by Jo Kessel
“Has he been coming on to you?”
“No.”
A tiny thumb stroke is hardly a come-on.
“Have you been coming on to him?”
“NO!”
“How did he even know it was your birthday?”
I explain about Scott seeing Adam’s birthday card and tantra.com and that he must have put two and two together to come up with an original gift idea that’s probably no big deal to somebody who works in television, as Adam should know.
“So now can we go eat?” I finish.
“Sure, let’s go,” he says.
He agrees, but before we do, he confiscates my present and pops it in the top drawer of his bedside table.
***
Adam and I met in Brighton one weekend, shortly after I’d started university. I was on the pier, which has its very own two-bit radio station, piping through loudspeakers dotted along its length. The DJ was asking for requests. I don’t know what it was, the sound of his voice, witty and laid back, but I found myself on impulse seeking out the studio. He was sitting there, chilled behind his mixing desk with headphones hooked round his neck when I went to ask for Coldplay’s ‘Yellow’. He apologised, said he didn’t have that and asked if he could choose something else instead. I was on the bumper cars when I heard, “this one’s for Alison Kirk”. He’d chosen ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ by the Bangles. On my way back, I popped my head round his door, asked why he’d played that one. He said there was a touch of Cleopatra about me. I ended up getting in some coffees and helping him out the rest of the afternoon. And that’s, short and simple, how it started.
We reminisced about this and a few other Brighton memories today, as we always seem to whenever we’re by the sea, wherever we are in the world. It’s been a glorious day to turn thirty. A perfect picture postcard weather kind of day. There’s not been a whisper of a cloud to blemish the rich, cornflower-blue sky. The sun’s shone bright and hot, a real result considering we’re still in March. We walked for two hours on the beach this morning, a huge, deep carpet of white-golden sand. We soaked up the sunshine, ambling along, holding hands, stopping from time to time for Adam to skim stones. The best he could manage was a four-jump skim on the water’s surface. I didn’t think that was particularly good, but when I had a go, my stone didn’t kick up even once. It was just swallowed, guzzled by the waves.
Lunch was al fresco at a seafront bistro, down to our T-shirts it was that hot. We shared a huge tureen of mussels, a big bowl of thin chips and a bottle of Perrier, before catching the tail end of the market in the Town Square. All that, followed by a spot of browsing for antiques, has exhausted Adam. He’s lying on our Emperor-size hotel bed, having a snooze. Which gives me the perfect opportunity to take back what is rightfully mine. I tiptoe round to his side of the bed and gingerly pull the top drawer of his bedside table open. The panties are lying there, pretty in pink, daring to be put on. I take them out, checking all the while for any signs of Adam stirring. Mission accomplished, I pad to the bathroom.
I undress to my black camisole, step out of my M & S knickers and into my new panties. I love clothes, I really do. They’re my biggest extravagance, especially shoes. I’ve got at least forty pairs of footwear. Not a patch on Imelda Marcos, but pretty impressive all the same. Anyway, despite spending a fortune on outer garments, I’ve never really been one for underwear. And now that I’ve put on my new panties, I don’t know why. The touch, the sensual feel of them on my skin is a new experience for me. They’re smooth, expensive and deliciously silky. These are no ordinary panties, but a lethal weapon. All the more perilous because you can’t see them coming. I feel sexy and special, excitingly dangerous, powerful and in control. My reflection tells a different story. These knickers are as out of place on my rump as a bacon sandwich in a synagogue. A glamour puss should be modelling them, not someone whose boobs undulate less than still water. I don’t care though. It’s how you feel that matters, and if Adam thinks I’m going to let the next lucky guest of Room 240 have an early birthday present by leaving them in the bedside drawer next to the French Bible, he’s got another thing coming. They’re far too irresistible not to wear, despite their provenance.
“Ali?” pipes a voice from the other room.
Adam must have woken.
“I’m in the bathroom,” I reply.
On reflex I bend to remove the incriminating evidence, but then the new me, the pink panty clad me, decides against it. To hell with Adam and his jealousy, he can like it or lump it. It’s my birthday. I can do what I want. So I catwalk carelessly into the bedroom, head for the wardrobe and start flicking through the small selection of clothes I put in it yesterday, trying to decide what to wear for our big night out. I have no idea whether Adam’s even looking at me or not, my back’s facing him. Then I hear him open his bedside drawer.
“Baby?” he accuses.
“Mmmmmmm?” I reply, pulling out some khaki AllSaints jeans.
“Have you been in my drawer?”
“Mmmmmmmm.”
“Let me see.”
He sounds like a stern schoolmaster.
I turn to face him. He looks me up and down for ages without speaking.
“They’re very, very nice,” he nods approvingly.
“You mean you’re not angry?”
