Lover in Law (20 page)

“So no one ever made it to see John Russell.”

John Russell is another potential witness in the Scott Richardson case. The lead had come from one of Scott’s old school friends. Whilst he himself couldn’t really remember Cameron Matthews, he did know of someone, a boy from the year below, who’d been Cameron’s neighbour at the time. He’d known Cameron quite well back then, not out of choice, but out of convenience, having been forced into a rota together. We’d been due to meet the morning I’d been rushed to hospital, but I’d had to cancel. 

“No. It’s been rescheduled for this afternoon.”

“What time for?” he asks.

“Two. Why?”

“I had the Solicitor on the phone first thing. Scott Richardson’s called an emergency meeting. He’s coming in at three.”

I haven’t seen my client for a fair few weeks. His absence has been wonderfully sedating to my nerves. I’d told Anthony about the dream where Scott Richardson threatened to kill me, holding a blade to my throat, as well as my flashback of it, stood there, tightly packed against one another in his toilet. My colleague had put it down to too vivid an imagination. I’ve since put it down to over-reactionary hormones.   

“What does he want to talk about?”

“Not a clue. He said he’d tell us more face to face.”

“He’s not going to change his plea is he?”

“I think it’s unlikely, but your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, ok,” I say, slightly surprised and a tad disappointed. Whilst Scott Richardson pleading guilty would make my life more comfortable, effectively ending the case and my working relationship with Anthony, I’d been looking forward to going the whole way with this one. A lot of time and effort’s gone into it and I think we’re getting closer to the winning line. “I’ll see if we can get to John Russell earlier then. Or do you think we should put him on hold?”

“No. I think its full steam ahead until we know any different. Go and see him now if you can.”

“Oh, ok then,” I say, and then falter. For once I hadn’t prepared a speech. I couldn’t begin to imagine what to say, so I decided to wing it, hoping that when the time came it didn’t come out badly. His arm brushes against mine, lightly, innocently, inadvertently, as he turns to pick up some papers on his desk.

“Go on then,” he says, patting me teasingly on the behind with the documents. “Make haste woman,” he jokes.

“Alright then, we’ll talk more later.”

I’m not procrastinating, or wavering. I’m delaying, till after our meeting with Scott Richardson. Now that I think of it, logically, the end of the day is a much better time. That way we can both go home and deal with the aftermath privately.

We smile and connect before I shut the door behind me. It’s amazing how in four days someone can change so much. The old Alison Kirk is still there, feeling the same feelings, but she’s become much stronger, because this is no longer just about Alison Kirk. 

Chapter 23

Scott Richardson clears his throat. For the first time in his company I feel quite unaffected by his presence, possibly because we’re not alone. Anthony, our Solicitor Michael and I are all sitting here, in chambers’ conference room, on tenterhooks, waiting for our client to put us out our misery. No Lawyer likes to be kept in the dark. It’s quite unnerving. I’ve managed to convince myself that he is going to change his plea, which, following the meeting with John Russell this morning, is even more of a disappointment. John remembered Cameron as being somewhat odd, with few friends and strange hobbies. He also recalled Cameron being obsessed with Scott Richardson. The riddle is starting to unravel. The evidence is building nicely to our client’s innocence. He takes a sip of Perrier, as do I, on reflex.

“I thought you should know,” he clears his throat again, “that a certain tabloid is holding onto a story about me. I wanted to warn you, before they run with the splash.”

“Go on,” says Anthony.

“The story’s got nothing to do with the court case, but I’m not sure if the whole thing could have an effect on it. Which is why I thought it best to see you guys.”

Anthony says nothing and I follow his lead, although I wish Scott would bloody hurry up. 

 “Have you heard of Sahara?”

Scott and I discussed the EE boob job model-turned-pop star, right after I saw her photo on his toilet wall. I also suddenly recall that reading about her in the papers a couple of months ago had spurred me to take my Clear Blue test to the toilet. Only I never did it because there’d been blood in my knickers. Anyway, what’s Sahara got to do with anything?

“She’s pregnant right?” I say, although I can’t imagine what the relevance of that is. Anthony looks impressed. It’s possible that he hasn’t heard of her.  

“Correct,” says Scott. “And the story is that it’s my baby. Sahara’s claiming she’s pregnant with my child and that I’m being a total bastard in denying it.”

I can see the headline now, ‘SCOTT RICHARDS-SON?’ in big, bold capitals.

“Is it your baby?” asks Anthony.

“No, it’s not.”

“How do you know?” asks Anthony.

 “I don’t want to go into it, but I just know,” says Scott.

“Can you prove it?” asks Anthony.

“If it came to it.”

“Well then, you could sue the paper for libel,” says Anthony.

“Be that as it may,” says Scott. “If this does come out, could it have an adverse affect on our case?”

“Ali, what do you think,” asks Anthony, generously bringing me into the conversation.

“It depends on what’s written. What do they have on you?” I ask.

“Whatever they’ve got, it’s all her side of the story,” says Scott.

“I’d be surprised if the Editor ran with an unsubstantiated story. It’s not worth his while financially,” I say. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling us.”

“I promise you. That baby is not mine.”

“Well,” I say, thinking carefully on my feet, “I’m no PR expert and we can call them in if you want, but as far as I can see, we’ve only got two ways to go on this. You can either pre-empt the splash by telling your side of the story or you can sit tight and hope it all blows away.” I throw the ball back. “Anthony?”

“Yes, I think you’re pretty much on the money.”

Scott looks troubled. His eyes dart back and forth, weighing up the options. 

“I really don’t want to tell my side of the story,” he says.

“As your counsel, may I ask why?”

