Lover in Law (4 page)

“Tell me Ali, do you know who Scott Richardson is?”

Scott Richardson, Scott Richardson, Scott Richardson. The name rings a bell. My brain performs some mental acrobatics, works out the connection.

“Oh, do you mean that pretty boy TV Presenter?”

I don’t have much time for daytime TV, and that’s how you’d know him. He fronts a daily magazine show called ‘Look Who’s Talking’. The only reason I’ve heard of him is because of Adam. He’s brought his name up recently in connection with work, but I can’t remember why.

“Yes, that’s the one and he’s gone and got himself into a bit of trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“He’s been charged with dangerous driving. The driver of the other vehicle involved claims he was driven off the road intentionally, and that man is now in hospital recovering from a broken collarbone and some cuts and bruises. Nothing that won’t heal, but the press are going to have a field day with this one.”

Maxwell has his elbows on the table. He clasps his hands together, then looks at me.

“The clerks were going to give this one to Charles, but I went to have a word with them, told them to give it to you instead.”

Charles is another member of our chambers, a couple of years senior to me. This is a fantastic coup, such a high profile case.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

What do I mean ‘is he sure’? Do I want him to rescind the offer?

“It’s an excellent opportunity for you Ali. Don’t let me down.”

He puts his glasses back on, starts shuffling documents on his desk, signalling that there’s nothing further.

“Thank you so much,” I get up to leave.  “I won’t let you down.”

I’m halfway out the door when Maxwell booms, “Watch that man Ms Kirk. He’s got a terrible reputation for being one with the ladies.”

***

  Neeta is sitting behind her desk when I get back to my office. She jumps up as soon as she sees me, walks over with arms outstretched.

“Ohhhhhhh,” I squeeze her with a hug. “Welcome home!”

She’s just got back from a Christmas holiday down under with her boyfriend. Neeta and I were at Bar School together, did pupillage together and got taken on at chambers together. Whilst our friendship has never really extended beyond nine to five, I’ve got a lot of time for Neeta and miss her when she’s not there. She’s a brilliant Barrister with Bollywood beauty. Like Maxwell Hood QC, she’s a pixie of a little thing. Unlike him, she always wears impossibly high shoes to mask her height, today’s footwear no exception.

“Look at THOSE!” I point to her feet, in awe.

She rolls her right ankle from side to side so we can admire her crisscross black suede Buffalo-style wedges. And I mean wedges of massive proportions, a la Baby and Ginger Spice mode. Most unconventional for a legal dynamo! 

“I got them from this little boutique in Sydney, half-price. You like?”

“Yes I like. How tall are they?”

“Five I think.”

I’m standing behind her, back to back, as we try to work out if I’m still taller than Neeta wearing five-inch heels, when Anthony knocks on our open door.

“I hate to interrupt,” he comes in, “but now that I have, perhaps I can be of assistance.”

He picks up a copy of the latest Counsel Magazine lying unopened on my desk, holds it above our heads.

“Ali, you win by a whisker. And hello, you must be Neeta.”

“Yes, sorry.” I point from one to the other. “Anthony, Neeta, Neeta, Anthony,” I introduce.

He holds out his hand, which she politely shakes, and then turns his attention back to me.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on the Richardson case. That should be fun.”

“Yes, thank you,” my cheeks rouge a little at his praise. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Well, anyway, well done. See you soon.”

He smiles at Neeta, looks at me, then leaves.  

***

“He is GORGEOUS!” Neeta mouths the last word. “Who IS he?”

“He is Anthony de Klerk.”

“And what was he doing here?”

“He’s our new member of chambers.”

“No way! He doesn’t look like a Barrister.”

“That’s what I thought. But he is, and a very good one too, according to his reputation.”

I’ve since found out that he’s widely tipped to be made a QC either this year or next, one of the youngest criminal barristers ever to take silk, an honour bestowed on the best of the best. Not bad considering he’s only been in the job for twelve years. 

