Court Out (9 page)

He picks up another piece of my now discarded lunch as I turn my attention to the fresh bottle of ice cold wine.

“Not more crazy wedding ideas?”

I think before Ewan proposed to Serena, Sebastian would have entertained the idea of marriage. Since he’s seen the way in which their plans have escalated exponentially I bet I’d have to physically drag him to a jewellers, force him to hand over his credit card and have him wait at the altar with my father holding him at gunpoint. Not that I’m desperate to get married or anything, but I would have liked to think it was at least a vague possibility.

Sebastian and I met just over three years ago in Selfridges. Can you imagine a more perfect setting? I was perched on a stool trying to decide between two divine pairs of shoes: a pair of patent nude courts with a bow detail and chunky heel from Chloe and a killer pair of pointy black sling backs with a needle thin five inch heel from Alexander McQueen. With one of each pair on each foot I stood up to admire my feet in a nearby mirror.

Whilst I couldn’t strictly afford either pair, I’d had a particularly stressful day and it was either footwear or cake.

As I started to strut towards the mirror I realised that the heel on the Chloe shoe was a good inch shorter than that on my other foot. All too late, I felt my ankle twist over on itself and almost in slow motion, felt myself tipping to my right. To my credit, I remained calm, accepting my fate and waiting for the inevitable pain when I collided with whatever display I was near to. Just as I’d resigned myself to another week of bruises, I felt something interfere with my progress towards the ground. I looked, confused, up to see that a very tall man had managed to catch me about a foot above an angular display unit. Late twenties and wearing an exquisitely cut Paul Smith suit, he smiled down at me.

“Was that a swoon?” he asked, holding me in something similar to a ballroom ‘dip’.

“No, I was throwing myself at you,” I replied, righting myself to an upright position. I balanced on the chunky heel and took a better look at him. Well over six feet tall, with thick dark hair and sparkling green eyes, he wasn’t what I would consider my usual ‘type’ but I was intrigued.

“So do you normally hang around the women’s shoe department waiting for damsels in distress?” I asked, taking hold of his arm to steady myself.

“Yep, nine to five. It’s a legitimate source of income.”

“And do you get much business? Wait, you mean I have to pay you for this?”

“Oh I think you’ll find my rates are quite competitive. I’m sure I have a business card in here somewhere.”

He put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a divine black Mulberry wallet. When I saw it I swear I fell in love at that moment. He opened it and handed me an eggshell business card with neat black writing on it.

‘Sebastian Reid, Director’

Below that was the name of his company and his contact details.

“So let me get this right,” I ask, studying the small print. “An architect that specialises in rescuing females suffering with shopping related mishaps?”

“Well..” he paused, looking amusedly at me “Not exactly. Tell you what, I’ll waive the fee in lieu of a drink.”

I considered this for a split second. I should stress that I didn’t normally pick up random men in the footwear department.

“Before I agree, can you please tell me what you, a lone male is doing looking at ladies shoes?”

“Well, I do have a certain predilection for strappy heels,” he mused.

After silently praying that he wasn’t some kind of weirdo with a foot fetish, I had realised he was potentially too good to be true. Just as I was about to write the encounter off as yet another random encounter with someone certifiable, he laughed.

“It’s my sister’s birthday next week and she’s very specific about what she wants.”

His hand returned to his inside pocket and he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper torn from a fashion magazine. He unfolded it and showed me a photograph of strangely familiar looking shoes. I laughed and pointed to my right foot.

“These what you looking for?”

He stared at my feet for a few seconds before meeting my gaze again, looking troubled.

“Yes, but aren’t shoes generally supposed to match?”

I was about to explain when his face creased into a smile and I realised he was joking. I punched him softly on the arm, nearly losing my balance again in the process. He held my elbow until I righted myself. I looked around.

“As long as she’s not the same size as me, I’ll grab an assistant and you can get a pair.”

“Thanks. After that, what about that drink then?”

I considered this for all of a split second.

“Promise you’re not going to talk about feet the whole time?”

“I’ll try. My therapist says I’m making progress.”

“Ok, but any mention of toes and I’m out.”

