Lover in Law (19 page)

“Ali,” he grips my hand tight. “I think she’s telling it how it is. I can’t believe it either. The day’s getting more surreal by the minute.”

“Am I going to wake up in a minute and find out this is all a dream?” I ask the doctor. She shakes her head.

“Pinch me Adam and hard,” I command, offering my arm. “Ouch,” I squeal, as he obliges a little too enthusiastically. “Not that hard.” I turn to the screen, concentrating harder this time, with fresh, semi-believers eyes. I prod the glass with a trembling, smearing finger.

“Is that the head?” 

The doctor nods.

“And the nose?”

She nods again.

“And the eyes?”  

“And the eyes.”

We all go quiet, just watching, as she holds the probe still.

“Oh my God,” I burst into tears again. “Adam, did you see that? Did we just see another somersault?”

He hugs me tight.

“It’s a miracle Ali,” he whispers in my ear. “I love you.”

“But I’ve been drinking like a fish and eating all sorts of stuff I probably shouldn’t?” I babble. “I’m not sure babies should do sushi.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just be more careful now you know.”

“And what about the bleeding?”

I return to the reason I’m here in the first place, the reason I now know what I know.

“We just have to keep our fingers crossed that it all settles down. If you’re really worried about it, then by all means come back and see us.”

“When can I stop worrying?”

“At eighteen?” the doctor suggests.

“What, when I’m eighteen weeks pregnant?”

“No,” she stops and laughs. “When the baby turns eighteen. Perhaps then you can stop worrying.”

***

We both decided, not surprisingly, to take the rest of the day off and chose a taxi over the tube to get back home. Whilst the doctor had advised to carry on as normal and just keep our fingers crossed that the bleeding subsides, she also said it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take it easy, put my feet up for the next couple of days or so. “But my parents are here,” I’d worried, as soon as we’d settled in the cab. “They’re our guests, they’re not here for much longer.” Adam had said to not even think about it, that he was in charge now and it was all under control. So I stopped worrying and started focusing on my tummy, on the new life growing inside. As if that weren’t a weird enough concept in itself, I had to backtrack over the last three months, looking for clues that anything different was up. I guess, putting it under the microscope, there were a few flimsy telltale signs. My periods had been lighter, more pain free. I’d been sleeping better, more tired. I’d had less of an appetite and the occasional objection to certain foods. Nothing, though, that major. Even now I don’t feel much different. I don’t FEEL pregnant. I just feel shell-shocked and dazed by how the day’s panned out. This morning I left the house wanting to kill my Mother and now I’m on my way to becoming one.

“We’re home,” Adam announces as we let ourselves in, just in case they’re there. I’ve no idea what my parents had planned, but they certainly wouldn’t be expecting us back now, just gone two in the afternoon.

“Adam, is that you?”

It sounds like my Mother’s upstairs.

“Actually it’s both of us. I just didn’t want to startle you.”

“Your Dad went out to the shops a few minutes ago,” she says, coming down to meet us. “Hi,” I smile as Adam leads me protectively into the lounge and onto the sofa, raising my feet on a couple of cushions. I could get used to this. My mother, however, is not so comfortable. A growing look of concern spreads across her face, as she follows us, watching like a hawk.

“Are you ok Ali? How come you guys are back so soon?”

Kayla’s due to join us for the special sticky lamb chops my Mum’s promised. We’d planned to tell everyone the news then, but I’m not sure we’re going to be able to wait that long, with Adam treating me like an invalid.

“Something happened on the tube this morning,” I start.

“A bomb?” she freezes. She lives in perpetual fear of terrorism, thanking God that they moved to Canada not America.

“No, nothing like that,” I reassure her. “Something happened to me. I got rushed to hospital.”

“Oh my God,” she rushes to my side, kneeling.

“Ali?” says Adam.

“It’s ok. I might as well tell her.”

“Tell me what? Ali, darling, please.”

She looks so worried I decide to put her out of her misery.

“Ok, I’ve got good and bad news.”

I build up the suspense.

“The bad news is I was bleeding a lot, but I’m alright now.”

“And the good?”

I bloody burst into tears AGAIN, and then tell her, catching my breath between a hiccup, that she’s going to be a Grandma.

***

I worked out, later that day, the other major telltale sign. My turning into a tap, my mood swings. I’ve felt, of late, like I’m on an emotional roller coaster. The slightest thing has set me off. At least that’s what I blame it on, my hormones, for being so snappy, so uppity with my parents since they’ve arrived. The progesterone overdrive may even have been responsible for my paranoia concerning Adam. My mother cried, on cue, the moment I told her. My father held back a little, but I could tell that he, too, was moved, big time, by the news. Neither of them could believe that they were going to be grandparents. It must be a weird concept for parents, handing over the baton to their children, accepting that they are to be the next generation, another, more unflattering, coming of age. Dad had started talking about perhaps coming back to England to live. Mum was already working out dates, wanting to come and stay for a while when the baby was born. I’d instructed everyone to lay off, not get too excited, reminding them of the blood and that the coast was not yet clear. Kayla threw her arms around me, looking genuinely pleased, burying the hatchet on our recent run-ins, or so I’d thought. “I told you it would happen,” she’d laid a hand on my stomach. The day had started as a living nightmare and ended a dream, made even the more special because my parents were here to share the euphoria. It wasn’t until Kayla got me alone, towards the end of the evening, that my bubble burst. “So, sister dearest,” she held onto my upper arm a touch roughly as she pulled me into the downstairs toilet, “tell me about the conception.”

Chapter 22

“So Ms Kirk, how’s life treating you at the moment?”

