Читать книгу Mine - J.L. Butler - Страница 16

The gallery was an intimidating strip of a building in Mayfair. Wide plate-glass windows shone silvery white light on to a line of expensive-looking cars outside. The crowd queuing up to get in looked po-faced. But I was glad to arrive.

Clare had asked far too many questions about Martin on the way there. I didn’t want to divulge anything about his circumstances, particularly how we met, and I wanted to keep the good stuff private – the weekends we had spent in bed, watching box-sets and eating takeaways, or our Sunday-afternoon drive to Lulworth Cove, where we sat on the cliffs and watched the colours of the tide shift from emerald to peacock blue. And I didn’t want to tell her how upset I had been the night Martin had gone to meet Donna to ‘talk’ about the divorce. How I’d gone to the gym after work that evening, driven myself to my physical limit, pushing weights, running hard until sweat dripped from every pore of my body, hoping to take my mind off the fact they were meeting up. How it hadn’t stopped me calling him – calling him three times, even though each attempt went straight to voicemail, or how I went home and drank two bottles of wine and woke up the next morning to find vomit in the toilet basin. I didn’t tell her, because although I knew I was falling in love with Martin Joy, I didn’t love the way he sometimes made me feel. Helpless, adrift and out of control with my emotions, the person I used to be, another lifetime ago.

‘So is he here?’ she whispered, as we each accepted a flute of champagne from the waitress. We’d been waved past the velvet rope and found ourselves in a parallel world where elegant people in towering heels and loafers dropped a year’s salary on some remedial daubings they declared ‘amusing’. The artist du jour was Helen North, a painter who printed huge monochrome photos of naked elderly people, then covered those images with thick slashes of black and white paint. I found them depressing, but then I wasn’t here for the art.

Looking past the designer dresses and Savile Row blazers, I didn’t recognize anyone, let alone Martin. But I wasn’t looking for him, I was looking for Donna, terrified that she would walk in, larger than life and twice as glamorous. The art world, after all, was Donna’s territory. Even if she hadn’t heard that Martin had been invited – along with a mystery plus one – there was a strong chance that a juicy opening night like this would bring her out from whatever rock she’d crawled under. I cursed myself. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t sink to hating Donna, however tempting it was. As a family lawyer, you only got to see one side of a relationship. As a girlfriend, even more so. I wanted to see Donna as uncaring and selfish and malicious, but it was never that simple, was it? However happy Martin made me, he couldn’t be entirely blameless: which of us were?

Perhaps reading my mood, Clare touched my arm.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, fine. Just a little nervous about you meeting Martin, I suppose.’

‘You really like him, don’t you?’

‘He’s nice,’ I said with contrived breeziness.

‘Then why do you want me here, playing gooseberry?’

I looked at her.

‘Because you’re my best friend and it’s important to me that you like him too.’

Clare nodded. ‘OK, but do tell me when to scarper. I assume you’re going home with him.’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘I’m good – provided you have a clean pair of undies and a toothbrush in your handbag.’

‘I’ve got a toothbrush at his place.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not quite a ring on your finger, but it’s a start.’

‘Well, considering he’s still technically married, I’d say so.’ I forced myself to watch Clare’s reaction. Not shocked or disapproving, just confused.

‘He’s married?’

‘Separated. Six months ago.’

‘At least he’s not a client,’ she replied with an arched brow. I smiled nervously.

‘Actually …’ I began, but a blonde whirlwind swept up, arm outstretched.

‘Fran! How are you?’ Sophie Cole pulled me into a hug, air-kissing both sides, like a long-lost sister. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was worried the whole night was going to be deadly dull.’

She looked at Alex, who arrived at her side, for confirmation. He gave only a short nod of assent, but at least he was smiling.

‘Oh, this is Clare, my friend,’ I said, snapping into formal mode. ‘Clare – Sophie and Alex Cole. They’re Martin’s business partners.’

‘More like his agony aunt, in my case,’ said Sophie, shaking Clare’s hand. ‘So what do you think of the art, Clare?’

I waited to hear her response. Clare was much better at judging these things than I was. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘I like the way she uses light and shade.’

Sophie paused, then laughed. ‘No, I can’t stand them either!’ She leant in to whisper: ‘But Helen’s a good friend of Martin’s, so don’t repeat that in front of him.’

I looked at her in alarm. I didn’t like the sound of ‘good friend’.

‘Are you a lawyer too?’ said Sophie, looking at Clare.

‘Psychotherapist,’ said Clare.

‘Sophie’s dream friend. All she likes to do is talk about herself,’ chided Alex.

She swatted his arm. ‘You’ll have to excuse my husband, he’s an idiot.’

‘She’s the co-owner of a restaurant as well, aren’t you, Clare.’

