by Jo Kessel
“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, th
rowing 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.
Adam sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. He was at the hospital when I’d called, having a breather with Paul, outside, giving his father’s two ex-wives a moment alone with him, sitting vigil by his bedside. I’d felt awkward about actually going there, hadn’t wanted to overcrowd things. In any event, Adam had said that visiting hours finished at eight. As long as his father was stable, they all planned to go home for the night. “Just be there,” Adam said, when I’d asked how I could help. So I’d told him not to get a crappy takeaway, that I had dinner covered and would be at Paul’s shortly after eight, unless I heard to the contrary. I’d been waiting outside, when they got back.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I’d said, hugging him as tight as my bump would allow, as soon as he got out of Paul’s car.
“So am I,” he’d said, squeezing me as if his life depended on it.
We weren’t just sorry about Lewis. We were sorry about us, about how we’d behaved, about what we’d become. With that hug, the past few weeks seemed to evaporate, to float away. We held each other for a long, long time. We would have held on longer, but I saw Paul hovering out the corner of my eye and broke away so I could hug him too. Then we all went inside and I heated up the fish pie I’d prepared at home. There were a lot of interruptions. Their mobiles and the land line kept ringing, constantly, as well-wishers and relatives called to find out the latest, but this wasn’t about being social, it was about being there, just like Adam had wanted. When it got to about ten o’clock, I collected my stuff, said I really ought to be heading back.
“Stay,” Adam had said, taking my hand as I headed out the kitchen, reluctant to let me go.
I’d paused a moment, considering, but decided that both despite the circumstances and because of them, this wasn’t the right time or the right place. I should be in my own bed.
“I have to Adam,” I’d said, lowering a protective hand to my tummy. “I’m really tired. I need to sleep. But you can call me anytime, anyplace, I’m here for you. I promise.”
He’d kissed me lightly on the lips, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, then drew me in close.
“You know,” he’d said, his head over my left shoulder, “it was horrible seeing him lying there, looking so normal and yet so lifeless, with all these wires everywhere and this machine constantly beeping. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t look like my Dad. I only saw him a couple of days ago. He was so fit, so healthy. This isn’t how it’s meant to end.”
“I know,” I’d comforted, rubbing my hands up and down his back.
That’s how scarily fragile life is. From one second to the next, anything is possible. I, too, was saddened by the image of Lewis. He was such a vital man, so full of energy. And he’d always been so lovely to me. With my parents in Canada he took it upon himself to be my second father. He’d always wanted a girl, he’d confided, and now he had one. I’d loved it, when he’d said that, when he’d embraced me as his own, making me feel so totally part of his family.
“Things like this,” Adam had said, “force you to put things in perspective, to realize what really matters.”
He didn’t need to spell it out. I understood what he was saying.
“I know,” I’d said.
“God, I just want another chance to tell him how much I love him. I can’t remember the last time I told him that.”
“Well then,” I’d said, “Let’s hope beyond hope that you get that chance.”
I tell Kayla all this as we lay side by side, on our backs, holding hands. The whole episode has forced us to face our parents’ mortality, as well as our own. Should the same thing happen to Mum or Dad would we even make it in time, to their bedside? Would we get that chance to tell them we loved them?
“So, how do you feel, you know, about Adam,” asks Kayla. “Do you think the two of you still have a chance?”
“Who knows,” I say. “There’s a lot going on. There’s a lot confusing the issue.”
“Or perhaps,” she says, extricating her clasp from mine, rolling over, “it’s making everything a lot clearer.”
After delivering these pearls of wisdom, she plants a pillow over her head, a signal that she’s ready to doze. Some of us, unfortunately, have to go to work. The baby slides over first and my body follows. Slowly, in a cumbersome, ungainly fashion, the two of us get up.
***
I’ve just picked up the phone to call Sebastian the computer geek, on a serious bribery mission, when I see tufts of red, followed by orange, followed by Anthony’s entire head of hair as he peers round the door. I put down the receiver, on action reflex. My pulse quickens to the extent that my hands fly to my ears, to shield them from the deafening thump. I haven’t forgotten where we left off.
“I can come back later if this is a bad time,” he says.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I say.
It’s fine because I’ve made a decision. Telling Anthony is a huge mistake. I can’t tell him without telling Adam, which I have no intention of doing. We don’t have a sofa, so Anthony plants himself behind Neeta’s desk, on her chair with wheels and steers himself in reverse.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
He’s good at the bedside, intro chat. He’d have probably made a great Doctor, the way that he talks to people, eases them in, encouraging them to open up. His strong, manly hands, they’re perfectly designed for healing, quite wasted on the law.
“I’m good thanks,” I say.
It’s true. I do feel better. Like Adam said, there’s nothing like the grim reaper to put things in perspective. My predicament could be worse. I’ve got my health, a baby on the way. There’s a lot to be thankful for.
“You didn’t seem so good yesterday,” he says.
It’s nice of him to care.
“Today’s another day,” I say.
He kicks with his heels, wheeling himself back and forth, chewing on a nail, distractedly. Adam does that, when he’s anxious, but I’m not sure what Anthony should be worrying about.
“Ali,” he says, “we need to talk.”
He stares at my tummy, as fixated as if I’d grown a freak second belly button. The baby rolls like a wave under my skin, in response to his gaze. Somewhere, deep down, perhaps they both know.
“Yes?” I whisper.
We both look up, at each other, simultaneously.
“Ali, about what you were say-”
He stops, because Jon the clerk appears from nowhere, without knocking, brandishing an elaborate bouquet of whites and blues and ferns.
“Why, thank you very much,” Anthony jokes.
“Err, no, err sorry sir,” Jon takes Anthony literally. “They’re for Ali.”
I stick my nose into a trumpet as he hands them over, inhaling deeply. “Wow, they’re beautiful,” I say. Pregnancy has enhanced my sense of smell. For me, a single lily has the potent aroma of sweet, late harvested champagne, with a spicy finish that lingers on the palate. This is a first, having flowers delivered at chambers. As Jon leaves, I unpin the little white envelope from the cellophane, open it up. It’s a welcome distraction. The message, ‘with love, A x’ is inconclusive.
“So,” Anthony smiles, getting up. “Who have you made happy?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve any idea?” I ask, hopeful.
“Not a clue,” he shrugs, heading for the door, apologizing that he’s just remembered something he’s forgotten to do, promising to catch up later.
***
Kayla’s lying on the sofa, watching the news when I get back from seeing Lewis at the hospital. I’d wanted to see him. He had, after all, been my father-in-law in all bu
t name for eleven years. I’d spoken to Adam earlier, to check on his Dad, to check if it would be ok to visit and, hedging my bets, to thank him for the flowers. They had, indeed, been from him. When I’d said they were beautiful but there was no need, he’d said yes there was. He’d said I was the best thing that ever happened to him. He knew he’d been a prick and he hoped it wasn’t too late to make things better. Lewis is still in a coma. I found the whole thing quite distressing. I’ve never much liked hospitals, but in my current condition I’m emotional about practically everything, the tap turns on at the slightest provocation. Yesterday I noticed the plant on my desk had died and even that made me cry, so it’s no surprise I was a quivering wreck watching Lewis’ chest rise and fall to the regular beep of the monitor he’s attached to. It was too overwhelming to stay long. Adam understood, said it was just nice that I had come, we’d speak soon.
