Lover in Law (26 page)

He shifts slightly, turns to have a look and nods at the bump.

“You’ve got much bigger,” he says.

It’s not been that long since he last saw me, but this sudden explosion is true enough.

“I guess that’s what happens when you don’t see me for twenty-four hours,” I say.

I’m implying that he wouldn’t want to be away for another twenty-four hours, that he wouldn’t want to miss anything else, but he’s not buying it. His eyes glaze hard, then he rolls over, away from me.

“If we don’t have trust, what do we have?”

He mumbles so quietly, his tone is so flat. It’s disconcerting having a conversation with the back of someone. I hope I misheard.   

“What are you saying?”

I’m not sure I want the answer. 

“I always imagined my life with you, that there’d never be anyone else, but perhaps we didn’t have what I thought. Perhaps we’re not as strong as I thought.”

How can he say that? After all these years, all we’ve been through.

“Don’t say that Adam.”

“Don’t say what? Don’t say the truth?”

He rolls back over. Hurt and confusion is written across his face. There must be something to say to make this better.

“We are strong Adam. You mean everything to me.” 

I’m tenacious, but intuitive. For some reason I can feel everything, this situation, slipping out of control. I sense that no matter what I do or say, it’s too late.        

“How can I mean everything to you, when you thought I was capable of having an affair? How can I mean everything to you when you know me so little? How can I mean everything to you when you don’t trust me?”

I’m shocked by the bitterness of his tone, by his coolness, by how detached he is. I lean further into the wall, seeking comfort, but find only cold, unforgiving reality.

“What, so you’re willing to throw this all away, everything we’ve built up, everything we’ve got, over some stupid misunderstanding?”

I can see he’d be willing to give it up if he knew the half of it.

He shakes his head.

“Go home Ali. I can’t look at you anymore.”

How can I argue, when even I can’t look at me anymore? I’m exhausted from emotional overload. The fight’s been thrashed out of me. So I do as I am bid.

***

I’m back in our huge Victorian four bed terrace. It feels even emptier than I do. The high ceilings, the wooden floors. Every clunk of my wedge sandals bounces off the walls. A cruel reminder that I’m alone. It’s a really beautiful late summer’s evening, as my neighbour remarked when I’d got back, a kindly lady in her sixties who’d been tending to her front garden. I’d smiled in agreement, but really, for once, I didn’t give a toss. I’d have been more comfortable with torrential rain, or hail or murky clouds. I feel numbed by defeat and fatigue, like I’ve been at the receiving end of five rounds worth of blows from Mike Tyson. I’m going through the motions as I must, pulling myself together if not for my sake, then for the life growing inside of me.

I’ve barely eaten these last couple of days. Ironic, really, to have no appetite, considering my greed. I already had a nice life, with Adam, my career, my new house, but I’d dared to want more, a baby and a ring on my finger. I’d been greedy, now I’m paying the price. That would be tolerable if I was the only victim in all this, but the baby will suffer as, potentially, will Kayla. She’d let on that she and Paul had shared their first kiss. It had been pretty damn decent, which had surprised her. Anyway, if Adam and I split up, what will become of them? It’s all a mess. As far as I can see, the only beneficiary from this shambles has been Oxfam, with the proceeds from my clothes cull.    

 I chew my way through three slices of toast and I’ve no idea how I get there. Somehow, methodically, I must have gone through the motions, masticating and swallowing, my head completely void of all thought. That, says Kayla, is one of the aims of yoga, to clear one’s mind of all that rubbish. It seems I’ve found another way of getting there. Despite having called my legal advice centre in Tottenham this morning, to say that I wouldn’t be able to make it later, I wasn’t feeling well and to find someone to cover for me, I find myself looking at my watch. I decide I will, after all, go and help out. If I leave now, I can make it in time. Just because my life’s a mess doesn’t mean I should muck up everyone else’s. I’m relied on there. This is something I can do right.

