by Jo Kessel
“I’ve still got high hopes for you, Ms Kirk.”
“Thank you.”
I’m pleased for the reassurance.
He catches sight of his watch.
“Oh Christ, is that the time?”
“Where are you going?” I ask as he gathers his bulging black leather bag and cumbersome golf umbrella from under his feet.
“The Old Bailey and I’ve got ten minutes to do it in. So, goodbye for now Ms Kirk.”
“Bye.”
I mock salute him as he makes a mad dash for the door.
I sit for a short while, allow my heartbeat to slow, my nausea to dissipate. Then I slip into my raincoat, pick up my bag, look around the table to check that nobody left anything and sashay calmly towards the entrance. I have no trial to rush to. I’m having a clean-up day. Tying loose ends from last year, starting this one with a clean slate.
It’s not until I physically step out into Fleet Street that I realise it’s raining. And hard! Diagonal sheets of the stuff are crashing down onto the cars and buses sitting on the road, playing them like the percussion in an orchestra. I catch sight of Max in the distance, walking at an extremely brisk, but most probably dry pace, sheltered by his huge black golfing umbrella. I now, of course, envy it, cumbersome or not. The best I can do is a flimsy fake Burberry little number (a fiver seemed like a bargain at the time), which I quickly dig out my bag, and instantly regret being such a cheapskate. I press my thumb on the handle button, watch it promptly open, turn inside out and walk all the way back to chambers just like that.
***
The fellow tenant of my poky, windowless office is Neeta. She’s my colleague, my peer, the most attractive piece of furniture in the workspace we share. She’s not there when I get in, so sadly I can’t share the hilarity of how I look. A drowned, dishevelled ratty mess to the core. Wet hair stuck flat around my head, clothes soaked through, clinging. I hold up my inside-out umbrella for inspection.
I wag it dramatically in the air. “Exhibit number one,” I proclaim with mock pomp to an empty room, “is now inadmissible evid —”
I freeze – interrupted, mid-address to nothing but the ether, umbrella high above my head, as I hear a simultaneous throat clear and rat-a-tat tat at my open door. I turn to see Jon, one of our clerks. A twenty-something cockney wide-boy, with long greased back hair. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Jon. He dishes out the work in my chambers like a pimp, with a huge influence over the cases I get, the money I earn, the cut he takes.
“You decent?” he asks and without waiting for an answer, beckons to someone behind him.
That someone is a cross between Will Smith wearing a three-piece baggy suit and the Lion King. One of the most striking black men I have ever seen. With a mane like his (thick spiked-up dark brown fuzzy hair with orange streaks), I presume he’s a client.
“Ali, I’d like you to meet Anthony de Klerk,” says Jon. “The new kid on our block. He’s going to be upstairs.”
Which means this man, who looks more B-list Pop Star or Football Player than a Barrister, is my new colleague.
I step forward, fearing my rain-wet hand will be interpreted as clammy, but resisting the temptation to rub it on my damp skirt all the same.
“Hi, I’m Ali,” I say.
Because we’re meant to all know each other, tradition has it that Barristers never shake hands when they meet, but most of our generation ignore this. I’ve got a good, solid handshake, as all professionals ought, but Anthony’s is better. His speaks confidence, reassuring calm. He clasps my hand between his two for just the right length of time. He looks me directly in the eye for just the right length of time, as he says “nice to meet you,” then politely leaves.
“Your new brief Ali,” says Jon, as he dumps a bundle of white paper tied in pink ribbon on my desk.
“What is it?”
“An RTA, coming to a court near you.”
“Great Jon. Thanks.”
Jon bows his head then leaves.
Normally I’d be like YAWN! An RTA (road traffic accident) is about as dull as it comes once you’ve been in this business for a while. But in the aftermath of my tete-a-tete with Max, I can do with an easy one.
***
I didn’t choose to be a Barrister from some desire to be Erin Brockovich. A crusader for peoples’ rights! I was out to show the crusty, dusty judiciary that you didn’t have to be a privileged white bloke from Oxbridge to have what it takes, although I’m not certain I’ve yet proved my point. I saw it as a sexy profession with a spot of fancy dress thrown in. But truth be told, it’s bloody hard and far from glamorous. It’s a high-energy, high-octane, high-pressure job for everyone, but as a woman I’ve had to work ten times as hard to prove myself. I was terrible at the beginning, nervous and hesitant. I run a much smoother operation now. I’m slicker, I act more confident (even if I’m not) and I’ve got the ‘look’. I play the game.
I’m a Criminal Defence Lawyer, with a stock answer for anyone who asks how I could represent a murderer. “If someone is pleading innocent then that is what he is,” I respond. “I am not there to judge. I am simply their mouthpiece and must defend them as best I can.” If they were idiot enough to tell me the truth but ask me to get them off anyway, I would be what is termed ‘professionally compromised’, and would have to step down from the case. Anyway, nothing that drastic has ever happened, even though half my clients make Charlie Sheen look positively saintly.
