Lover in Law (14 page)

Silence.

“Did you plan all this?”

“This?” he asks, reaching for my hand under the covers, interlocking it with his.

“Not THIS exactly,” I smile. “More the long lunch, the getting out the office.”

“I thought we needed to talk.”

“And have we?”

“Not in so many words.”

Words are the tools of our trade. We should be better at this, at talking, at communicating, at getting to the hub of things.

Silence.

“I shouldn’t be here, you know,” I say.

In the throes of passion, guilt had taken a back seat, but now, in the quiet aftermath, it’s settling high in my chest, like heartburn, overstaying its welcome. Anthony rolls onto his side, looks at me.

“My Dad had an affair with a woman half his age. It broke my mother’s heart and it almost broke up their marriage. Ever since, infidelity’s been like a dirty word. I saw the devastation first hand and vowed I would never, ever do the same. But after hours of therapy and then meeting you,” he tries to make light of it, “you know what I said to myself?”

“What?”

“Life’s too short.”

I sigh.

“And at least you don’t have kids,” he adds.

Silence.

“Why are you here then?” he asks.

Good question. I don’t want to be like his Dad.

I sigh again.

“It feels nice,” I answer.

It’s not a defence, but it is honest.

“Ali, I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I want you to know that I don’t make a habit of playing around. I’ve never done this before.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re not that kind of person.”

What are we doing? Where’s this going? Are you going to destroy my life, my work and my relationship? These are all questions I’m longing to ask, but it’s too soon and it’s too late because he’s already rolled me on top of him and round two has started.

***

Kayla’s round for dinner. I didn’t bother going back to the office and neither, I think, did Anthony. Thankfully I was home before Adam, so didn’t have to make excuses for either my early return or my attire, although ‘plain clothes research’ would probably have done the trick.

“What do you fancy?” I ask, before realising, as I open the fridge, that it’s the end of the week and there’s not much choice.

“Whatever,” she says.

“Pasta?”

“Fine.”

She really doesn’t care, as long as she’s not doing the cooking. As she fishes for the corkscrew in our cutlery draw, I fill the kettle with water, then take an onion, a couple of cloves of garlic, an open pack of dried spaghetti and a carton of passata out the cupboard.

“Glasses?” she asks, looking in the empty cabinet.

“Oh God, they must all be in the machine. Sorry, you’ll have to wash a couple.”

“Won’t Adam want some?”

“Probably, oh I don’t know, you’ll have to ask,” I say, brushing off the oversight. Just the mention of Adam’s name makes my skin flush hot.

“Adam?” she yells. “Do you want wine?”

He’s in the lounge next door, watching football on Sky.

“Yes please,” he yells back.

“So, what are we having?” asks Kayla, once she’s poured the wine and taken Adam his.

“Pasta with cheesy tomato sauce,” I say, handing over a thick chunk of cheddar and the grater.

“I’ve got a date,” she says, getting started with the cheese.

“Great,” I say. “With who?”

I toss the onion and garlic into a pan, with a trace of olive oil.

“This guy on my course.”

“You said there weren’t any nice guys on your course.”

I tear open, with difficulty, along the dotted line of the passata carton.

“Not in my class. He’s the year above. I met him at this end of term drinks do?”

“And?”

I pour the passata onto the onion and garlic.

“And he asked if I’d like to do lunch.”

“Great,” I say. 

“Are you alright Ali?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I say, turning my back to her, stirring the sauce.

“You don’t seem fine,” she says. “You seem distracted.”

Nobody else would have noticed, I’m sure of it. Acting, appearances, they’re part of my job. I’m pretty good at it, but Kayla knows me too well. Even so, I turn around, smile reassuringly and tell her it’s in her imagination. She pushes the door shut, but when it swings slightly ajar she gets up, closing it until she hears a click.

“I’m waiting,” she says.

I open my mouth, take a deep breath, count down from ten in my head, but by the time I’ve got to one I get cold feet. Adam’s next door for Christ’s sake.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say.

Kayla stares me out, long and hard. She’s always had this way of looking at people, fixing on them so penetratingly that they’re forced to look away. Normally I’m a good match for her. It usually ends in childish fits of the giggles, five, six minutes later. Not this time though. This time I feel uneasy and unlatch.

“Ali, this is me you’re talking to.”

***

I speak in a whisper, in the unlikely event Adam’s ear is nuzzling the other side of the door. Her face registers complete disbelief as I come clean. Saying it all out loud makes me sound even more morally challenged.

“YOU’VE GOT TO STOP IT, RIGHT NOW!” Kayla whispers loudly.

I raise an agitated finger to my lips.

“SHUSH,” I whisper loudly back.

I know she’s right, but somehow I would have expected her to ask more questions, be more open-minded, before delivering her verdict. I want to tell her that he’s beautiful, he’s intelligent, he’s brilliant at what he does and he works in a legal advice centre too, but does any of that make a difference?

“Adam’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You’ve been with him forever. Don’t throw it all away on some stupid whim for Christ’s sake.”

I want to tell her that it’s not a whim, perhaps I’ve been with Adam too long, but I’m not certain any of that’s true. Adam’s just all I’ve ever known.

“Where’s it going, this Anthony thing anyway?”

I want to ask if it matters, shouldn’t I just wait and see, but I know that that’s wrong. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been unfaithful,” I say.

I know for a fact that she’s two-timed.

“But I’ve never had an Adam. They were all just stupid flings.”

It’s true. Kayla’s never had a proper, long-term relationship as such.

“And anyway, that’s irrelevant,” she tries to explain. “That’s me and this is you and you’re not like that.”

I can tell she’s disappointed. She needs me to be the better side of her.

