Lover in Law (31 page)

I’m not convinced his puppy dog lust is down to alcohol, or the way I’m leaning ever so slightly forward, encouraging him to peer down my cleavage, or the way I’m pouting my cherry painted lips. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance, so in the name of research I took myself back to Ann Summers yesterday, scoured their shelves. There were some strange looks cast in my direction, I can tell you, a heavily pregnant woman in a kinky sex shop. Not the sneaky wedding dress shop type look, more the ‘respect lady’, ‘good on you’ type. I loved how impressed they were and strutted around, belly pushed out with pride, looking so fecund they wouldn’t believe I hadn’t had intercourse for months. Anyway, I was in search of some scent I could spray that would drive Sebastian so wild he’d succumb to my every demand. They didn’t quite have that, but they did have this Pump N Hump shower gel. ‘With the added secret weapon of pheromones’, it said on the back, ‘you will send out irresistibly stimulating messages for the opposite sex’. For eight quid I thought it was worth a pop. I did a test-run on Adam last night, without him knowing. It had an effect on me, making my bits all tingly, making me feel quite sexy, but he didn’t appear to notice. Sebastian, however, seems to be a taker. Whether it’s the wine, the saucy temptress or the Pump N Hump, he’s now almost salivating with desire.

“Here, try this,” I say.

I spoon some of my rhubarb crème
brûlée
into his mouth, in a saucy manner.

“Mmmmm,” he murmurs. “That’s good. Want some of mine?”      

I shake my head, lick my lips seductively.

“No, Sebastian,” I say. “That’s not what I want.”

I rest my chin in my hand and stare at him, for an age, fluttering the occasional eyelash. I’m not sure quite what Neeta or Anthony would make of my technique. I’m playing the agent provocateur, luring this man into my honey trap and I do, I admit, feel a bit cruel, watching him swallow his Adam’s apple whole in a mouth dry with excitement. You can tell he thinks he’s about to get lucky, to live his fantasy, when in truth, the most pleasure he’s going to get is a possible hand resting on his thigh. 

“What,” he whispers hoarsely, then clears his throat, “do you want?”

“I want you to take me,” I pause so my meaning can be misconstrued, “to your office.”

That’s how I get to sit next to Sebastian in front of his computer. That’s how I get to brush my fingers, accidentally, ever so slightly towards his groin, as encouragement. That’s how I get him to tap into Sahara.com, until he pulls up the blocked message he read me over the phone. That’s how I get to leave with a neatly folded printout of said message in my bag. That’s how I get to leave with the e-mail address of the sender –
[email protected]
. That, for Barristers who bend professional ethics to the breaking point, is how it’s done.

***

Adam’s watching TV when I get home after work. It’s strange how easily we slipped straight into the way we used to be, no hard feelings and no recriminations. He moved back in the evening after I agreed to marry him. It seemed silly for him not to, although not in Kayla’s eyes. Not just because she’d got used to living with me in our big house and would now have to return to her studio flat, but because she felt I was being hasty. She felt I should have thought about it more, that baby or no baby, she was no longer a hundred per cent Adam was Mr. Right. Chinks show in relationships for a reason, she said. They can’t always be painted over. She used to be a hundred per cent about him and so did I. He was absolutely, unequivocally the one. Somewhere along the way though, since this year began, things started to shift, ever so slightly. Despite the ease with which our relationship resumed, something is missing. I can’t speak for Adam, but I feel it all the time. Like an imperceptible slow puncture on a perfect-looking surface. I’m hoping, if I keep quiet and invest in a repair kit, to find the hole and make good the damage.

