Lover in Law

by Jo Kessel

  “Ali,” he shouts again. “What are you playing at?”

  I try to distract myself with the socks, undoing a couple of pairs, to check the heels and toes for wear and tear. I’m heavy on my feet. There are lots of little holes.

  Adam bashes his palm on the door.

  “Ali, what’s going on? I can’t get in?”

  I sigh, put down the socks and pick myself up off the floor. As I pad downstairs, I can make out the frame of his sandy hair through our stain glass window adjacent to the front door. He deserves to be told why I’ve locked him out.

  “I know you’re having an affair,” I tell him from the other side of the door, ignoring the hypocrisy of what I’m saying, what I’m doing.

  He laughs. What kind of a response is that?

  “I don’t know how to respond to that,” he says.

  Silence.

  He clears his throat, less certain.

  “Are you being serious?” he asks.

  I slide the ball of the chain up and down the lock.

  “I know you didn’t go to Paul’s,” I say.

  I shift to the window, to measure his response. He’s sideways on. I can’t see his face, but his body is restless, nervous, weight transferring from one foot to the other.

  Silence.

  “What are you going on about?” he says.

  “I rang him, you weren’t there. You weren’t even expected.”

  There, that’s got him!

  Silence. He raises his right thumb to his mouth, to chew the nail. It’s the only one that he bites, out of habit, when he’s anxious. I take his silence as admission of guilt.

  “You’ve been to see Charlotte Buchanan, haven’t you?”

  My tone is even and quiet.

  Silence.

  My Detective work has given me the upper hand. Will I get an explanation, a denial, or an alibi?

  “I’ve no idea how you know who she is and yes, I did go to see her,” his voice shows irritation, “but it’s not how you’re putting it.”

  “Alright then,” I say patiently, “tell me how it is?”

  He lifts up the letterbox, peers through.

  “Ali, look at me please,” he says.

  I take a step to the door and crouch. My gaze meets his through the rectangular hole. This is all too bizarre.

  “You know I would never do that.”

  His eyes, soft and honest, confuse me, but we know too well that people who have affairs are good at lying. It’s my turn to stay quiet.

  “You’ve got to ask no questions. Just trust me on this one,” he says.

  My legs start to hurt, so I stand. He mirrors me, releasing the metal flap of the letterbox with a ping. My life is one big question, how can I ask none?

  “If you’ve nothing to hide, why don’t you tell me why you went to her?”

  He doesn’t need to tell me the truth. He’s doesn’t know that he owes me nothing. If the roles were reversed, if I’d come clean, would Adam have locked me out or stood by me?

  “Ali,” he sounds disappointed. “If we don’t have trust, what do we have?”

  We’re interminably silent, waiting for the other to speak, but neither gives way. It’s Adam who breaks first. Through the stain glass window I see him shake his head, put his hands in his pockets. Lesson over, I slide the ball of the chain, releasing it, open the door. Adam’s already at the end of the garden path. “It’s alright,” I speak loudly. “It’s ok. You can come back. I forgive you.” I’m pretty sure Adam can hear me, but he doesn’t turn around.

  Chapter 28

  It’s with much regret that the pink panties didn’t make the grade. They didn’t deserve to be culled. They’re still in spanking new condition, worn just the once. I thought long and hard about it, nostalgically, because I was wearing them the night I conceived. I’d wavered slightly. I’d wondered if this was the type of memorabilia you stick in a baby book, but then decided it might be a little bit too much information. They’re sitting at the top of a plastic bag headed for Oxfam, full of threadbare socks, T-shirts with logos, bras skewed out of shape by the washing machine and white briefs that have gone grey. The only items that have lived to see another day, despite being ripe for the dumping, are a few pairs of what I call grandma knickers. You know the kind, the big, roomy, stretchy sort that come up to the waist. The kind you wear for comfort when you’ve got your period, or you’re bloated or feeling out of sorts. Or, as I’ve just discovered, the kind you wear when you’re pregnant.

  I’ve been giving a lot of thought to my grandma of late, my mother’s mother, an ardent campaigner for the right to wear knickers that reach your armpits. When my parents went to Canada, they left her behind. Responsibility for her welfare was handed down to Kayla and I, which at first felt a heavy burden. It didn’t by the end though. I grew to love this lady like a daughter, enjoying our daily chats and Sunday lunches. She was also always very good to Adam, embracing him as her own. When she died, aged 85, out of the blue, from a heart attack, it fell on me to tell my mother the news and that she was too late. I was the last person my grandma saw, sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, in hospital. “Ali darling,” she’d said, before slipping away, “always be careful what you wish for, because it might come true.”

  I’ve pondered often since then on that comment. If you wish for something, how could you possibly not want it to come true? Isn’t that the whole point? I’d found it hard to believe that your prayers being answered could count as a negative, but now I understand what she meant. I wished to be pregnant. My wish was granted, but it hasn’t turned out the way I expected. My grandma was right. I should have been more careful.