It’s a while since I’ve been summoned to the lair of Maxwell Hood QC, but here I am, feeling uneasy about it once again. It’s the first day back after what became an extended long weekend. I’d managed to shove work and work-related matters well out of my head. What with my parents being here and with the unexpected turn of events, there was plenty to keep my mind occupied. Kayla had made certain of that. I’d have preferred to stay in denial, but she was having none of it. Whilst everyone else was giving me the royal treatment - Adam was breakfast in bed, running baths and tying up shoelaces Monitor, Mum was on constant kitchen duty – Kayla was busy giving me a reality check with the full force of an asteroid. She came by the next day all sweetness and light, with a mountain of pregnancy magazines, but lured me out for a gentle walk around the block to discuss the matter further, in private. So I never got to enjoy the fact that the bleeding actually cleared up.

We’ve decided not to tell anyone that I’m pregnant until my skirt bursts. The reason I gave Adam for keeping quiet is that I encounter quite enough discrimination at work for being a woman, let alone an expecting one, but the real reason for not sharing the news is because of Anthony. I woke up this morning in a hot sweat that had nothing to do with the weather outside. It was to do with hormones and with what I knew I had to do today, no matter what. Things must be brought to an unequivocal end.

Maxwell Hood QC and his set-up of big chair and big desk and big question sit uncomfortably. “How is life treating you?” It’s an innocuous enough enquiry, but in my current state, paranoia is still running riot. For all I know, he’s got an arsenal of information up his sleeve.

“Life’s treating me very well, thank you,” I say.

“Nice break?” he asks, taking off his glasses, folding them and settling them down on his desk, still in his clasp. He usually only does the glasses on/off thing when he’s in for the long run.

“Why?” I blurt out defensively, and immediately try to rectify my tone with a damage limitation smile.  

“Just checking that you’re well, that you’re comfortable on the Scott Richardson case. We don’t want to send you to an early grave, working you too hard.”

My emotions take a trip to the fun fair, dipping and diving and looping the loop in my belly, but I know I must, I absolutely have to keep them in control. This is neither the time nor the place to lose it. What’s he getting at by ‘comfortable’?   

“I’m fine Max. Our Defence is coming along nicely,” I say.

“Excellent, excellent,” he says, putting his glasses back on, usually my cue to leave.

“Right, then,” I shrug, “anything else?”

“Yes, just one more thing,” he gets up to show me out. “My wife and I are hoping you and that lovely man of yours are free the last Sunday in August. We’re having one of our summer garden parties and we’d love you to come.”

Adam once taught me this excellent reply mechanism. It’s a masterstroke which works well for invites, favours and anything somebody asks of you which you’re not sure about. The trick is this. Never be quick to answer in the affirmative. You don’t have to say no, but you don’t have to give a definite yes either. Always say “I think so, but I’ll need to check to be absolutely certain.” That way you leave the person doing the asking with hope and leave yourself with a get-out. I’m normally pretty good at this, but not today. Today I’m so relieved that the real purpose of Maxwell’s summons was to ask me round to his place for a few drinks that I immediately say yes, thank you and that would be lovely. I don’t buy myself any think time. If I had, I would definitely have said no, we aren’t free, so sorry, what a shame, because Maxwell normally invites everyone from chambers to these dos. Which means that unless Anthony has some prior engagement, he will be there. And so will Adam.   

***

I’m sitting in my office, staring into Ganesh, the elephant-head God’s emerald eyes, thinking back over the ‘talk’ that Kayla and I had had, over our walk round the block. It’s a conversation that’s lingering.

“You know for sure who the father is, don’t you Ali, because I’ve worked out the dates in my head?”

She’d wasted no time in getting to the point. She’d have made a good lawyer. I’d paused, ever so slightly, before answering.

“Of course I do,” I’d retorted, all defensive. “Who’s do you think it is?”

If we hadn’t been walking side by side, she’d have stared me right out.

“Because you wouldn’t have done anything as stupid as not using contraception with this Anthony bloke, would you?”

I’d said nothing. It’s a defendant’s right to not take the stand, let the juror make up his or her own mind as to whether they’re guilty or innocent.

“Because in light of that conversation you had with me over Vijay,” she continues, “anything less would have been extremely hypocritical, wouldn’t you say?”

She was right. I had been incredulous that Kayla, an intelligent woman, could have had sex with a virtual stranger in a foreign land without using any protection. I mean, how reckless can you get?

“Yes,” I’d said quietly, watching my feet tread on the cracks in the pavement, “anything less would have been extremely hypocritical.”

I’m at this point in my head, still looking at Ganesh, wondering whether, if he is indeed on a superior spiritual level, he would either strike me down or not pass any judgement whatsoever, when someone knocks at my door. It’s Anthony.

“A quick word in my office please Ali.”

He speaks with the authority of senior counsel rather than as lover.  The tone is casual, but the nerves started fluttering from my ribcage upwards as soon as I set eyes on him.                                                                                                 

***

I take a deep breath and knock on Anthony’s door, entering on his say so. We’ve rarely been alone in his office and when we have it’s been entirely professional, a conference with our client or catching up on developments in the case. No stolen kisses or sexual frolics or anything like that. He cuts a dashing frame, standing by his window and something in me stirs, as it always does, when I see him. I’m pleased he’s on his feet. Somehow the two of us, sitting down, for our chat, on opposite sides of his desk, doesn’t feel right. I go to join him and the view through the glass of the river and the London Eye.

“Nice weekend?” he asks.

“Very nice,” I say. “You?”

 “Pretty good. Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I don’t elaborate. I’d made one call from the hospital to chambers, to say I wouldn’t be in. I hadn’t even done Anthony the courtesy of letting him know myself. He’d have heard it from one of the clerks, but he won’t castigate or hold it against me. That’s not his style.