I’ve got to hand it to him. His proposal was original, a ring in an ‘Eat Me’ cake, even if it was Anthony who bit into it.  It’s hard to turn down a proposal like that, when you’ve a baby due in eight weeks. It’s hard to turn down a man whose father’s lying in a coma, in hospital. Some might consider it strange that at such a time Adam could even conceive of asking me to marry him, but he explained it and it made perfect sense. His father’s life hanging in the balance had made him question what was important. He couldn’t even remember what we’d been arguing about and neither could I. I’m sure I was the biggest culprit, but Adam wasn’t entirely blameless, or so he thought. Whatever, we’d both reacted badly. Everything had spiralled out of control. Anyway, he hadn’t meant to be disrespectful, thinking about himself and not his father. What he’d wanted was to do something his father would be proud of. His Dad had apparently been egging him to make an honest woman out of me for years. Adam hoped, by proposing, by telling Lewis all about it as he lay there, that he’d hear it, respond to it, that he’d come round. He’d hoped for a miracle and you know what? He got it. The day after, Lewis had woken up, weak and fragile, but no long-term brain damage. Wedding speech fodder doesn’t come much more dramatic than that.

I’d accepted everything, was content with my decision, until I paid for my dress earlier today. The cashier had noticed the ring on my finger, said it was beautiful, asked for a closer look. I’d willingly obliged, holding my hand under her nose for inspection. “Ooh,” she’d pointed at the middle stone, “is that an Emerald?” I’d answered that it was and that was the last she said on the matter. As I left the shop though I heard her ask a colleague, wasn’t it meant to be unlucky to have an emerald in an engagement ring? Now I’ve never heard of that particular superstition and neither had anyone I’d run it by at chambers this afternoon. Except for Anthony. He said that was why Princess Diana had chosen a sapphire, but not to worry, because look how her life had panned out. That’s the most he’s said to me for days. He’s been decidedly frosty since I stuffed his mouth with chocolate cake.

***

I’d be lying if I said I’ve never daydreamed of a life with Anthony. I’ve let my imagination run riot far too often.  The break between Adam and I gave me plenty of time to ponder on different futures. In most of them, I was miserably single, haggard and drained, juggling work with Motherhood, fighting to keep my head above water. Sometimes though, in moments of optimism, I allowed myself to fantasize about how it could be with my colleague, particularly since he came back from Mozambique. I hadn’t reckoned on how much I would miss him. When he returned, I felt I never wanted to let him out of my sight again. I imagined playing Step Mom to his little girl, vacationing in Mozambique with his extended family, tipsy on port wine, merry on clam and peanut stew, choking with teary laughter from being too gung-ho with spicy red-pepper ‘piri-piri’ sauce. I’d never felt happier.

Anthony and I are pretty damn compatible, who’s to say it wouldn’t work? The only reason we’re not as ‘real’ as Adam and I are is because the relationship has never had a chance to mature. We understand each other’s jobs and stresses, he makes me laugh, he’s stimulating, we work as friends and we most definitely work as lovers. The chemistry is overwhelming. On paper it all points to the perfect match, which brings me back to why on earth I said yes to Adam’s proposal and would I have answered differently had I thought Anthony was interested. The answer, most probably, is no, because the truth is I don’t really believe Anthony and I could happen. It all feels too dangerously good to be true. Affairs like ours aren’t supposed to last, they don’t have a place in reality. It’s far easier to play safe. Adam and I were together for eleven years. We had a wonderfully solid relationship, which I know can work. It’s tried and tested. We can be happy enough. Perhaps that’s all that anyone can ask for. With Anthony it’s all make-believe. I’ve no idea if, in the cold light of day, we’d last a month, a year or an eternity. To throw away good dishwater for bad on a whim just doesn’t make sense. In any case, I’ve no reason to believe Anthony’s ever shared my daydreams, that he could be serious about us. It would be egotistical to think otherwise. He knew I was in a relationship when we started seeing each other. Most probably it suited him that way. Live for the moment, that’s what he said. I’m absolutely certain he’s never sat down to imagine our future, particularly with a divorce already under his belt. Why should he? As far as he’s concerned, I’m pregnant with another man’s child.

Chapter 35

“Come into my sort-of office,” says Sahara.

The sexy siren welcomes me in a husky, slightly cockney yet business-like tone.

