by Lesley Lokko
She didn’t lift her head. She knew to whom he referred. ‘Djibouti. He was here just before Christmas.’
‘How is he?’
‘Fine,’ she murmured. She kept her profile turned away from him, not trusting herself to meet his gaze. Not now. We can’t talk now.
52
JULIA
London, April 1997
A fortnight after the dinner that had turned her completely upside down, Julia stood in front of a mirror in the sort of shop she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in and fingered the silk dress indecisively. It was strapless, long and floaty – not the sort of dress she normally favoured, but it was beautiful. Plum, deepening to black at the hem, it had a fitted, fluted bodice and fell around her feet in loose, luxurious swirls. It came with a hefty price tag, too. She was standing in an agony of indecision, trying to picture herself in it, when the sales assistant suddenly appeared. Five minutes later, she was looking at her own reflection in the long triptych mirror in the changing room with anxious concentration.
‘It’s lovely,’ the assistant breathed, her voice dripping with the desire to make a sale. ‘Just lovely.’
‘It’s not too tight?’ Julia asked anxiously, turning sideways.
‘Not at all. You’ve got such a lovely figure. We’ve got the most adorable little shrugs just in, too. Let me get you one …’ She disappeared before Julia could open her mouth to protest.
Half an hour later she walked out of the boutique with the dress, a shrug, a pair of shoes and a necklace in one of those oversized, expensive-looking bags and tried not to think about the small fortune she’d spent. It was worth it, she reasoned. She would wear the dress again and again – yes, it was an investment, not a purchase. She hurried along Fleet Street, the bag banging awkwardly against her legs. She’d spent her entire lunch break in the changing room full of the scent of other women’s perfumes. Most unlike her. She hurried into her office and stowed the offending bag under her desk. She switched on her computer and tried to take her mind off the one thing that had been on it for almost two weeks. Aaron Keeler.
‘Julia?’ It was Katie Fitzsimmons. She popped her head round the door. ‘Doyle’s just asked if you’d sit in on the meeting with Aimée Sinclair. They’re starting now.’
Julia came back down to earth with a bump. She made a small sound of impatience. ‘Do I have to?’
‘Absolutely. What Doyle wants, Doyle gets. Good luck. Tell us if she’s had plastic surgery.’
Julia sighed and got up. ‘Where are they?’
‘Second floor. It’s the big meeting room at the end.’
She picked up her notepad and followed Katie out of the room.
‘Ah, Julia. Thank you for joining us.’ John Doyle looked up as she entered. She slid into the nearest seat as quickly as she could. It was obviously an important meeting. Three senior partners, two heads of department, two barristers – nothing but the best. She tried to concentrate on the conversation taking place. She’d heard of Aimée Sinclair – who hadn’t? A spoilt wannabe actress who had married an enormously wealthy music video producer in a blaze of publicity a few years earlier. She’d quickly produced two children, whom she paraded in front of the cameras at any and every opportunity – and now, of course, the children were pawns in what was turning out to be the most vicious divorce settlement the country had ever seen. Senior counsel were keen to take it on, she’d heard – the publicity and the fees it would generate would be good for the firm and, as they pointed out, would help subsidise other, less profitable sections of their practice. Julia listened to the arguments with half an ear. The divorce proceedings of rich couples bored her to tears – it wasn’t the reason she’d chosen law. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine why she’d been called to sit in on the meeting. She just hoped no one would ask for her opinion. She wondered why Aaron hadn’t been asked, or Katie, or Daniel. Why her?