  Now, with a child on the way, there’s no greater time for being careful. I should be planning for the future, for it, for us, not kicking perfectly good Daddy material out of the house. Now is a time to be safe, secure, for thinking things through, not for rash decisions, for sanctimoniousness. When I decided to teach Adam a lesson, locked him out, I hadn’t really meant it. It was a half-hearted gesture. I wasn’t expecting him not to come back. He’d called my bluff though, forcing me to consider how life as a single Mum would be. My parents aren’t around. Kayla’s here, but how much help would she actually be? Who would be there at the birth? Who would be there at four in the morning, when the baby wakes for the third time during the night and I still haven’t had any sleep? When I go back to work, who would look after the baby? When I’m late getting home, who would look after the baby? When I fancy a night, or a day, or an afternoon, or a couple of hours off, who would I turn to? What if I don’t make enough money, what if I don’t want to work, want to go part-time, what then? Who would ever love me with the baggage of a baby on board? How would I even have time to date? There’s much for consideration, lots to be careful about, but I may finally have blown it. It’s all got a bit out of hand.

  Whilst Adam being unfaithful does go some way to easing my guilt, to calling it quits, I’m still pissed off with him, I admit. I know what I did was cheap and immoral, but in my defence, at least I called an end to it the moment I knew I was pregnant. Not Adam! He carried right on going. Even I didn’t stoop that low. He is clearly not the man I thought he was.

  It was strange not having him here. It’s not like I’ve never been alone in the house before. Adam travels loads for work. Last night, though, the bed felt ridiculously oversized. I felt more vulnerable. Normally I know it’s just a temporary measure. Adam’s always been coming home. Now, who knows if he’ll ever come back? I’ve rung him at Paul’s at least ten times this morning, left messages, each saying the same thing. I’m sorry, I love you, this is stupid, please come home, you’re forgiven. Nobody picked up the phone. I go to get my mobile to see if he’s maybe rung me on that, switch it on. No sooner than I get a signal it rings, number withheld.

  ***

  It’s Anthony. I’d been wondering when he’d get around to it. I’ve spoken to practically everyone else from chambers. Anthony’s taken his time,
given the potential of his investment. I’d love to hang up, pretend it’s the wrong number, but this will have to be broached sooner or later anyway.

  “Hi,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  Baby fluttering paints over my nerves. I head for the kitchen and put on the kettle. In my current state of suspension, food and drink have taken somewhat a back seat.

  “More the point, how are you?” he asks.

  He’s playing casual back, not getting to the real reason why he’s called. His voice is silky smooth and calm. He’s an excellent orator. There’s always a game plan. No doubt he’s worked out his cross-examination strategy, to get the truth.

  “Not too bad thanks.” I unhook a cup off the mug tree, take a tea bag out the cupboard. “I reckon I’ll be up to coming in tomorrow.”

  This is the second day I’ve taken off. Avoidance seemed the easiest option, but now, with all this Adam stuff, I think work would be good for me. Take my mind off things.

  “That’s why I called,” says Anthony. “There’s been a development in Scott Richardson’s case I thought you’d want to know about. Prosecution’s just served us with a forensic expert’s report that basically says Rupert Simon’s car had been tampered with before the accident. He was always going to be on a hiding to nothing.”

  “No way,” I exclaim. “I bet they had this up their sleeve way back at the plea hearing. Why the fuck didn’t they disclose this back then?”

  This is most underhanded, leaving us with only a couple of months to counter their claim. Anthony pauses.

  “Well, I guess that’s their prerogative.”

  “What do they say was done to the car?” I ask.

  I hear papers rustling.

  “Apparently a nut had been loosened at the end of the steering rack and was on its last thread. It was only a matter of time before the car lost its steering.”

  I sigh, taking in a deep breath, wondering what this new piece of evidence means for our client, my mind temporarily taken off my own troubles.

  “Did they find any prints or traces?” I ask.

  “Not yet. But don’t stress,” Anthony continues, “this can wait. You take all the time off you need. The world won’t come crashing down without you.”

  Could this really be just a work call, colleague to colleague, to tell me about the forensic expert? I take a couple of slices of bread out the freezer, pop them in the toaster.

  “Thanks, but I’m ok. I’d like to come in.”

  Without work, what do I have? Anyway, that’s not the point. Why doesn’t Anthony bloody get to the point?

  “Then that’s fine too,” he says.

  “See you tomorrow then,” I say.

  “And Ali,” he says.

  Silence.

  Here it comes. I stand still, propping up the kitchen counter, bracing myself.

  More silence.

  “Yes?” I whisper.

  “I’m really happy for you,” he says. “Congratulations.”

