Lover in Law (28 page)

Did she mean that SHE was attracted to him, or she could understand MY attraction to him?

“Your point being?” I’d asked.

“I can see why you didn’t say no.”

This from the woman who told me in no uncertain terms that I had to finish things with Anthony because of Adam. Although I do, of course, have my own mind.

“What are you saying here?”

Was she asking permission to go for it or telling me I’d made a big mistake?

“I don’t know,” she’d said evasively. By then we’d hit the tube station, were distracted working out which line we needed to go on and the topic wasn’t brought up again. Perhaps we both sensed it was a thorny area seeing how things have panned out. Anyway, what Kayla really wanted to do was to talk about her, about her blossoming relationship with Paul which, against the odds, seemed so far so good.

***

“Did you find my sister attractive?” I ask Anthony, daring him with my eyes.

Kayla and I might not have discussed my colleague in any greater detail, but their meeting has got to me. I’m not sure why. Neither of them did anything untoward, but I couldn’t sleep afterwards. Seeing Anthony with Kayla sparked off something. It wasn’t jealousy towards Kayla per se. It was the fact that if SHE found him attractive, then loads of other women would too and suddenly, for the first time since meeting Louise, that thin, blonde, bombshell Solicitor with a personality at Maxwell’s party, I feel territorial. I don’t want anybody else having him.

“Excuse me?” he looks quite bemused.

My question was pathetically juvenile, but I can hardly take it back. He was sitting minding his own business, nose buried in papers, scratching the front of his head when I’d stormed in, first thing, hands on hips, and shut the door firmly behind me.

“Well, she does look just like you,” he jokes.

He evades the question. My face gives away that I consider his answer affirmative.

“Don’t be stupid Ali,” he says. “What do you take me for? She’s your sister for Christ’s sake.”

The longest silence ensues. I’m not sure where to go with this.

He gets up, comes round to my side of the desk, perches a while, arms folded, with more twinkle in his eyes than the Milky Way. Then he steps forward, puts a hand on each of my shoulders and leads me to the sofa, physically forcing me to sit. When I have, so does he, right beside me. His proximity throws me off-guard. I want to sense danger, yet I feel safe. I want to hit him and kiss him and hate him all together. 

“What’s this all about Ali?”

His voice is mellifluous and soothing. His question is good. I don’t want to answer. I just want to cry.

“What do you mean?” I whisper.

“Is this about us?”

I shake my head, bite my lip, fending off tears.

“Tell me what this is about then?”

I can’t tell him, because I’m not sure myself.

“Are you still with Louise?” pops out.

I didn’t mean to ask him that. His gaze is so direct, so piercing, that I turn away, cast my eyes to the floor.

“This isn’t about her, Ali.  I know you better than you think. You can’t have it every which way. You were the one that ended it.”

I nod. What can I say?

“You’ve got a boyfriend and a baby on the way. It’s probably just the jitters and the hormones clouding your vision, don’t you think?”

My lower lip feels numb from biting so hard. My eyes fill up.

“Maybe,” I mumble, still looking down.

He puts his hand on my stomach. The baby, who’s been sleeping all morning, wakes with a start. That’s what does it. That’s what triggers the first tear to plop out, to trickle in slow motion down my cheek.  

“This is what matters Ali. This is what’s important,” he says.

His tone is quiet and sensitive, caring almost. It forces me to look up, to meet his deep brown eyes. I am transfixed, almost trance-like, waiting for divine inspiration. In the end, it’s not hard to work out what to do.   

“Anthony, there’s something I have to tell you,” I start.

My voice is controlled and clear. I feel more level, more together, lighter than I’ve felt in months at the prospect of shifting this heavy load. I take a deep breath, open my mouth, ready to launch, when Maxwell Hood QC knocks, pops his head round the door and asks Anthony if he has a minute.