I couldn’t resist getting in a plug for Dom’s new restaurant. Sophie and Alex were the sort who ate out every night and, besides, I liked the thought of our friendship groups intertwining.

‘Hardly co-owner. It’s my husband’s. Launches next month.’

‘Darling, you’re friends with a divorce lawyer. Speak to her and then tell me you don’t want your name above the door, however much of a sleeping partner you might be.’

‘Believe me, I don’t want to get involved,’ laughed Clare. ‘If I tell my husband I want more involvement, he’ll have me making choux pastry swans before I know it. And I hate cooking. I can’t even make fairy cakes.’

‘Well, remind me to introduce you to my friend at The Times. Food critic. Maybe we can all go down for dinner and he can write something.’

‘That would be amazing. Thank you,’ said Clare. ‘Perhaps you could come to the launch?’

‘We should go and say hi to Helen,’ said Alex diplomatically.

‘So long as I don’t have to tell her how much I love her work,’ Sophie said, rolling her eyes at me. ‘Excuse us, Franny – lovely meeting you, Clare.’

Clare raised her eyebrows when they had gone. ‘Franny?’

‘Term of endearment.’ I smiled, noting her disapproval.

‘Well, it had better not stick.’

‘It was good of her to say she’d introduce you to The Times critic,’ I said. Suddenly it seemed important to get Clare’s approval for my new friends.

‘If it happens,’ said Clare, taking another glass of champagne.

‘He’s here,’ I said, my words trailing off as I looked across the crowd.

As Martin entered the room, my heart juddered with anticipation, excitement and anxiety. He hadn’t seen us, he was too busy shaking hands and slapping backs, a handsome charismatic centre of attention in a dark suit, moving like a jungle cat, at ease but powerful. I glanced at Clare, watching her watching him, and it was obvious his magic was already working on her – and I felt smug in the knowledge that I was the one who would be going home with him.

‘He’s sexy,’ she said, not taking her eyes off him. I couldn’t help feel disappointment, but what did I expect her to say? He’s fascinating, he’s brilliant, he’s damn-near perfect?

Clare didn’t know Martin, hadn’t met him, how could she see him as I did? And did friends ever really approve of partners? I didn’t much like her husband Dom, that was true. Perhaps Clare, with her shrink’s hat on, could explain it to me, but for some reason it was deeply important that the two people I was closest to should get along, impossible though that seemed.

Finally Martin saw me and I felt a crackle in the air as our eyes met. Murmuring something to the woman he was talking to, he made a beeline for us.

‘Francine, you came,’ he said, kissing me on the cheek. ‘And you must be Clare. I’ve heard a great deal about you.’

I thought he would turn the full force of his laser-beam charisma on her, but instead he gave a shy smile. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I hope you weren’t too bored.’

I noticed Martin kept his eyes on Clare as he said it, paying attention to her, deferring to her. He knew the charm playbook inside out, but then I was sure Clare knew exactly what he was doing: tics, tells, all of those little manipulations people used to deceive were a psychiatrist’s bread and butter. It was like watching two grand masters try to out-think each other.

‘Martin’s one of the sponsors of tonight’s event,’ I said nervously.

‘And a friend of the artist,’ added Clare.

‘More like client of the artist.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t lie, it’s a business move,’ said Martin with the ghost of a smile. ‘High-level contacts are vital to the Gassler Partnership, and I don’t think you’ll find a greater concentration of wealthy individuals than at an art gallery opening. Especially when the artist is as hot as Helen North.’

‘I do actually like her stuff,’ said Clare.

‘You do?’

‘Really. I wasn’t joking when I said about the light and shade. I’m all about the light and shade.’

Martin laughed. ‘Me too,’ he said, taking Clare by the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

As he led her away, Clare turned and grinned, giving me a discreet thumbs-up. She was a tough nut to crack at the best of times and had always been suspicious of my boyfriends, so to get her approval was everything. I let out a long breath and took a swallow of my champagne: it was already making me fuzzy.

‘I think you’re good for him.’

I turned. Alex was watching Martin work his way around the room.

‘Well, I am a very good barrister,’ I said.

He twisted his mouth. ‘You know what I mean, Fran. I’m his friend, not the Bar Council,’ he said, his expression softening into a smile.

I’d wondered how much Alex had worked out at our dinner at Ottolenghi. Whether he had guessed that I was Martin’s lover as well as his lawyer.

‘Besides, you’re two consenting adults and he’s my business partner. We’ve built something good together. I don’t want it destroyed because of that woman.’

‘Well, I don’t think it will come to that.’

He nodded, but I don’t think he was really listening.

‘After Donna, before you, he was drinking Jack Daniels for breakfast. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it, because he’s in a better place now than he was three months ago, and I think that difference is you.’