“Very angry,” he says, his face serious, but his eyes twinkling. “You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
“I know, but it’s my birthday, so I’m allowed. They’re fab, aren’t they?”
He pats my side of the bed.
“Are you going to come here then or what.”
“Or what,” I tease.
Chapter 8
Neeta and I are enjoying a late lunch at the India Club. It’s a gem of a restaurant. Tucked away on the second floor of a decaying hotel on the Strand, it’s a time warp of a place which, I’m pleased to say, not many people know about. All Formica tables, it reminds me of an old veterans club and when you cross the threshold, it feels like you’ve actually stepped into India. The place is scruffy, disorganized and noisy, but that’s all part of its charm. Neeta swears by their curries. I’m having chicken tikka masala and she’s ordered a mutta paneer.
It’s been a busy Monday morning. First off, I had an appointment at the fertility clinic, where I was informed that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. I’m ovulating well and my hormone levels are as they should be. A normal, healthy couple, the doctor explained, has a 25% chance of getting pregnant each month. Adam and I might just be rolling unlucky dice. We were told not to panic. Eventually we’d throw a double six.
Then Scott Richardson popped by for a final chat before trial day, this Friday. We discussed what he should wear, tactics for when he takes the stand, how to best give his evidence and not to react to anything Rupert Simons says. Business done, I thanked him for his most thoughtful birthday present. He asked if I was wearing them, with a DEFINITE hint of mild flirtation and innuendo. Which, of course, was politely and most professionally ignored.
“Right,” says Neeta, as the waiter delivers our dishes. “You’ve told me all about the food, the place, the hotel, but you haven’t told me what Adam got you for your birthday.”
Neeta has no idea what thorny ground she’s treading on. My birthday present, whilst absolutely beautiful and incredibly generous, has opened up a whole new can of worms. Adam had made me wait until the evening of my birthday, telling me he had another surprise in store. Once settled in at this romantic bijou restaurant, each with a glass of champagne, he dug his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out two thick foil-wrapped sticks.
“These are for you,” he said, passing them over.
“Thank you,” I said.
I unwrapped the foil to reveal two carrots, nicely peeled, with the ends cut off. I didn’t know what to say.
“And you brought these all the way from England. Thank you,” I muttered. I like veggies, but not as a thirtieth birthday present.
“That’s
not your present,” said Adam. “That’s the clue to what your present is.”
“Right,” I said, relieved.
“So, come on. Guess.”
“Ok, um, well, you’ve got me, um, a cooking course?” I ventured.
“Say what you see,” said Adam. “Say what you see.”
“I see carrots,” I said.
“Say what you see.”
“A health farm. You’re going to take me to a health farm.”
“Say what you see.”
I started to tire of the game.
“You can tell me to say what I see however many times you like Adam, but I still see bloody CARROTS so I don’t know. Come on, tell me, what is it?” I begged.
“Come on Ali, you’re an intelligent woman. Think laterally. Say what you see,” he repeated, clearly having fun.
I cogitated, chewed and considered a good long while, looking at his face for clues, but got nothing but a big smile and a refusal to be any more forthcoming. What did I see? I saw carrots. How many carrots did I see? I saw two carrots. As soon as I added the ‘two’ I got it. It wasn’t carrots. It was CARATS! A play on words. Carats are how they measure diamonds. Adam, I reasoned, was about to propose.
“Adam,” I said, “are you sure?”
He smiled. “You’ve got it then?”
I beamed like a Cheshire cat, girlishly excited, practically jumping out of my seat.
“Yes, I’ve got it. So do you have it?”
“I certainly do.”
His hand disappeared down the side of his chair, over which he’d hung his jacket. He felt around a bit, then pulled out a little blue, velvet box. I expected him to open it up in front of me, take my hands in his or get down on one knee or something, but he didn’t. He handed me the box.
“Happy birthday, Ali.”
Ok, so it wasn’t a conventional proposal, but it WAS original. I opened the box, expecting to gasp at the size of the solitaire, and so was slightly taken aback to see not one, but two diamonds. Mounted completely separately.
Earrings! Adam had given a pair of not so little diamond studs, which I now show to Neeta, pulling my hair back from my ears. She coos at how beautiful they are and I leave it there. As for me, I’m becoming increasingly annoyed with myself for making a ring, or lack of it, into an issue. I mean, up until Neeta’s proposal, marriage had never really been on my agenda. Whatever, somehow the whole thing’s got under my skin sufficiently for me to say “yes” when the Manager of the legal advice centre in Islington called this morning, acknowledging he knew it was cheeky, but was I by any means free to help out again tonight. Even though Adam had been looking forward to a quiet night in.
“So,” I said, spooning some rice and some chicken onto my plate, tearing off a piece of Nan bread. “Set the date yet?”
