Читать книгу Good Bad Woman - Elizabeth Woodcraft - Страница 8

‘You look a bit cold, Frankie,’ Gavin said, as I walked into chambers an hour later. ‘You should have come out in a coat.’

‘I should have come out with my handbag, keys and wallet and then I wouldn’t have had to walk most of the way and been frozen half to death,’ I said stiffly. I had found a pound in my jacket pocket but I’d had to get off the bus at Liverpool Street. I had come into chambers because I kept a spare set of house keys in the drawer of my desk. I know most people have a good friend or neighbour who looks after a spare set of keys for moments such as this, but Lena lived in Finsbury Park, which was too far away, and I didn’t know my neighbours very well.

There had been attempts, by my neighbours, when I first moved in to the flat. The woman who lived in the top flat invited me to a make-up party. It was shortly after my split with Kay, and I thought I could buy my way back to attractiveness and social success through cosmetic products. As it turned out, I spent the evening feeling bleak and out of place and signed a cheque for £27.50 for two small bottles of something green for my complexion. I hadn’t spoken to them since.

I felt I could do with something green for my complexion now, particularly my nose, which I knew was red and glowing.

I thought that was the reason for Gavin’s stunned look. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in, so Marcus is having a con in your office.’ He was apologetic. ‘He’s, eh, he’s only just gone in.’

I groaned. Marcus was famous for his two-hour conferences with clients.

‘Think of it this way,’ Gavin said, ‘he’s a sad bloke and it’s the only social life he’s got.’ Marcus was a self-made upper class man. He had changed his voice, his education and his background to become more aristocratic than any of them.

‘Think of it this way: I’m a sad woman,’ I said, thinking of the now cold cup of coffee and the congealing slice of apple strudel waiting to be eaten in my kitchen. ‘I am not Marcus’s social secretary. This means I can’t even get on with my appeal papers.’

I slumped on to a chair.

‘Jenna’s just popped out to pick up some books from the High Court,’ Gavin said. Jenna was the newest recruit in the clerks’ room, our fourth junior clerk. ‘So you can sit there for a moment.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. There was a constant battle in the clerks’ room between the clerks trying to retain their territory and barristers wanting to flop down in the secure and busy atmosphere of the centre of chambers.

‘I think Simon wanted to speak to you, actually.’ Gavin picked up the phone. ‘Simon, Frankie’s in. Didn’t you say you wanted a word? She looks as if she needs lunch … He’s coming right down,’ he said to me.

‘Gavin!’

My life was an open book to the clerks, but Gavin still persisted in trying to get me off with men.

‘I know you’re, you know, That Way,’ Gavin had said to me in the pub one evening, ‘but I also see you as a very open-minded person.’ He had been drunk. ‘Now Simon, he’s just the type of man you could do with.’

‘Does he dust? Does he clean? Would he have my dinner on the table when I got in?’

Gavin blinked at me.

‘Well then, what’s the point?’ I said.

‘No no, he’s, he’s, well, you’re a bit of a thinker, aren’t you? And Simon isn’t. What, for you, could be more perfect? A lot of ladies do find him good looking, you know.’ Gavin had been looking at too many computer screens. ‘Plus, he’s loaded.’

Thinking of the pots of money I knew Simon had inherited only recently after the death of a doting grandmother, his regular private income and his part share in a farm, when he walked into the clerks’ room, I said, ‘All right, Simon, you can take me out for lunch.’ I looked at his wide smile and his good teeth. He really was quite good looking in an old-fashioned way. If he paid more attention to his choice of tie, I thought, he’d be quite a catch for someone.

We went to the Café Rouge in Fetter Lane. As soon as we sat down Simon ordered a bottle of Bourgueuil.

‘Is that just for you, or are we sharing it?’ I asked as the waitress walked away.

‘It’s for both of us,’ Simon said. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I should have asked you. You know about wine, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure that’s the right answer, Simon. If I had been a man I assume, perhaps stupidly, that you would have asked me at least to agree to your choice.’

