Lover in Law (29 page)

Adam sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. He was at the hospital when I’d called, having a breather with Paul, outside, giving his father’s two ex-wives a moment alone with him, sitting vigil by his bedside. I’d felt awkward about actually going there, hadn’t wanted to overcrowd things. In any event, Adam had said that visiting hours finished at eight. As long as his father was stable, they all planned to go home for the night. “Just be there,” Adam said, when I’d asked how I could help. So I’d told him not to get a crappy takeaway, that I had dinner covered and would be at Paul’s shortly after eight, unless I heard to the contrary. I’d been waiting outside, when they got back.

“I’m so, so sorry,” I’d said, hugging him as tight as my bump would allow, as soon as he got out of Paul’s car.

“So am I,” he’d said, squeezing me as if his life depended on it.

We weren’t just sorry about Lewis. We were sorry about us, about how we’d behaved, about what we’d become. With that hug, the past few weeks seemed to evaporate, to float away. We held each other for a long, long time. We would have held on longer, but I saw Paul hovering out the corner of my eye and broke away so I could hug him too. Then we all went inside and I heated up the fish pie I’d prepared at home. There were a lot of interruptions. Their mobiles and the land line kept ringing, constantly, as well-wishers and relatives called to find out the latest, but this wasn’t about being social, it was about being there, just like Adam had wanted. When it got to about ten o’clock, I collected my stuff, said I really ought to be heading back.

 “Stay,” Adam had said, taking my hand as I headed out the kitchen, reluctant to let me go.

I’d paused a moment, considering, but decided that both despite the circumstances and because of them, this wasn’t the right time or the right place. I should be in my own bed.  

“I have to Adam,” I’d said, lowering a protective hand to my tummy. “I’m really tired. I need to sleep. But you can call me anytime, anyplace, I’m here for you. I promise.”

He’d kissed me lightly on the lips, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, then drew me in close.

“You know,” he’d said, his head over my left shoulder, “it was horrible seeing him lying there, looking so normal and yet so lifeless, with all these wires everywhere and this machine constantly beeping. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t look like my Dad. I only saw him a couple of days ago. He was so fit, so healthy. This isn’t how it’s meant to end.”

“I know,” I’d comforted, rubbing my hands up and down his back.

That’s how scarily fragile life is. From one second to the next, anything is possible. I, too, was saddened by the image of Lewis. He was such a vital man, so full of energy. And he’d always been so lovely to me. With my parents in Canada he took it upon himself to be my second father. He’d always wanted a girl, he’d confided, and now he had one. I’d loved it, when he’d said that, when he’d embraced me as his own, making me feel so totally part of his family.

“Things like this,” Adam had said, “force you to put things in perspective, to realize what really matters.”

He didn’t need to spell it out. I understood what he was saying.

“I know,” I’d said.

“God, I just want another chance to tell him how much I love him. I can’t remember the last time I told him that.”

“Well then,” I’d said, “Let’s hope beyond hope that you get that chance.”

I tell Kayla all this as we lay side by side, on our backs, holding hands. The whole episode has forced us to face our parents’ mortality, as well as our own. Should the same thing happen to Mum or Dad would we even make it in time, to their bedside? Would we get that chance to tell them we loved them?

“So, how do you feel, you know, about Adam,” asks Kayla. “Do you think the two of you still have a chance?”

“Who knows,” I say. “There’s a lot going on. There’s a lot confusing the issue.”

“Or perhaps,” she says, extricating her clasp from mine, rolling over, “it’s making everything a lot clearer.”

After delivering these pearls of wisdom, she plants a pillow over her head, a signal that she’s ready to doze. Some of us, unfortunately, have to go to work. The baby slides over first and my body follows. Slowly, in a cumbersome, ungainly fashion, the two of us get up.   

***

I’ve just picked up the phone to call Sebastian the computer geek, on a serious bribery mission, when I see tufts of red, followed by orange, followed by Anthony’s entire head of hair as he peers round the door. I put down the receiver, on action reflex. My pulse quickens to the extent that my hands fly to my ears, to shield them from the deafening thump. I haven’t forgotten where we left off.

