all? You were a little hurt, or pretended to be. How could I not have sensed you? No, not there, I would say, but perhaps, maybe, I wasn’t sure, I felt something in the committee room.

My presentation had gone according to plan and it was close to the end of my morning. I had just completed an answer to a question about the rapidity of developments in cloning technology—they are public, and reported, these inquiry committees, so they have to ask the questions that represent the public’s concerns. There was a brief hiatus while Madam Chair asked to check her papers to make sure she had got the question order right. One of the MPs to her right—his name was Christopher something, the plastic plaque in front of him said—had been gesturing in frustration. I waited patiently. I poured a little more water into my glass from the jug in front of me, took a sip. And as I did, I became aware of an odd sensation, a prickle of tension in my shoulders and neck. I felt as though there was someone extra in the room, behind me—as if, all at once, the air was full. When Madam Chair looked up at me again, I saw her glance past me, at the row of chairs behind me. Then she returned to her papers, looking up again to say, I beg your pardon, Professor, I’ll be right with you. She leaned over to the clerk sitting on her left. I’ve never had a professorship in a British university—the only time I have ever had that title was when I was teaching in America for a year while my husband was part of the USC Research Exchange Plan in Boston. She should have called me Doctor.

I turned. In the seats behind me, in two rows, were the MPs’ researchers with their notebooks and clipboards, the helpers, those there to learn something that might help them up the career ladder. Then, out of the periphery of my vision, I saw that the entrance door in the corner of the room was—softly, noiselessly—closing. Someone had just left the room.

Thank you for your patience, everyone, said Madam Chair, and I turned back to face the committee. "Christopher, I beg your pardon, you were listed number six, but I have a hand-annotated early draft and misread my writing."

Christopher whoever-he-was sniffed, hunched forward in his chair, and began to ask his question in a voice loud enough to betray his ignorance of basic genetics.

*   *   *

The committee broke for lunch about twenty minutes later. I had been asked to attend after the break, although we had covered the bulk of my territory. They were only playing it safe so they didn’t run the risk of recalling me later in the week and paying for another day of my expenses. The clerks and researchers headed out of the door as I stood and put my papers away. Several of the MPs had made for the Members’ exit and the rest of the committee was conferring softly. The sole reporter on the press bench was making a few notes on her

Reviews for Apple Tree Yard

[kimkimkim-7 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Something is just off for me and rather than struggle and squirm I just put it down.

[sianpr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Louise Doughty writes a taut thriller. The story is narrated by Yvonne Carmichael, a scientist with successful career, 50 something, married with grown up kids, nice house etc etc. who starts an affair with a man she meets while at the House of Commons - a series of events follow leading to both ending up on trial for murder at the Old Bailey. Doughty has plenty to say about female desire in older women & how women's sexual behaviour is judged- although as a 50 something woman I can't imagine how a quicky in a broom cupboard or in an alleyway is in any way sexually satisfying - these acts felt more like a plot device for the horrific events that follow and for commenting on the punishment that is meted out to Yvonne for impulsive sexual behaviour and infidelity. Nonetheless a gripping story.

[pgchuis · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The novel opens with Yvonne on trial at the Old Bailey and being questioned by her co-defendant's barrister. All we really know at this stage is that she has been having an affair. The story of the period leading up to the trial is (very) gradually revealed and is interspersed with scenes set in court. This novel was engrossing and intriguing, although I found Yvonne's character (and she is really the only person we get to know from the inside) rather difficult to grasp - she was a reasonably convincing scientist, but I never believed in her as a mother, despite the fact that she repeatedly referenced the career sacrifices she made for her children. The choices she made and in particular the head-in-the-sand approach she took to her lover's secrecy seemed odd. The dilemma she found herself in in relation to reporting George Craddock was well-done and those scenes very upsetting. Thought-provoking and with an excellent twist at the end

