Lover in Law (12 page)

“Oh, did I have a PC squirming in the stand this morning.”

Smug pride is written all over her face and I understand why. It’s not that I revel in police officers being given a hard time, it’s just that too often they don’t do their job properly. That’s what loses convictions and that’s what will probably score Neeta a victory. She’s defending a serial shoplifter, who may well be guilty, but the local force failed to carry out the correct police procedure, so it looks like her client will get off on a technicality.

“Who’s for the other side?” I ask.

“Him,” she says, nodding towards a decent, straight kind of chap, who’s just walked past our table, looking for a place. He turns back, gives her a friendly wave and mouths ‘see you later’. I recognise his face.

“What’s his name?”

“David Baker, Kings Bench Walk.”

People are often amazed how Barristers manage to play at being arch-enemies in front of judge and jury, then suddenly, outside the courtroom, it’s like a switch is flicked, the façade is dropped, professional chumminess resumed. That’s how it is though, case in case out. It’s no different, I guess, for tennis players. On court they’re rivals, in the robing room they’re more amicable.

The person who’d been sitting next to Neeta gets up. David Baker comes back in our direction, asks if the place is free, settles in and starts chatting to my colleague. I’m on the other side of the bench. I watch their smiling faces, as they make polite shop talk and temporarily opt out the conversation. What would Neeta, my sister, my mother, anyone who knows me well, think about what I did last night? That I’m this morally corrupt individual, that they expected more from me? Would they disown me, judge me harshly, be disappointed? 

I don’t even know what I think of me. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, that’s for sure. And yet, to be honest, predominantly I do NOT feel guilt. It’s there, tickling away underneath my membrane, but mostly I feel excitement, buzzing, on a high. It all happened so easily, so quickly and was so pleasurable. I cast my eyes around the Hall and take in the sea of chattering, well-turned out professionals. How many of them have strayed, I wonder? Now that I think about it, and spot married colleagues I know flirting with people OTHER than their partners, I wonder if perhaps a third or more of the population are at it. 

“Earth to Ali,” Neeta clicks her fingers under my nose.

“Sorry,” I smile. “I was miles away.”

“Penny for them?”

I wouldn’t tell her for a million!

“No, nothing,” I say. “You know Neeta’s getting married,” I inform David Baker, anxious to dodge the spotlight.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“You’re not eating,” Neeta bounces the conversation right back.

I push my plate away.

“I know. I don’t feel very hungry.”

“You’re looking particularly gorgeous at the moment, if you don’t mind me saying, but you never know, perhaps you’re coming down with something,” she says. “We’ll have to get Ganesh to watch over you.”

Ganesh is a Hindu God with an elephant head, whose original head is supposed to have been cut off by his father, Shiva, in a fit of rage. Anyway, he’s a symbol of fertility, joy, happiness, and health to Hindus. Neeta’s got a small, full-bodied statue of him on her desk, for luck. Whenever things don’t feel right, or she needs a bit of guidance, she asks him to watch over her. I’ve long admired this funny caricature of a bejewelled man with a trunk for a nose, but I’m not sure he’d help me now.  He’d probably think I was beyond redemption, that what I’ve just done is a most unholy thing to do.

***

It’s our own personal, long-standing tradition to treat ourselves to chocolate when we win. Neeta’s come back with a big box of maltesers, which she unwraps and offers. 

“Thank you,” I say, scooping out a small fistful.

“So,” she pops one into her mouth as she sits on my desk. “You’ve perked up. Is that because Adam’s back tomorrow?”

“Actually, he came back last night.”

“Only two days out then.”

“No, you’re not out at all. He came back early.”

“Oh sweet. How come?”

“To surprise me.”

‘What the FUCK are you doing here’, I think were my first, precise words, when I realised the strange man in the beanie hat was in fact Adam. That quickly progressed into hysteria, raised voice laying into him for not warning me of his imminent arrival, for scaring me so and letting it go far enough for me to fear a very real
tete-a-tete
with a burglar. I eventually calmed down. We hugged, he apologised, saying he wanted to surprise me, not upset me. He thought I’d be happy. I assured him that I was happy, just shocked, and to ignore my tantrum. He was being lovely and didn’t deserve a grumpy girlfriend. Oh, and then I had to lie. He asked why I was back so late and I said it was a works do.