I was stunned to silence. On the one hand, it was what I longed to hear – confirmation of Martin’s feelings for me. But Alex’s words also unsettled me. I had worked long enough as a divorce lawyer to know that toxic relationships brought a lot of emotions to the surface, not all of them positive. Jack Daniels for breakfast suggested a different version of events to the one Martin had given me about the breakdown of his marriage.

I could see him through the crowd and felt an unsettling prickle of envy at how good he looked standing next to Clare. I was about to look away but our eyes met and he smiled, and it was so intimate and reassuring that I felt a little bit lighter.

I almost didn’t notice Tom Briscoe. At first he blended in so well with the smart surroundings that I didn’t recognize him, but then there he was, helping a Sloaney blonde out of her coat. I felt bound to the spot, until a voice in my head told me to get out of there. This wasn’t like bumping into my neighbour Pete by the bus stop near our flat. This was Tom, my colleague. He couldn’t see me with Martin; it would take an analytical mind like Tom’s half a nanosecond to put two and two together.

‘I’m just going to the cloakroom,’ I said to Alex as I made my excuses and crossed the gallery.

Clare was deep in conversation with Sophie Cole. Mouthing ‘sorry’ to Sophie, I pulled Clare to one side.

‘I have to go,’ I said quickly, glancing at my watch.

‘But we’ve only just got here,’ she said with obvious disappointment. ‘Sophie was just telling me who else she knows in the food world. She reckons she can get Giles Coren along to the opening of Dom’s restaurant.’

‘I’ll make sure she does, but I really do need to go.’

I pulled out my phone and texted Martin:

Colleague here from chambers. Got to leave.

‘Sure you don’t want to stay for the dessert canapés?’ pressed Clare. ‘I just saw some mini éclairs and strawberry tarts doing the rounds.’

She frowned, then followed my gaze towards Martin.

‘Ah, I see,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I’m not surprised you want to shoot off for a shag.’

‘For an educated woman, you can be very crude,’ I said, struggling to sound light-hearted. My mobile phone beeped in my hand. Martin.

I’ll come with you. Just let me say my goodbyes.

I glanced around the room but I had lost sight of Tom. Wherever he was, it gave me the opportunity to collect my things from the cloakroom. I handed over my ticket and waited impatiently as the coat-check girl gossiped with her friend, moving at a glacial pace. Come on, come on. My head was beginning to whirl. My throat tightened and I longed for a breath of fresh air.

‘Fran?’

Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I closed my eyes in defeat. Of course he’d seen me. Of course.

‘Tom!’ I said, turning and forcing surprise into my voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised – I have an appreciation for the arts,’ he smiled. He was wearing a sharp navy suit with one of those stripy old-school ties you’re supposed to be able to decipher but I never can. Tom gestured to the girl next to him, the same blonde I’d seen him with earlier.

‘Fran, this is Hannah. Francine is my colleague from chambers.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, extending a hand. ‘Unfortunately, I’m just leaving.’

I saw Hannah shoot a look at Tom, the kind that said, I told you we’d be late. Any other time I’d be interested in that nugget of information and what it told me about Tom’s relationship, but I was far too distracted and focused on escape.

‘Sorry to be a bore, shooting off,’ I said, looking over Hannah’s shoulder, convinced I’d see Martin bearing down on us. ‘You must go and speak to the artist, she’s fascinating.’

‘Surely you can stay for one drink,’ said Tom. ‘It is Friday night, after all.’

‘No rest for the wicked,’ I said with a thin smile as I was finally handed my coat and made a bolt for the door.

Clare was standing on the pavement, watching me.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

‘Course I am,’ I said, inhaling the cold spring air.

Clare didn’t seem to buy it. ‘Then why the sudden need to leave?’

I couldn’t tell her, couldn’t let on what had spooked me. And now I was out of the stifling, crowded gallery, it didn’t seem so desperate. Would Tom know Martin was my client? Possibly not. I certainly had no idea who he was representing. Would he have asked how I came to be invited? Unlikely, Tom was far too well brought up to ask such a loaded question. But it was possible. And that was far too much of a risk.

‘Do you want me to wait with you until Martin comes?’ asked Clare, her eyes searching mine.

‘No, don’t be daft. You go,’ I said, pointing to the cab which had just pulled up at the kerb. ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’

‘I’m happy for you, Fran,’ said Clare, giving me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Now just let yourself be happy, OK? You do deserve it.’

For a moment we were both lost in the past. Knowing how much she had done for me, I gave her a grateful nod.

‘Thanks,’ I said simply. ‘I’ll try.’

But as her cab pulled away, I looked back towards the gallery, back towards him – and wondered if that would be enough.