[eyejaybee · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a marvellous novel. I do need to declare a slight interest: I knew Louise Doughty at Leeds University some thirty years ago - we were both in the same intake into the English Department, and also lived in the same hall of residence. However, I am pretty confident that while that slight connection may have prompted me to buy the book as soon as possible after its publication, it hasn't impacted at all upon my judgement of the book.The novel is narrated in retrospect by Yvonne Carmichael, a very successful academic scientist who has become a leading geneticist. As the novel opens she is recalling how she had been giving evidence at Portcullis House to a House of Commons Select Committee. Having completed her evidence she meets and falls in conversation with a strange man, who offers to show her a crypt below the House of Parliament.From this unlikely opening she starts an affair with the man, who impresses her with his passion for secrecy. They meet again in a selection of different venues, including the Apple Tree Yard of the title. Much of the narrative takes the form of Yvonne writing letters on her computer knowing that she will never send them (she doesn't know her lover's name, let alone his email or house address!). Early on in their affair he gives her an unregistered mobile phone and insists that she should only contact him by that. Because of all of this secrecy Yvonne begins to wonder whether her lover is a spy.Shortly after their liaison in Apple Tree Yard something dreadful happens. Doughty captures this marvellously - her descriptions of the aftermath struck me as utterly plausible. The nature of the narrative changes at this point, and we learn far more about Yvonne's past life, her husband and her family whom, hitherto, have only been the subject of passing references.Beautifully written and immaculately plotted - quite definitely one of the finest novels I have read this year.Well done Louise!

[hemmie-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This novel begins fairly light-heartedly, but soon descends into a twisting mystery. I am never sure if I actually like the protagonist. Towards the end of the novel, we spend a fair amount of pages in a court, which I am not keen on.Having said this, it is definitely worth reading, and I recommend this author. I've just bought another book by this author - I'm hooked!

[fluffyblue_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The story seemed to start off as a bit of a romance, and as I'm not really interested in that type of book I wondered what I'd let myself in for. However, as the story progressed, and the characters developed you were pulled into the book and into the life of Yvonne. It was the sort of nightmare that you can actually imagine happening to somebody.The descriptions of The Old Bailey and the drama around the courtroom was excellent - really gripping and honest stuff. Definitely one of the best books I've read this year.

[shelleyraec · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Apple Tree Yard wasn’t anything like what I was expecting from a cursory reading of the blurb and I think that played a part in my mixed feelings about this novel. Part psychological suspense, part courtroom drama, Apple Tree Yard explores the consequences of deceiving others, and ourselves.Yvonne Carmichael, middle aged wife, mother and renowned geneticist, puts her comfortable life in jeopardy when she plunges into an affair with an enigmatic stranger. The relationship with the man she refers to as ‘X’ begins as a passionate and exciting diversion from respectability but quickly descends into a nightmare of violence and betrayal.Apple Tree Yard opens with Yvonne being cross examined as she sits in the dock of the Old Bailey. I have never been a fan of prologues and in this instance I think it serves as a spoiler, rather than simply an effective hook.The narrative is written largely in the first person but moves back and forth through time revealing Yvonne’s personal history, the development of the affair and the courtroom drama that follows, examining choice and consequence.I didn’t much like Yvonne though I thought she made for an interesting character. Doughty thoughtfully explores the choices Yvonne makes, the ways in which she interprets and rationalises her behaviour and the behaviour of others, especially that of X. Apple Tree Yard is not only about lust and adultery but also about the way in which we see ourselves.“Relationships are about stories, not truth. Alone, as individuals, we each have our own personal mythologies, the stories we tell in order to make sense of ourselves to ourselves…. but the minute you enter an intimate relationship with another person there is an automatic dissonance between your story about yourself, and their story about you.”p329I have to admit the first quarter or so of this novel was a bit of a struggle for me, and I thought there was a distinct lack of tension present overall. Yet Apple Tree Yard is an interesting story, offering insightful observations about the complexities of who we believe we are and what we are capable of.

[jayne_charles_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow what an outstanding book. It grabs your interest with a glimpse of the later stages, and an intriguing second-person narrative. After a short while you realise that those early stages – good as they were – were no more than the initial manoeuvres of a roller coaster as it prepares to take its first breathtaking plunge. A point is reached where it becomes unputdownable. I stayed up late into the night reading the final sections. Brilliant writing – an author who knows exactly how much information to hand out and how much to withhold, an exciting and thought provoking plot, and a tense courtroom drama. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

