by Ros Carne
She’d stayed in hospital for three days as the nurses explained about insulin and blood glucose and showed her how to measure her levels and inject herself. She had a terror of injections and after constant begging, they’d let her have a pump. It was horrible, stuck to her body all day like a leech, and she still needed to prick her fingers with the lancet. But it was better than jabbing herself with a syringe before every meal. Back home, her adoptive parents were too anxious to be any help, her mother was already sick and her new brothers and sister, though curious at first, quickly lost interest. In the end it was her social worker, Susan, with her plump, pink cheeks and ragged blonde hair, who had saved her.
‘You’re strong, Natasha, a fighter. You’re not going to let this thing beat you.’
‘It’s not fair.’
‘Life’s not about fairness. It’s about making something of yourself and you’re going to do that. There’s stuff you can’t control and stuff you need to control. You know which this is.’
Something had clicked in her and she started to heed the nurse on the diabetes team. Later she had joined an online support group. She never contributed to the group, but she read the posts and watched the clips. They knew nothing about the silent Natasha Baker, but for years they and Susan were her only friends.
‘That must have been really hard, I mean as an adolescent,’ said Mel, after listening to Natasha’s edited version of her diagnosis.
‘I had a good social worker,’ said Natasha. ‘If it hadn’t been for her I’d probably be blind by now. Or dead.’
‘How do you feel about it now?’ asked Mel, taking a big gulp of her Chardonnay. Natasha shook her head and smiled. She had no desire to feed Mel’s crude curiosity.
Mel had got to the bottom of her large glass and was looking at her. Clearly the head shake had not satisfied her. She was waiting for more detail.
‘It’s not very interesting. Not much to say. I was an average teenager. Bit of a goody-goody. Another drink?’ Natasha asked.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Natasha went to the bar, quickly caught the barman’s eye and asked for another large Chardonnay and a fruit juice. She had checked her glucose levels in the Ladies just before the wine. They were fine, but she needed to get back for supper soon. She would have to miss her run. When she got back to her seat Mel was scrolling her phone. She looked up as Natasha returned with the drinks.
‘Jacob’s home alone. Mustn’t stay too long.’
‘Do you have a photo of your son?’
‘Sure.’
Mel proudly produced one of a smiling, well-dressed teenager, taken at a family wedding.
‘Good-looking boy.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
‘Looks like you. How old is he?’
‘Sixteen going on twenty-five.’
‘Must be fun.’
‘Can be. He’s got GCSEs coming up, but he spends most of his time on Fortnite. That’s why I need to be around.’
‘Cool. I love Fortnite.’
‘You play computer games?’
‘Sure.’
Mel smiled. She looked pretty when she smiled. ‘Another generation.’
‘That’s me. Just a kid.’ Natasha felt herself smiling back.
‘Still, you want to join the Bar. Doesn’t it all seem a bit outdated? I mean our funny traditions. Wigs and gowns and dinners and the Inns of Court. Queens Counsel and silks. Who knows how much longer we’ll be here? You might have qualified as a solicitor.’
‘Yeah, everyone said there were more opportunities as a solicitor, more contact with the client. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to stand up in court. That seems like the point of it. I know I can do it – do it well.’
‘I’m sure you can. I’m sure you will.’
Natasha felt herself being scrutinised. That was all right. She could deal with scrutiny.
‘That domestic violence case. I was like on a complete high. OK, I confess, I love winning. And I can’t wait to address a jury.’
‘I was like that. Listen, Natasha, let me give you a bit of old lady’s advice. Don’t rush it. Learn the nuts and bolts, particularly the ethics. There are a lot of grey areas out there. You don’t want to come unstuck. The briefs will come. You’re doing well. Maybe you should specialise in Family Law. Think again about crime. There’s no money in it.’
‘Everyone tells me that. I don’t need loads of money.’
‘Really?’ Mel was looking pointedly at Natasha’s designer handbag.
