Mine. J.L. Butler
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went to Starbucks for a coffee, and read through my notes.
Sitting by the window, I pulled out my iPad and used it to surf the net. Usually I checked the headlines or the weather, but today I found myself typing in Donna Joy. The first three pages of search results yielded nothing I hadn’t read before, but as I dug deeper, I found the name of the studio from which she worked, a gallery that had exhibited her work, a party she had been to the previous summer. Most revealing of all was her Instagram account – endless stills of exotic locations, glamorous friends and smiling selfies, a window into a gilded world that made my own life seem lonely and colourless.
I stuffed the tablet back in my bag, put some red lipstick on in the loo and returned to court for my prohibited steps. I fed my coat and bag through the scanners and said hello to an acquaintance from law school who had also just arrived. The instructing solicitor for my next case had already texted to say that she was running late, so I hung around the foyer and read the court list.
I first noticed her out of the corner of my eye. It was her coat that grabbed my attention – hot pink and expensive-looking, the sort of item I would not wear myself on account of its colour, but could nonetheless admire.
I looked closer, and knew it was her. She was smaller than I expected, in the same way that the only two celebrities I have ever met were pocket-sized. Her hair was darker, more a rich toffee than a dark blonde. Her bag was large and exotic-looking – a textured skin I did not recognize. Lizard, alligator? I wondered if he had bought it for her.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
She turned to face me and I tried to absorb every detail of her face. Thin lips, strong brows, surprisingly little make-up on her pale, creamy skin, a long swan-like neck, around which hung a delicate gold necklace with the initial ‘D’.
She muttered under her breath with undisguised annoyance. ‘Not unless you can turn back time.’
I wanted to tell her that she was one hour fifty-two minutes late. That her solicitor would now be back at his office and that the wheels were in motion for her divorce. I wanted to ask her why she was so late. Was it a blow-dry to impress her husband, I wondered, looking at the smooth waves that fell over her shoulders. Or had she simply not bothered to write down the details of that morning’s application in her undoubtedly stuffed diary?
I stood motionless for a moment, my heart beating hard, wondering if I should introduce myself. But I knew she would find it strange and coincidental that the barrister she had met at the court lists was her husband’s own lawyer.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ I replied, gripping my leather bag tighter.
Her face softened as she smiled at me, and I knew exactly what Martin Joy had seen in her. The collar of my shirt felt tight against my neck, and I headed straight for the exit, desperate to get some fresh air.
I wasn’t the one who suggested meeting in Islington. Martin texted me from Switzerland asking me to dinner and when I said yes, he had a table booked at Ottolenghi within minutes.
I took this as a good sign. Ottolenghi was not in Soho or Chelsea. It was on Upper Street, a stone’s throw away from my flat, a short stagger back and I knew I had to – wanted to – prepare for that eventuality. Years of self-imposed singledom don’t make for the highest levels of grooming, and slinky underwear had been replaced by over-washed comfort across the board: something had to give. Most Saturday mornings I’d be at the Toynbee Hall free legal advice centre in Stepney, where I’ve done volunteer work for years, but that week I decided to skip it and instead spend the morning at a little Korean beauty spa on Holloway Road so that I would at least be waxed and smooth. I then went to my favourite deli, La Fromagerie, and bought creamy brie and fragolino grapes to stock the fridge and I put fresh linen on the bed, even spraying them with lavender scent in a bid to make them smell like those starchy sheets you find in expensive hotels. I wanted to make my flat a delicious haven he would never want to leave. Which, I was starting to realize, was exactly what I wanted.
I chose a black dress and hot pink heels and deliberately left five minutes late. I was useless at playing games, always had been, but it was my one concession at ‘playing hard to get’.
As I walked along Upper Street, passing the early evening crowds, groups of four or five, loud, laughing, I breathed in hard, wanted to feel some of that energy, some of that abandon, the sense that anything could happen tonight. A smile crept on to my mouth. Anything.
I crossed the road, my heels clacking on the tarmac, my coat flying. Would he be there already, waiting for me? Or would I find an empty bar and a message on my phone, some excuse about work or delayed flights? I had never been convinced Martin Joy would contact me again after the First Directions hearing, but once we had arranged a date, I had naively assumed that he would turn up. Now I wasn’t so sure. Should I call him to ask if he was on his way? Think positively, I told myself. Good things can happen. Even to you.
And there he was: my heart skipped as I saw him through the glass. Facing away from the street, lounging against the bar, his broad back moving, his strong hands carving through the air. He was talking to someone. The smile on my face slipped; no, he was with someone. A couple. I paused for a step, my hand hovering above the door handle, fighting disappointment. Had I misread the situation? Wasn’t this a date-date? But I couldn’t stand there wavering: the door was glass and anyway, Martin had turned and seen me.
‘Fran,’ he said warmly, as I pushed inside. He reached for my hand, guiding me towards him. A crackle of static passed between us as our skin touched, but he didn’t flinch, just smiled and whispered one word into my ear, low enough that only I could hear it: ‘Sexy.’
‘Francine,’ he said, turning to the others, ‘this is Alex, my business partner, and this is Sophie, his wife.’
‘Just his wife,’ she said with a conspiratorial wink, stepping across to shake my hand. ‘No one important.’
But she was impressive: blonde, tall, a little bit horsey, like the captain of a lacrosse team. When she stood up off her stool, she was at least six inches taller than me. Even in my heels I was barely five feet five, but I had never felt smaller than I did right then.
Though Alex laughed along, I sensed more reserve in him. Thin, upright, not a wrinkle in his grey suit. Maybe I wasn’t the first woman Martin had introduced to his friends since the divorce, or perhaps Alex was still loyal to Donna – friends did that, didn’t they? They took sides.
There was a brief, awkward pause and then Martin filled the space.
‘You did get my text?’
‘Which text?’
‘About Alex and Sophie joining us for dinner.’
I shook my head.
‘We won’t be staying long and I promise that Alex will be on his best behaviour,’ said Sophie, flashing me a conciliatory look.
Martin inspected his phone as his friends went ahead to the table.
‘It didn’t send. Text failed.’
He touched my fingers, a gesture of apology, and I felt his heat against my skin.
‘It’s fine. I want to meet your friends,’ I said, wondering how convincing that sounded.
We were shown to our table and Martin ordered two bottles of orange wine and a selection of starters. Everything was so well chosen, I knew he had been here many times before.
‘So you were skiing?’ I said, aware that I should chip in with some small talk from the get-go. I had no idea what Sophie and Alex knew about our relationship, such as it was, but until I had some sort of signal from Martin that this was a date, that Sophie and Alex knew it was a date, I decided to proceed with caution, keeping conversation to the vague and unrevealing.