***

I pick up the phone to make an important work call to a computer geek called Sebastian, trying to put Anthony to the back of my mind. I try to push the image out of my head of him mouthing, with a slightly conspiratorial nod, that we’d catch up later. The whole episode had been more divine interruption than divine inspiration. I’d left his office wondering if perhaps I’m just not meant to come clean. Perhaps Anthony is just not meant to know. That’s how it felt, when Maxwell hit his cue so bang on. The timing was perfect. I’ve always been a firm believer that timing is everything.

“Hi there, Sebastian. You thought you got rid of me, but it’s Alison Kirk, the Barrister again.”

I’m smiling on the outside, although my innards tell a different story. They’re churning, partly from the near miss with Anthony, partly because I need this call to be a success, and partly because Neeta’s at her desk, listening in, which always puts me ever so slightly on edge. The pressure’s on. I need Sebastian’s cooperation. Without it, quite frankly, I’m stuffed.

“Hi Alison,” he says.

I’m so not an Alison that it feels strange both for me to say it and respond to it, but sometimes the abbreviation just doesn’t feel right. Sometimes you need the weight of a full name to get what you want, a nickname won’t do. This, I’m not sure why, is one of those occasions. It’s a gut instinct thing. Sebastian was hard work on the phone yesterday and I need yet more information from him today, even though he’s already told me he’s gone as far as he can go. The nicest thing about Sebastian is his Welsh lilt, how he sings my name. It makes him much more likeable than he really is. His tone has a polite boredom, a lazy efficiency about it. I picture him as early twenties, tall, lanky, with straggly long mousy hair. This is possibly his first job.

“I wanted to call to thank you, for yesterday,” I say. “You were so helpful. It was really appreciated.”

After Scott Richardson had shown me the letter he’d received, I’d gone straight to the library, buried myself in a mountain of backdated tabloids, researching Sahara. When Scott mentioned she’d been at the receiving end of obscene mail, I thought it worth checking out, on the off chance there was a connection between their pen pals. As it turned out, her correspondence wasn’t quite the same. Hers had been filthy messages posted by some under-sexed twat on Sahara.com, a pay-per-view website that offers hard-core fans access to exclusive booby photos and up-to-the-minute diary footage. The messages had been so disgusting that the sender’s access had been blocked as soon as the site cottoned on. I’d read all about it in
The Sun
which, as well as flagging up the dangers of the dark side of the net, also gave the name of the operator of the site. That’s when I’d got on the phone, and ended up speaking to Sebastian. That’s when I got so involved I was late for Kayla. That’s when I got so involved she and Anthony ended up meeting.

What I’d wanted from Sebastian was the name of the person posting the filthy stuff. He’d stuck to his guns for a good hour, saying it was privileged information and he couldn’t give it out. I wouldn’t let it go though. Finally, after much buttering up and persistence, probably because he wanted to go home and hadn’t the courage to hang up, he wavered. He still wouldn’t give me the name, because that, he said, was quite simply out the question. What he did do, to shut me up, was read out one of the e-mails, in a marvellously deadpan, understated way, considering its content.

‘Sahara’s got the best pair of tits on the planet. I’d like her to dangle them over my cock, come down on me, sucking it big and hard, then I’ll roll her over and have a good feed on her hairy mud pie. She’s top of the class, with that arse. Not like Scott Richardson, who’s no class, all arse. She can do better.’  

‘Top of the class’ had me thinking of Cameron Matthews, the instant Scott showed me his letter yesterday. They’d been at school together, connection or coincidence? That the one and same phrase had popped up in Sahara’s correspondence made me as excited as a hound dog on heat. I have to find out the sender’s name. Step by step I need to whittle Sebastian down.

“No problem,” he says. “Anytime.”

His tone is indifferent. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it. I’m sure he doesn’t believe this is purely a courtesy call. I haven’t worked out a game plan for extracting the further, potentially crucial piece of information, but now, hearing his indifference, I decide the damsel card is my best charm offensive.   