“You’ve got to stop it before it gets out of contr-”

Adam opens the door, brandishing an empty wineglass. We look up, eyes startled, like a couple of cats dodging a stream of oncoming traffic. 

Chapter 16

It’s a warped reality that for the past fortnight I’ve slept really well, despite ignoring Kayla’s advice. I’ve fallen asleep, stayed asleep and every morning I’ve woken literally a minute before my alarm clock’s gone off. The only exception was a couple of nights ago when a low-flying helicopter, no doubt searching for criminals on the run, woke me with incessant circling at about 1.30a.m., but even then I rolled over and nodded straight off.

I’m a day late. This might not sound remarkable, but I’m normally as regular as clockwork, give or take a few hours. I’m not getting worked up, but I am aware of it, as I am every month, at this particular time, on the cusp of finding out if new life’s beginning or old blood’s about to be shed.  This is the worst bit for me in the whole trying to conceive lark, however calm and chill I try to stay. The pressure, the hopes, the build-up to that dreaded period coming and then the crushing blow. After a couple of days, you forget all about it, move on, but the cycle’s always there, forcing you back on the bandwagon, encouraging new possibilities and fresh expectations, month after month.

“Ali?” Adam whispers. “Are you awake?”

I nod, but don’t speak, for fear of disturbing that precious early morning karma. He fumbles for my hand.

“Has it come yet?”

Without us discussing it, Adam still knows. Somehow he’s tuned into the inner machinations of my reproductive organs. I shake my head, although it feels like tempting fate, which I don’t want to do, even this month.

“How do you feel?”

“Mmmmmm,” I grunt, still not wanting to speak.

“Ok,” he says, holding my hand. “Squeeze once for it feels like it’s coming, twice for it doesn’t.”

“Mmmmmm,” I grunt, not squeezing.

“Ok,” he tries again. “Squeeze once for it feels like it’s coming, twice for it doesn’t, and three times for you haven’t got a clue.”

I squeeze three times, smiling with closed eyes, then my alarm clock goes. I reach, with my other hand, to bash down the ringer.

“Morning,” says Adam, leaning over to kiss me.

“Mmmm,” I reply. I’m not much of an early morning conversationalist.

“What do you reckon?” He detaches his clasp from mine, transferring his hand to my stomach.   

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, rolling over, pushing myself to sitting.

“Will you buy a test today?”

“I don’t think we should get ahead of ourselves.”

We’ve got through enough tests to keep Clear Blue in business. I get up and pad to the toilet, thinking it will probably come now, like it always does. But it doesn’t.

***

Neeta’s at her desk when I get in. I quickly stuff my little paper bag from the local chemist into the large pocket of my new short trench coat. It might not keep the bum warm, but it is beautifully jaunty.   

 “Nice coat,” she says, watching me hook it onto a hanger. 

“Thank you. Very Paris in Spring, don’t you think?”

“Where’s it from?”

I tap my nose.

She can deduce, from this, that it’s not a label, and probably cost a tenner from one of those bargain basement shops.

“So, how’s it going?” I settle into my desk, switching on my computer. I haven’t seen much of Neeta this last week. She’s been up to her eyes with a GBH case, some drunken brawl outside a pub, a bunch of thugs picking on a German tourist.

“Not bad,” she says. “The Hamburg case is over.”

“Did you win?” I ask.

“By the skin of my teeth.”

I log onto the web to quickly scan the papers. I type in timesonline.co.uk, action reflex, whenever I’m at my desk first thing. I speed through the headlines. There’s not a lot there, so I try thesun.co.uk for more colour. Up there, on the first page, under the Life section, is a piece on the ex page three model turned Pop Star, the woman hung in Scott Richardson’s toilet, Sahara, being three months pregnant. I stare at the screen for a while, then at the pocket of my trench coat, weighted down with its load.

“Are you alright Ali?” asks Neeta. I’ve no idea how long she’s been looking at me.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I say, getting up, heading for my coat and putting it on.

“Where are you going? You’ve only just got here.”

“There’s something I’ve forgotten to do.”

***

I bump, quite literally, into Anthony, as I head out the office, not looking where I’m going in a rush to get this over with.  

“Steady,” he says.

Our eyes connect as he lays his hand casually on my arm. Our bodies, however, maintain a professional stance. We’ve perfected a subtle ‘look’ in the last week or so, allowing us some intimacy in a professional environment.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry? Scott Richardson’s due in any second.”

So obsessed am I with being pregnant I’d forgotten about our client conference this morning.

“Oh, err, I’ve just got to pop out for something.”

Scott’s rarely on time and besides, Anthony’s quite capable of starting in my absence. This won’t take long. I hadn’t planned to leave chambers, but I now realise it might look a bit odd to head for the ladies in a Mac. 

 “Anything I can help you with?”

“Thanks for the offer, but no,” I say.

My hand casually reaches for Anthony’s, moving swiftly from a full clasp to the tips of our fingers touching. It’s at this point, just before our fingers have fully released, that a voice startles us.  

“Good morning to the two of you.”

Scott Richardson pops his head round the corner, unannounced. I’ve no idea what he did or didn’t see, nor do I dwell on it. Foremost in my mind is getting this test over and done with, so I apologise, speed off, promise to be back in five and jokingly tell Anthony that mine’s a coffee. As I head for the library, I check for the paper bag in my pocket. There’s a toilet there that will do just fine. I enter a cubicle, lock the door and hang my coat on the inside hook. I take out the Clear Blue box and undo the cellophane, digging for the stick inside. I read the instructions, even though I know full well what to do and take a deep breath. It is, however, more money down the drain. I don’t even bother proceeding any further because when I look down at the inside of my knickers, even though I didn’t feel it coming, they’re stained with fresh blood.