“It’s highly personal and I’d rather not go into it unless I absolutely have to,” he says, holding my gaze.

“As your counsel we wouldn’t be doing our job properly if we didn’t recommend, most strongly, that you disclose everything, otherwise you’re making it hard for us to give proper advice. Let me reassure you again that anything you say within these four walls is absolutely confidential.”

 “I understand what you’re saying, but I think,” says Scott Richardson, running a finger up and down his pointy chin, “that on reflection I’ll take my chances and run the gauntlet.”

***

Anthony and I are sitting opposite each other on high back purple cushioned armchairs in a seedy, gothic wine bar hewn out of a cellar. It’s an atmospheric haunt, at the end of Chancery Lane. I chose it because we’ve not been here before, but really it’s highly unsuitable, save that it’s neutral territory and not frequented by many Barristers. I shouldn’t be on the booze and I’m not, although Anthony thinks I am. I made sure that I got the drinks in. A huge decanter size measure of red for him and what looks like champagne for me, although my glass is full of nothing more intoxicating than sparkling water with a drop of lime cordial. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” I say.

There’s no going back now. A natural moment had presented itself after Scott Richardson left. It had been just the two of us, in Anthony’s office. At first we’d discussed the Sahara bombshell and its implications and then I knew the time was right, only the place was wrong, so I’d suggested going for a drink. I’d been wondering, as I waited to be served at the bar, whether I should relax into it first or get it over and done with. I’d actually chosen the relaxing option, but after he’d put his wine to his lips and I’d done the same, I knew that it was now or never. I’d counted down from three to one, and out it blurted.

“You can’t do what?” he says, although his eyes register understanding.

“I can’t do the lies thing anymore. I can’t be doing with all the secrets.”

There’s a silence, a pause, as Anthony digests it.

“Ok, so what do you want?”

Anthony stays cool, gives little away. Anybody looking at us would think we were two friends, having a drink and average end of day chat. I doubt the import of what we’re communicating comes across. Anthony’s laid-back and chill in his chair. My body language is slightly more upright and closed, legs crossed, leaning ever so slightly towards him.

“I’ve got a boyfriend. It’s not right. It should never have gone this far.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes I am,” I reply.

If Anthony had asked me that same question a week ago, I might have answered differently, but I’ve since put all that Charlotte Buchanan stuff down to paranoia and now I’m wondering if it was all some hormone-driven hallucination. Anyway, even if I weren’t happy with Adam, I’m still having his baby. That alone would be reason enough to end this affair.

“If you were so happy, why did you let this happen in the first place?”

I knew that one was coming.

“I shouldn’t have.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t resist,” I say.

He smiles. It’s the first emotion he’s displayed. I wonder what a married man says when he breaks off an affair. I’m sorry, I can’t give you what you want, you deserve better. I’m sure half of them don’t bother giving an explanation at all. Perhaps the phone stops ringing and it just fizzles out. If I hadn’t got pregnant, who knows what would have happened to Anthony and I. Would we have just fizzled out? I doubt it. We were more sizzle than fizzle. It would probably have exploded, or, or who knows.

“We were pretty good together, weren’t we?” he says.

“Yes, we were,” I agree. A not so small part of me does, I admit, regret that I won’t experience what the two of us had ever again.

“Why now?” he asks. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing’s changed,” I lie. “It’s just I can’t do this to Adam anymore.”

Why could I do it to Adam before and not now? I can’t offer Anthony a better reason. The truth would not help me out here.

“It’s alright Ali,” he says. “I’ve always said I didn’t want you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

“Thank you.”

He’s making this incredibly easy for me.

 “And work?” I ask.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure we’re both big enough and bad enough to get through it.”

“Thank you, again,” I say.

I had been worried he might take it badly and that I’d embarrass myself at chambers or that he’d get me kicked off the Scott Richardson case.

“Stop thanking me Ali.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry either.”

“But I am. If we’d met ten years earlier-”

 “Live for the moment Ali.”

That’s why Anthony’s taken this so well. I do believe he does, genuinely, seize the day.

“No regrets?” he asks.

“No,” I shake my head. “No regrets.”

***

I’m lying on the sofa, later that night, in front of the TV, agitated, very agitated, screaming, sleeping. I wake to find myself in Adam’s firm, reassuring embrace, yet I am not reassured. My heartbeat’s racing, my body’s tense and trembling. My hairline’s daubed with perspiration. “Shush, shush,” he rocks me gently back and forth. “It’s ok. It’s just a bad dream.” I slowly come to. The taste of fear is in my mouth, a bitter pill that’s stuck at the back of my throat. I’m disorientated and can’t quite work out how I got here.

I remember feeling lighter when I got home. Lighter than I feel now. More resolved. The quiet of the house without my parents and Kayla constantly around had been a welcome relief. The evening was beautifully balmy, so we’d thrown a couple of chicken quarters on a disposable barbecue, a couple of jacket potatoes in the microwave and made a salad, which we ate outside on the porch. “We need to make the most of moments like this,” Adam had said. We’d finished eating and were enjoying the silence of our back garden, broken only by intermittent dusk birdsong and a dog barking in the distance. We’d sat a while longer, finally heading indoors after a couple of mosquitoes had been spied hovering round Adam’s ankles. We’d barely been settled a minute in front of the television when I’d said to Adam “do you know what I’d really, really love right now?” I’d got my first craving. We didn’t have what I wanted at home, so he’d gamely volunteered to go and hunt it down. I must have fallen asleep whilst Adam was out on his quest.

“What time is it?” I ask, slowly relaxing into the here and the now.

“Quarter past nine.”