Lover in Law (21 page)

He’d left just gone eight thirty.

“God, you’ve been gone for ages.”

“I couldn’t find it anywhere. I didn’t get lucky till the fifth place I tried, the Total garage round the corner.”

He hands over the booty. An orange ice lolly. That’s what I’d craved. I don’t fancy it now, but it would be churlish not to eat it, after all the effort that’s gone in. I tear down the sticky paper and lift the lolly to my lips. I can’t stomach it though, because my craving connects me back to my nightmare.

***

He’d looked like Michael Jackson meets the evil Childcatcher in my dream, but there was no mistaking it was Anthony, with a Pinocchio nose and a Sorcerer’s hat. He’d been trying to take away my baby. We’d been in court, only this time we were representing ourselves, fighting for custody of our child. He was doing a much better job than I was. He was sharper, more cunning, more rested. Not plagued by sleepless nights and a conveyor belt of nappies. I’d crumpled under his cross-examination. He kept trying to make me admit that I’d lied and that I’d been unfaithful, forcing yes or no answers when I’d tried to explain. He’d asked the court to believe that a woman of no morals was unfit to be a mother. The judge had slammed down his hammer, calling case closed, without giving me the chance to defend myself. A guard had held me back as I fought to stop a blanket bundle being handed over to the other side, crying out “that’s not your child, that’s not your child” over and over, but nobody was listening. They were all ignoring me and laughing in their own bubble world and that’s when I woke up, shaking in Adam’s arms.

“Was I saying anything in my sleep?”

“Yes, you were,” says Adam.

“What was I saying?”

“It’s all right,” he comforts. “It was just a bad dream.”

“Tell me, please,” I implore. “I want to know.”

“You were saying ‘don’t take my baby, don’t take my baby.” He hugs me tight. “Don’t worry Ali. I promise, nobody’s going to take away our baby.”

AUGUST

Chapter 24

I’ve never spared enough sympathy for how it must feel to be on the inside of a fish bowl looking out, but here we are, Anthony and I, at Scott Richardson’s Notting Hill flat and it’s horribly claustrophobic. There’s a media circus going on in the street outside, all because
The Sun on Sunday
ran the Sahara story yesterday, about Scott being the father of her baby. Trucks for live broadcasts are lining the road bumper to bumper. It would seem that every Tom, Dick and Harry hack, be they working for print, radio or TV, have set up camp. Every so often the buzzer rings and somebody introduces themselves, giving their name followed by their publication or station, thinking if they ask nicely enough, or are chummy enough, reminding Scott of the last great interview they did with him, they’ll get an exclusive. The fee that some of them are offering for the privilege is ridiculously high. We’re talking six figure sums. Money obviously talks in the cutthroat world of tabloid journalism.

 A burly, hirsute Mediterranean looking man, who introduced himself as Freddie, had let us in. He’s in his 40s, sporting a sharp suit, with a powerful, wall-like stance. What struck me most though, when we’d shaken hands, were his fingers. They’re disproportionately long to the size of his palms, wrapping effortlessly one-and-a half times round my fist. Small tufts of dark hair sprout from his knuckles. I’m sure I recognise his face – hard and angular, yet striking. He’s probably a fellow showbiz mate that I’ve seen on the box at some time or other, here for moral support.

“Can I get you a drink?” asks Freddie, pulling a couple of chairs out from under the dining table for Anthony and I. His tone is gruff and indifferent. If there were such a thing, I’d call his accent posh East-End. We both decline the offer. I excuse myself and make a beeline for the toilet.

“On the left,” directs Freddie.

Forgetting what happened the last time I was here, I pull down the handle of the first door on the left, only to find that once again it’s locked, with no key. I head for the second, which I now remember to be the correct one. When I get back, Scott’s coming out of the kitchen, holding a crystal glass filled with whisky on the rocks. 

“It’s the silly season,” says Scott. “That’s why they ran with it. They had nothing else to put on their pages.”

He didn’t sleep a wink last night, what with the incessant chorus of doorbell versus phone ring. Despite coming across as tired and drawn, you can still see what separates Scott Richardson from the crowd, what makes him a star. It’s the way that he moves, casual and slow. He’s got a presence, an invisible aura surrounding him. But what you see and what you get is not the same. On-screen the public sees golden looks, sassy charm and an ease of sexuality. Women out there can fantasize about taking him home to meet their Mums. Men can aspire to be him. In the flesh though, both on and under the surface, he’s much rougher-hewn. I see the star quality, but I don’t buy it. I buy shifty, dangerous, not to be played with.         

