Mine. J.L. Butler
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following day was relatively quiet.
‘I can get it biked round to Marie or Tim,’ he offered.
‘Give it here,’ I sighed. ‘It’ll save you hanging around for the courier.’
Paul looked at me, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You know, it’s fine to have the night off sometimes.’
‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ I replied. Not finding what I was searching for in my desk drawer, I glanced up at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare carrier bag? My case is fit to burst and I’m worried it’s not going to make it home.’
‘I’m sure we can do better than a carrier bag for a sophisticate like yourself,’ he laughed, disappearing downstairs. He returned a couple of minutes later with a cloth tote bag branded with the Burgess Court insignia.
‘What’s this?’
‘Marketing. By the way, I popped the QC application forms in there for you.’
‘A master of subtlety, as usual.’
I left the office and hurried across Middle Temple, past our grand Elizabethan hall and the fountain firing a silver flume of water into the night sky. It was eerie after sunset, when the gas lamps had flickered on; the cloisters threw shadows around the square and the sound of your shoes against the cobbles tricked you into thinking you were not alone. Increasing my pace, I threaded my way down the thin, dark alley of Devereux Court, one of the artery routes on to the Strand, just as the rain began to fall. A cab responded to my outstretched hand and I jumped in before it really began to pour. The driver asked me where I wanted to go and I said the first department store name that came into my head: Selfridges.
I am not a great shopper. That gene escaped me and I don’t think it’s because I was once on free school dinners. I remember one client, a Russian model, who in one breath told me how she used to pick up rotten fruit from the markets to take home to feed her family, and in the next breath told me that she needed at least a million pounds in maintenance per anum from the property magnate husband she was divorcing. Growing up poor sent you one way or the other.
The taxi dropped me off on Cumberland Street. The rain was pelting down now and the pavements looked black and oily. Cursing the weather, I ran into the store.
I knew within minutes that I was in the wrong place. I hardly ever came to Selfridges and I had forgotten how expensive it was. Boutiques lined the outer perimeter wall: Chanel, Gucci, Dior, each one like a jewellery box, glitzy and polished. I preferred the shops in the City, where everything seemed more ordered and less dazzling for time-pressed people like me. But in the West End, in Knightsbridge, shops were caves of temptation for tourists and trophy wives, retail labyrinths designed to make you get lost and spend, whereas I just wanted to find a bag and go home.
Taking a breath, I told myself that it wouldn’t hurt to look, that my bag, my image, was my calling card. I browsed the central handbag area and a beautiful bag displayed on a plinth caught my eye. It was smaller than the pilot bag I had been carrying around the past five years, its black leather soft and buttery to the touch. It was a QC’s bag, I realized, as I picked it up and hunted around for the price tag.
‘I thought it was you,’ said a voice behind me.
I turned round and for a second I didn’t recognize him. His hair was damp from the rain, and he was wearing glasses with smart, tortoiseshell frames.
‘Mr Joy.’
‘Martin,’ he smiled.
‘Sorry, Martin,’ I replied.
‘Retail therapy?’
I started to laugh. ‘You make it sound pleasurable. I’m actually on a mercy mission to replace my briefcase.’
‘A woman who doesn’t like shopping,’ he said, his eyes playing with mine.
‘There are some of us.’
‘Nice bag.’ He nodded towards my hands and I shrugged.
‘Well, I can’t find the price tag, which is never a good sign. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it and all that,’ I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious to be talking about money with a client.
‘You’ve just had a birthday. Treat yourself.’
‘Yes, my birthday,’ I said, surprised that he had remembered. ‘That seems a long time ago now.’
He held my gaze and I could count the spots of rain on his forehead.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘My office is round the corner. I wanted to pop into the wine shop downstairs on the way home.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘It had better be.’
There was a brief silence. I didn’t know whether to make my excuses and leave, although I didn’t want to.
‘So I’m seeing you on Friday …’
I nodded. ‘The First Directions hearing. It’s all pretty harmless.’
‘Harmless? Donna has a lawyer whose nickname is “the Piranha”.’
‘Well, you don’t want to know what they call me …’
‘Are you going to buy that?’ His voice was soft and low, with a rasp that hinted of late nights and cigarettes.
I looked down and saw that I was still clutching the bag. My hands had made two long sweat marks across the leather.
‘Sorry, no. They probably think I’m about to steal it,’ I said, setting it back on its plinth. ‘I should let you go and buy your wine.’
He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
‘Any last-minute tips for Friday? In fact, while you’re thinking, come with me. Come and help me choose a good red.’
Before I could even think about refusing him, I was following him down the escalator into the basement, conscious of the thrill heightening as the escalator descended.
‘Just over here,’ he said as I followed him into the wine room.
I was impressed. It was large, well stocked and came complete with a bar that looked as if it belonged on the set of some glamorous Manhattan-based movie. There were racks of wine glasses hanging from the ceiling. The light was rich and low.
‘Drink?’ asked Martin. ‘Or do you have to rush off?’
‘I think I can stay for one,’ I replied without even thinking.
We walked towards the bar and he motioned towards a stool. The bartender handed me the menu. I wasn’t supposed to drink but I chose the 1909 Smash, a delicious-sounding concoction of gin, peach and mint. After all, that’s what you were supposed to do in the movies.
I perched awkwardly on the stool and wished my cocktail would hurry up.
‘So … Friday’s court hearing.’
I glanced over to him and realized that he was probably trying to get free information. There were no time sheets here at Selfridges’ wine shop, and suddenly I felt disappointed and duped.
‘Tips for Friday?’ I said, as coolly as I could. ‘Just stay calm.’
‘Why, what are you expecting?’ he said with a slow, cynical smile.
‘It can get quite heated and that generally doesn’t solve anything.’
The bartender returned with our cocktails. I took a sip and it was cold, sweet and refreshing on my tongue.
Martin swilled a stirrer around his drink so the ice cubes clinked against the glass.
‘David speaks very highly of you.’
I tried to brush off the compliment with a modest shrug.
‘David’s