by J. L. Butler
‘I’m going,’ I whispered after a moment. ‘I’m so sorry about this. I must have had too much to drink. I don’t remember what happened, but . . . well, I’m sorry.’
The red digits of his clock glowed in the dark. It wasn’t even six o’clock. Pete rubbed his eyes and turned on his bedside lamp.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
‘Shit. Absolutely shit,’ I replied, feeling exposed and self-conscious.
I ventured further into the room, aware that he was watching my every step. The cut on my leg was smarting as I moved.
‘Pete, why am I here?’ I asked finally.
‘You don’t remember?’ he said, sitting up straight.
I shook my head slowly. I couldn’t remember anything. Not from about nine or ten o’clock, anyway. I had followed Martin and Donna from the restaurant to a quiet street behind Cheyne Walk, a street that reeked of success and money, and they had disappeared into one of the white, stucco-fronted terraced houses. There was a pub almost opposite and I’d found a seat by the window where I could see the property. I recalled thinking the house looked peaceful and at rest, except I knew that Mr and Mrs Joy were not sleeping. I recalled ordering a double vodka tonic to try and dull the pain of betrayal. After that, I remembered nothing.
‘I had a lot to drink,’ I said, looking at him, an invitation for him to fill in the gaps as much as he was able, while I perched awkwardly on the end of his bed.
‘There was banging on the front door at around two o’clock in the morning. It was some mini-cab driver – you were passed out in the back seat of the car. Not in a great way. Apparently, you collapsed in Chelsea,’ he added apologetically.
‘I don’t remember,’ I whispered, feeling my cheeks pool red with shame.
Pete gave a weak, sympathetic shrug. ‘Cabbie said someone found you, got you in a taxi. I don’t know how they got your address. I’m guessing you told them or they found it in your bag. Wasn’t sure I could manage you up the stairs,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Besides, I was worried about you. You hear all these stories about people vomiting in their sleep and dying and stuff. I thought you might be safer here. I made sure you were propped up. Just in case.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, my humiliation almost complete.
‘The evils of alcohol.’
Neither of us spoke for a few moments. I could hear the rumble of the night bus outside and a lonely tweet of the dawn chorus getting under way.
‘Big night?’
‘I got drunk. I just got very, very drunk. Alcohol doesn’t agree with me.’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘It will be if you remind me never, ever to drink again.’
‘Where were you last night?’
I closed my eyes, my body yearning for sleep.
I’d been crying for a few moments before I realized it.
‘Shit. Are you OK?’ he said awkwardly. He swung his legs out of the bed and came to sit next to me. He was wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts but I was too dazed to take in the intimacy of our situation.
‘I’m fine,’ I said wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
‘Man trouble?’
I made a soft sound of disapproval.
‘Is it that bloke I saw you with the other week? Martin. Martin Joy.’
Looking back, it was strange that he remembered the most fleeting of introductions, but at the time, it didn’t register. I was desperate to talk about Martin and Donna, even if it was with my barely dressed neighbour.
‘I shouldn’t have been too surprised that he turned out to be unreliable.’
‘Rich commitmentphobe?’
I shrugged. ‘He has a wife. They’re separated, but it looks like she’s not exactly out of the picture. I saw them together,’ I said, puffing out my cheeks and struggling to compose myself.
‘And you got totally wasted,’ said Pete sympathetically.
‘I can’t remember how much I drank.’
‘We’ve all been there.’
I gave a quiet, nervous laugh. My hands were still shaking and it alarmed me.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘My lithium,’ I whispered, dipping my head. ‘I shouldn’t really drink alcohol. Dehydration affects the levels of my medication.’
‘You’re bipolar?’
I nodded.
‘Should I call a doctor?’ His young, eager face looked concerned.
‘I don’t know. No. Look, I should go. Thank you for everything. How much was the taxi?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Pete, looking at me intently.
I needed to be sick. I had to get out of there.
‘He’s not worth it, Fran,’ he said as I got up to leave. His voice was cool and measured and in the darkness it had a quiet and convincing authority.
Chapter 13
I went to see my doctor a few hours after waking up at Pete’s flat. I didn’t want to go, but all the signs of toxicity were there, nausea, diarrhoea, tremors. Dr Katz had been treating me for years, although to date it had been little more than a maintenance job. He took my blood, checked my lithium levels and warned me that binge drinking on my dosage of medication was incredibly foolish. We talked about my condition. I explained that I had not had any manic or depressive episodes in a while. I considered my bipolar to be under control although my blackout hinted that it was still hiding in the shadows. Dr Katz confirmed it always would be.
I didn’t go back into the office until Thursday, until I physically felt human again. I used the time to finish my QC application form – the closing date was hours away – and I welcomed the distraction. I even phoned my mother and enjoyed her banal chit-chat about the woman in the post office and the price of potatoes in the Co-op, conversation I once found dull and alien, but which now seemed like a comforting fairy tale about a world I wished I could fall back into. The rest of the time, I slept. I slept and I read and dug out a self-help book that had once been useful. This too shall pass.