 “Had a chance to get to know him yet?”

“A bit,” I admit. “We had a drink a while back.”

Actually we’ve done lunch since that drink. Extremely casual, dining in Hall. It had been quite funny, the number of coincidences. There are two separate buffet tables, both carrying the same dishes. We’d queued at different ones, but ended up with exactly the same meal, despite the huge selection. Poached salmon, parsnip mash and asparagus with watercress sauce. We’d found out that we both lived at No. 13s, claimed not to be superstitious, but avoided ladders like the plague. We learned that we both used to cycle to work until accidents involving us independently breaking bones (his shoulder, my wrist) drove us onto public transport. And when I told him I was an identical twin, he admitted to an absurd curiosity in pop duo Jedward, such fascinating creatures, so outrageously bad they’re almost cool.   

Her phone rings. She moves to pick it up when I notice a huge rock on her finger. It’s definitely new.

“What’s with the ring?”

Zaf, her long-standing, hugely wealthy, city financier boyfriend, must have gone and done the decent thing. Good on him! I’m really happy for her.

“He finally proposed,” she says, flashing her fourth digit theatrically under my nose, before picking up the phone. I mouth ‘congratulations’ and hug her again.  

***

Stuff happening to your friends forces personal comparisons. About where you’re at in your life, whether you’re in the same place and if not, whether you want to be. I’ve been with Adam since I was 18 and it’s no surprise that he hasn’t popped the question. He comes from a family of messy divorces, so he’s decided we’ve got more chance of sticking together if we don’t get that piece of paper. He’s often said that maybe, when we have children, he’ll feel differently and up till now I’ve not been bothered. But part of me has always fancied the romance of it all, the fairytale wedding. I spend so much time wearing black for my job that sometimes the thought of an over-the-top little white number is rather appealing.

As I head to the tube I’m thinking about whether I should bring up the ‘m’ word with Adam. I’d rather not. It’s hardly a topic for spontaneously dropping into conversation. And part of me is still hoping that one day he’ll be swept away by a tide of emotion and ask me to marry him, without ultimatum, without provocation.  

I’m snapped out of my reverie by a bloke dishing out
Evening Standard
newspapers to London commuters. The headline (or what I can see of it) grabs my attention – LOOK WHO’S WALKING! FIND OUT WHAT SCOTT RICHAR-.  I take a copy and manage to resist the temptation to read until I’m safely ensconced in a much sought-after rush-hour seat on the Circle Line.

***

I’ve my nose in a pocket A-Z, and miss whacking into a lamppost by a whisker. Turns out that that lamppost borders the tiny back road I’m after, St Barnard Street in Islington. This isn’t my patch. I’m here on a mercy mission. Once a month I devote an evening to an out-of-hours legal advice centre, not this one though. Normally I help at a bureau in Tottenham. I was there only last week, but I got a call this afternoon from the Director of the Islington branch, desperate because half his staff had gone down with the latest mutation of swine flu, asking if by any chance I could help. I feel guilty enough that I only give twelve nights a year of my time, so I said yes, gladly.

The problems are nearly always the same. People wanting advice on whether they’ve been unfairly dismissed by their employer, whether their landlord can really evict them or push up the price of their rent without notice, whether they can take unfit merchandise back to the shop, even though it’s been used. None of these are my areas of expertise, but I now know enough to deal with the most common cases. If I don’t, then I check it out and get back to them.

I’m slightly early. The session’s due to start in fifteen minutes and the door’s still locked. The premises are a ramshackle affair. Graffiti’s splashed over the front of the building. Two of the windows are boarded up. There’s so little money donated to this kind of facility, it’s a wonder they stay afloat. I push the bell. Even that doesn’t work properly. It sputters like a radiator full of air.

The door opens and the lines on my forehead bunch up in surprise.

“Oh, um, err, hello,” I say.

It’s Anthony de Klerk.

“Are you following me?” he teases, the lines on his brow also deepening in furrows.