Her hair, with a fresh dose of peroxide, is blow dried straight and long. Her eyes, in contrast, quite stunning actually, are dark brown with a touch of amber and framed by the longest lashes imaginable. Sahara and I are for the first time face to face, or, to be more accurate, boob to face. Her Amazonian proportions have her EE cup beauties making a beeline for my nose. They’re monsters. Never seen anything like them. It’s a wonder she doesn’t topple over from their sheer, impossible weight. If I were a man, I’d be fearful of suffocation. It’s possible they’re particularly engorged because they’re pumped up with milk from giving birth to Papaya a few weeks ago, although it seems unlikely. It was the nanny, together with the little girl, who let me in to Sahara’s posh Chelsea apartment, a stone’s throw from the Kings Road. She was a cute little package, the baby that is, dressed in a pink and white striped all in one, with the words ‘cool chick’ emblazoned across her chest. Anyway, the nanny had been feeding her from a bottle, which makes the Hercules in me deduce that Papaya is not being breastfed, although, I suppose, it’s not impossible the milk is Mummy’s. My heart went out to this perfect little person, with ten tiny fingers, the sweetest socked tootsies. Will she ever know who her Daddy is?

It’s weird to be in Sahara’s company. We’re like chalk and cheese and yet we share a strong communality, to which she’s completely oblivious. I, on the other hand, am only too aware of the connection. It makes me feel uncomfortable, forces me to confront my demons again, which I’ve managed to push aside of late. I place a hand to my bump. Will my child ever live with his or her true father? I wonder if Sahara yet knows Papaya’s paternity, whether the uncertainty caused sleepless nights, prompted a phone-call to the Samaritans, tempted her to get hitched. We could start a support group right here, right now, but I’m here for one reason and one reason alone. I’m lucky to have been given a slot at all. HELLO is coming next, for an exclusive mother and daughter photo-shoot. No doubt they’ll conduct some minimalist interview afterwards, to fill a few column inches with script next to the glossy pictures. I’d gone for the professional approach, choosing to leave Scott Richardson’s involvement in manipulating his ex to help out as a last resort. Sahara’s PA had been hard work. We’d explained the situation patiently, that we were Scott’s legal team and needed her boss’s help in smoking out the person who posted obscene mails on Sahara.com. That finding out who it was might be key to our client’s acquittal. The PA kept repeating Sahara’s diary was full for the week, but we’d persisted, saying we’d do nights or weekends, whatever it took, because it needed to happen soon, the trial started in days. Anyway, after consulting with Sahara, who apparently felt she’d like to help out Scott in any way if she could, I was granted half an hour from 9.30 a.m. on Saturday morning. I would have to leave promptly.

I follow Sahara into a room fit for a real-life, cosmetically enhanced working girl Barbie. There’s a metallic blue computer sitting on a metallic purple table, with a couple of gold chairs tucked in. The carpet is shaggy and pink. The shade of the walls is irrelevant, because they’re covered top to toe in framed photos of Sahara, front pages of
Penthouse
,
Loaded
,
Now
,
Heat
, you name it, in clothes, out of clothes, from S & M whips and leathers to little Bo Beep frills.   

Sahara pulls out one of the chairs, motions for me to take the other. 

“Right, how can I help you?” she asks.

She turns on the computer. I’d explained to the PA that we’d need to access this person via Sahara.com. The message obviously got through. I show her the printout of the obscene mail I’d got from Sebastian, ask her to read it, just in case she’s not seen it before. I’d have expected her face to register disgust as she scanned the lines, but surprisingly she titters, especially where he says he wants a good feed off her hairy mud pie. In fact, that particular part provokes a titter AND a raised eyebrow. She’s baffled by the reference to Scott Richardson, which is when I explain that Scott himself received a nasty note through the door, which had also mentioned the words ‘top of the class’, and got me wondering whether there was a connection. What I wanted her to do, I say, aware that I now only have twenty minutes left of her time, was to send this man an e-mail from her saucy website, to try to smoke out his real identity. At the moment, the most I have is his online address,
[email protected]
, which gives little away.

She nods as I speak, taking it all on board.

“How about I send a special topless photo or something, ask him to send a self-portrait back?” she suggests.

I ponder. Her idea’s good, but a photo, on its own, well, that could be hard to narrow down.

“The real name is what I’m particularly after, but a photo wouldn’t hurt, that’s for sure,” I say.

 “Well, we could start with a photo, then move onto a name, perhaps? I just think that asking for a name first off looks more suspicious. No?”