‘What do you think, Julia?’ Doyle asked suddenly, swivelling around in his chair to face her. ‘Obviously the decision by Mrs Sinclair to spend more time in the south of France will impact on the case for joint custody …’
Julia blinked. The question had taken her by surprise. So did the sudden, unexpected rush of anger. She opened her mouth, knowing even as she did so that she’d probably regret it, but it was too late. The words were out before she could stop them. ‘Look, we all know that children whose parents are going through a divorce have a hard time of it, no matter how we dress it up. Most of them spend half their lives going back and forth between homes when what they really should be doing is their homework, or playing with friends, forming their own relationships, which, if they’re bloody lucky, will last them for the rest of their lives. In this case, these two kids are going to be on planes and trains for most of their childhood. Why?’ She turned and looked directly at Aimée Sinclair, whose mouth had dropped open. ‘Because you’ll get a better year-round tan?’ There was a stifled gasp from one end of the table. Doyle was looking at Julia in horror. He cleared his throat as if to interrupt, but there was no stopping her now. ‘Everyone thinks children are resilient; isn’t that what we all comfort ourselves with?’ She looked round the table defiantly. ‘Well, that’s not what the latest research shows. Your kids will be feeling the pain of this ridiculous arrangement for the rest of their lives. Look, I’m not saying divorce is a bad thing. Christ, we’ve all been in situations we’d like to get out of. What I am saying is that there are two children here, and if the best reason you can come up with for wanting to dissolve your marriage is that you’re bored, then I suggest you find a hobby. One that won’t extract quite such a price from the only decent thing you’ve ever produced – your kids.’ She got up, suddenly aware that the entire room had gone deathly quiet. She picked up her notes and walked out of the room.
After escorting a weeping Aimée Sinclair out of the building, Doyle returned to the meeting room. Everyone was still in shock. ‘What on earth provoked that?’ he asked dazedly of no one in particular. ‘She’s just lost us potentially our most lucrative client ever.’
‘Good on her.’ Mike Banville, QC, suddenly spoke up. ‘Her timing’s not great, but it’s about time it was said. All these celebrity clients. It’s absolutely ridiculous, if you ask me. They’re just a distraction from the real business of the law.’
‘Yes, but those distractions pay for the ‘‘real business’’, as you put it,’ Nathaniel Peterson, Head of Litigation, remarked drily. ‘They’re the reason we can afford a department like that in the first place. In a sense, clients like Aimée Sinclair pay for barristers like Burrows.’
‘I agree. All she does is take on controversial unwinnable cases that swallow up God knows how many hours of man time. It’s practically pro bono.’
‘But she’s damned good at it. Granted, it’s not the high-profile stuff your department brings in, but she’s passionate about it and she brings a certain … integrity to this whole business. An integrity, I should say, that’s wholly—’
‘All right, all right, Ken, that’s enough. I agree, she’s a bit of a loose cannon, but then again, some of the loosest cannons have gone on to become some of the biggest assets. I mean, I remember—’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t start waltzing down memory lane,’ Alistair Kennedy groaned. ‘We’ll be here all day. Look, what are we discussing here? Are we going to sack her? Hardly. Might someone put in a word of caution? Good idea. Will she go on to do exceptional things in the future? Most undoubtedly. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
Aaron listened to the buzz going around chambers with barely suppressed irritation. What the hell was it about Julia Burrows that seemed to provoke such passionate discussion? It had been exactly the same at Balliol. No one was capable of rousing emotions the way she was. As he picked up his notebook and papers, it came to him suddenly that he wasn’t just annoyed – he was worried. Why wasn’t he capable of generating anything other than a clap on the back, a hand on the shoulder, a brief nod of approval?
Why didn’t people wonder about him the way they seemed to wonder about Julia Burrows? Christ, he couldn’t count on both hands the number of times her bloody name had come up in conversation – everybody, it seemed, had an opinion on Julia Burrows, but no one had anything really to say about him. Other than what a credit he was, etc., etc. He was tired of being a credit, he realised irritably. Tenacious, passionate, stubborn, risky – the list of adjectives surrounding Julia Burrows was growing every day, and in direct proportion to the ways in which he wasn’t being discussed. He had never upset the apple cart, had never delivered a verdict or penned a response that wasn’t fully expected of him in some unidentifiable way that everyone seemed to understand – except him, of course. He conformed to everyone’s expectations without even being aware of what those were. So why didn’t she? And why the hell did it matter so much? Ever since the damned Law Society dinner she’d been on his mind. It wasn’t that they’d kissed … Christ, a few glasses of wine and the interminable boredom of sitting next to Banville’s wife and he’d have kissed anybody. Well, almost. Although … He stopped typing and looked out of the window, suddenly lost in thought. There was something about her … there’d been something special about her that night. Was it the dress? He tried to recall it. Her hair … had she done something different? She wasn’t his type. Of course not. He liked women who looked – and acted – like women. Soft, feminine, willing … He didn’t like her sharpness and her angularity. Although … he cocked his head to one side, pondering the thought. She wasn’t angular, as such. Slim, almost boyish … but she was certainly pretty. He rather liked her hair, he realised … dark brown, glossy. He liked the way she smelled. And he liked the way she talked. Once you’d got used to the accent, of course. She had a way of putting things … she was quick, witty. He looked back down at his computer screen. Eleven minutes had passed since he’d last typed a word. Eleven minutes. All of them spent thinking about Julia Burrows. What the hell was going on?