“So,” he said, once we’d kissed and made up. “I know it’s late, but am I back in time?”

Jesus, I panicked. Did he know?

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“You know, have I got my timing right?”

I hadn’t a clue what he was going on about.

“Timing right for what?”

His expression hinted that I’d lost the plot.

“Come on Ali. You made such a song and dance about it.”

It slowly dawned on me what he was getting at and, although I’d thought about it at the beginning of the month, for the first time in well over a year, I’d not thought about it at the actual time. Well, not until that moment.

“Oh, um, yes,” I stuttered. “I suppose so.”

I didn’t react quickly enough. I should have said it was too late.

“Some enthusiasm Ali. Your sex stallion’s just cantered all the way from fucking America to make it home on time,” he joked.

He pulled me towards him and surprisingly, my body responded. So we went up to the bedroom where, for the second and last time that night my clothes came off and where, again, my pink panties were remarked on. I was ticked-off, light-heartedly accused of being a big, fat coward, waiting for Adam to go away before plucking up the courage to wear those knickers. It showed my weakness in all its glory, because I knew how he felt about them. Then they came off. I, of course, tell Neeta none of this.

“Well, he must be doing something right, that man of yours,” says Neeta, sucking her second malteser. I’m already onto my fifth. “Like I said earlier, you’re looking pretty damn fabulous. You’ve found a good one, Ali. I’ve always said that about Adam. Make sure you hold onto him.”

She picks the little statuette up off her table, and goes to place him tenderly next to my keyboard.

“Hey Ganesh, how about a double wedding on New Year’s Eve?”

MAY

Chapter 14

“Oh my God,” I clap a hand over my mouth in amused horror. “So, what on EARTH did you say?”

It’s Tuesday morning. Anthony’s a good raconteur. He’s been telling me all about his grandmother’s funeral. The send-off of a wonderful, spirited and philosophical woman in her late eighties, who had endured highs and lows, hardship and hedonism, healthy till the end, passing on as most of us would desire, peacefully, whilst sleeping. His father’s mother, a white South African with staunchly black politics, she’d left everything she knew to join family in England, way before the world apartheid movement began in earnest. The day had been a fabulous celebration of a life lived to the brim, with few regrets. Mourners had shared memories of a beautiful lady over drinks and nibbles at Anthony’s parents’ home south of the river. Reggie, however, a 90-year-old former naval officer sporting full medal regalia, took the concept of sharing a little too far. Perked up by a couple of whiskeys, he was confiding to Anthony that at events like this, oldies like him have a good look round the room wondering who will be next, when something came shooting out his mouth, landing in Anthony’s glass of champagne with a fizz. On inspection the object was identified as a set of upper dentures, fake enamel already dangerously effervescing.

“Come on,” I urge again. “Tell me. What did you say?”

“I said ‘swap’ and offered him my drink!”

We laugh into a natural silence. I had been thankful to his grandmother, over the weekend, for the timing of her moving on. Had Anthony come into work last Friday, I may have felt differently, things could have got more out of hand. As it was the weekend gave me time for some personal reflection. We bickered a lot Adam and I, unusual for us, but the more time we spent together, the more I looked into his nice face, his trusting eyes, the more the guilt rose to the surface. I was rotten to the core. If Adam only knew he would never forgive me and quite frankly, he deserved better. Instead of being nice to him, for some reason I kept picking inconsequential fights. He’d gone and spent two thousand quid on a new guitar because he’d decided to have lessons and I laid into him about how he should have got a second-hand model from a charity shop until he was sure it wasn’t just a phase. And when he was glued to some snooker competition on the box instead of mowing the grass, which he’s been promising to do since last Autumn, well, I lost it. Voices were raised, the television was turned off and the grass did get cut, but there was an atmosphere, a tension. I made up for it by taking him out to dinner, by making him breakfast in bed, by winning him a giant crocodile on the coconut shy at the fair. Walking along, hand in hand, crunching toffee apples, I was reminded me of how much we had, of how real our relationship is, of how much there was to lose, of how pathetically weak I’d been.  I had resolved to tell Anthony that it was too complicated, that it should stop now before somebody got hurt, before it went too far. That was then. Not that I’ve changed my mind, but in his presence, him perched casually on my desk, me standing close to his side, alone in my office, the chemistry is taking hold, an invisible smoke of lust and temptation. It’s only nine in the morning, far too early for this kind of stuff, but my every bone, my every organ, all of me suddenly feels all of how it felt lying there, naked together. I inhale slow and deep, his subtle scent, musk and masculine, stirring up memories I’d vowed to shelve.