‘OK, I like nice things. But I’m good at saving.’
‘You do like nice things. I was admiring your earrings.’
‘Present from Luke,’ she said. ‘He’s really generous.’ That last bit at least was true.
She had picked them up in the shop at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, their first weekend away together when they’d dragged themselves out of their sweaty hotel bed to look at some old masters. The earrings were copied from a Vermeer that Luke loved. He’d told her she looked like the model, so she’d tried them on. The assistant was totally dozy, and Natasha just walked out with them dangling from her delicate earlobes. She and Luke had a massive row, but she wasn’t about to take them back and Luke wasn’t about to report her to the Amsterdam police. After that she kept her shoplifting to herself.
Mel lowered her voice, ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’
It was coming, and Natasha had her answer ready.
‘What happened to my Attendance Note? You know, the day you called and said I hadn’t logged off the computer.’ Mel was looking at her intently now.
‘Oh Mel, I’m really sorry. I should have told you. I looked in the file like you said. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I tried both the drives. Maybe you didn’t save it? Or was it on a USB? I mean, you might have forgotten. You were in a bit of a state.’
‘The Attendance Note was there. I’m positive.’
‘Shit, I must have missed it.’
‘It’s not there now.’
‘What a bore. You must have deleted it by accident,’ said Natasha. ‘Though I suppose you’ve got the endorsed brief. I’ve got a full note. I can let you have that.’
‘That’s not the point. The clerks needed it. They keep a record of everything, time spent, results of the case. The solicitor expects to be given it immediately.’
Natasha wondered why Mel hadn’t rung her to check. Probably because she was so out of it. Mel was still talking.
‘You know what it’s like at the Bar. There’s not that much work to go around. Oh I know everyone looks busy. But that’s the way it is. Feast or famine. You’ll find out. Keeping the clerks sweet is crucial.’
‘I have been keeping the clerks sweet.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Mel. The implication was clear and Natasha didn’t like it. It reminded her of her sister, the same envy tangled up in cruelty. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,’ said Mel quickly.
‘That’s all right,’ said Natasha. But it wasn’t all right. The words could not be unsaid. The mood had changed in an instant.
‘So, about the Attendance Note, did you delete it?’
‘Of course not. Why would I do that? Like I said, I couldn’t find it. I assumed you must have handed it in or sent it over already.’ Natasha put on her best concerned voice. Unlike Mel, she could be nice when niceness was required. ‘I should have rung you again to let you know. Only I didn’t want to disturb you. What with the mugging and everything. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
‘These things matter, Natasha. Getting a tenancy’s not just about being good on your feet. People need to know they can rely on you. I’m not sure if I can.’ There was no attempt to mend the breach she had forced between them. ‘Anyway, I must get back to my boy.’
Mel might make no effort, but Natasha would. ‘I’d love to meet him sometime,’ she said.
Mel looked surprised. Natasha felt she might have said the wrong thing.
&n
bsp; ‘Not very likely. He barely sees his own mum these days.’ And with that Mel gulped down the rest of her wine, stood up and picked up her bag. ‘Are you in court tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let me know when you’ve got a window and you can shadow your pupil supervisor.’
Natasha forced a smile and stood up. What did Mel expect? She should be glad her pupil was doing well. But it was clear she was only irritated by Natasha’s success. Before she could say goodbye Mel was out of the door.
After dinner that evening while Luke was watching The West Wing, Natasha went to the bedroom and switched on her laptop. She scrolled down her contacts till she found it, [email protected]. She typed.
Hi Paul, Remember me? I was on Politics and Law a few years ago. Guess what? I got a pupillage with your mate Melanie Goddard! How cool is that? Hope you’re OK. Thanks for all your help on the course. Maybe meet up sometime. Natasha x (Baker)
She was about to send it when she stopped. She’d leave it in Drafts. Wait for the right moment. In the meantime, there were other ways of getting back at Mel. She closed the page, opened Lola’s Facebook account and searched for Jacob Goddard. Nothing. Then she remembered Mel’s ex-husband, Claude Villiers. Mel and Jess had been chatting about him in chambers the other day. He was some big shot criminal silk.