Two storeys above him in the toilets adjacent to the library, Julia was dousing her burning face in cold water, wishing that the ground underneath her would open up and simply swallow her whole. What the hell had she done? She hadn’t been herself since the night of the dinner. She and Aaron had kissed; nothing more. She would have liked more … but he’d pulled away, as he always did. He’d looked at her in the darkness, not saying anything. And then, in a gesture of unbearable tenderness, he’d kissed the tip of her nose and led her back inside. ‘Before I do something we’ll both regret,’ he’d said. She’d been too hollowed out to answer. Regret? Why would he regret it? She realised she knew nothing about him. She knew nothing about his life. Was he with someone? Perhaps even a wife? She looked at her face in the mirror. Her eyes, normally so clear and bright, were dull, tinged with sadness. Her face seemed to her to be less of a face than an expression of a predicament. One that she seemed unable to solve. In the fortnight since they’d kissed, she’d seen Aaron twice. On both occasions he seemed to her as he’d always been. Aloof, unapproachable, remote. As if it hadn’t happened. She gave herself a small, unhappy smile. Could it be that after all these years she and Dom were in the same situation? Both in love with Aaron Keeler, with no chance of it being returned? She let out a long, deep sigh. Yes, admit it. Go on, say it. Say it out loud. She mouthed the words against the silent mirror. She was in love. With a man who barely seemed to see her, and certainly not for herself.
53
JOSH
London, May 1997
The receptionist looked up at him. ‘Niela Aden?’ He nodded. ‘I’ll just check if she’s in. Your name?’
‘Josh Keeler.’ He watched her dial an extension number with a long, polished fingernail. There was a wait of a few moments; he was uncomfortably aware of his heart beating steadily underneath the unfamiliar wool of his sweater.
‘Sorry, she’s not answering her phone. I’ll just try the boardroom …’
The disappointment that burned over him was similar to the desolation he’d felt in the weeks and months following her departure: a desolation he’d fought against tooth and nail. He wasn’t prepared for it. It had been years since he’d experienced anything like it – not since Rania, and he’d sworn then never to allow himself to go through it again. Never. No one else would ever get that close. But somehow, against the odds, Niela Aden had. She’d caught him completely unawares. He’d tried to do what he knew best – he’d buried her, forgotten about the brief time they’d spent together. He’d thrown himself into the job with renewed vigour, losing track of the number of units they’d built once she and her team were gone. He’d pushed the men until the point of near collapse – faster, quicker, faster. They were due to finish in June; he’d brought it in before time, on budget … something that had never been done before. A miracle. He’d been given a fortnight’s vacation, as per usual, and the details of his next posting – and the next thing he knew he was booking a flight to London.
Now he stood in the reception of the office in which she worked, his heart thumping inside his chest like a teenager, steeling himself against the disappointment that flooded his senses as soon as it was clear she wasn’t there.
‘No, I don’t know where she is.’ The receptionist looked at him. ‘She’s usually in her office at this time. Would you like to leave a message?’
Josh shook his head. ‘Thanks. I’ll try back some other time.’
‘No problem.’
