Lover in Law (13 page)

“So,” I say as I enter the galley kitchen adjacent to the lounge, where Scott’s got a pot of tea on the brew. “What was Nelson Mandela like?”

“Oh, yes, the loo gallery,” he laughs, slightly imperiously. “Well,” he pretends to think about it, as if it’s the first time that question’s ever been posed. It’s probably an interviewer’s trick, to make everyone feel special. “You know what, if I’d been granted one wish of meeting someone, whoever I wanted, I’d have picked him, so it was a real honour to have him on my show. And he didn’t disappoint. So many of them do. So many celebrities have become parodies of themselves, full of hot air and hyperbole, but Nelson was genuine and humble and inspiring and polite. And off camera he kept asking me stuff about myself, as if he were genuinely interested. And when you think about his life, what he’s achieved, what he’s been through. If only we could all be a hundredth of the man he is.”

I nod, impressed. Even if it is fake modesty, at least he’s giving humility a bash.

“And Sahara? Did she live up to your expectations?” I doubt it was her politics that interested him.

“Sahara lives up to my every expectation,” he says enigmatically. 

It’s my job to note and register everything someone says. Even off duty, my brain’s on constant radar to pick up nuances, grammatical slips. It’s how to trip up witnesses in cross-examination, repeat something they’ve just said, even if they didn’t mean it or if it came out the wrong way, to get them flustered. So my ears pricked up the instant Scott used the present tense when talking about Sahara.

Scott hands me a mug. “Thank you,” I say, as we walk through into the lounge. “The school photo. I got you straight away.”

“You sure?”

He leads us back to the toilet, squeezing into the tiny room behind me, so horribly near that once again I feel hot air rings blowing intermittently on my neck and flare up in hives. Rammed up tight against him in the snuggest of rooms, the skin on my chest itching like heat rash, the horrific nightmare of Scott holding me in a neck-lock with a blade to my throat, flashes before me. The mirror ahead throws back the image of his bulbous nose and pointy chin. I cast my eyes down to the school photo, imagine my tea’s a triple whisky on the rocks and take a huge swig.

“There you go.” 

I point to an extremely pretty looking boy, in the middle of the back row. Tall and golden, not a smidgen of acne or coarse skin in sight. He nods that I’m right. 

“How old were you then?” I ask.

“Thirteen.”

“Tough age to be at an all-boys school,” I tease, trying to lighten my mood.

“Fear not. There was an all-girls school round the corner.”

 “Cameron Matthews, is he here?”

“Yes, yes, he is, hold on,” his eyes travel back and forth along the rows. “After you first told me of his allegations I came back to check the picture, to see if we were really at school together. There’s a key on the back,” he adds, “otherwise I’m not sure I’d have recognised him. That’s him there.”

He points to a slightly overweight looking kid sitting cross-legged in the front. He has a flat, squashed fairly nondescript moon face with square NHS spectacles perched on his nose. His hair is brown and neatly combed with a side parting. 

I soak up his image, trying to worm into the mindset of Cameron Matthews. If I’m to believe my client, and as his Barrister I must, then I need to work out Cameron Matthew’s motive for trying to frame Scott first for attempted murder and now for murder, going to the police with allegations even before Rupert died. Sex and money, in my experience, are the most common motivators.

“What does he look like now?” I ask.

“Well, he’s swapped the specs for contacts, his hairline’s receding and (Scott pats his stomach subconsciously) middle age spread’s got the better of him.”

Not like Scott then.

“Did you have any friends in common?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you still in touch with anyone from school?”

Maybe his friends will remember Cameron better, because Scott’s got no recollection whatsoever.

“Yeah, a couple of guys, but I haven’t seen either in ages. Just the odd e-mail, the yearly Christmas card, that kind of thing.”

“That’s a start,” I say, shifting my body carefully past his, making a beeline for the safety and space of the lounge. Some contact’s better than no contact. I’ll be following up all the leads I can get.

He pulls the most genuine, most charming of smiles, looking most boyish, most handsome, most benign.

