Lover in Law

by Jo Kessel

  Chapter 15

  “Busy day?” Anthony had asked when he’d come into my office this morning.

  “Not particularly,” I’d replied. No trial, nothing really pressing. I tend to find that I’m either snowed under or things are frustratingly slow, but today is a rare pitch of in-between.

  “Right then,” he’d said. “We’re going out for a long lunch.”

  “Business or pleasure?” I’d asked, instantly regretting the flirtatious tone.

  He’d raised an eyebrow, but hadn’t answered.

  “Oh, and you’ll be needing these,” he’d added.

  He’d lifted down my big, glossy hardback yellow Selfridges bag from its hook behind the door. How he’d known what was inside is because once, a while back, he’d come into my office after I’d changed into its contents – a pair of well-worn jeans, a snug-fitting petrol blue T-shirt, a thin navy hooded cardigan and a pair of black trainers. He’d done a double take, surprised to see me in something other than a suit. I’d been meeting Kayla in town after work, I think, and hadn’t wanted to wear a skirt and jacket. After complaining to Adam once about doing just that, spending a night on the tiles dressed in smart black twin-set, he’d suggested keeping some going out clothes in the office. That’s what HE does, only in reverse. It’s an emergency pair of chinos and smart blazer Adam stashes under his desk.

  “What are these for?” I’d said, as Anthony handed over the bag. “I thought we were going out for lunch.”

  “It’s not that kind of lunch.”

  “So what are YOU going to wear?” I’d said.

  Anthony was wearing his trademark baggy dark blue three-piece. Whilst cooler than most office attire, it could hardly be termed casual.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. Right then, meet you in fifteen at the bus stop on the far side of the Embankment?”

  I’d looked at my watch. “But it’s only 10.30!”

  “Like I said, it’s going to be a long lunch.”

  I didn’t object because we still hadn’t had a chance to talk properly. He’d been playing it cool, at least that’s how it felt, and every time I’d been about to start my spiel, something had happened to stop me in my tracks. Like a colleague or a clerk popping up out of nowhere, like one of our phones going. Twice, at the end of the day, when I’d tried to find him, to suggest a quick drink, he hadn’t been around. I’d been starting to wonder if we didn't need to have ‘the chat’ because Anthony had already moved on.

  I shouldn’t feel guilty taking time out. Barristers are all self-employed. A fifth of our earnings go on clerks fees and rent. I’m my own boss. Nevertheless, as someone with a strict work ethic, I’d felt like a truant. Guilt aside, the weather was glorious, a beautiful, sunny, spring day, with a gentle breeze. Anthony had been there, waiting. He’d changed into jeans, T-shirt, long black leather jacket and shades. Indeed, he’d looked so good that somehow I forgot about mentioning ‘us’ as we cruised on the open top of a double-decker bus to Regents Park. I’ve not done that before, crossed the capital on wheels, in the open air. From on high, everything looks different, sounds different. The essence, the vibe of London floats up to you. And the bird’s-eye view, of the river as we crossed Westminster Bridge, of Parliament Square, of Oxford Circus, everywhere teaming with people, out and about, enjoying the sunshine, a party atmosphere, was special.

  Regents Park had been Anthony’s idea. He considers it the best park in London and as I’d admitted that the only bit familiar to me was the Open Air Theatre and the zoo, he’d thought it high time I explored. So we’d walked past beautifully laid beds bursting with flowers the shade of every crayon in a large Caran D’Ache tin. We’d ambled through gardens dedicated to daffodils and crocuses and puffy pink blossom. We’d spotted herons in the canopy of the tall trees. We’d crossed bridges and ponds. We’d stopped for an early lunch of chicken salad and café latte that we’d eaten al fresco. We’d talked about anything and everything than what I presumed we’d been brought here to discuss and before I could pluck up the courage to brace the subject, Anthony had asked if I knew how to row. When I said I’d never done it before, he took me to the lake where he rented this rickety boat that we wobbled into, holding arms outstretched for balance. After Anthony had steered for a while, and contrary to his passenger’s wishes, he handed over the reins. From his perch opposite, he tried to instruct on the art of sculling, but no matter how I manoeuvred the oars, rather like pulling heavy planks of wood through thick treacle, all I could master was going round and round in circles. Eventually, having gone backwards for a while, arms aching, small beads of sweat breaking on my forehead, and despite Anthony’s warning that we were getting too close, we grounded with a sticky, gravely scrape on this island in the middle of the lake, which is where we are now.

  “Nice one,” he laughs.

  “Fuck,” I say. “Told you I couldn’t row.” From where we’re marooned, on the far side of the oxbow, we can’t see the deck where we embarked and they can’t see us. Shaded by lots of reeds and low-hanging trees, we’re not particularly visible to anyone. Anthony leans forward, I assume for balance, but before I’ve worked out his motive, before I can construct my defence, he kisses me, delicious and soft and melting.