‘If you’d been a man like Marcus, who knows nothing about wine, I probably wouldn’t,’ he said irritatingly. ‘But I concede your point. I forgot about your knowledge of wine, because you are a woman.’

‘Well, thank you for that,’ I said.

‘Do you hate all men?’ Simon asked.

‘For God’s sake, Simon, what a stupid thing to say. I work with you, don’t I?’

The waiter came to ask if we were ready to order and we both asked for steak and chips, rare.

‘But it’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Lesbians …’ I didn’t like to think where this conversation might be going. ‘Have you ever thought of starting your own set?’ Simon poured wine into my glass. ‘You could be head of the first women-only set.’

‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ I asked.

‘Not at all. I like you being in chambers. It’s an idea, though, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure what the point would be. It couldn’t be all lesbians, there aren’t enough of us at the bar.’ I had thought before about the possibility of striking out into the strange territory of an all women’s set of chambers, with women clerks.

‘And so,’ Simon said carefully, ‘some of the barristers would have boyfriends or husbands, and they might have boy children.’

‘Exactly, you couldn’t keep men out.’ I tore a piece of bread in half, showering the table with flakes of crust. ‘You’d have male clients. Then there’d be the motorbike couriers, the postman, the window cleaner.’

The waiter placed our orders in front of us.

‘And I know you’d be the last to say this, Simon, but women barristers are not necessarily any better, whatever that means, than men. They’re not intrinsically more politically right on. Margaret Thatcher was a barrister. They’re not kinder or gentler – but you don’t want that in a barrister anyway.’ I stuffed chips into my mouth.

‘They usually smell nicer.’

‘Simon,’ I said. ‘Barristers are barristers. Rich, posh, privileged.’

‘Are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m trying to make a political point. I’m not, as it happens, as you can tell perfectly well from my vowel sounds. And I’m not rich … well, not particularly. Certainly not at the moment, anyway.’

‘This lunch is on me,’ Simon said with concern.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

We raised our glasses to each other. Simon said, ‘You don’t really think I’m trying to get rid of you, do you?’

‘No, Simon, I don’t.’

‘Because that would be absurd. Because, you know, I really like you.’ His cheeks began to glow. ‘And if there ever came a time when you thought you wanted to, you know, try … try again, try with a man … you could always turn to me.’

‘Thank you, but no.’

‘No strings attached, just to see, you know.’

‘Simon, give me a break.’

‘Just a bit of practice?’

‘Simon,’ I said, slowly swilling the contents of my glass, ‘if this were not expensive wine, I would pour it on your head now.’ I looked at his broad face and his eager blue eyes. ‘Just order two Armagnacs and we’ll forget you said that.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry. This is rather good wine, isn’t it? I assume neither of us is in court this afternoon.’

‘I’m not,’ I said, still trying to assert a sense of annoyance.

‘But if the system is so awful,’ Simon said, as we sat with large glasses of rich amber Armagnac, ‘isn’t it going to corrupt you?’ He gazed at me.

‘It might, but not the way you want it to, Simon. Don’t start that again.’

‘Well, let me cheer you up and tell you about my morning in front of His Honour Judge Swiffham till you regain your sense of justice and love for all humankind.’

‘A slight feeling of pity may be as good as you’re going to get,’ I said. ‘We’d better have some coffee.’

I ordered two espressos and Simon began his story. We were a few minutes in when I realised he was talking about the dreadful pornography case that he had been involved in for weeks, led by our head of chambers. Their client had been found guilty and had been sentenced this morning.

‘And just as the judge was about to pass sentence, our client leapt up and shouted, “Police corruption! Police corruption! I paid good money to keep out of court, and look at me now. How much are you supposed to pay?”’

‘How much are you supposed to pay?’

‘I don’t know.’ Simon grinned. ‘But our client had obviously not paid enough. I didn’t know anything about it, it hadn’t been part of our case. But from something my client mumbled later in the cells, he paid something in the area of five thousand pounds. Not that he had anything to pay for, of course. His was an entirely above-board art bookshop. It was all a horrible misunderstanding. But I have to say, some of the officers in the case arrived at court in very nice cars.’