  ***

  Kayla hands over a glass of water and a couple of painkillers. “Let’s hope this does the trick,” she says. She’d sent me straight up to bed, the minute she saw me. Apparently my face was the sloppy shade of dishwater. I’ve got a migraine to beat all migraines. It’s hardly surprising, considering this last half-day or so. Locking Adam out, him not coming back, my ruining the best thing I’ve ever had, Anthony’s phone call. There’s less drama in an Eastenders omnibus. Talking to Anthony’s what sent me over the edge. Not that I want him to be the father of my child, but I was thrown by the lack of interest shown, considering the dates. Kayla draws the curtains to block out the daylight glare, punches up some more pillows, props them behind my back and sits down by my side, pulling slightly on the duvet.

  “Right, now tell me what’s happened,” she says.

  She knows Adam’s left. I told her on the phone earlier.

  “He’s having an affair, so I locked him out.”

  She resists saying ‘and so were you’, but I know she’s thinking it. And she’s right to.

  “It was only for effect,” I try to justify my actions. “He was meant to come back. He wasn’t meant to actually leave.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she says. “It just doesn’t sound like him. Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. It’s been going on for ages.”

  My voice is alien, a thin, exhausted whisper. Anything more would require too much effort. My limbs are listless. Energy zapped right out. My head has flopped gratefully into the raised mountain of goose feathers.

  “How do you know?” she asks.

  “Whose side are you on?” I snap.

  Her doubt is irritating. I roll my head from left to right, to release some of the tension from my neck.

  “This isn’t about taking sides. I’m just very, very surprised. This is Adam we’re talking about.”

  “Well, Adam’s obviously not such a goody-two-shoes either.”

  I put the glass of water down on the bedside table and tell her how a few months back, before I realized I was pregnant, I found a post-it in his pocket with a name, address, date and time on it. How, when that date and time had come up, he’d loaded his golf clubs in the car and said he was going to the driving range. How I’d stalked him to this house, like a private detective, seen him hug and kiss a rather attractive woman when he’d left. How he’d done the same thing a second time. How, when I’d confronted him with her name, he’d acted all shifty, saying it was someone he worked with. How, when I’d rung up his office there was nobody there by that name.

  “Perhaps he was hiding something else from you,” she suggests. “You saw a hug and a goodbye kiss. How do you know it was definitely an affair? Isn’t it possible you’re jumping to conclusions?”

  Pause.

  “Last NIGHT,” I explain, raising my voice in frustration, “HE SAID HE WAS GOING TO PAUL’S AND HE DIDN’T!”

  I rub my temples. The pain had been subsiding, but my excitement has caused the throb to rear its ugly head again.

  “Shush,” calms Kayla, rubbing her hand up and down my upper left arm and shoulder, offering me back the glass of water.

  “So now do you see, I’m not making the whole thing up?”

  I take a small sip.

  Once again, she resists confronting me with my own hypocrisy. I’m not sure why she’s chosen now, of all times, to NOT challenge me.

  “I presume you confronted Adam with this?”

  Does she take me for a fool?

  “Of course I did.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Pause.

  What DID he say?

  “He said I just had to trust him on this one,” I say. “It was obviously a cover-up though.”

  Kayla nods, but it’s more an expression of patience than of concurrence.

  “Can I ask the name of the person Adam’s having an affair with?”

  I can’t see what difference it makes, but I tell her Charlotte Buchanan all the same.

  Pause.

  Kayla buries her face dramatically in her hands.

  “Oh, nooooooo,” she groans. “Oh, faaaaaaaaark. I knew I should have told you. I KNEW it, it’s just I’d promised. I’d bloody promised.”

  Chapter 29

  “Please let me in. I know I’ve been an idiot.”

  The scenario’s familiar, but this time it’s a reversal of roles. This time it’s me who’s locked out, it’s me bashing at Adam’s door, to clear up the misunderstanding. Because what Kayla had been hiding from me, what she’d known all along but had been sworn to secrecy, was that Adam was on the brink of proposing. He’d gone to Kayla for advice on rings. He wanted to have one made specially, something original, self-designed and wondered if she knew of anyone up to the job. It so happened that she did, a certain Charlotte Buchanan, an artisan jeweller who worked from a small studio at the back of her house, the sister of someone on her homeopathy course. The ring had been a work in progress for mont
hs. He’d gone to pick up the finished article the night I’d locked him out.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” I’d accused, mortified. I’d immediately eaten humble pie. She didn’t tell me because she was keeping a secret. In any event, she couldn’t possibly have predicted the consequences. She’d done all she could, told me imperatively that I had to stop seeing Anthony. I’d thrown back the duvet, jumped out of bed, run downstairs, and raced round to Paul’s pad in Camden. I’d door stepped, quite literally, taking a seat at the top of the stairs leading down to his basement flat, waiting for Adam to get back from work. Only Adam hadn’t wanted to see me. He was too angry, he’d said, and told me to go home, politely placing his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to take a sideways stride, so he could let himself in. I hadn’t given up though. Paul still wasn’t back, so I’d hung around outside waiting. When he arrived I’d tricked him into thinking Adam still wasn’t there, asked if I could wait inside. That’s how I gained entry to the flat. That’s how I heard the key turn in one of the bedroom locks. That’s why I headed straight for that door, started talking at it, through it.