[smiler69 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Just finished listening to Apple Tree Yard by Louise Doughty and dashing off a quick review. I did not like it at all. I'm giving it a three-star rating though because it's a well told story, but the topic of sex and adultery is one that doesn't appeal to me in the least, and I found the story very grim and depressing. A respected researcher and scientist, Yvonne Carmichael, is happily married and with grown children when she meets a strange man wearing a snazzy suit one day while at the house of commons. He takes her down to the crypt to the Chapel of St Mary Undercroft (I did not know there was a church in the house of commons), where they have quick sex in a broom closet. From there they begin a sordid love affair, sordid because her unnamed lover is addicted to risky sex in unlikely places. This is supposed to be a smart woman in love with her husband and with everything to lose, and she nearly does when a work colleague rapes her when she gets drunk at a university party, which lead to even more dreadful consequences. I almost dropped it toward the beginning, but then stuck to it only because it was one of my favourites, Juliet Stevenson narrating and I knew things were bound to get interesting since it's a thriller. But I almost wish I hadn't read it, because I feel dirtied by it now. Wondering whether I should ask Audible for my credit back. I would certainly be in my rights, but then I guess it wouldn't be morally acceptable for me to publish a negative review in such a case, would it? I got this originally because of the narrator, as not infrequently buy books I know nothing about when they are read by someone I really like, and also because none other than Hilary Mantel and Helen Dunmore were among those who gave it rave reviews. I'm sure others who aren't turned off the topic of sex like I am will find it quite good. I blame the antidepressants for preventing me from fully enjoying it, but then I would need antidepressants anyway after finishing the book, so it all evens out in the end.

[andyjb_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A gripping and readable story spoiled only by the "If only we had known then..." bits.

[icewineanne · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Apologies, no time to write a full review. Suffice to say that I just loved this book. Cliché time - I just couldn't put it down. I'm looking forward to reading the more of her books. Highly recommended.

[beamis12 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

There is absolutely no doubt that Doughty is a talented writer, nor that this book is well written. I willingly followed where the author led, and in the beginning of the novel, alternately tried to understand Yvonne and at times even pitied her. In her fifties, having raised two children, one who has bi-polar disorder, a husband who she had forgiven for having his own affair, a career as a geneticist at which she is very successful, but she is willing to throw it all away over a sexual affair. Okay, maybe she is bored, wants to shake up her life, add some spice, yes I am still on board, I can understand this. Yet, somehow she goes from this, to this supposed affair that is basically sexual, to acting like this is the great love interest of her life. Manages to fool herself that he quite possible feels the same? This is where I am beginning to not quite get on-board to wherever this novel is going. A smart successful woman, a crime, a cover-up, lies and this woman manages to fool herself the whole way. Is she innocent? How and why did this happen? I avidly read this train wreck of a woman's life to the very end. I did however, lose all sympathy and understanding of Yvonne, and that is the thing that is crucial to this story. If one can not continue to relate to Yvonne, find her understandable and likable despite the silly things she does, the story looses its oomph! That is what happened with me, that is why despite the wonderful writing in this book I could not really give it a higher rating. Read it yourself and see what you think.

[schatje_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Dr. Yvonne Carmichael, a middle-aged geneticist, someone with “status and gravitas,” finds herself accused of murder; her co-accused is a man with whom she had a torrid affair. She narrates much of the story in flashbacks detailing the events that bring her to a dock in Old Bailey. Information is parceled out slowly. The identity of the murder victim isn’t known until midway through the novel. Even the lover’s name is not revealed until two-thirds of the way through the book; Yvonne addresses her lover throughout, but only as “you” or “X.” This technique of withholding information certainly adds to the suspense. And although there is a prologue that hints at the verdict, suspense during the trial is maintained. This book would probably be classified as a psychological thriller/courtroom drama, but it has more serious elements. It is really a novel about “the stories we tell in order to make sense of ourselves.” In the end, Yvonne’s lover is described as “a fantasist, a person who could only manage his normal life as long as it was propped up by a series of self-flattering tales” but throughout the reader notices that his identity is shaped by what she wants to believe about him rather than what she actually knows about him. Yvonne claims to be self-aware (“Self-awareness: it is one of the chief bonuses of advancing age.”), but the reader cannot help but wonder whether she really knows herself. Is she perhaps deceiving herself about herself as well as about others?The problem is complicated when someone else is involved: “Relationships are about stories, not truth. . . . the minute you enter an intimate relationship with another person there is an automatic dissonance between your story about yourself, and their story about you.” During the court case, Yvonne also comes to understand that a series of facts can be arranged in a variety of ways: she sees lawyers manipulating the jury through “the misplacement of evidence from context” so they will interpret events in a certain way. She also realizes that “as a scientist, I have told more stories than I ever realized, or admitted to”: “I know how the whole point of presenting a new theory is to anticipate the counter-citations from those who will disagree with you and to have, up your sleeve, a list of counter-counter-citations.”The novel also examines the treatment of women who are victims of sexual assault. Any woman charging someone with sexual assault must be prepared to have all secrets revealed by the defense attorneys: “’Internet searches, questioning friends and family and work colleagues, starts with that. If there’s nothing in your present life, they will get to work on your past, starting with tracking down your sexual history . . . They can do anything. If they are challenged, all they have to do is give a reason to the judge why it’s relevant to the defence.’”I would definitely recommend this book. It is a compelling read with a great deal of suspense, and a chilling read because it emphasizes the consequences of choices and reminds us of the human tendency to deceive ourselves about ourselves and others. Yvonne may not be a totally reliable narrator, but how many of us are really reliable narrators of our own “personal mythologies.”

