a stirrer around his drink so the ice cubes clinked against the glass.
‘David speaks very highly of you.’
I tried to brush off the compliment with a modest shrug.
‘David’s good. Really good. And I don’t just mean because he recommended me as counsel. Why did you choose him?’ I asked, always interested in the process.
‘I googled “top divorce lawyer” and his name came up.’
‘That’s how it works, is it? Like picking a plumber.’
‘Something like that,’ he said, looking at me over the rim of his glass.
‘And thank you for instructing me. Most men prefer male lawyers. I suppose they think they’ll be more macho in a fight. So hats off for not thinking like an alpha male.’
‘Actually, I did have my doubts about you,’ he said, putting his glass on the marble counter.
His candour caught me off guard.
‘Ouch,’ I said into my drink.
‘I’m just being honest. I know divorce isn’t about winning, but I wanted a QC. And I was worried that you’re not.’
‘The word “junior” is a bit of a misnomer,’ I said, looking back at him. ‘There are some barristers I know who were called to the Bar thirty years ago and who aren’t silks, not because they’re not brilliant but because it wasn’t the right decision for them.’
‘Is that the case with you?’
‘I’m probably going to apply this year.’
‘So if my case drags on, I won’t be able to afford you.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘To Francine Day QC,’ he said, clinking his glass against mine. ‘I’m glad you’re representing me. Although you’re going to have to explain what’s the bloody point of having both a solicitor and a barrister.’
I laughed. It was a question I got asked a lot and I gave the standard answer.
‘It used to be the right of audience in court,’ I shrugged. ‘That’s changed now, but I would say barristers are generally more comfortable with the advocacy side of things. Solicitors come to us with the more complex issues too.’
‘So you’re saying you’re cleverer than solicitors.’
‘We have different skill sets, that’s all.’
‘They say that, don’t they?’ he replied. ‘That politicians and barristers are just frustrated actors.’
‘Is that so?’
I caught the playful tone in my voice and I was aware that I was flirting with him.
There was a long complicit silence.
Martin observed me carefully, as if he was assessing me. It made me feel interesting.
‘I can imagine you treading the boards at Oxford.’
‘That’s such a long way from the truth it’s not even funny.’
‘Oh yes. LLB Birmingham. First class.’
I glanced at him in surprise.
‘Your CV is on the website.’
‘My dad is a bus driver. I went to a comp. I was the first person in my family to go to university.’
‘Then we’re not so different, you and I.’
I smiled cynically. Every ounce of him had the polish of a public school and Oxbridge. He caught my eye and knew what I was thinking.
‘Let’s get some food,’ he said, signalling the waiter. I have never been particularly good at reading men’s signals, but I could tell he was showing off.
We ate and danced around one another, easy conversation between mouthfuls of food, small plates of tapas that we shared. Only occasionally did I feel fleeting moments of panic that I shouldn’t be here, with a client, in a low-lit bar three days before the First Directions for his divorce proceedings.
‘Another drink?’
I noticed that the bar had emptied out.
‘I’d better not.’
He pushed his shirtsleeves up and I noticed what good forearms he had: strong and tanned with a light trail of hair across the top.
‘You probably think I’m a wanker.’
‘Why would I think that?’
‘The husband with money. Out to screw his wife.’
‘I’m here to help, not judge.’
‘Still, you’ve probably met a lot of men like me.’
‘I like acting for men. I think they get screwed a lot of the time, especially when there are kids involved.’
‘Your job – it must put you off marriage.’
‘How do you know I’m not married?’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’m not,’ I said holding his gaze a moment too long as the mood shifted instantly between us.
‘I think we’re about to get thrown out,’ said Martin, looking around. The place was empty. The waiter looked as if he was tidying up for the night. It couldn’t have been later than nine o’clock, but it felt late and intimate like the dregs of the day.
The bartender put our bill on a small silver tray. Martin picked it up and had it settled before I even had a chance to reach for my purse.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, putting his right hand on the small of my back.
We were ushered out of the store by a security guard and exited on to Duke Street. It was raining more fiercely than it had been when I came into the store, so hard that the rain bounced off the flooded pavements. My heels sliced through a puddle, splashing cold, dirty water on to my stockings.
‘Where’s a taxi when you need one?’ I shouted across the West End noise. My canvas Burgess Court tote was already sodden and I feared that the QC application form wouldn’t survive the downpour.
‘There,’ he said, as we lifted our coats over our heads, laughing, and groaning as we splashed through puddles.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked.
‘Islington.’
‘Then we can share,’ he said as he opened the door, and before I knew it I had jumped in.
