Mine. J.L. Butler
Читать онлайн книгу.
I never wanted it to end. And as I looked up at the ceiling, waiting to hear my breath regulate, feeling him roll over and lie beside me, I wondered how long I would have to wait before we did it all over again.
It was a relatively straightforward hearing the next day in court. The emergency asset-freezing injunction was not a particularly complex application, although I would have aced it even if it was.
In my first week in chambers, Viv McKenzie had told me that life at the Bar was about confidence and I was on fire that morning in court; articulate, nimble, prepared to deflect whatever opposing counsel had in their arsenal. It hadn’t mattered that I had only skim-read the file that morning on the Central Line. Hadn’t mattered that I was so tired from the night before; a night we had spent more time fucking our way around the loft than sleeping. It hadn’t mattered that I had rolled into court, just a few minutes before our 9.30 a.m. appointed start date, in yesterday’s clothes and a fresh pair of sixty-denier tights I had bought from Boots at Liverpool Street station. I didn’t need my armour, my stockings, my red lipstick, my freshly starched shirts. I had the memories of him.
After a few minutes of small talk with the client’s solicitor on the steps of court, I returned to chambers, across Fleet Street and into the sanctum of Middle Temple. It surprised me how fresh and different my familiar surroundings seemed to be. The shady cloisters and alleyways that at times unnerved me, were now places for secret assignations and amorous trysts. I had missed taking my medication last night and this morning, and I knew I would soon feel a comedown, panic or derailment, but for now, my mind was consumed by him and all felt well.
I stopped at the reception of Burgess Court and asked Helen our receptionist if I had any messages.
‘I’ve sent you an email, with the names of everyone you have to call back,’ she said, fishing under the desk. ‘And this parcel came for you.’
I frowned as I looked at the big black box with grosgrain ribbon tied around its belly.
This was not a brief. Not even one from the most prestigious ranks of solicitors.
I took it upstairs to my office and put it on my desk, hesitating a few moments before I pulled at the ribbon and opened the box. Inside, there was a cloth sack and inside that was another bag. The bag. The butter-soft black leather case I had seen in Selfridges the night before. My mouth felt dry and I bit my lip to stop a smile.
I unzipped it carefully. I never did find out how much it was but it felt luxurious and expensive. I dipped my hand inside, wondering if there was some kind of card or note, even though I knew exactly who it was from. As my hand disappeared further and further into its depths, I felt something else. Not the sharp, smooth lines of paper but something soft yet textured.
Puzzled, I removed it from the bag to inspect it and laughed out loud when I saw it was a delicate black lacy thong.
‘All right, Fran,’ said Paul’s voice behind me. ‘Couple of jobs for you here.’
I thrust the thong back into the bag and tried to summon my court-face but as I turned to Paul, I don’t know who looked more embarrassed. Me. Or him.
I don’t know who first came up with the nickname ‘the Piranha’ for Robert Pascale, but it was wholly appropriate when it came to his legal reputation. A former investment banker turned divorce lawyer, he had created a lucrative niche for himself at the very top end of the market – his speciality being the sort of bank-balance depleting, pip-squeezing court cases that made Daily Mail headlines and millionaire businessmen shiver.
But Robert Pascale did not look like a ruthless carnivore. His appearance was that of an old-school dandy, silver hair swept back from his face, impeccable suits with a top pocket in a contrasting shade of silk. Out of court, he was invariably charm itself, and I knew that charm was about to be directed at me when I saw him in the corridors of High Holborn’s Central Family Court.
He put his mobile phone back in his pocket as I approached him.
‘Francine, How are you? You’re looking so radiant I’d have to kiss you if I wasn’t afraid the client might see us and think I was fraternizing with the enemy.’
I laughed nervously at the mention of his client. I had come early, without David, without Martin, for two reasons. The thought of being alone with Martin was one that filled me with both terror and excitement. I had not seen him since I had left his Spitalfields loft two days earlier. We had texted like teenagers the afternoon I had received my leather bag and panties, but our correspondence had tailed off to more sober exchanges that involved me reassuring him about the First Directions meeting, and the anxiety that had invariably followed had made me think that my forgotten medication had been more damaging than I thought.
But I also wanted to come early to see her. To see Donna. I did not want my first sight of Martin’s wife to be in a windowless courtroom, when I knew that all eyes would be upon me, and I could not be trusted to hide my curiosity and my emotions.
‘I’m very well, Robert,’ I said, glancing around the corridor. ‘So where are your troops? I thought you’d be locked in conference.’
‘Jeremy Mann is here. We’re just waiting for the client,’ he said, starting to send another text before he diverted his full attention back to me. ‘So. Tell me about the rumour that you are applying for silk this time around.’
I gave a good-natured snort. I figured it wouldn’t do my career any harm if word got out that I was applying.
‘Would it mean you might instruct me every now and then?’ I asked him pointedly, not needing to remind him that he was one of the few leading family law solicitors who had never done so. I suspected it was because Robert Pascale was a snob and, despite the fact that his stock in trade was representing women, he was also a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist.
He leant in and touched me on the shoulder.
‘If you are applying for QC, Francine, go easy on any headline-grabbing stunts. This is a divorce case, two people’s lives, not a professional showcase,’ he said with a hint of warning.
‘You know I always play fair,’ I replied as I glanced up at the big clock and knew that David and Martin would soon be here.
I excused myself and went to find a free interview room, texting David to let him know where he could find me.
I pulled the small bottle of Evian water from my bag and took a sip and glanced around the room. The Central Family Court lacked the grandeur of the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand, where you could feel the years of history. It had the look and feel of a comprehensive school and the room in which I was sat was cold and bland.
After a few minutes I heard the door open behind me and David and Martin came into the room. I had been willing myself to remain calm, but at the sight of him I felt my heart race and all I could think about were the words of a text he had sent me two days previously.
I like the taste of your cunt.
I avoided shaking hands by motioning towards the table. They sat down and I launched into a prepared speech about what we could expect that morning, how I proposed to apply for a high court judge to preside over the Financial Dispute Resolution, how to keep things as straightforward and non-confrontational as possible.
‘Jeremy Mann has brought Richard Sisman with him,’ I informed David.
‘Who’s that?’ Martin cut in.
I took another sip of water and noticed that my hand was trembling.
‘Richard is Jeremy’s junior counsel.’
Martin frowned.
‘Shouldn’t we have someone else?’
His voice had a note of accusation and panic in it.
‘You don’t