Lover in Law (15 page)

***

It’s lucky I look down when I get home, as I normally do, to check for post on our front door mat, because whilst there’s no mail, there is a trail. A winding crocodile of spanking new ten-pound notes, bumper to bumper. I tread carefully as I follow the flow of cash into the kitchen. It ends at Adam’s feet. He’s sitting at the table, reading a paper, a half-full bottle of Budweiser in hand.

“What’s all this about?” I ask, bending down to pick up the dough. 

“I don’t think so,” he says, kicking my hand out the way with a socked foot. His gesture is playful, his tone deadpan.

“Why?”

“You’ve got to admit you were wrong first.”

“What about? What have I done?”

Our fights are more and more frequent. I’m the instigator, but he fuels them, bringing up counter-arguments which have nothing to do with the initial gripe.

“It’s your lack of faith.”

I’m puzzled. What did I not think he’d do?

“No!” I cry. “The sofa?”

He swigs some Bud, raises an eyebrow.

We took delivery of a posh new sofa suite a couple of days ago. It’s nice and deep, in dark brown leather. We’d stowed the tatty old hand-me-down from Adam’s grandfather in one of the empty rooms upstairs, but we’d ended up having a hotheaded row about what to do with it. It’s hideously old and the seats are so sunken that your bum practically hits the floor when you sit on it. I’d thought it was worth peanuts, wanted to give it to charity or leave it out on the street for someone to take, but Adam had reckoned he could get good money for it. So he’d schlepped it out into the garden to photograph before putting it on eBay.  

 “Turns out that tatty old sofa isn’t so tatty after all. Turns out that tatty old sofa you love to hate is a highly sought after 1970s vintage Italian design. Turns out,” he continues, “that it’s worth (pause for dramatic effect) five hundred quid!”

He bends to scoop up some notes, then stands and throws them in the air. The Ali of old would have rushed to hug him, jumping up and down with excitement as a hundred pounds floated around us to the floor. Instead I just stand and watch. To think what Oxfam could have done with the money. 

“It’s come, hasn’t it,” he says.

He misreads my expression. I should have called this morning, as soon as I knew, but I didn’t want to disrupt him. I wanted him to have a nice day, to carry that feeling with him of anything being possible a while longer. It’s a nice feeling, much nicer than having your hopes dashed. His body stills.

I nod.

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Blood’s blood, right?”

He sighs.

“I really had a feeling, you know, that this was our month. It would have been a great one to tell the grandchildren, that I flew back from the States, a special surprise delivery of semen!”  

I hug him.

“I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry about so many things.

“It’s alright,” he says, rubbing his hands up and down my back. “I’m ok.”

We rock back and forth.

“It’ll be alright,” I say.

“Of course it will. It’s you and me babes. We’ve got each other.”

Our tight squeeze is full of comfort. We might argue, but we always make up, because nothing’s worth us falling out over. This is what feels right. This is my future. This is the man whose children I want. I’ve tried not to dwell on it, but this month, of all months, would have been complicated, would have thrown up too many question marks. I WILL end things with Anthony.

“I love you,” I say.

It’s the first time I’ve told him so since the affair began and whilst I do mean it, I’m aware that there’s been a subtle shift. I used to say how much I was ‘in’ love with him.        

“And I love you too.”

I run my hands up and down his back, resting on his buttocks, my favourite part of him, nicely rounded yet compact. The edge of a piece of paper stuffed in his back pocket irritates my hand. I’m not generally nosy, but for some reason I pull it out and into my line of vision behind him. It’s a yellow post-it with a name, an address, a date and a time written on it. The name’s Charlotte Buchanan, the date’s this coming Sunday and the address is fairly local. I shove the piece of paper back into its pocket, then swiftly, as a distraction, play Adam’s behind like the bongos. It’s the first I’ve heard of her. Her name’s far too pretty.

JUNE

Chapter 17

Visiting a school in your thirties, even if it’s not the one that you went to, takes you back in time as if it were. Be it comprehensive or private, it’s all in the smell. Institutional corridors are haunted by a whiff of mass-produced boiled potatoes and cabbage. It takes just one inhalation of old school dinners for the memories to come flooding back. Most people have a good old moan about their school. Few admit to having been happy where they were. I guess I’d fit somewhere in-between. It wasn’t the best of times and it certainly wasn’t the worst. It was the local state school, which happened to be all girls, a fairly rough and tumble kind of affair. Had Kayla not been with me throughout, it could have been much bleaker, because believe you me, when a bunch of adolescent bitches get together, it’s not pretty. As it was, I always had a friend, an ally on my side, a real luxury. My biggest gripe wasn’t the pupils, but the staff, who constantly underestimated instead of encouraging. At the beginning of sixth form, one by one our teacher took us aside to discuss our aspirations for the future, if we wanted to go to college, what we wanted to study. When I’d said I wanted to read law at University, I was practically laughed out of town, told I was aiming too high. It made me more determined to prove them wrong, but that is not the point.

School corridors speak volumes. The thoroughfares of Scott Richardson’s posh Wellington College breathe money. It’s not that the old school dinners smell more Marks & Spencer than Spar. It’s that its walls are decorated with gilt-framed paintings of famous past pupils (politicians and poets rather than the Scott Richardson’s of this world) and every twenty steps or so there’s a cabinet filled with silver trophies and wooden winner’s plaques. The walls of my comprehensive corridors were bare, save for the occasional mounted scribble from art class and blue felt notice boards. And the boys that have breezed past, in maroon blazers and striped ties, all seem more buoyant than we were. Then again, it’s nearly the end of summer term.   