She typed in Jacob Villiers. And there he was, floppy brown hair framing the face of an angel, only this time in a torn T-shirt, holding a pint of beer. She clicked on the name and tapped in a friend request from Lola Tondowski.
She went to join Luke to watch the rest of The West Wing. It was good to lie back on the sofa and feel the comfort of his arm around her shoulders. After the show she went back to the bedroom to organise her work for the morning. She clicked on her Facebook page. Just as she had hoped, her request had been accepted.
Part Two
June
Chapter Twelve
Mel
The city lay under a haze of heat. The streets were bright with white shirts, coloured dresses, pink and brown flesh. Lawyers were the exception. Some of Mel’s colleagues favoured short-sleeved black cotton shifts and sandals, but she hadn’t the nerve to appear in court in anything less formal than a jacket and skirt or trousers, complete with tights and high heels.
She’d been glad of her jacket that morning in the air-conditioned atmosphere of the Principal Registry. But as she emerged into the dazzling light, heading down Chancery Lane towards Fleet Street, the afternoon sun bore down on her.
Her head was filled with thoughts of Jacob. His exams would soon be over. Was today his last? She couldn’t remember. The timetable was stuck on the kitchen notice board, but she’d forgotten to check this morning. She worried about what he would do over the long summer break. Claude would take him away with Jo and the kids for a couple of weeks in July or August. But for the rest of the time he’d be lolling about in his room, playing computer games. He’d mentioned temporary work at a music festival. Some of his mates were going. But Mel had told him he was too young to spend weeks on his own camping in a field full of twenty-year-olds high on drugs. He’d glared and said nothing. For days they’d barely spoken. Mel thought of past holidays, she and Jacob, clinging together, screeching in delight as they whizzed down the water slide at Center Parcs. She couldn’t imagine going away with him now. What would they talk about?
Before crossing the main road, she glanced at her watch. One o’clock. When had she last taken a proper lunch break? Her head was still buzzing with thoughts of her son as she queued for a sandwich and bottle of water at Pret. Minutes later she was heading for Inner Temple Garden.
A group of French tourists were being led down the narrow passage from Fleet Street into the Inn. Mel’s French had ceased at A level, but she could just follow the guide’s explanation of the centuries old history of the four Inns of Court, originally staging posts for the Knights Templar during the Crusades, then the workplaces of lawyers.
She squeezed past the throng towards the garden. In Shakespeare’s time it was an orchard, stretching to the banks of the Thames. Now it was a formal space with lawns and gravel paths, an oasis of quiet, wedged between the traffic-clogged arteries of Fleet Street and the Embankment.
Before she learnt the reality of the barrister’s life, Mel used to imagine late afternoons sauntering on the Long Walk, discussing legal tactics with learned colleagues, contemplating, with leisurely interest, the fate of her clients. She soon realised the fancied afternoon saunter was more likely to amount to a snatched twenty minutes. But it was nonetheless with a rising heart that she made her way to Kath’s bench.
Kathleen Maloney had been Mel’s best friend. They were close in age and had studied law together in the Nineties. Unlike Mel she was tall, blonde, willowy, a true beauty. Yet Mel felt no envy, acknowledging the radiance that reflected on her when they were together.
Both women preferred to woo than be wooed, and they liked to do it as a pair. Fired by alcopops and the pure thrill of the hunt, they would track their favourite musicians after gigs. Stalk the best-looking lecturers. They looked out for each other. When Mel’s drink was spiked, Kath confronted the man who provided it, threatening him with the police, bearing Mel home in a taxi. Underneath her soft exterior she had a will and mind of steel.