  “Why did you do that?” I open my eyes to meet his, all chocolately and welcoming.

  “You look even more beautiful when you’re flustered.”

  I want to bark DON’T, STOP, WE CAN’T, but obviously I don’t want it enough because next thing I know is it’s me, leaning in, kissing him.

  ***

  It’s the conversation after the thing that’s taken place that shouldn’t have. I’m lying here, naked, next to Anthony, head nestled on a comfortable soft patch I’d snuggled into on his chest, in his bed, which is where we’d stumbled after the kiss, after the lake, after the park, which is almost his local. My clothes, once again, although this time panties are black, are lying strewn on his bedroom floor. I’m not sure how they got there. Actually, that’s a barefaced lie. I know exactly how they got there, although I wish I didn’t, so I wouldn’t have to take responsibility. They got there out of a desire, a want, and an attraction so strong that I didn’t have the strength, the desire, or the want to prevent it. How could something so wrong feel so natural, so right?

  “I’m not sure this is what Maxwell had in mind when he instructed you to protect me from iffy men like Scott Richardson!”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “That’s a relief,” I say, staring at the ceiling.

  Silence.

  “Did you plan all this?”

  “This?” he asks, reaching for my hand under the covers, interlocking it with his.

  “Not THIS exactly,” I smile. “More the long lunch, the getting out the office.”

  “I thought we needed to talk.”

  “And have we?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  Words are the tools of our trade. We should be better at this, at talking, at communicating, at getting to the hub of things.

  Silence.

  “I shouldn’t be here, you know,” I say.

  In the throes of passion, guilt had taken a back seat, but now, in the quiet aftermath, it’s settling high in my chest, like heartburn, overstaying its welcome. Anthony rolls onto his side, looks at me.

  “My Dad had an affair with a woman half his age. It broke my mother’s heart and it almost broke up their marriage. Ever since, infidelity’s been like a dirty word. I saw the devastation first hand and vowed I would never, ever do the same. But after hours of therapy and then meeting you,” he tries to make light of it, “you know what I said to myself?”

  “What?”

  “Life’s too short.”

  I sigh.

  “And at least you don’t have kids,” he adds.

  Silence.

  “Why are you here then?” he asks.

  Good question. I don’t want to be like his Dad.

  I sigh again
.

  “It feels nice,” I answer.

  It’s not a defence, but it is honest.

  “Ali, I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “I want you to know that I don’t make a habit of playing around. I’ve never done this before.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re not that kind of person.”

  What are we doing? Where’s this going? Are you going to destroy my life, my work and my relationship? These are all questions I’m longing to ask, but it’s too soon and it’s too late because he’s already rolled me on top of him and round two has started.

  ***

  Kayla’s round for dinner. I didn’t bother going back to the office and neither, I think, did Anthony. Thankfully I was home before Adam, so didn’t have to make excuses for either my early return or my attire, although ‘plain clothes research’ would probably have done the trick.

  “What do you fancy?” I ask, before realising, as I open the fridge, that it’s the end of the week and there’s not much choice.

  “Whatever,” she says.

  “Pasta?”

  “Fine.”

  She really doesn’t care, as long as she’s not doing the cooking. As she fishes for the corkscrew in our cutlery draw, I fill the kettle with water, then take an onion, a couple of cloves of garlic, an open pack of dried spaghetti and a carton of passata out the cupboard.

  “Glasses?” she asks, looking in the empty cabinet.

  “Oh God, they must all be in the machine. Sorry, you’ll have to wash a couple.”

  “Won’t Adam want some?”

  “Probably, oh I don’t know, you’ll have to ask,” I say, brushing off the oversight. Just the mention of Adam’s name makes my skin flush hot.

  “Adam?” she yells. “Do you want wine?”

  He’s in the lounge next door, watching football on Sky.

  “Yes please,” he yells back.

  “So, what are we having?” asks Kayla, once she’s poured the wine and taken Adam his.

  “Pasta with cheesy tomato sauce,” I say, handing over a thick chunk of cheddar and the grater.

  “I’ve got a date,” she says, getting started with the cheese.

  “Great,” I say. “With who?”

  I toss the onion and garlic into a pan, with a trace of olive oil.

  “This guy on my course.”

  “You said there weren’t any nice guys on your course.”

  I tear open, with difficulty, along the dotted line of the passata carton.

  “Not in my class. He’s the year above. I met him at this end of term drinks do?”

  “And?”

  I pour the passata onto the onion and garlic.