‘I suppose that’s one of the perks of working in Soho.’

‘Yes. Although not all our shops – all right, so we had a string of them – were in Soho. One of them was in Camden.’

‘Why do you do cases like this?’

‘It’s the cab-rank rule, Frankie. If it comes in with my name on, in my area of work, I have to do it.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said, thinking of barristers who return cases because there’s not enough money on the brief.

‘I don’t have your politics,’ he said. ‘But, anyway, I thought you did this kind of work when you did crime.’

‘I represented prostitutes, not the jerks who live off them. Although I did once represent a woman charged with running a brothel. When she got off, she gave me that china high-heel shoe on my table in chambers. But all of that’s a million miles away from your case.’

Somehow the story ended up involving hiccups, snoring and bad language. It wasn’t very funny but by the time we had finished the coffee, and against my better judgment, we were giggling like contestants in a quiz show. I felt sure enough time had passed for Marcus to have finished his conference so we got the bill.

‘He’s still in your room,’ Gavin said mournfully as we walked into the clerks’ room.

‘Can I make a phone call from here?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, Jenna’s desk’s free, use her phone.’ As junior clerk, Jenna had to take her lunch very late or very early. She was still at lunch. I rang Kay and told her as coherently as I could about Saskia’s court appearance, bruises and all.

‘Oh no,’ Kay sighed. ‘Where is she now?’

‘I don’t know, she just skipped off while I was on the phone.’

‘What, at court?’

‘No, in my flat.’

‘In your flat? God, Frankie, you never give up, do you?’ Did she sound irritated? I was.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘that’s none of your business and, anyway, she just came to have a bath.’

Kay shouted with laughter.

Normally, this is where I put the phone down, but I was seriously worried about Saskia.

‘There was a guy at court with brown shoes,’ I said.

‘Oh yes?’ Kay said. ‘So it’s true, brown is the new black.’

I squeezed my eyes tight shut with frustration, then went on calmly: ‘He seemed very interested in Saskia.’

‘I’m assuming he wasn’t a reporter, am I?’

‘I thought he was at first, he looked the type: seedy, greedy, all those -eedy words.’ I reflected for a moment. ‘Not tweedy, I suppose.’ I remembered I was talking to my instructing solicitor. ‘But then he left court at the same time as us, about half past eleven, and was driven off in a smooth black car. Saskia didn’t see him but she seemed quite shaken when I told her. What’s going on?’

Kay was silent.

‘Why was she so bruised, why was she so desperate to get out of the cells, and what was she doing in Balls Pond Road, of all places?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kay said.

‘She’s not involved in anything … iffy, is she? Nothing that could be connected to your break-in?’

Kay was silent, then said curtly, ‘Meet me tonight at the same place as last night.’

‘We didn’t actually meet last night, if you remember.’

‘Seven o’clock all right?’ Kay asked in a clipped voice.

‘Yes,’ I said humbly.

As I put the phone down it occurred to me that I was quite tired and I needed to do something that would wake me up and keep me awake if I was going to make it through to the evening.

‘I’m going to the pictures,’ I announced.

‘You going with, erm, you know?’ Gavin leered.

‘If you mean Simon, no, I’m not.’

‘Not what?’ asked Simon, coming through the clerks’ room to make himself some coffee. His blue and orange tie had something related to steak and chips on it.

‘Not going to the pictures with you.’

‘But why not? I love the cinema. Apollo 13, James Bond, Toy Story. Whatever. Toy Story 2.’ Simon was eager, like a bouncy puppy. ‘We could share a tub of popcorn, although you probably like salted, don’t you? We could have one each. Ice cream, coffee. What are we going to see?’

I looked at him. In court he was feared for his sharp wit and ruthless cross-examination. Around women he was as daft as a brush.

‘Something French and obscure.’

‘Oh, I’ll take a rain check then,’ he said.

‘Bye,’ said Gavin, shaking his head with disappointment.

I remembered my financial state, ‘Lend us twenty quid, Simon.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘It’ll do,’ I said, snatching the old spare mac hanging behind the door in the clerk’s room. I was on the landing outside chambers when I remembered my keys.