At least one of us has a wedding to consider.
“New Year’s Eve, venue still tbc.”
“What a great date,” I enthuse. “No excuse for forgetting your anniversary!”
“Beats April 1st then.”
***
I’m working on my opening speech, when Jon the clerk pops his head round the door, says Maxwell wants to see me, pronto. I get up reluctantly. I’d had a good flow of concentration going. I climb the narrow flight of spiral stairs that leads from my office level to the big wig’s floor and knock at the door that has two gold plates nailed into it. One says ‘Maxwell Hood QC’, the other slides to reveal or mask the word ‘engaged’, depending on what’s going on inside.
“Come in,” he booms.
I turn the brass knob handle and give it a good, creaky push. The man himself is sitting hunched over papers at his desk, fountain pen in hand. He looks up as I enter, puts down his pen and relaxes back into his chair.
“Welcome, Ms Kirk. Can you close the door please, take a seat,” he motions, arm outstretched.
I’m wondering if I should feel uneasy as I select my chair. Normally, when Maxwell wants a quick word, he pops his head round MY door.
“So, Ms Kirk. Are we winning, that’s what I want to know?”
Oh Christ. Is he questioning my ability to cope?
“Yes, I think so,” I keep my cool. “Everything appears to be in order. I think we’ve a more than good chance of a positive outcome.”
Maxwell takes off his glasses, a bad sign. He always does this when he’s about to launch into challenging territory.
“Ali, there’s been a slight change of circumstances. That’s why I’ve called you here.”
“Right,” I say, keeping a calm exterior whilst panic rises in my chest. Whilst I’d be happy to never set eyes on Scott Richardson again, I don’t want to be taken off the case and that, I fear, is what’s about to happen.
“The case is no longer your case as you know it.”
I knew it.
“There was a call to chambers whilst you were out at lunch, which I took in your absence. Scott Richardson, you see, is no longer charged with dangerous driving,” he continues.
“You mean the charges have been dropped?”
“No, I mean the charge has been changed.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“The allegation against your client, Ali, is no longer one of dangerous driving. He was called back in for questioning shortly after he left here this morning, because he is now being accused of murder.”
“Sorry?” I splutter. “What do you mean, murder?”
“I’m afraid the chief Prosecution witness, Rupert Simons, died this morning.”
“What do you mean he died? He was discharged from hospital a week ago?”
“Yes and he was admitted again this morning suffering from internal haemorrhaging as a direct result of injuries sustained in the accident.”
“This is crazy. My client didn’t murder Rupert Simons. There was no intention or malice aforethought.”
“Well, the Prosecution say they have a case against him. New evidence has come up.”
I know what’s coming next. I AM going to be removed from this case, but not for the reason I thought. I’ve never done a murder trial before and such a high profile Old Bailey job is an unlikely place for a junior to start. However much Maxwell Hood QC rates me.
“I’m not going to remove you from this case though.”
“You’re not?”
I’m genuinely surprised.
“I’ve just come off the phone to Scott Richardson. Whilst he was sounding a little bit down on his luck, he’s very happy with you, so I think the continuity will be good.”
“But I’ve never done a murder case before. Don’t you think this is way out of my league?”
“I’m sure nothing is out of your league Ms Kirk,” he flatters. “But don’t worry, I’m going to get you some senior help on this one.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Max bellows.
I automatically turn round. It’s Anthony. Our paths haven’t crossed since I helped out at the centre last time. If I’m honest, a small part of me wishes him there again tonight, although that’s not why I agreed to go.
“Perfect timing, Mr de Klerk. Thanks for popping by. Please, take a seat.”
He displays no sign of surprise by my presence and sits down on the chair to my right.
“The two of you have met?”
“Yes,” we reply in unison.
“Splendid,” Maxwell continues. “Ali, I’ve gone through the details with Mr de Klerk and he’s happy to play senior counsel, if that’s alright with you?”
“Sure, great, fantastic,” my words stumble out. This will be the court equivalent to a Broadway blockbuster.
“I trust you two will get your heads together,” Maxwell finishes. “Ali will fill you in Mr de Klerk.”
“I’m sure she will,” says Anthony.
“Thank you, Maxwell,” I say.
“Enough. Off to work, the two of you, time is money. He’s at Bow Street police station. They’ve revoked his bail and f
rom the sounds of it, he’s desperate.”
He waves the back of his hand in our direction and we both get up to leave. We’re halfway out the door, Anthony a protective step behind me, when I get a sense of déjà vu.
“Make sure you keep an eye on our Ali please, Mr de Klerk,” booms Maxwell. “That Scott Richardson, he’s got a terrible reputation for being one with the ladies.”
APRIL
Chapter 9