“Sebastian, I’m really grateful for the information you gave me yesterday. I know you shouldn’t have given it out and if there were any way of not troubling you again, then I’d be there. It’s really, really cheeky of me, I know, but I’m desperate. If I don’t find out who sent those obscene mails, my job could be on the line –”

I pause, giving him a chance to respond, but he doesn’t. There’s silence as he waits for me to continue. Neeta taps the end of a pencil on her desk to grab my attention, pretends to stick a finger down her throat in jest. She’d have been much more direct in her approach, much less manipulative. 

“Look Sebastian,” I continue, feeding him a sob story, “I know you don’t owe me anything, this is my problem, not yours. It’s just this case I’m working on is my last big chance to succeed. If I don’t get this name from you, it might well lose me my job and well, well, that’s it really. There’s nothing else to say. The ball’s in your court.”

Sebastian releases a sharp woof of air and in a tone of firm patience informs me, for the thousandth time, that he can’t and unequivocally won’t release that information. Another call’s coming through, he says. Sorry, got to go. With that, the line goes dead, leaving me with my mouth wide enough agape to fit a grapefruit, the receiver in a dropped, outstretched disbelieving palm. I’m not used to failure. I’m not used to being hung up on. I must be losing my touch.

***

Kayla’s hovering in the doorway when I get back looking troubled, like she needs to talk. I’m suddenly concerned she IS going to ask for permission to approach Anthony.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get back Ali,” she says, blocking my path, not giving me a chance to head indoors, to make myself more comfortable. “I’m really sorry, there’s something I just have to tell you.”

Oh Christ. My inkling was bang on.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I say.

Her face registers surprise.

“So you’ve heard already?” she asks.

“Well, no, not exactly,” I say.

What exactly should I have heard?

I push past her, take off my bag, hook it over the front of the banister. 

“Did Paul contact you?” she asks.

I’m confused. What’s Paul got to do with Anthony?

“What do you mean Paul?”

“It’s Adam’s father,” she says. “He was hit by a car earlier today. They don’t think he’s going to make it. We thought you should know.”

Chapter 32

“So, how did it go with Adam?” asks Kayla.

We’re in my big bed. Much as I love her, much as I wouldn’t mind sleeping with her every night, this isn’t a usual phenomenon. Kayla’s chosen the room next door because, as a rule, she gets up so much later than I do. Not this morning though. By six we’d both been awake for at least half an hour, practically bumped into each other on the way to the toilet. She’d asked if we could snuggle up, for comfort, like in the old days. Of course I’d said yes. Whilst early rises are run of the mill for me at the moment, what with an ever-shrinking bladder being mistaken for a trampoline, Kayla hasn’t that excuse. Perhaps she’s concerned for Adam’s father.

I’d called Adam as soon as Kayla gave me the news. It didn’t cross my mind not to. In that split second I forgot about our differences, I forgot about our stupidity, I forgot about being stubborn, because this wasn’t about us. This was so much bigger. This was a time for rallying round. This was a time to bury the hatchet. This was a time when history is everything. I’ve known his father for nearly as long as I’ve known him. Lewis is his name. I’ve always been incredibly fond of his larger than life character. A typical Taurus, he’s into fine food, fine wine, luxury holidays, that kind of thing. He’s a spender, not a saver. He lives for the moment, no regrets. If his time is up, he lived life to the full, to the last minute. How many of us can say that? It was a shock to everyone. When you imagine a tragedy, a man dying in his early sixties, you think heart attack or cancer. You don’t think hit and run. Lewis had been crossing on a zebra when some joy rider had come zooming through, out of control, on the wrong side of the road, throwing him up onto the bonnet of the car, causing him to somersault right over the roof. An eyewitness had called an ambulance straight away. He was unconscious on arrival and is still in a coma. Whilst X-rays and CT scans show no severe cerebral haemorrhage, there is some brain damage, although they can’t determine the full extent. Doctors aren’t overly optimistic about his chances of recovery.