[lara335 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Fascinating & unsettling psychological thriller. Yvonne, an unreliable narrator, reveals her story in unsent emails to her lover, of how she, a married career woman, embarked on an obsessive & strange affair, was assaulted, and ended up in a court room drama.Well plotted & tantalisingly slowly revealed, with not likeable but believable characters

[lauriegienapp · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have mixed feelings about this book. It's written in first person, which can feel a bit odd... and throughout, the main character is 'talking' to another character... which also feels odd. As the reader, I felt like I was eavesdropping, which is also odd.
But the story was interesting and unique, and kept me coming back for more.

[missizicks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was a mixed bag. The central core of the story (I won't spoil what it is) was very well written. The intrigue and court drama that surrounded it was a little far fetched, a little slight. The central core really affected me emotionally. The rest of it irritated me.

[jkdavies · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Louise Doughty gives Yvonne Carmichael such a strong reasoned voice, and this tale of an illicit affair (is there another sort?) is all the more visceral for it.
The book opens with a scene from her trial, so we know that something has gone wrong, and we know that her mysterious nameless lover is in the dock alongside her.
We hear of how the affair begins, and how Yvonne tries to keep it separate from her "real life", but when Yvonne is attacked by a colleague, and realises that her affair will prevent her reporting the attack to the police, things fall apart.
Compelling, just like the picture of the chimpanzee described by her barrister...

[tina1969_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Yvonne Carmichael is sensible. She's married with two grown up children and has a career in science. However one day she meets a man and then from that moment shes no longer sensible and the fatal attraction begins.This book is so good I that I cannot praise it enough. The story is Yvonnes and how things tumble out of control from that moment she meets X. I would say its a womens book so it will be interesting to see what the male members of the book group think.With the usual cliché, the book is a page turner and I wanted to see how it was going to end . From the very beginning the story holds the readers attention and keeps it till the end. What I enjoyed was the court case and because of this it reminded me of some of Jodi Picoult books. Had I have been on the jury I don't know what I would've thought myself, which way I could have gone. Just like JP books it did ask the question of what would you do in the same situation.A roller coaster of a read, with a sexy, thriller element of a fatal kind that keeps the reader on tenterhooks till the end.

[daftboy1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is an ok book, Bit slow but well written and researched.Yvonne Carmichael a scientist embarks on an affair with a mysterious man This book starts with a court case then the story is revealed. Yvonne is raped by her colleague George she doesn't report it or tell her husband she tells her lover. He pays George a visit it all goes wrong that's why there is a court case. This book could have been 100 pages shorter. Worth reading though.

[flourgirl49 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A highly successful female scientist (Yvonne), happily married, is seduced by a complete stranger (Mark, whose name we don't even find out until page 222). She then carries on an affair with this man even though he controls her, acts disdainful and ridiculously mysterious, and really doesn't treat her that well - in fact she falls in love with him and calls him "my love" even up until the end of the book when she is standing trial for being an accomplice to murder, which is his fault. Can a woman really be this stupid? I found it disgusting that Yvonne accepted all of Mark's behavior, acting like an insipid, lovestruck idiot when she should have kicked him to the curb immediately - she got no sympathy from me whatsoever! And what about Yvonne's husband? He is still with her at the end of the book with no conversation between them about her affair. I kept wondering why he stayed and how he now relates to his wife, but the author didn't see fit to reveal that to us. Annoying.