He stands aside so I can enter and closes the door behind me.

“So what are YOU doing here?” I ask, following him down a dark, narrow corridor.

“I help out here from time to time. I live round the corner.”

He flicks a few light switches, pushes another door which leads to a pseudo office set-up, with desks, chairs and a couple of computers. He heads towards a table displaying a kettle, cups, some glass jars marked tea, coffee, sugar and a box of Asda assorted biscuits.

“When they told me someone from the Tottenham branch was our SOS, I wouldn’t have pictured it as you,” he says.

That’s the thing about lawyers, the astonishment when one of our gang actually does something for free. Although I’ve been doing this since before I even qualified, to try to give just a little something back to society over and above buying the occasional lottery ticket, I wouldn’t expect the next person to do it.

“Snap,” I smile.

“I’m afraid I’ve nothing stronger,” he says, pointing to the Women’s Institute beverage selection as he fills up the kettle, “but would you like a drink?”

I say that I could murder a cup of char. He’s just handed it over when our first customer arrives. A woman in her twenties with dreadlocks and a nose ring.

Anthony winks at me, offers the woman a seat and asks how he can help. I pretend not to eavesdrop on their conversation and look away, blowing on my drink before taking a tentative sip. Somehow though, I look back without meaning to and he catches my eye with a smile. Then a nicely dressed man in his fifties, carrying a big red box file walks in and I divert my attention.

Chapter 5

Scott Richardson’s nothing like he looks on TV. On the small screen, he’s that all-American preppy kind of image. Perfectly sleeked dirty blonde hair, bright blue eyes, square jaw and a perfect Californian smile. He comes across as a squeaky clean, boy next door. A saccharine, good-humoured chap in his late 30s. The flesh and bone reality, however, is strikingly different. I’ve always thought it a myth that television puts pounds on people, but I now realise it’s completely true. In person, Scott’s face is longer, thinner, meaner. Make-up free, the skin is coarser.  His chin is more pointed than square, his nose has a bulbous tip. He’s still good-looking, but in a more threatening way. He cuts an imposing figure as he towers above, tall, lean and chic in his sharp suit. His firm, no messing handshake and the slightly unnerving directness of his eye contact tell me this is a powerful man, used to being in control, to getting what he wants.  Women, if you believe everything you read, are mostly what he’s after. He’s allegedly prolific, having dated royalty, celebrity and crossbreed Clara Tinker-Robinson. He’s got a gaggle of twenty-something groupies happy to hit the casting couch.   I can see what the fuss is about. He has an alluring, captivating charm, but for me, as potential prey, he sends out alarm bells.

Adam, it turns out, had recently met him. They’d been in negotiations regarding a series on famous cars. As someone with a genuine interest in flash motors, Scott Richardson seemed the perfect man to front the show. Adam had groaned when I told him what had happened. Said they probably wouldn’t be able to use him for the programme now. Adam said he’d quite liked him, that he’d been surprisingly down to earth. Adam and I normally perceive people similarly, but not in this instance. It’s too soon for a complete character assassination, but there’s something about him I just can’t put my finger on, despite the slick smoothness and charisma. I disengage from the tight grip of his hand and motion for him to take a seat. However I feel about this man, my job is to defend him, pure and simple.   

“I don’t like wasting time and I don’t like lies,” he says, as soon as we’ve sat down. “So tell me, straight down the line, could I go to prison for this?”

His directness catches me off guard. I’d been about to offer liquid refreshments.

“Are you guilty?”

He locks his eyes onto mine and holds them.

“No,” he says, trying to stare me out.

I nearly always have an inner gut feeling as to whether a client is telling the truth, but in this case I don’t. It’s not that I DON’T believe him, it’s just that there’s so much poise, such a hard veneer. He’s the coolest of customers.  I pick up Scott’s dossier, show it to him and then gently toss it back on my desk. I clear my throat, shift my body to ramrod straight, meet him bang in the eye with my gaze.