I went back into chambers. ‘Because the con’s been going on so long,’ Gavin said, ‘I’ll go in and get them.’ It was a strict rule that conferences must not be disturbed. When he came out he handed me the small bunch of keys. ‘The things you’ve got in your top drawer,’ he remarked. ‘It could have been very embarrassing for Marcus.’

‘He could have said they were for his feminine side. Perhaps it might stop him having cons in my room. He shouldn’t look in the drawers of my desk anyway,’ I said, and swept out of chambers.

The film was French but light and had that comedy the French laugh at – people hiding in dustbins and being loaded on to dustcarts by mistake, like Benny Hill with an accent – which I always forget about when I say I like French films. But I enjoyed myself being critical and feeling superior about the subtitles, which were too short, too vague, too late. The story of my life.

It was a quarter to six when I came out of the cinema and the air was less cold than it had been earlier. I was humming the film’s catchy theme tune which hadn’t yet become irritating and I decided to walk to the restaurant to meet Kay.

All I will say is, Brunswick Square to Kings Cross was easy enough, through the streets of high mansion blocks and large houses, past the turrets of St Pancras station to the concrete flatness of Kings Cross, but the hill up to the Angel reminded me that I had done a lot of walking already that day and also notified me of all the spots where my shoes rubbed. At least it wasn’t raining.

I felt irritable and ragged when I limped into Gino’s.

‘Signora,’ Gino bustled towards me, his face all concern, ‘you look a little fatigué. Come, sit down, asseyez-vous, and I bring you a bottle of vino tinto red, yes?’

The restaurant was empty and Gino guided me to a small, discreet table tucked behind a large Swiss cheese plant.

‘I am expecting someone,’ I said defiantly, as he put down the bottle of wine and began removing the plate and cutlery opposite me.

‘Of course, yes, signora,’ he said, pretending to tidy them. ‘How long you will be waiting?’

It was ten to seven.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ I said. I had £15 left from the £20 Simon had lent me. That meant, if absolutely necessary, if she didn’t come, I could have the wine, a starter and just about enough for a cab home. I was worrying about the tip when Kay appeared.

I always do a double take when I haven’t seen Kay for a while. She’s tall, about five foot nine, and carries her weight well. She has dark hair and dark eyes, but it’s her mouth that I’m drawn to. It is full and perfectly shaped and she does something which always makes her lips shine. She licks them. It works.

She leaned on the back of the empty chair opposite me.

‘May I?’

I smiled and she sat down. She was wearing a grey trouser suit, with a long draping jacket, it said Armani, it said Donna Karan, it said, successful solicitor. I realised my outfit today said Top Shop, and the jacket was too tight across the shoulders. I poured her some wine and Gino hurried forward with a menu. I ordered a mushroom risotto and Kay ordered chicken.

I had warmed up, I was relaxed and it was good to see her.

‘Saskia rang me,’ she announced. I sat forward in my chair. ‘She said she was OK and thank you very much and sorry she left without saying goodbye. Oh, and she said something about a grey shirt?’ It was a question.

‘She went off in my shirt. But did she say where she was? Did you ask her about the bruises?’

‘Well, I couldn’t really ask about the bruises because I didn’t see them. And she didn’t say where she was.’ She looked at my face. ‘And, no, I didn’t ask her either. To be honest, I didn’t have the time for a chat.’ Unlike you, I read in her eyes. I make time because I care, I flashed back, silently. Oh, please! Her eyebrow twitched.

She shook out her napkin. ‘She did say something odd. She said, “It’s the singer not the song.” I wondered if she’d been flicking through your record collection.’

‘Did you ask her what she meant?’

She didn’t bother to answer. ‘Sometimes I think Saskia says things just to be mysterious. It doesn’t mean anything. What could it mean?’

I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders.

‘There’s nothing more you can do,’ she said sensibly. ‘Saskia’s an adult. And she’s pretty much told us to lay off.’ She poured more wine in my glass and I tried to put my anxiety aside.