When I arrive, swing the glass door open, all beams and smiles, feeling better about myself, I want to walk straight back out, but it’s too late because he’s seen me. 

***

“Ali?”

I should have called to tell them I was coming, instead of just turning up. I presume this man’s my cover. My temples start to pound, racing against my heart. I sense my cheeks turning the ghostly hue of dishwater again. My jaw drops with surprise. It’s not quite the last place I’d expect to see him, but it’s a shock all the same.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

The question is rhetorical. I know why he’s here, but it gives me a chance to recover, pull myself together. I can see that he, too, is taken aback.

“More the point, why are YOU here? You’re supposed to be ill.”

It’s a few minutes before opening time. The other helpers are gathered around the kitchenette, eating microwave meals, drinking cups of packet soup. Anthony comes towards me, puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m pleased you are here though,” he says. “Do you mind?”

He hints with a nod of his head that he’d like to step outside, talk privately. Once there, we hover, awkwardly. It’s not a nice area. It’s run-down, full of council estates and industrial bins spilling over with rubbish. A host of abandoned cars line the road. Crushed glass is sprinkled over the pavement.

“So,” I procrastinate, in the vain hope he simply wants to discuss work. “Any luck finding an expert who’ll disagree with the Prosecution’s findings that Rupert Simon’s car was tampered with?”

Anthony pauses, staring first at his feet, before looking up.

“That’s not what I want to talk about Ali.”

I swallow hard. He falters, hesitates and kicks some shards of a broken green bottle into the kerb, concentrating on his shoes all the while.

“Actually I’m pleased you’re here. I didn’t really want to discuss this at chambers,” he trails off, nervously. He’s always so composed, so together, so chill, so casual, that it’s revealing, seeing him here, like this, right now, ill at ease. It’s nice actually, to find a softer side to him, to find that he can get thrown, like the rest of us. I know the conversation he’s after. We could beat about the bush for half an hour, make small talk, discuss car mechanics, world politics or Delia Smith, or I could take the initiative, put him out his misery. 

“It’s not yours Anthony.”

There’s a long, long pause. His eyes question mine hard.

“I wondered,” he said. “I had to know.”

I look down at my feet, then up, at him, direct.

“And now you do,” I say.

I’m so composed, so certain. There’s no way he’ll think I’m lying.

He nods.

“Are you absolutely sure?” he asks.

I dare not say anything more, just in case this baby comes out black. I’ve done the research. I’ve worked out the gene pool arithmetic. Anthony’s mixed race. His Dad’s Caucasian. If the baby is his, I’ve a fifty per cent chance of the baby coming out white, or at least light enough to get away with it. Which, combined with the chance of the baby being Adam’s and presuming he comes back to me, gives a 75% chance of a neat, happy ending. Pretty good odds if you ignore the one in ten possibility of a complete throwback, with the baby coming out as charcoal as its Grandma. Perhaps I’m making a mistake. Perhaps I should tell him yes, it’s definitely yours. Perhaps we could have a future. It’s not like I’m not attracted to him, like I don’t enjoy his company or anything. And he’s already a good father. The temptation’s ever growing, only I’ve been bad enough already. It’s not that Adam deserves less, it’s that Anthony deserves more. 

OCTOBER

Chapter 30

“It’s nice to have you back,” I say to Anthony.