[infjsarah · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was OK but I also found it sordid - which it is meant to be but I don't read for sordid. All the characters are unlikeable. I liked the bit where the husband holds a knife to the lawyer's smarmy throat to make a point - found that very effective. And the court scenes are very accurate if you've ever experienced it - jury comes in, sits down, 10 mins later has to leave for legal arguments, comes back in, 10 mins later, time for break - yep it's just like that. Just OK as a read.

[maneekuhi · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

"Apple Tree Yard" (ATY) is a very well written novel about a sordid affair and its consequences. The quick pick-up and even quicker to follow sex is a bit of a dance, reminiscent for me of the opening scenes in the movie "Dressed to Kill" also executed in a rather prestigious backdrop, NYC's Metropolitan Museum of Art vs. London's Westminster in ATY. In both scenes the dye is cast and what follows is catastrophic for ATY's Yvonne as it was for Angie Dickinson in DTK. Contrary to what blurbs claim for ATY I did not find the story sexy nor erotic, rather it was a bit sordid and for that reason it was a very slow read for me. The plot was very interesting but the characters were nothing special, and I kept thinking this isn't going to end well. The English court room scenes were interesting and informative, but there is a key moment when Yvonne responds to a critical question with a one word answer - the honest one, but the wrong one. I didn't buy the reason for her response. I thought this could have been a "5" but the author made some choices I absolutely did not agree with. A haunting story, I'm sure it will stay with me for a few days. Maybe a 4.5 would be a more accurate grade....Certainly a 4.99 for those who like 'psychological' mysteries. Close but no cigar.

[donnambr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Listened to the audiobook. Great story and brilliant narration by Juliet Stevenson.

[dubaireader · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Middle-aged woman has sordid love affair.I had previously read Whatever You Love by Louise Doughty and loved it, I gave it 5 stars. I admired the author's way with words and was totally absorbed by the book. Apple Tree Yard was also beautifully written, but I was not grabbed by the subject matter. A middle-aged woman who spontaneously decides to have sex with a complete stranger and then discovers it comes with a price, did not generate my sympathy at all.Yvonne Charmicael is in a somewhat staid marriage with a husband who she loves, but has grown bored of. She has a satisfying career as a geneticist but is reducing her hours towards semi-retirement. Her daughter is in a stable relationship, but her son has psychological problems and I'd have preferred the book to have been more about him.Yvonne's love interest does not sound particularly sweep-you-off-your-feet-handsome. He is also married but that doesn't seem to stop him from chasing women for sex; I just couldn't understand how he was so successful at this!I'm not a great fan of courtroom dramas and a large part of this book does take place in a courtroom. However, the psychological observations planted throughout the court case did make it somewhat more interesting. Still, the book slowed at this stage and I was ready for the end when it finally arrived. I did care what the verdict was, I hadn't completely lost interest in the characters by then, but I was definitely ready to move on to my next read.In my opinion, not Louise Doughty's best.

[smik_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Although Louise Doughty is a well-established novelist, this is my first outing with her.The scenario of the novel is interesting, and I surmise that most female readers in their 50s or older have actually "been there", although we may not have taken the action that Yvonne Carmichael does. Yvonne finds that her well-ordered life has become a bit predictable and a tad boring. Her husband has become sexually undemanding and their relationship is complacent. It makes her a surprisingly willing partner to a serial predator.But things go seriously wrong when another man whom she doesn't find attractive decides to get in on the act.Much of the novel is concerned with the trial that Yvonne becomes embroiled in, and the tension mounts as she tries to conceal damning truth from the court. Much of the focus is on whether she can actually recognise what has happened to her.

[teresa1966-460496 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Domestic crime... is that a genre? Story set mainly in central London, Westminster and the law courts, as well as suburbia.

[usuallee · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Well-written thriller/courtroom drama.

[joweirqt · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Loved this book; had me hooked from page 1.

[terran_9 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was a very compelling book to listen to, even though the middle part bogged down a bit. A successful female geneticist is on trial for a unnamed crime at the beginning. We learn that she has been "lured" into an affair with a mystery man, even though she has been happily married and has two adult children. When she is raped by a colleague at the university where she teaches, she cannot recover from it and tragedy ensues. Details are gradually revealed which kept me reading, even though I found many of Yvonne's decisions and her lover's actions annoying.

[marjorie.mallon · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Really enjoyed this a lot. 4.5 stars. Highly recommended.