***
I wait till Jon’s out of earshot, shut the door quietly, head back to my desk and sit down. I glance first at my new brief, my next case, tied up in a pretty pink bow, then at the phone. The phone wins out. I pick it up, dial Adam’s number.
“Hey babes,” I say, relieved to hear his voice. “How’s it going?”
“Hey. I was just about to call you.”
“Yeah?”
He speaks quietly. “I’ve sorted out that thing for tomorrow.”
“What thing?”
He’s still quiet. “You know, that thing I needed to get sorted.”
“What thing?”
“You know, the thing for my boys,” he whispers.
I haven’t a clue what he’s on about.
“Which boys?”
He works in an open-plan office and obviously can’t talk properly.
“You know” (I can barely hear him now), “the boys that live downstairs. Checking the troops are up to scratch.”
“Ahhhhhhhh,” I get his drift. “THOSE boys. You’re talking about your SPERM test!”
“Sssshhhhhh,” he whispers.
“It’s ok,” I laugh. “I’m by myself.”
“Anyway,” he continues, back to speaking normally, “I’m doing it first thing tomorrow at Hammersmith.”
“Great,” I say.
We’d decided to start with Adam, seeing as his part is the easy one. It’s non-invasive and potentially pleasurable. A couple of minutes wanking and hey presto. He probably even gets a few porno mags thrown in.
The pink bow starts to glare at me, so we wrap up the conversation and get back to our respective work. I untie the ribbon, flick through the pages and start reading about my next case.
Chapter 3
Today is trial day. Let’s hope this morning’s excellent start is an omen. It’s eleven o’clock and here I am at home, drinking coffee with my sister, my identical twin. I went to court first thing, but was sent away, my case having been adjourned till the afternoon due to burst pipes. Kayla happened to call as I was leaving and because the court was Highgate Magistrates, not a million miles from where I live, I told her to meet me at home. There’s something different about her, I note, as she gets herself comfortable in a cross-legged position on my lounge floor. I don’t know. It’s a certain je ne sais quoi, a glow. She shuffles her bottom back, rests her hands on her knees, easing them open.
I, too, like to sit cross-legged, and plant myself opposite her on the floor, her mirror reflection. Looks are w
here our similarities end. In personality, we consider ourselves completely different. I’m more settled, whereas Kayla’s what I would call a floater. She quit college before the first year was out, trained as a masseuse, travelled on and off for a while. She's since qualified as a basic yoga and chi ball teacher, which is what she does to fund her way through her latest venture. She’s training to be a homeopath.
“So, who was he?” I ask. She’s just come back from a week’s stint at a yoga ashram in India.
She gawps. “What do you mean? How did you know?”
We go through this rigmarole whenever I hit the nail on the head first time, and I’ve got a ninety-five per cent track record. We might ‘be’ very different, but I can still read her like a book, know her inside out. She’s more than just flesh and blood. She’s part of me.
“You’ve got the glow.”
“Oooooooooh,” she drawls lazily, linking her fingers, stretching her arms above her head. “HE was Vijay and IT was unbelievable.”
I prepare myself for one of her amazing stories.
“Pray tell.”
HE was no taller than five feet, a guru teacher, whose inspiration it transpired wasn’t just yoga, but the Kama Sutra and tantra. She hadn’t thought of him in a sexual way all week, but on the last night, sitting next to him over chickpea curry, when he asked if she would like her sensual spirituality stimulated, she impulsively decided that come to think of it, she would. Off they went to his quarters, where he blindfolded her, spent ages brushing her softly with feathers, furs and rose petals, awakening her sensuality and sexual energy before embarking on a three hour love-making marathon, in a variety of weird and wonderful Kama Sutra positions. Oh, and they both had multiple orgasms.
“I hope you used protection.”
“No need. He didn’t come.”
“What do you mean he didn’t come? You said you both had multiple orgasms.”
She tilts her head first to one side, then the other. “You’re confusing ejaculation with orgasm Ali and, contrary to popular belief, they don’t necessarily have to happen together.”
“Yes they do.” Well, they do in my book.
“No they don’t. If a man works hard enough at it he can learn how to orgasm without coming. That’s what tantric sex is all about, which means a man can last much longer and so pleasure his woman better. Oooooooohhhhhhhh,” she whines, horny at the thought.
“So will you see him again?”
“Only if I go back to the same ashram and he happens to be there. He’s never left India, doesn’t even have a passport.”
“You really should have used protection you know. You don’t know this Vijay from Adam –”
We both giggle because she DOES know Vijay from Adam and we’ve had a laugh at this gag from the moment I started going out with him.