Sitting on Kath’s bench now, those days of fun flashed back to her. They were two ambitious, academic young women who both knew that time would pass and that the real life of careers and families would commence. They were the lucky generation. Well-paid, meaningful work; attractive, helpful men, beautiful, clever children – they would have it all.
They lived close to each other in north London and when they took time off to be with their baby boys, they were constantly together. They both returned to work at the same time, putting their children into the same expensive private nursery and sharing childcare at weekends so each could prepare for court on Monday. The attractive men, Claude and Justin, were indeed helpful, but the women had recognised early on who would be doing most of the caring. They did not complain. They knew it wouldn’t be easy. And as their mothers kept telling them, they had it all.
It started in her arm. They were on holiday together in the Peloponnese, all six of them, lapping up sunshine by the pool on the terrace of their rented villa. Ben and Jacob were two years old, toddling about on reins. Mel and the men were practising their diving, when Kath screamed, ‘I can’t hold them.’
She had lost her grip on their reins and the little boys were hurtling towards the water. Justin pounced on the pair of them with the speed of a cat on its prey. They could all see Kath’s face, tight with pain. The men were casually sympathetic. Was it a twist? Tendonitis? A sprain? Perhaps she had overdone the diving? But from the first Mel suspected more. Three weeks later she saw her friend on her feet for the last time in the lobby of chambers, her right arm in a bandage, her beautiful features scrunched in agony. By the time of the first scan it was too late. The tumour in the bone had spread. Kath was young and fit, and cancer loved her. Ten months after their Greek holiday, Mel was standing with Claude and Justin by her best friend’s grave.
It was Mel’s first experience of the death of a contemporary. With the loss of Kath, she lost a chunk of herself.
Thirteen years on, she still missed Kath. She had no sisters. Kath had been her other half, as close to her as a twin. There was no one she could share with as she had shared with her.
Her colleagues had bought the bench in her memory. Sitting there now between the banks of flowers, the edges of their velvet petals crinkling in the midday sun, Mel was transported to earlier times when she and Kath had chatted about the world, love, friendship, families, work, men, their glorious futures. There had been no calculation, no unsought criticism, no anxiety about who said what or why. Life was richer, more brightly coloured for their conversations. There had been other friends, but no one to match up to Kath. Was it because barristers, however generous and well meanin
g, were always in competition for work? However powerful your bond with your colleagues, essentially you were on your own.
The tenancy interviews were to take place that evening. Mel had not forgiven Natasha for deleting the Attendance Note then lying about it to make her supervisor look inept. The last two months had done nothing to dislodge her antipathy. Natasha was efficient; she already had more independent work than would be expected of a second six pupil. And she made it all too clear she didn’t need Mel’s guidance. Mel would need to be strong if she was to prevent her pupil becoming a tenant.
* * *
As Mel arrived back at chambers from her lunch on Kath’s bench her phone rang and Paul’s name flashed across the screen. So, he was back from holiday with his wife.
She listened to his message. He needed to see her. It had been too long. She could ring him that afternoon on his mobile.
Peremptory as usual. As if she had spent the last three weeks aching to see him. Which would once have been true. But was no longer. His long body still entranced her. But something had shifted for her. The shock of the mugging had been a lesson. A stranger had rescued her. Jacob had sat her on the sofa and made her drink hot chocolate. Paul had been out of bounds.
Georgie’s face popped around the door from the kitchen.
‘What’s up? Bad day in court?’
‘Court was fine. I was listening to a message from Paul.’
‘So he’s still around.’ He affected surprise but she knew he was disappointed. Georgie had made his views clear. Mel could do better than Paul.
‘I will end it. But I need to… you know how things are. I need the right moment.’
‘How about dumping by text? I’ll write it for you.’
‘Fuck off, Georgie.’
‘Maybe you need a replacement?’ He smiled. ‘Though I fear hetero men are not my speciality. Coffee?’