He left the building and walked back up Rivington Road. The area had changed since he’d last been there. There were new buildings on almost every street corner: wine bars and small boutiques, a specialist book store and an organic greengrocer’s. Yes, things had changed. As a student he’d come to more than his fair share of parties held in cavernous, unheated lofts along Charlotte Road. It was a desolate, forlorn part of London in those days. There’d been one memorable party … He stopped suddenly. Someone was staring at him from across the road. It took him a few seconds to work out who it was. A ripple of recognition ran lightly across her face, followed by a look of incredulity. He crossed the street quickly and walked up to her.
‘Niela.’
‘Josh?’ She stopped. Her expression was one of astonishment. ‘Wh … what are you doing here?’
He spread his hands out before him in a gesture of sudden helplessness. ‘I … I’m not sure, actually. I just stopped by your office … you weren’t there.’ He searched her face for signs of welcome or pleasure; there were none. She held herself exactly as he remembered. Still, calm, waiting. It moved him beyond words.
‘When did you arrive?’ she asked finally.
‘Yesterday morning. I went to my parents’ place. I would’ve come to yours but I didn’t – I don’t – know where you live.’ He stopped, astounded at himself. It was so out of character – he was unsure of himself, unnerved, and by a woman at that – he felt as though he were watching someone else. He was not himself.
She was still looking at him with that mixture of wary disbelief that excited and frightened him simultaneously. ‘Why?’ she asked.
He lifted his shoulders. ‘I wanted to see you.’ There didn’t seem to be any point in saying anything else.
‘After all this time?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know what to say. I … I didn’t want to … It was …’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Look, is there somewhere we can go and talk? I mean, I feel a bit stupid standing in the middle of the road, and it’s cold. Aren’t you cold? You must be.’ She wasn’t even wearing a coat.
She stared at him. He was conscious only of the slow, steady beat of his heart, the feeling of anticipation as his eyes moved over her face. He couldn’t believe he was seeing her again. Her features, which had remained in his mind’s eye for almost three months, were both strange and familiar – sharper, more beautiful than he remembered, and yet more distant, too. He held his breath. The sound of traffic and pedestrians around him slowed suddenly; everything was still. And then she smiled. His
relief was so great it broke over him like a wave. ‘Why don’t you meet me after work? There’s a café at the end of the road. I’ll see you there around five p.m.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’ He hesitated. ‘Thanks.’
She seemed to understand what he was saying. She gave him a small smile and continued on her way. He watched her for a moment or two, then shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off in the opposite direction. Five p.m. Two hours to kill. Easy. Or so he thought.
‘Oh, Niela.’ Jenny, the receptionist, looked up as she entered the building. ‘Some bloke was just here looking for you. He didn’t leave a message. Josh Keeler, I think he said his name was.’
‘Thanks,’ Niela said quickly and hurried to the lift before Jenny could ask anything further. Her cheeks were burning, despite the cold. She still couldn’t believe it. Josh. Here. In London. She punched the number to her floor and stood back, allowing the lift to pull her stomach up behind her. She was trembling, she realised, as she got out and walked down the corridor to the office where all the translators worked. She gave Shaheeda and Ludmilla a quick wave and sat down behind her computer screen. Her stomach was in knots. She looked down at the brochure she’d been working on before she’d popped out. ‘Some services and support are available to everyone, whilst others depend on your income. Your case owner …’ She began to type the words in Arabic, her fingers flying over the keyboard as though she were trying to bury her own thoughts in amongst the wash of official jargon. It was nearly three. Another couple of hours to go. Josh. In London. What had he come for?
He was waiting when she entered the café, sitting alone in one of the booths by the window. He looked up as she came through the doorway, and the same tense hesitation that had characterised their every encounter back in the desert was there in London, amidst the noise and chatter of the café. He got up as she approached. His scarf was still wound tightly around his neck, although he’d taken off his jacket. He was wearing a dark green polo-neck sweater and his hair was longer than she’d last seen it. Amongst the other customers, whose skin had taken on the pale, lacklustre glow of winter, his dark, sun-ripened complexion jumped out. She was struck anew by just how energetically alive he seemed, as if he’d been stopped in mid-flight, his whole body attuned to some splendid physical activity that had only just ended. She had never met anyone with such a wonderfully strong sense of his own body and its limitless possibilities. Just thinking about when she’d last seen it brought a dark, bruised flush to her cheeks.