“Anyway,” I continue, “you’ve no idea how many impressionable Western women he’s been with, or who the hell they’ve been either. It’s not worth it.”
“You’re right,” she holds up her hands, “it just never felt appropriate. But I won’t do it again, promise. Anyway, let’s change the subject. How are you, you know, with everything?”
She’s referring to me not getting pregnant.
“You know what, I’m fine. So fine that there’s not much to say. I think I’d just been pushing everything out of perspective. You know, I’ve got Adam, I’ve got work and I’m sure it will happen eventually, so what’s the rush?”
“Of course there’s no rush. I mean, you’ve got to realise that your lives will never be the same again? It’s the last thing I’d want right –”
The phone rings. It’s Adam. Kayla mouths that she’s got to leave, hugs and kisses me whilst my ear’s glued to the receiver, and let’s herself out.
***
A hand touches my shoulder as I’m leaving court later that day.
“Ali?”
I turn around, startled. I recognise the person straight away, but it takes me a couple of seconds to remember his name.
“Anthony, right? Anthony de Klerk.”
“Got it in one,” he smiles, with perfect large white teeth.
It’s our new member of chambers - the Will Smith meets the Lion King man. Looking rather dapper and warm in a long, camel cashmere coat. I haven’t seen him since we first met a couple of days ago. He looks at his watch.
“Fancy a drink?” he asks.
I’ve got time. I’ve got nowhere to be and Adam won’t be home for at least an hour. But even though I won my case, I don’t feel like celebrating. It was Adam who called as Kayla was leaving, with news of his sperm test. Apparently he was an ‘A’ grade pupil, with millions of very good quality little buggers. Fast swimmers too. Which has made me feel about as fertile as a dead dodo. I screw up my face, about to make excuses. I’m not sure I can be bothered to have a drink with a near stranger, however handsome.
“Come on. You look like you could do with one,” he says, nudging me away from the courthouse.
Perhaps it’s best not to be alone.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” I ask.
“Not really, this isn’t my patch. I was going to head for the nearest pub.”
I think out loud. “Mmmmmmmmm, no, I know. Let’s try Luigi’s.”
“Luigi’s it is. Lead the way.”
Luigi’s isn’t actually the name of a place. It’s the name of the guy who owns my favourite Italian restaurant on the Archway Road, called Capri. It’s cheap and cheerful with a year-round gas burner-heated al fresco area.
Luigi’s there to greet us, Hercules Poirot moustache neatly curled. His eyes question the company I’m in.
“This is Anthony, a work colleague,” I explain.
“So how is your lovely husband?” he asks.
I reassure him that he’s very well as we make our way out back, order a bottle of Chianti and some garlic bread. By the time we’ve taken off our coats, the wine and glasses have arrived. Anthony pours for us both, we clink and I take a huge glug, relaxing back in my chair.
“Better?” he asks.
“You bet.”
“Good day, bad day?”
I reflect. “Good day I guess.”
“Not such a bad place, Highgate Magistrates?”
“You know what, that’s been the best bit about my day. I live round here – well, ish, so I even made it home for lunch. Now days don’t get much better than that!”
“So how long have you been married?” he asks. He must have picked up on Luigi’s comment.
“I haven’t, I’m not – married that is,” I admit. “I live with someone. We’ve been coming here for at least five years; I guess Luigi just presumed we were husband and wife. You?”
“Divorced.”
“Already!”
“What do you mean ‘already’?”
“Well, you don’t look like you’ve had enough time to get married AND divorced.”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“No way!”
Black men often look much younger than they are. With his funky fuzzy orange streaked hair, I’d presumed Anthony was about my age.
We fall silent, comfortably, giving me time to take in his smooth chocolate skin, his huge dark brown eyes rimmed with a thick black circle, his flirty full mouth. This man does not look like a Barrister.
“You don’t look like a Barrister,” he says.
“I was just thinking the same about you!”
“So, why did you do it?”
“To prove a point. You?”
“Snap!”
Believe you me, black Barristers are few and far between. The bar is notoriously under-represented by ethnic minorities, women and non-Oxbridge graduates. That Anthony, Neeta and I are all members of the same set of chambers is a one in a million. And all of us have had to work ten times as hard as the average plumy, upper class, male Caucasian to get there.
Anthony is an extremely interesting man. Turns out he’s mixed race, although
he doesn’t look it. His father is a white South African; his mother is from Mozambique. After they married, they tried living in South Africa but met with so much hostility, due to their different shades of skin, that they moved to England, where his Dad already had some family. He’s got nine siblings – two who are white. I’ve always found that fascinating, how children of mixed race parentage can turn out so differently. Like that set of twins who came out one white, one black. It was in the papers years ago, with anthropological analysis on how the twins were each likely to be treated very differently in life due to their respective colours.