We’re sat in opposite corners of a small brown leather sofa, in his office, turned towards one another. My feet are raised, resting on his lap. There was nowhere else for them to go and he didn’t mind. Intimate though it might appear, I wouldn’t feel embarrassed should anyone walk in. It’s amazing what you can get away with in pregnancy. He’s been in Mozambique for a fortnight. I’ve really missed him. He was my rock when I did finally show my face at chambers again, the day after our run-in at the legal advice centre. It had been hard, dragging myself out of bed to go to work, what with Adam gone and this never-ending exhaustion, but I’d given myself a good ‘the show must go on’ talking to, put on a brave face, and got back on that horse. It had been the right thing to do. It’s really taken my mind off things, given me a purpose, made me feel useful. Nobody at work knows that Adam’s left. It’s simpler that way. I couldn’t handle the sympathy vote, the pity that might be due a single, pregnant woman. If I take on board everyone feeling sorry, I might just want to curl up and hibernate. I’ve resisted pregnancy books and online surfing on the subject because I know the truth isn’t pretty. The words ‘single’ and ‘mum’ were not designed to go together. It’s a social misfit, a freak of nature, to be avoided like the clap. It’s not to be aspired to, it is to be feared and I am scared. I might not show it, but the knowledge is there, rattling around in my head like a bad penny. My biggest fear is being lonely, but the conundrum’s hard to fathom. I’ll never be alone. From the moment the baby’s born, there will always be a little friend, a special person by my side. I’ll rise to the challenge, treat it as the most important trial of my life. I will cope, with or without the father by my side.

So nobody, especially Anthony, knows the truth. Nonetheless, he somehow seemed to sense my vulnerability, was quite protective towards me, without at any point undermining my professional competence. He’s been incredibly supportive in keeping me on the Scott Richardson case, considering the trial could well creep dangerously close to my due date. “You’re pregnant, not ill,” he’d said, when I’d volunteered to step down, if it would make everyone’s lives easier. He’d got on one knee, wagged a finger at my bump. “Don’t you dare break those waters until your Mummy’s good and ready,” he’d instructed, in a stern voice. It had given me a gush of pleasure hearing him call me Mummy. Adam had never used that word, but it suddenly hit home that that’s what I’m going to be. I liked the sound of it.

Adam’s been gone more than three weeks now. At first I was on tenterhooks every time the phone rang or someone tapped the brass knocker on the front door. I presumed that with our history, with the baby on its way, that he’d come round to seeing how stupid this all was. I’d presumed that our argument, our misunderstanding, was just a tiff that we’d eventually laugh about. I’d presumed that we’d make up and move on. I’d presumed that all our years together would count for something. With my parents in Canada, he’d been my rock and support for eleven years. I’d grown to rely on him, depend on him. I’d presumed, to be honest, that I’d miss him more than I did.  He had come round, finally, after ten days or so, not to patch things up though. He’d come to pick up some stuff. It had been awkward, watching him chuck half his wardrobe and the contents of his bedside table into a few dustbin liners, but that’s what I’d done. I’d stood by, incredulous, as he physically dismantled our lives together before me. And I’d let him go, without a fight. The fight had gone out of me and I was starting to believe that if this is how he is, then maybe we shouldn’t be together anyway. With every night that passed I’d felt less alone and now, in any event, Kayla’s come to stay, filling the ever-diminishing void. “It’s a no-brainer,” she’d said, when I’d flagged up the idea. “Of course I’ll move in.” I hadn’t wanted to pressurize her, make her do something she didn’t really want to do, but it had made sense. My pad’s a palace compared to her tiny flat. Besides, she’s always loved our house. 

“I wish I could say it was good to be back,” Anthony jokes.

“Don’t say that!” I object.

Adam moving out has been hard enough. I couldn’t hack it if Anthony upped sticks and left too. He looks over his shoulder, out the window.

“Yeah, well, this kind of weather doesn’t do the English Tourist Board any favours.” He gesticulates, his empty palms a set of scales fighting for equilibrium. “Where would you rather be? Cooped up in this office or on an empty beach in Africa, lined with palm trees, white sand and the clearest turquoise water imaginable?”

I take his point. The Indian summer broke the day Anthony boarded his plane, which despite the promising start, ended up making last month the wettest September on record. Today’s no exception.  The rain’s almost monsoon-like in its force, only the temperature’s far from tropical. It’s dropped suddenly, by a shocking twenty degrees and my feet aren’t happy. They’ve swollen so much that I’ve only one pair of shoes that fit, some slip-on sandals. So every time I go outside, my toes are forced to take a cold shower.   

“Did you have a great time then?”