  “And he asked if I’d like to do lunch.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “Are you alright Ali?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I say, turning my back to her, stirring the sauce.

  “You don’t seem fine,” she says. “You seem distracted.”

  Nobody else would have noticed, I’m sure of it. Acting, appearances, they’re part of my job. I’m pretty good at it, but Kayla knows me too well. Even so, I turn around, smile reassuringly and tell her it’s in her imagination. She pushes the door shut, but when it swings slightly ajar she gets up, closing it until she hears a click.

  “I’m waiting,” she says.

  I open my mouth, take a deep breath, count down from ten in my head, but by the time I’ve got to one I get cold feet. Adam’s next door for Christ’s sake.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I say.

  Kayla stares me out, long and hard. She’s always had this way of looking at people, fixing on them so penetratingly that they’re forced to look away. Normally I’m a good match for her. It usually ends in childish fits of the giggles, five, six minutes later. Not this time though. This time I feel uneasy and unlatch.

  “Ali, this is me you’re talking to.”

  ***

  I speak in a whisper, in the unlikely event Adam’s ear is nuzzling the other side of the door. Her face registers complete disbelief as I come clean. Saying it all out loud makes me sound even more morally challenged.

  “YOU’VE GOT TO STOP IT, RIGHT NOW!” Kayla whispers loudly.

  I raise an agitated finger to my lips.

  “SHUSH,” I whisper loudly back.

  I know she’s right, but somehow I would have expected her to ask more questions, be more open-minded, before delivering her verdict. I want to tell her that he’s beautiful, he’s intelligent, he’s brilliant at what he does and he works in a legal advice centre too, but does any of that make a difference?

  “Adam’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You’ve been with him forever. Don’t throw it all away on some stupid whim for Christ’s sake.”

  I want to tell her that it’s not a whim, perhaps I’ve been with Adam too long, but I’m not certain any of that’s true. Adam’s just all I’ve ever known.

  “Where’s it going, this Anthony thing anyway?”

  I want to ask if it matters, shouldn’t I just wait and see, but I know that that’s wrong.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been unfaithful,” I say.

  I know for a fact that she’s two-timed.

  “But I’ve never had an Adam. They were all just stupid flings.”

  It’s true. Kayla’s never had a proper, long-term relationship as such.

  “And anyway, that’s irrelevant,” she tries to explain. “That’s me and this is you and you’re not like that.”

  I can tell she’s disappointed. She needs me to be the better side of her.

  “You’ve got to stop it before it gets out of contr-”

  Adam opens the door, brandishing an empty wineglass. We look up, eyes startled, like a couple of cats dodging a stream of oncoming traffic.

  Chapter 16

  It’s a warped reality that for the past fortnight I’ve slept really well, despite ignoring Kayla’s advice. I’ve fallen asleep, stayed asleep and every morning I’ve woken literally a minute before my alarm clock’s gone off. The only exception was a couple of nights ago when a low-flying helicopter, no doubt searching for criminals on the run, woke me with incessant circling at about 1.30a.m., but even then I rolled over and nodded straight off.

  I’m a day late. This might not sound remarkable, but I’m normally as regular as clockwork, give or take a few hours. I’m not getting worked up, but I am aware of it, as I am every month, at this particular time, on the cusp of finding out if new life’s beginning or old blood’s about to be shed. This is the worst bit for me in the whole trying to conceive lark, however calm and chill I try to stay. The pressure, the hopes, the build-up to that dreaded period coming and then the crushing blow. After a couple of days, you forget all about it, move on, but the cycle’s always there, forcing you back on the bandwagon, encouraging new possibilities and fresh expectations, month after month.

  “Ali?” Adam whispers. “Are you awake?”

  I nod, but don’t speak, for fear of disturbing that precious early morning karma. He fumbles for my hand.

  “Has it come yet?”

  Without us discussing it, Adam still knows. Somehow he’s tuned into the inner machinations of my reproductive organs. I shake my head, although it feels like tempting fate, which I don’t want to do, even this month.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Mmmmmm,” I grunt, still not wanting to speak.

  “Ok,” he says, holding my hand. “Squeeze once for it feels like it’s coming, twice for it doesn’t.”

  “Mmmmmm,” I grunt, not squeezing.

  “Ok,” he tries again. “Squeeze once for it feels like it’s coming, twice for it doesn’t, and three times for you haven’t got a clue.”

  I squeeze three times, smiling with closed eyes, then my alarm clock goes. I reach, with my other hand, to bash down the ringer.

  “Morning,” says Adam,
leaning over to kiss me.

  “Mmmm,” I reply. I’m not much of an early morning conversationalist.

  “What do you reckon?” He detaches his clasp from mine, transferring his hand to my stomach.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, rolling over, pushing myself to sitting.