“The silly season?” I ask, sitting down. 

“That’s what they call August in the industry. It’s always a quiet month. Football’s finished, Parliament’s in recess, the celebs have gone on holiday, there’s little or no news around, so the hacks are out there, sniffing for silly stories, anything to fill up the pages or air time. Who even gives a toss about whether I’m the father of Sahara’s baby?”

The British press clearly does. They love nothing more than to build up a personality and kick them down when it suits because it sells papers. He could be a saint and they’d still try to do it. Scott, however, is doing a good job at holding himself together, a pro, through and through. From hovering in the doorway, he takes a seat on the sofa, massages his fingers in small circles over closed eyes, before running his hands through his hair.

“So team,” he pulls a professional smile, the sort he must have pulled thousands of times in front of the camera, when he didn’t really feel like smiling. “What now?”

I’m not saying Scott’s not worthy of the odd tittle-tattle column inch or so, but I also think this story is ludicrous. They haven’t even got anything on him. They haven’t got much on her either. As far as I can see, it was an excuse to run some steamy, booby shots of Sahara with a couple of quotes from her saying she knows who the father is and so does he, so why doesn’t he behave like a man and come forward. Whilst he’s never actually named, they talk about an ‘axed and shamed TV Presenter currently facing litigation.’ They cunningly ran pictures of Sahara with a host of different ex’s. One of them included her in a clinch with Scott outside some London nightclub six months ago.

So, what now? Good question. The story in itself isn’t really that harmful, seeing as there isn’t really much of a story. The problem is the butterfly effect. A lot of the gossip columnists in the papers today have got their claws out, writing vitriol about people shirking their parental responsibilities, about how it’s still a man’s world and women have never truly been emancipated. It’s a load of fluffy waffle quite frankly, but that’s not the point. The point is, could this be prejudicial to Scott’s impending court case and the answer, I suppose, is yes. Anything that could taint his character might harm his chance of winning. The jury could be made up of twelve HELLO junkies for all we know. The trial might be three and a half months off, but this is the sort of mud that can stick. You could argue that Scott, as a result, can’t ever get a fair hearing, only you’d never get a case thrown out on these grounds. 

Anthony and I discussed a best course of action on the way here, in the taxi. I start to answer, then look to Anthony, who seems unusually out of sorts, somewhat agitated. Perhaps Scott Richardson’s company is starting to have the same effect on him as it does on me. My colleague nods that he’s happy for me to continue. We still don’t know how Scott can be certain he’s not the father, so I tread carefully.

“I’m afraid to say, whilst it seems unfair that you can’t keep whatever it is you wanted out of the public domain, if you’ve got something that gets you off the hook, now’s the time to come out with it.”

“And you can’t do it for money,” adds Anthony, seemingly more together. “Or if you do, you need to give it to charity.”

“Ok,” he says. “Do you mind just giving me a second?”

Anthony and I shake our heads and get up, heading for the kitchen to give Scott some space. I prop myself by the counter for support, shifting an object with my right arm accidentally. It’s a wicker statue of a man, about the size of Neeta’s Ganesh, only far less holy, Brit Art at its finest. Sporting a phallic mini fire extinguisher for a penis, he’s sat on a silver plinth, with the title ‘Don’t Play with Fire’ and the artist’s name ‘Verity Nichols’, engraved below. Verity Nichols, wife of William Nichols deceased, whom, according to the anonymous letter I received, Scott Richardson bumped off. I cast the statue aside, contemplative.       

“No disrespect, but you’re looking a bit peaky. Are you ok?” asks Anthony quietly.

We’ve been getting on fine since we called an end to things, managing to stay professional, amicable. Nobody would ever be able to tell what had passed, or that I still feel something for him. I’m four months now, just starting to show, ever so slightly, in the right clothes, but I’m dressing carefully. Streamlined suits and tight-fitting skirts have been swapped for looser, more floating Monsoon type numbers. Though hardly suitable court attire, the black cotton skirt that’s kissing my ankles and long V-neck white peasant tunic I’m wearing today are extremely comfortable. I can breathe easy. I’m pretty sure that people can’t tell.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just tired.”

