Chapter 12

      I was one of the first to leave chambers that night, much to the bemusement of Paul, who caught me on the way out. I took the District line to Sloane Square, and got lost in a sea of commuters as we piled out of the station. It was a grey day, the light poor, the dying sunlight blocked by clouds clotted with rain, and on any other occasion, I would have wanted to hurry home to a glass of wine and the central heating turned up full-blast. But I couldn’t go home tonight. Not yet. Not after my conversation with Martin.

      He’d called a few hours after my meeting with Phil Robertson. Usually I loved hearing the sound of his voice, but that afternoon I could hardly bear to speak to him, not after the things Phil had told me which had jolted me into a reality I did not want to face. That I had allowed myself to be fobbed off by Martin’s casual assertions that he was meeting Donna simply to be polite and keep a dialogue open. That I had dismissed Alex Cole’s remarks that Martin had been a mess after his marriage had broken down, even though it contradicted his version of events. But before the call had ended, a masochistic and inquisitive impulse had kicked in and I had suggested dinner. I wanted to look him in the eye, like a defendant in the witness box, and see if he could lie to me. Or perhaps I just wanted him to convince me that I had nothing to worry about.

      ‘Supper, tonight after work,’ I’d said, and it had been impossible to miss the hesitation, the guilty, pregnant pause before he told me he couldn’t, he was busy. ‘Something’s cropped up. How about tomorrow?’

      I knew where Donna Joy worked. It was one of many things I knew about her by this time. Her studio was in a little mews in the warren of streets behind Peter Jones. An arch led to a cobbled courtyard and I peered into the building. The complex was dark, eerie, deserted, like an old, abandoned school.

      Through the window of one of the units I could see a middle-aged redhead turn off the only light in the block and lock up.

      I turned to leave but she emerged into the courtyard and asked if she could help me.

      ‘Is Donna around?’ I asked, picking at the cuticles of my nails.

      The woman smiled as she tied a floral scarf around her neck.

      ‘You’ve missed her by a minute. She just left.’

      Thanking her, I hurried back on to the street and peered into the twilight, cursing myself for not getting there earlier. I took a second to plot my next move. Thoughts raced round my head like dodgem cars: stop, start, collide, reverse. But as my gaze fluttered, I caught a glimpse of pink, a wink of colour in the distance, telling me I was not too late. I set off in pursuit, my stride breaking into a jog as I hurried to catch up with her. Donna turned left and I quickened my pace further, until the roar of the King’s Road traffic grew louder and louder and I was back in the throng of shoppers and commuters.

      The pink coat guided me like a beacon. She crossed the road, but I kept my distance. Specks of rain started to fall and she stopped to look for a taxi. There were none of course. Not at this time, in this weather. So she carried on walking, while I weaved through the crowded pavements, determined not to lose sight of her. Finally she stopped outside a restaurant and went inside. I pulled my hat out of my pocket and put it on. The rain began to fall hard. Donna had avoided the brunt of it of course, but I was caught in the downpour. Not that I really noticed it.

      A sense of dread swelled in my stomach as I crossed the road to the restaurant. I pretended to read the menu in the window while I steeled myself, then opened the door and stepped inside. The maître d’ was helping a couple with their coats, which gave me a few seconds to peer into the interior. I saw them immediately, sitting at a table at the rear. She had just said something and Martin was laughing as he ordered a bottle of wine. My heart hammering, I slipped out of the restaurant, back into the dark and thunderous street.

      There was a bus stop on the other side of the road. I darted through the traffic, my breath ragged, my ears oblivious to the blast of horns as I weaved perilously between the cars. I blended in with the sombre, damp people in the queue, letting one bus pass, then another and another, all the while watching the door of the restaurant while the rain soaked me to the skin.

      I woke up fully clothed on the sofa. There was a blanket over my body and I felt stiff, groggy and nauseous. Pulling myself up, I swung my legs on to the floor and put my head in my hands, my fingers peeling slowly away from my eyes as I tried to focus and make sense of why I was there. I looked down and saw a long ladder in my stocking. Congealed blood was stuck to the nylon but I had no idea how I’d cut myself.

      I blinked hard and glanced around. It was dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t tell that this room, although familiar, was not mine. I rubbed my temples and exhaled, grateful, at least, that I was on the sofa, alone. My handbag was next to me on the rug and I was tempted to take it and let myself out, but I needed to know what had happened.

      I stood up, unsteady on my feet as I searched for memories from the night before.

      Pete’s place was smaller than mine with a similar layout, although his was not a maisonette. I went straight to the kitchen and ran myself a glass of water. I was dehydrated and my hands trembled as I held the glass. My breath quickened in panic as I realized that my lithium levels were too high.

      I located his bedroom and peered inside. There was a faint, sour smell of sweat and running shoes, and I could see the curve of his body under the duvet. I felt guilty about waking him, but he stirred as if he was aware of the presence in the room, and pulled himself up on the pillow.

      ‘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