He laughed and signaled to a hovering assistant who rushed over, eager to help such a handsome man. I left the shoes in the end, caught up in the unexpected turn of events my afternoon had presented.

We spent a long sunny afternoon at a canal-side bar, idly picking at bar snacks and drinking cold beer. I learned that he had just moved to Farrington from London having set up his own firm in the city centre. As we chatted, I marveled how much we had in common: our love of the Soprano’s, skiing (I know, for someone with no balance, it really shouldn’t work, but by some inverse law of physics, I’m actually quite good) and decent food. We parted with him promising to call me later that week. Whilst the pessimist in me tried to convince myself that he would never make contact, deep down I always knew he would.

When I got into Chambers on the following Monday, our receptionist Carole came bounding up to me with the sort of energy level one normally associates with Labrador puppies.

“You’ve got some parcels!” she’d exclaimed.

“Ok...” At the time there was nothing unusual about that, as I had normally got everything that I order off the Internet posted to Chambers.

“I’ve put them on your desk! Make sure you come show me later”

“Erm, thanks”

I’d travelled the lift to the top floor and watched as the ground sunk quickly below me. As I swiped my pass card into our floor, I let my mind wander to the work that was waiting for me. On approaching my desk, the source of Carole’s enthusiasm became clear because instead of the Amazon packaging, or the usual department store wrapped box, sat there was two very familiar shoe boxes. I squealed and ran over, not really needing to open them to know their contents. Sure enough, in one box the nude Chloe heels, the other the black Alexander McQueen pair. A card lay in the base of the second box. In elegant script the message read ‘I hope to catch you every time you fall, S.’

He looks at me now and I reply. “No, Not more crazy wedding ideas. Well not today anyway. I wouldn’t put it past her to have rearranged the whole ceremony to fit in with some new-fangled idea she’s seen on Wedding TV by tomorrow though.”

“Poor Ewan, she’s driving him round the bend, not to mention to bankruptcy.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?” I ask, worried that Serena is way in above her head.

“Yeah, but you know how proud he is; he’d never say that he couldn’t afford every whim she’s been demanding.”

Sebastian and Ewan have become friends over the past few years through being dragged out with Serena and I. Whilst they come from completely different backgrounds, they’ve bonded through the stress of dating women who spend half of their lives working and the majority of the remainder either drunk or asleep. Ewan has told Sebastian on a number of occasions of his wish that Serena will one day pack it all in and stay at home to become a mother. Whilst it’s a nice idea in theory, I doubt very much that she’d ever give up the career she’s worked so hard to forge.

“Lets not talk about them now,” I say. “We have much more important things to discuss.” With this I straighten up in my chair, clear my throat and look at him expectantly.

Sebastian pales visibly, his eyes flicking from side to side in panic.

“No escape from this I’m afraid darling. It has to be done. I mean, neither of us are getting any younger and we really have to seize the moment.”

He licks his lips and drums his fingers on the table. There’s a long pause that I struggle not to fill.

“Lauren, what are you talking about?”

I deliberate making him worry a little longer but a rumbling noise makes me cut the torture short.

“Dessert. I don’t know about you, but that chocolate sponge pudding with custard has my name on it.”

He throws a lone sachet of tomato ketchup at me, not appreciating that I opened it earlier. I shriek as the sauce splatters across my face and launch a crouton from my plate in his direction.

“Now, now!” he laughs, “You have to convince me I can trust you with a hot meal before I order you anything else!”

“As if I’d waste a good pud on your ugly mug!” I giggle.

“Ah, good point. Are you this eloquent in court too?” He retorts.

“Right, this is war Reid!” I cry, flinging random pieces of Mediterranean vegetables in his direction.

By the time the waitress arrives to take our order, we are covered in various items from our leftover meals. Sebastian’s come out worse, but I suspect the mushy peas on my nose are what are causing her to stare.

“Anything off the sweet menu?” she enquires in a nasally voice, patting down the front of her uniform when she gets a better look at Sebastian. I smirk, even underneath a face mask of assorted condiments he can still pull. Sebastian has the good sense to order me the chocolate sponge and adds on a treacle tart for himself. The waitress sashays off to the kitchen and I lick my lips in anticipation of the sugary goodness to come. Something dawns on me.