I clear my throat in the vain hope it will clear my head.

“You know, we really need to talk ab-

“Yes, I know,” he interrupts. “Scott Richardson. Sorry, I should have asked sooner.”

“Oh, um, yes, um, right,” I stutter, slightly thrown, although I shouldn’t be. We do, and ought to catch up. I drag my brain from the half-planned speech it was ready to launch into, back to work mode.

“Actually there is something I wanted to discuss. I’m getting nowhere with this Cameron Matthews, however much probing I do, so I thought I’d drop by Scott’s flat this afternoon, for an informal chat.” I screw up my face, raise my eyebrows and freeze, preparing to be ticked off. “It’s a bit unorthodox, I know,” I continue, in light of Anthony’s lack of response, “but I don’t know. I thought maybe on his territory, home turf so to speak, I might get a bit further.”

In truth I’m loath to go round to his flat. It’s a measure of how desperate I am to win this case.

Anthony scratches his head, distracted. 

“I’m sorry. It’s probably the last thing you feel like talking about,” I apologise.

“No, no,” he smiles. “I think it’s a great idea, although you shouldn’t really be going alone.”

“Listen,” I start. I mean, Jesus, I’ve got to work with this guy. There’s a lot at stake here. He’s senior counsel on a case I really don’t want to fuck up. What the hell was I thinking getting involved in the first place? An end must be put to this. “We really need to-

Neeta waltzes in. “Hey you two,” she trills, slipping out of her raincoat, hanging it on the stand by the door. Anthony gets up to leave, despite Neeta’s protestation that he shouldn’t do so on her account. Oh well. Now probably wasn’t the right time for our little talk anyway.

***

There are certain things I don’t like to do alone – walk through an empty park or alleyway, watch horror movies, drink wine, drive through Kings Cross at night. Visiting Scott Richardson’s flat can now be added to the list. There’s nothing too offensive about the apartment itself. It’s on the top floor of a gothic looking house on a pleasant enough, trendy Kensington Road, a few streets behind Portobello. It’s large and lofty, blessed with high ceilings and sloping eaves. The lighting is soft and relaxing. Uniformly painted to a high spec throughout, walls a deep cream, white ceilings, it’s a well-appointed, luxury bachelor pad. The long living room, which is where I’m led, houses a dining table and chairs one end, a lounge area the other. The sofa is made miniscule by the insanely huge TV plasma wall opposite. 

Despite weakly muttering that I don’t need any help, Scott’s quickly up close, taking off my coat. I swear I feel a finger trace down my spine, which makes me shiver, as my jacket slips effortlessly into his hands.

“May I use your bathroom?” I ask.

My bladder’s never responded well to nerves.

“Sure, first on the left,” he directs, hanging my coat up on a stand.

I try the first door on the left, but it’s locked with no key, which I find a little strange. I don’t dwell on it, however, and move on to the next door, which is indeed the entry to the toilet. There are a couple of framed snaps of Scott with beautiful, unidentifiable (to me) women, as well as two enlarged, mounted shots, both taken on the
Look Who’s Talking
 set. One’s of Scott sitting next to Nelson Mandela. The other’s of him with ex page-three-girl- EE boob job-turned pop star Sahara. There’s also a thin, long rectangular photo in a wooden frame with Wellington College School written in Italics below. I quickly scan it, to see if I can detect which little maroon clad adolescent is Scott. A sea of spotty, unkempt teenagers, with their hopes still ahead of them, stares back at me. It’s easy to find my client. Even then he had that knowing look of control, a sense of his own destiny.