We had a pleasant evening. I talked about chambers, she talked about her office. Once we looked at each other as we were laughing about the lifts at Wood Green Court, and the possibility of going home together hovered in the air, but the moment passed.

In Kay’s car at the end of the evening I concentrated on what Saskia could mean by that comment, ‘the singer not the song’. It was true, she often said things for effect, she said it brought interest to people’s lives. But there was something wrong, something not Saskia in all this.

As she dropped me off, Kay said, ‘Look, Saskia was a client, you represented her, the case is over. All you can do now is return the brief and forget about it. There’s no Legal Aid for all this worrying, and your professional insurance probably doesn’t cover you for it either. Knowing Saskia, she’ll turn up in about two years’ time, after another demo, and you’ll be representing her on an assault police charge.’

I looked at her.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said, ‘go to bed.’

I went into the flat and headed straight for the bathroom to run a bath to relax me so that I could sleep. I noticed that Saskia had carefully cleaned the bath, which is not my practice. I believe in self-cleaning baths like other people believe in fairies. My theory is self-cleaning ovens exist, so why not self-cleaning baths?

I undressed as the bath filled. I opened the clothes basket to dispose of my underwear and noticed a blue shirt sheltering like a cuckoo in the nest of my dirty clothes.

I looked at it, uncomprehending, for three seconds then realised it was Saskia’s.

I lifted it out of the basket between thumb and forefinger as if it was a piece of china which might have fingerprints on it. It was a long-sleeve polo shirt with a pocket over the left breast.

I couldn’t work out whether I felt like a detective or a thief as I considered slipping my fingers into the pocket to see what was in there. I knew that Saskia liked and trusted me so I decided I could assume the rights and even duties of a good friend. Also, if there was a tissue in there and I washed it, it would wreak havoc with my court things. I hooked the pocket open with my index finger and looked in. There was nothing but a screwed up turquoise and white wrapper, Orbit sugar-free gum. I was humming the advertising slogan as I pulled it out of the pocket and tossed it in the bin. I tried to picture Saskia chewing gum. It didn’t fit, I had never seen Saskia chewing gum, so I scrabbled among the tissues and old toilet roll to retrieve the wrapper.

What was I expecting? Something dramatic, something helpful, a note that said, ‘I have moved and can now be reached at 0837-24391,’ perhaps. Perhaps an address. Perhaps something more sinister, a name, written in blood.

It didn’t say anything like that. But it did say something: ‘7.30 Gino’s F.’

What? At first I thought I must have written it. I had just come from Gino’s. How had that fact got into Saskia’s pocket? I’d been with Kay. Had Kay written it? It wasn’t Kay’s writing. I tried to remember Saskia’s handwriting.

‘7.30 Gino’s F.’

What did it mean?

Automatically I got into the bath, washed and got out, no more relaxed than I had been five minutes earlier. I wandered into the living room in my dressing gown.

The answer machine light was flashing.

‘Frankie, it’s Gavin. It’s eight thirty. Look, I’m sorry about this, but a new solicitor has just rung and needs someone to do a quick non-mol at Edmonton. You know I wouldn’t normally ask you to do an injunction, but you live so close and she needs a bit of soft soap which I know you’re good at.’

‘You taught me everything I know, Gavin,’ I said to the machine, and missed the last part of the message.

I played the tape again. ‘Client’s name is Fiona Stevens, brief at court. Don’t forget, Edmonton’s a ten o’clock start. See you tomorrow.’

I groaned, then groaned again. A non-molestation application at Edmonton County Court could take all day. The application itself would last ten minutes, the rest of the time would be spent waiting till the judge or the usher decided which of the twenty or so cases in the list could go in.

This was so depressing. I shouldn’t be doing cases like this, picking up my brief at Edmonton County Court on the morning of the hearing. I should be in the High Court, staggering under the weight of briefs which I’d received months before, for hearings which would last two or three weeks. What was the matter with my practice? Was it my solicitors? My clerks? Me?

I put on Sam and Dave singing, ‘Hold On, I’m Coming’ and thought, ‘Well, hurry up then,’ and went to bed.