***

Adam and I are enjoying pasta at our favourite Soho Italian, Pulcinella. I’d not hung around long at Scott’s and was about to head back to chambers when Adam called, to say he’d just been offered freebies to this new hit West End show and did I want to go. I didn’t hesitate. The more time I spend with Adam the better. There was no point returning to work, so we decided to meet at his office and grab a quick bite to eat before making our way to the Apollo on Shaftesbury Avenue.     

“You look really beautiful,” Adam says, picking up a piece of French bread from the little basket on our table to soak up the residue of creamy sauce left in his bowl from his spaghetti carbonara. Adam always does that, when he’s finished his meal. If there’s no bread left on the table, he’ll usually ask for more.

“Oh shut up,” I say, taking my last mouthful of lasagne. I haven’t finished it. It’s just that I’ve had enough. I wasn’t particularly hungry in the first place. I haven’t felt in the mood for food since that night with Anthony.    

“No, really. I mean it.” He looks at me intently, as if he’s never clapped eyes on me before. “You look different. I can’t work it out. Your skin, your hair, you look softer than usual.”

“Oh come on.”

I’ve never taken compliments well. I find it hard just to accept and say thank you.

 He leans over, takes my hand in his. “I really love you Alison Kirk, do you know that?”

I don’t deserve the loving way he’s looking at me. If this scene had taken place a month ago, I’d have been screaming inwardly ‘then marry me, ask me to marry you’. Now it’s just enough to know that I haven’t lost him. Yes, I’m attracted to Anthony and yes, if I were single I’d jump into bed with him again and again, but I’m not. I’m in a long-term relationship. We’ve got history. I know that he’s going to wipe his plate squeaky clean with bread. I know that first thing, when he gets up, he blows his nose with three loud honks. I know that he keeps a bottle of whisky by his bed for when he can’t sleep. I know that he likes to fiddle with ingrown hairs on his neck. It’s not all sexy, but it is comforting. We’ve got a future. I don’t want to jeopardise that. I sigh quietly, vowing to myself that tomorrow I will talk to Anthony. 

Chapter 15

“Busy day?” Anthony had asked when he’d come into my office this morning.

“Not particularly,” I’d replied. No trial, nothing really pressing. I tend to find that I’m either snowed under or things are frustratingly slow, but today is a rare pitch of in-between.

“Right then,” he’d said. “We’re going out for a long lunch.”

“Business or pleasure?” I’d asked, instantly regretting the flirtatious tone. 

He’d raised an eyebrow, but hadn’t answered.

“Oh, and you’ll be needing these,” he’d added.

He’d lifted down my big, glossy hardback yellow Selfridges bag from its hook behind the door. How he’d known what was inside is because once, a while back, he’d come into my office after I’d changed into its contents – a pair of well-worn jeans, a snug-fitting petrol blue T-shirt, a thin navy hooded cardigan and a pair of black trainers. He’d done a double take, surprised to see me in something other than a suit. I’d been meeting Kayla in town after work, I think, and hadn’t wanted to wear a skirt and jacket. After complaining to Adam once about doing just that, spending a night on the tiles dressed in smart black twin-set, he’d suggested keeping some going out clothes in the office. That’s what HE does, only in reverse. It’s an emergency pair of chinos and smart blazer Adam stashes under his desk.

“What are these for?” I’d said, as Anthony handed over the bag. “I thought we were going out for lunch.” 

“It’s not that kind of lunch.”

“So what are YOU going to wear?” I’d said.

Anthony was wearing his trademark baggy dark blue three-piece. Whilst cooler than most office attire, it could hardly be termed casual.                                                      

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. Right then, meet you in fifteen at the bus stop on the far side of the Embankment?”

I’d looked at my watch. “But it’s only 10.30!”

“Like I said, it’s going to be a long lunch.”