Burgess Court had a library on the first floor. It was one of the things that almost made me weep with joy when I turned up here on my first day of pupillage. There was a view over Temple Gardens from the leaded bay window. Hansard reports and leather-bound books lined the room. For serious study, I went to the Inner Temple library, but this was a place to think and plot and wonder. Usually it was about case law, but today I was on my laptop, scrolling through various medical websites and bipolar forums. Some of it was stuff I had known for years, some of it was impenetrable – extracts from papers scribed by psychiatrists and academics. Most useful were the threads. Real people and their experiences of blackouts. The drug-takers, the army vets, the depressed and the damaged.
I heard the door open. Paul stood there for a moment and closed it behind him. He paused, then turned the key.
‘What’s this? A lock-in?’ I asked, clicking the browser back to Google.
‘There’s nowhere to properly talk in this place. You can’t get two people in your office, there’s not a minute’s peace in mine.’
I smiled and put my pen down.
‘Preparing for tomorrow? The Joy vs Joy FDR.’
I wasn’t sure if he had seen the papers on the desk. The valuations for Martin’s business, accountancy reports, the Form E’s. I had marked up in red the areas where the two parties still disagreed. I was aware that it was going to be a combative day in court, and I knew I had to over-prepare. Today, though, it was easy to be distracted.
‘I’m meeting David Gilbert in an hour.’
‘Is the client coming?’
‘No need. Gilbert saw him yesterday,’ I said briskly, glad that I had been able to convince my instructing solicitor that an additional pre-hearing pow-wow was not necessary.
‘Do you think you’ll settle tomorrow?’
‘You mean, do I think it will go all the way to court?’
‘Think of the lovely fees,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
&nbs
p; ‘I’d rather not.’
Paul took a seat next to me. He drummed his fingers on the walnut surface then laid his hand out flat.
‘Are you all right?’ he said finally.
‘Of course I am. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. You just seem a bit . . . different.’
‘Just busy,’ I said, closing my laptop.
‘Did you get your silk application in?’
‘In the nick of time.’ I smiled.
‘Nick of time? That’s not like you.’
‘Like I say, I’ve been busy.’
Paul nodded, unconvinced.
‘I’ve set you up an appointment with Liz Squires. She heads up JCI consultants. They’ve coached dozens of wigs through the silk application process.’
‘How much is that going to cost me?’
Neither of us spoke. I could only hear silence and I thought how rare that was in a London office in this day and age.
‘You do know, if there’s a problem you can come and speak to me?’
‘I know that. You don’t have to worry about me.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘Paul, what’s the problem here?’
‘I spoke to Justice Herring today. You were supposed to meet him for lunch on Tuesday.’
Malcolm Herring was supposed to be one of the references for my QC application. A well-respected, and connected, high court judge, a glowing report from him would mean you were halfway to silk. But between the hangover and arranging my appointment with Dr Katz, I had forgotten all about it and stood him up.
I squirmed in my chair.
‘I was ill and slept for most of the day. I couldn’t call to cancel the meeting.’
‘You could have got me to.’
‘You were already rearranging my work.’
‘By the way, Tom took the Brown vs Brown contact order. He got what you wanted.’
‘Of course he did.’
Paul rubbed his chin and looked at me with disappointment.
‘As I said, if you need me for anything, just say the word.’
‘I know,’ I said quietly.
His expression hardened, his soft eyes held a hint of warning.
‘We’re a family in chambers. I will protect you, no matter what. But you have to tell me everything, because I can only help you if I know the truth.’
I smiled and put my hand gratefully over his, and thought how easy it was to lie.
Chapter 14
Even I was surprised when Donna Joy did not turn up to the Final Dispute Resolution hearing the following morning. The judge was furious, her legal team speechless, and Martin left the room, his face set in granite, when the hearing was adjourned. This was not like a First Directions that could proceed without both parties present. No-show meant no-go at an FDR. The morning was a write-off, and despite Robert Pascale telling David Gilbert that he was worried about Mrs Joy, everyone was understandably irritated, and the lofty high court setting only added to the drama.
Donna’s unreliability and selfishness did not shock me one bit. It only made me hate her more. Part of me wondered how it was possible to be so selfish and cavalier, another part couldn’t stop hearing Phil Robertson’s words: I bet you those two don’t even want to get divorced. Something told me she was playing games and I was caught up in the crossfire.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was not yet eleven o’clock. The hearing would have taken up most of the day, so I now had yawning hours to fill. Martin was nowhere to be seen and I was glad about that. I’d managed to avoid him all week. He’d left a message on the Tuesday suggesting dinner and I’d sent a text back saying I was in court in Birmingham until Thursday, playing deliberate phone-tag until our last-minute conference before the FDR, where a curt professionalism had seemed the order of the day.
‘Quick debrief?’ said David briskly.
‘I’m not sure there’s much to discuss,’ I said, tightening my lips. ‘Besides, Martin’s disappeared.’
‘I suppose we’ll just get a new date then.’
I nodded. ‘Why don’t you call me later. At least it seems to have shut Pascale up,’ I added; the one bright spot had been watching him grovel to his counsel.