It’s the Solicitor’s job to be here, not mine. Anthony said as much when I told him I was coming, although he wasn’t going to stop me. We’re only five months off trial and the leads from Scott Richardson, his two old friends from school, have so far borne no fruit, so I felt I had no choice. One got back to me, but couldn’t help, with only a vague recollection of Cameron Matthews. I’m still waiting to hear from the other, but in the interim, I felt a trip to Scott’s old school couldn’t hurt, despite it being twenty years since my client graduated, and three Headmasters later. The bad news is, the school secretary informed a few moments ago, that the Headmaster I’d arranged to see has been taken ill so it’s the Deputy today or nothing. I’d said thank you, no problem, but now I realise that it probably is. The Deputy Head is a she, a no-nonsense-looking woman in her late fifties, with sensible short brown hair, even more sensible flat shoes, who briskly introduces herself as Miss Giles and asks me to follow her.   

Why it being a ‘she’ matters is that the divulging of information, old school records and the like, that she may or may not have at her disposal, is at her discretion. Somehow I need to charm the pants off her enough to make her indiscreet. Intuition tells me, as soon as we’ve settled into her office, that there’s more chance of England winning the World Cup. 

“So, Ms -?” she looks at me questioningly.

“Ali. Ali Kirk.”

“So, Ms Kirk. How can I be of help?”

“I’m trying to find out about an old pupil of yours called Cameron Matthews. He was in the same year as Scott Richardson.”

“Ah yes,” she says. “Scott Richardson.”

“You knew him?”

“Ah no. Sadly I joined the school a couple of years after he left, but his reputation precedes him. I know exactly who he is. I’ve watched his show a couple of times.”

I smile bewitchingly, in a bid to befriend and manipulate.

“Good show, isn’t it?”

“Not my cup of tea,” she says, tight-lipped and unresponsive.

“Right,” I battle on. “I don’t suppose you remember Cameron Matthews?”

She shakes her head.

“Afraid not.”

I explain my position, that Cameron Matthews has made allegations against my client, accusing him of murder and that any information to build up his character profile would be most helpful. 

“Right, I’m going to stop you there,” she holds up her hand. “I’m afraid to say that whilst we do keep school records dating back that far, we recently sent a whole load of archives into storage. I’m pretty sure that the year you’re after is no longer on-site.”

“Does that mean I can’t get that information, or just that I can’t get it now?”

“I’ll go and check for you, just in case that year’s still here. If it’s not, it means you’ll have to send in a formal letter to the Headmaster, explaining what you want, and he’ll then make a decision as to whether to get the records out of storage for you.”

Whether this is a fob off or not, it’s not good.

“Right,” she gets up. “If you give me a couple of minutes I’ll go and check.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I watch her plaid skirt whisk out the room. She leaves the door open and from where I’m sitting I can see the school secretary, at her desk, typing. She’s also in her late fifties, but a different looking character entirely. Buxom, nicely padded, with coifed grey hair. She looks up, with a warm smile.

“Can I get you a cup of tea or anything?”

“No thanks, but thanks for asking.”

I turn away to let her get back to work, but suddenly have second thoughts. It’s got to be worth a bash.

“I don’t suppose you were here at the same time as Scott Richardson?” I ask casually.

“Oh yes. That lovely Scott Richardson! Awful shame about the trouble he’s got himself into.”

“Isn’t it,” I confide, failing to mention who I am, why I’m here, as I stand to join her. “And apparently it’s another one of your pupils who’s made the allegations, someone called oh, um, Cameron Michaels, or Maxted, or Matth-

“Matthews?” she interrupts, gasping. “Not Cameron Matthews! He was always a bit of an odd one, that boy.”

Bingo.

“You remember him?” I ask, nonchalant.

“Yes, yes I do,” she reflects. “He stuck out to us because he wasn’t the same as the others. He was a bit of a loner. Always ill, complaining of headaches and the like. Perhaps he just wanted to get out of games!” she jokes. “You know how kids can be at that age.”

“Are any of the teachers still here now who would remember him?”

“Well,” she continues, on a roll. “The art teacher, Miss Meadows was here then and she would remember him for sure. Cameron wasn’t one of our brightest pupils, but he was particularly gifted at art, although in a weird way. I remember her once showing me some of his pictures. They were so graphically violent that she asked the nurse to check him out on several occasions, but they could never find anything wrong. He was probably just misunderstood.”

“Yes, probably,” I agree, before the Deputy Head rudely interrupts with bad news, as expected.

***

Neeta’s at her desk when I get back to chambers.

“You’re looking a bit chipper.”  She watches me take off my bag and turn on my computer. 

“Yes, well at last I feel I’m getting somewhere with the Scott Richardson case.”

“Well, I’ve got something to wipe that smile right off your face.”

Here it comes. My heart starts to pound. I’ve got what I deserve. Somebody’s found out about Anthony and I. This is what I’ve been living in fear of. This is why I should have ended it before it began. I’m weak when it comes to Anthony, I know it, but I should have been strong. The repercussions don’t bear thinking about. Adam will get hurt, our relationship will crash and burn and things will be awkward if not terminal at chambers. All because I couldn’t say no. 

“Hey, it’s not that bad. Relax,” she soothes.

She stands up and puts her arms around me.

“Just tell me,” I say quietly, freezing in her embrace, “why I won’t be smiling.”

“You won’t be smiling,” she cuddles playfully, “because Max has ordered a three-line whip on the Summer Ball and no partners are allowed.”

“Oh,” I relax. “Thank God for that.”

“What do you mean thank God for that?” She releases me from her arms. “You hate the Summer Ball.”

True enough, I’ve never been much of a Ball person. First off, I can’t bear the whole looking for a dress shebang (you can’t possibly wear the same outfit twice). Secondly, it’s a bit like dining in Hall sans gowns. It’s just not my thing. It’s a hugely raucous, decadent affair, with sub-standard food and music so loud you can’t believe you’ve parted with two hundred quid to be there.