“Can I try a bit of yours too?”

“No. If you wanted that one then you should have ordered it”

“But I only want a little bit. It’d have been a complete waste if I had a whole one”

“No.” He replies adamantly.

I poke him with my fork and adopt a whiney voice, “You wont eat it all anyway. Please?”

“No”

I try and think of any bargaining chip at my disposal. After I pause I realise, “If I can’t try yours then you can’t try mine. Plus I’ll tell your personal trainer about the fish and chips.” Got him. He looks at me with an expression of amusement and mock horror.

“What! Oh fine then.”

He removes the fork from my hand to prevent further attack and plants a kiss on my forehead.

And this Ladies and Gentlemen is why I’m a good barrister.

Chapter Seven

The summons to Roger’s office comes early Wednesday morning. I’m sat at my desk working through an enormous pile of advices when one of our junior clerks, Adam comes running in. He’s out of breath and pauses at the door, propping himself up on the doorframe panting slightly. I wonder with exasperation what the problem is this time. Adam gets ridiculously worked up about the most trivial of issues on an hourly basis, from stray briefs to stray barristers. Happily, the latter only happens when there’s a full moon and even then, it’s never for long. He catches his breath and I wait to see what crisis is causing him to miss his eleven AM cigarette.

“Miss, He needs to see you downstairs.”

“For the last time, it’s Lauren, but anyway, who wants to see me?”

He ignores this, and studiously looks at his feet.

“Roger, Miss, it’s all hit the fan, he needs to sort it out now.”

As Adam rushes back out, his long legs tripping slightly on a badly positioned cardboard box of papers next to the door, I start to panic. I have no idea what I’ve done to incur the wrath of Roger, a figure feared by all in Chambers. With the power to make or break a practice, he is not one to be messed with.

A short, scruffy looking man with a limp, he is perhaps an excellent example of when people should not be judged on their appearance alone. Many years ago a pupil decided that Roger’s air of vagrancy meant that he could demand better briefs and threaten to ‘report him to his father’ if said request was not carried out. I can still remember the collected audience (including our head of Chambers) who had the delight in watching the poor pupil being thrown headfirst out of the fire exit in the clerks room by Roger, shouting “Tell daddy about THIS!” Needless to say he’s no longer practicing on this circuit. 

When the smoking ban came in, Roger decided to interpret this as guidance rather than law. The irony is that not one of our criminal team has had the bottle to tell him he can no longer light up in the clerks room for fear of repercussions.

I gather my wits and make the journey downstairs. I forego the lift for the stairs as I think I could do with an extra few minutes to gather my thoughts. The stairwell is empty and as I walk, I rack my brains to try and think why I’m in the firing line. For once, my mind comes up blank. I push the door to the clerks room open and notice immediately that the atmosphere is one of trepidation.

The phones are ringing loudly and the admin staff are constantly putting people on hold whilst trying to get the attention of various clerks. I make eye contact with Stella, another of our clerks who is arguing down her headset with an unknown party.  She nods her head towards Roger’s room and mouths ‘good luck.’

Well that’s it then. I’ve clearly done something truly awful. The Lenihan case? Surely not, that’s all been resolved now. Serena? No, she’d have said something. My pulse is racing as I slide open the partition to the inner sanctum and I can feel a cold sweat developing on the back of my neck. I know this is ridiculous as I’ve done nothing wrong, but that doesn’t banish the ever heightening sense of dread.

My eyes adjust to the slightly darker room and I see Roger standing in the corner of the room, eyes darting over a piece of paper held between his yellowing fingers. I nervously clear my throat and he looks up.

“Ah, good. Take a seat Miss.”

I do as I’m told and perch on a hard wooden chair placed near to his desk. Roger assumes the seat on the opposite side of the desk and removes a packet of cigarettes from the top drawer. I watch as he puts one in his mouth and expertly lights it with a match from a book concealed under his keyboard. The room fills with smoke and I try not to cough. He fixes his beady eyes on me and speaks.