I left court and walked back to chambers. My favourite entrance to Temple is a hole in the wall on Fleet Street. Sometimes I think of it as a magic portal, a time machine that whisks you away from twenty-first-century London hustle and bustle into a timeless and magical place. My pace was brisk as I walked along the footpath, past a legal outfitters, a sombre-looking mews house and the Dr Johnson buildings, my anger and frustration evident in every single step. I was at the church now, which never failed to humble me. Its quiet grandeur, its nine-hundred-year history tied up with the adventures of the Knights Templar. I did not consider myself to be a particularly religious person, but I often went inside and I paused for a moment to consider whether I should go in now and feed off its calmness.
As I stopped, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I gasped and spun around.
‘Martin,’ I said, my heart pounding.
He touched my sleeve and I flinched.
‘Why are you avoiding me?’ he asked quietly.
‘Avoiding you?’ I frowned.
‘All week. And in court just now.’
‘I’m not. What did you expect me to do? Straddle you in front of the judge?’
‘Funny,’ he said with a half-smile.
It started to rain. I looked up to the heavens to give me a moment to collect my thoughts.
‘I looked for you after the adjournment,’ I lied.
‘I was angry. I went for a walk.’
‘It’s about to tip it down,’ I said, eager to get away.
‘Then come under here,’ he said, leading me towards the cloisters, where a pile of desks was stacked up against the wall.
It was cool and dark under the arches, as if there had been a sudden eclipse. The distant hum of Fleet Street traffic fell away to nothing, the temperature seemed to dip by several degrees. The air was so still it almost shimmered.
‘I can’t believe she didn’t show,’ I said finally.
‘I can. She’s probably fucked off to Thailand for a detox. I can guarantee that by Wednesday she’ll be back in Chelsea, tanned, ten pounds lighter, raving about some seaweed treatment – which, by the way, I’ll be paying for.’
‘She’d do that, in the middle of her divorce proceedings?’ I asked, watching a black-suited barrister walk past and cast a discreet, curious glance in our direction.
‘I think you’ve gathered by now that she is completely unpredictable.’
I wedged my handbag defensively by my side.
‘When was the last time you heard from her?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
‘She called me last week. Sunday, maybe Monday. Warned me not to be an alpha male idiot at the hearing.’
What scared me, what really scared me, was the way he could lie so fluidly.
‘So she was intending to be at the FDR?’
‘Yes, although we ended up arguing.’
‘And that was the last time you heard from her?’ I asked, willing my expression not to betray my fear.
‘Yes,’ he said finally.
Liar, said a voice in my head.
He snaked his hand inside my coat and placed it on the curve of my waist.
‘Come here,’ he whispered.
‘No,’ I said stepping away until I was backed against the cold brick wall.
‘No one’s going to see us.’
‘Stop, please.’
‘Fran, what’s wrong?’
‘What’s wrong is that we shouldn’t have got involved. I am your barrister. There are codes of ethics against that.’
‘That didn’t stop you at Selfridges.’
I turned my head away from him and he cupped his fingers against my chin.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, stroking the curve of my jaw. ‘The way we met was not ideal. The situation we’re in is
not ideal . . . but I thought we both felt the same. You make me happy.’
But you slept with her.
That’s what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t admit to having followed them and watching them in the rain, and if I was waiting for a confession from Martin of where he had been on Monday night, deep down I knew it would not come.
His fingers trailed the length of my neck to the thin fabric of my blouse, over my breast, his palms skimming my stiffening nipple. I hated that he could make me like this so quickly, and yet I loved it. As I closed my eyes, heat pulsed between my legs. I wanted this, I wanted him so badly that I felt weak and desperate inside.
‘No one’s watching,’ he whispered in my ear, his warm lips brushing against my earlobe as I screeched to my senses.
‘Stop,’ I said, grabbing his wrist. ‘I don’t think we should see each other for a while.’
‘Fran, please. It’s been frustrating today. No one knows that more than me. No one wants this to be over more than me. I just want her out of my life so I can get on with mine.’
‘Really?’ I said, as a cold, damp wind skimmed across my cheek.
I didn’t wait for his reply. Shaking myself away from him I started walking. He called my name but I carried on without looking back, the heels of my shoes tapping against the paving stones like a Morse code distress signal, which I suppose it might have been.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in the Inner Temple library, not even surfacing for a sandwich or a coffee. I remember very little of that time, except that I got back to chambers shortly before five. I was sitting at my desk, skimming through my diary, wondering how else I could fill my week, how else I could distract myself from Martin Joy, when my office phone rang.
‘It’s Dave. Dave Gilbert,’ said the voice. ‘I thought you should know,’ he added, and I noticed a troubled inflection in his voice, ‘Robert Pascale has just called. He’s been trying to locate Donna Joy all day and he’s just managed to speak to her sister, who was concerned about her too. No one has seen or heard from Donna for days. She didn’t turn up to a dinner party yesterday. Hasn’t been seen at her studio since Monday. No one can get in touch with her by phone or email. Robert even sent a trainee to her house, but there was no answer there either. Donna’s sister is so worried, she’s about to contact the police and report her missing.’