“I can come back later if this is a bad time,” he says.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I say.

It’s fine because I’ve made a decision. Telling Anthony is a huge mistake. I can’t tell him without telling Adam, which I have no intention of doing. We don’t have a sofa, so Anthony plants himself behind Neeta’s desk, on her chair with wheels and steers himself in reverse. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

He’s good at the bedside, intro chat. He’d have probably made a great Doctor, the way that he talks to people, eases them in, encouraging them to open up. His strong, manly hands, they’re perfectly designed for healing, quite wasted on the law.

“I’m good thanks,” I say.

It’s true. I do feel better. Like Adam said, there’s nothing like the grim reaper to put things in perspective. My predicament could be worse. I’ve got my health, a baby on the way. There’s a lot to be thankful for.

“You didn’t seem so good yesterday,” he says.

It’s nice of him to care.

“Today’s another day,” I say.

He kicks with his heels, wheeling himself back and forth, chewing on a nail, distractedly. Adam does that, when he’s anxious, but I’m not sure what Anthony should be worrying about. 

“Ali,” he says, “we need to talk.”

He stares at my tummy, as fixated as if I’d grown a freak second belly button. The baby rolls like a wave under my skin, in response to his gaze. Somewhere, deep down, perhaps they both know.

“Yes?” I whisper.

We both look up, at each other, simultaneously.   

“Ali, about what you were say-”

He stops, because Jon the clerk appears from nowhere, without knocking, brandishing an elaborate bouquet of whites and blues and ferns.

“Why, thank you very much,” Anthony jokes.

“Err, no, err sorry sir,” Jon takes Anthony literally. “They’re for Ali.”

I stick my nose into a trumpet as he hands them over, inhaling deeply. “Wow, they’re beautiful,” I say. Pregnancy has enhanced my sense of smell. For me, a single lily has the potent aroma of sweet, late harvested champagne, with a spicy finish that lingers on the palate. This is a first, having flowers delivered at chambers. As Jon leaves, I unpin the little white envelope from the cellophane, open it up. It’s a welcome distraction. The message, ‘with love, A x’ is inconclusive.

“So,” Anthony smiles, getting up. “Who have you made happy?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve any idea?” I ask, hopeful.

“Not a clue,” he shrugs, heading for the door, apologizing that he’s just remembered something he’s forgotten to do, promising to catch up later.

***

Kayla’s lying on the sofa, watching the news when I get back from seeing Lewis at the hospital. I’d wanted to see him. He had, after all, been my father-in-law in all but name for eleven years. I’d spoken to Adam earlier, to check on his Dad, to check if it would be ok to visit and, hedging my bets, to thank him for the flowers. They had, indeed, been from him. When I’d said they were beautiful but there was no need, he’d said yes there was. He’d said I was the best thing that ever happened to him. He knew he’d been a prick and he hoped it wasn’t too late to make things better. Lewis is still in a coma. I found the whole thing quite distressing. I’ve never much liked hospitals, but in my current condition I’m emotional about practically everything, the tap turns on at the slightest provocation. Yesterday I noticed the plant on my desk had died and even that made me cry, so it’s no surprise I was a quivering wreck watching Lewis’ chest rise and fall to the regular beep of the monitor he’s attached to. It was too overwhelming to stay long. Adam understood, said it was just nice that I had come, we’d speak soon.

“Hi there,” she says, looking up when I pop my head round the lounge door. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” I say, taking off my coat. “I’m tired.”

She turns down the volume on the TV.

“How’s everyone bearing up?” she asks.

She’s alluding to Lewis and Adam and, I presume, Paul. She’s stayed away, not from lack of compassion, but to give Adam and I more privacy. And besides, she’s never actually met Lewis. 

“Paul sends his love,” I tell her.

Kayla looks pleased.

“That’s nice,” she says.

I think she genuinely likes him. Quite a result, considering she hadn’t originally found him even vaguely attractive. She must be growing up.  

“Is he ok?” she asks.

“He’s doing alright,” I reassure her. “I think he’d like to see you.”