I didn’t object because we still hadn’t had a chance to talk properly. He’d been playing it cool, at least that’s how it felt, and every time I’d been about to start my spiel, something had happened to stop me in my tracks. Like a colleague or a clerk popping up out of nowhere, like one of our phones going. Twice, at the end of the day, when I’d tried to find him, to suggest a quick drink, he hadn’t been around. I’d been starting to wonder if we didn't need to have ‘the chat’ because Anthony had already moved on.  

I shouldn’t feel guilty taking time out. Barristers are all self-employed. A fifth of our earnings go on clerks fees and rent. I’m my own boss. Nevertheless, as someone with a strict work ethic, I’d felt like a truant. Guilt aside, the weather was glorious, a beautiful, sunny, spring day, with a gentle breeze. Anthony had been there, waiting. He’d changed into jeans, T-shirt, long black leather jacket and shades. Indeed, he’d looked so good that somehow I forgot about mentioning ‘us’ as we cruised on the open top of a double-decker bus to Regents Park. I’ve not done that before, crossed the capital on wheels, in the open air. From on high, everything looks different, sounds different. The essence, the vibe of London floats up to you. And the bird’s-eye view, of the river as we crossed Westminster Bridge, of Parliament Square, of Oxford Circus, everywhere teaming with people, out and about, enjoying the sunshine, a party atmosphere, was special.

Regents Park had been Anthony’s idea. He considers it the best park in London and as I’d admitted that the only bit familiar to me was the Open Air Theatre and the zoo, he’d thought it high time I explored. So we’d walked past beautifully laid beds bursting with flowers the shade of every crayon in a large Caran D’Ache tin. We’d ambled through gardens dedicated to daffodils and crocuses and puffy pink blossom. We’d spotted herons in the canopy of the tall trees. We’d crossed bridges and ponds. We’d stopped for an early lunch of chicken salad and café latte that we’d eaten al fresco. We’d talked about anything and everything than what I presumed we’d been brought here to discuss and before I could pluck up the courage to brace the subject, Anthony had asked if I knew how to row. When I said I’d never done it before, he took me to the lake where he rented this rickety boat that we wobbled into, holding arms outstretched for balance. After Anthony had steered for a while, and contrary to his passenger’s wishes, he handed over the reins. From his perch opposite, he tried to instruct on the art of sculling, but no matter how I manoeuvred the oars, rather like pulling heavy planks of wood through thick treacle, all I could master was going round and round in circles. Eventually, having gone backwards for a while, arms aching, small beads of sweat breaking on my forehead, and despite Anthony’s warning that we were getting too close, we grounded with a sticky, gravely scrape on this island in the middle of the lake, which is where we are now.

“Nice one,” he laughs.

“Fuck,” I say. “Told you I couldn’t row.” From where we’re marooned, on the far side of the oxbow, we can’t see the deck where we embarked and they can’t see us. Shaded by lots of reeds and low-hanging trees, we’re not particularly visible to anyone. Anthony leans forward, I assume for balance, but before I’ve worked out his motive, before I can construct my defence, he kisses me, delicious and soft and melting.

“Why did you do that?” I open my eyes to meet his, all chocolately and welcoming. 

“You look even more beautiful when you’re flustered.”

I want to bark DON’T, STOP, WE CAN’T, but obviously I don’t want it enough because next thing I know is it’s me, leaning in, kissing him.  

***

It’s the conversation after the thing that’s taken place that shouldn’t have. I’m lying here, naked, next to Anthony, head nestled on a comfortable soft patch I’d snuggled into on his chest, in his bed, which is where we’d stumbled after the kiss, after the lake, after the park, which is almost his local. My clothes, once again, although this time panties are black, are lying strewn on his bedroom floor. I’m not sure how they got there. Actually, that’s a barefaced lie. I know exactly how they got there, although I wish I didn’t, so I wouldn’t have to take responsibility. They got there out of a desire, a want, and an attraction so strong that I didn’t have the strength, the desire, or the want to prevent it. How could something so wrong feel so natural, so right?

“I’m not sure this is what Maxwell had in mind when he instructed you to protect me from iffy men like Scott Richardson!”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“That’s a relief,” I say, staring at the ceiling.