Anthony inches slightly closer, conspiratorial. He whispers urgently.

“Do you know who that man is?”

“You mean the hairy C-list celeb?” I whisper back.

Anthony takes another step towards me. His voice is hoarse and low as he strives to be discreet.

“That’s no C-list celeb. That’s bloody ‘Four Finger Freddie’. My pupil master represented him at his trial. What the fuck’s he doing here?”

I’ve heard of ‘Four Finger Freddie’ (a.k.a. Freddie Foster). He’s the head of a notorious London underworld gangster family, whose trademark scare tactic is to tie down the little finger and chop it off with a meat cleaver. The police absolutely had him a few years back. He was brought to trial for murder, but managed to get off because a key Prosecution witness had obviously been leant on. He’s lain low ever since. Anthony must have got it wrong. Why on earth would ‘Four Finger Freddie’ be here in Scott Richardson’s flat? Whilst many a celebrity has been seduced by cool crooks - Frank Sinatra was bankrolled by the Mafia, the Krays courted the darlings of showbiz as friends, they were even snapped by David Bailey in their heyday – that was then, this is now, and this is our client. Perhaps it’s not Scott Richardson bumping off all these innocent spouses, but Freddie Foster! 

“Are you sure you’re not mista-”

Freddie comes into the kitchen brandishing an empty glass.

“Don’t mind me,” he says, setting the crystal vessel down on the counter. He opens the fridge, takes out a lemon and wriggles a huge hand past Anthony, reaching for the drawer behind him. He slides it open, pulls out a cleaver, the likes of which I’ve never seen in domestic use. He makes space on the work surface, lays the fruit down and swiftly hacks a clean, neat slice off it with a big thwack.

Next door Scott must have picked up the phone. We can hear him asking to be put through to the Editor’s office of
The Sun on Sunday
. He tells them he can’t be the father because he’s infertile. Some girl gave him syphilis back in his early twenties. As a consequence he’s got blocked tubes. He’s been firing blanks ever since. If I weren’t so freaked out by ‘Four Finger Freddie’ attacking a citrus fruit like a deranged butcher, I might have felt some empathy for my client. I know how infertility feels. When it comes to wanting children and the plumbing doesn’t work, it can destroy your life. I might be pregnant, but I’m paying the price.  

***

My state of mind has deteriorated these last couple of weeks or so. I’m more irritable and snappy than ever and it’s not just the hormones. It’s a mixture of physical and mental exhaustion. I’ve been averaging a paltry four hours sleep a night, not enough for a pregnant, working girl. The reason I can’t sleep is that I’m carrying this horrific, guilty burden. If only I’d been able to come out with it, tell Kayla the truth, then maybe I’d be able to deal with it better. But how do you begin to share something as ugly as my secret? It was one thing telling Kayla about the affair, but this is unspeakable, even to my sister, ESPECIALLY to my sister, in light of my lecture on the dangers of unprotected sex, in light of how it all went so wrong for her. You see I didn’t use contraception with Anthony that night. The baby could very easily be his. When I try to fathom why I would have done anything quite that stupid, the best I come up with is that after fifteen months of infertility, I didn’t believe I could actually get pregnant. And I guess I’d made a judgment call that Anthony was disease-free. He wasn’t a Vijay, a virtual stranger in a developing country. And now I wonder if subconsciously there was this instinctive driving force to procreate, even if it was the furthest thing from my mind when we made love. 

I could barely look at Anthony the day after my dream. All I could see was the Childcatcher. Until that point I’d been kidding myself that the baby was unequivocally Adam’s. It had to be. It deserved to be and I wanted it to be. Scott Richardson’s paternity scandal though, has forced me to face the truth. If we’re to believe my client, then Sahara and I are in the same boat. We’re both unsure of our baby’s paternity. I never liked Scott Richardson, but that feeling’s intensified. Ever since he became a part of my life, my neat and tidy existence has turned into chaos. It was the pink panties HE bought for my birthday that I was wearing on the night in question. Not that I’m blaming a pair of knickers, but did they take away my guard, make me more frivolous, more abandoned? I perceive Scott as this morally void, corrupt individual who has affairs left, right and centre without a care in the world as to their consequences. So the fact that his paternity scandal and infidelities mirror my own, is an ugly parallel, hard to bear. I hate myself.