She nods.

“And you and Adam?” she asks.

I shake my head, shrugging off my coat. I’ve been thinking about Adam all day on and off, wondering what I do or don’t want, reaching no conclusion.

“Oh, I don’t know Kay. I really don’t know.”

Chapter 33

Anthony comes into my office just as I put the phone down to Sebastian the computer geek. I’m alone, which is just as well. Neeta would probably have done a striptease in protest at just quite how sycophantic I’d been. The thing is, Sebastian might be nerdy, juvenile, cocky and standoffish, but I need him, must kowtow to him. I have to know who the sender of the obscene messages actually is. This knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing. I’ve taken my inability to schmooze Sebastian as a personal slight on my professional prowess. Not an outright cock-up, I did get the transcript after all, but I need more. Without knowing the author, the words, in this instance, are meaningless. With this in mind, I’d decided the best approach was to put the information gathering on hold. More important was to get Sebastian back on side. For him to like me, to trust me. So, I gave a virtuoso performance in brown nosing, apologizing profusely for pushing him too far, telling him, on reflection, that I respected his right to keep certain information confidential. I owed him one for being such a class act pain, I said, over and over, like a refrain in a symphony. “Even if I could set you up on a date with a supermodel, or Sahara herself, I don’t reckon that would be compensation enough,” I’d joked. Well, it was a half-joke. I’d idly wondered whether Scott Richardson could call in a favour from his ex, as retribution for making false allegations about him to the tabloids. Anyway, that was by the by, because Sebastian, slightly perked up by the almost flirty diversion our conversation had taken, confided that whilst Sahara’s boobs were great, the rest of her was far too skinny. He prefers the fuller figure. “In fact,” he’d lowered his voice, “I know it’s slightly unorthodox, but I’ve a thing for pregnant women.” He hadn’t known I was with child. That was pure fluke, but it was also my cue, if ever there was one, to pimp myself. So I asked, if he could bear to put up with me for a couple of hours, could I treat him to lunch at Mayfair’s finest French bistro, as a way of showing my appreciation. He’d said, yes, that would be fine, but he was off on holiday tomorrow for a fortnight, it would have to be when he got back. We go to trial in a month. Two weeks is really cutting it fine. I had no choice, however, so we made the date, I wished him a good trip and said goodbye. Now Anthony has my full attention.

“Got much on?” he asks.

“Not particularly,” I say. “Why?”

I haven’t read the case portfolio for a while. I thought I’d sift through it today, do some forensic on it, in case I’ve missed something, overlooked a possible clue. Sometimes the benefit of time helps you see things differently. It can wait though.    

“I think you’ve earned a couple of hours off,” he says. “In fact, I think we both have.” He lifts down my big, glossy hardback yellow Selfridges change of clothes bag from its hook behind the door and hands it over. “Oh, and you might be more comfortable in these,” he adds.

We’ve been here before, well sort of. The last time I changed from office rags into casual garb we ended up in Regents Park together, then back in his bedroom. I’m sure that’s not where we’re headed now. 

“You may not have noticed,” I try to fob him off, pulling out first the T-shirt, then the hooded cardigan, followed by the skinny designer jeans, which I wave in the air, a trophy of former fitness, “but these don’t fit anymore!”

He tells me it doesn’t matter; we’re going out all the same. I don’t object. Everything’s been a bit heavy of late. A couple of hours’ light relief could do me good.

***

We’re cruising on the open deck of a London tourist boat, ignoring the running commentary sounding through the speakers of what’s to the left and the right. It’s not quite a trip down the Seine, but it’s still pretty nice. Anthony has made the chivalric gesture of placing his jacket over my shoulders. Whilst it’s beautifully mild and bright for an October day, there’s a light northerly breeze blowing, gaining extra chill as it kicks off the water, which even extra baby weight isn’t insulating. I’ve never done this before and neither has Anthony, an outrage considering the quay where you embark is practically opposite our chambers. Were I not seven months pregnant I’d have considered this, us sat here, side-by-side, each cupping a take-away polystyrene Costa Coffee latte, as sweetly romantic.