heard the front door creak open. Chilled air seeped through the cracks in the window pane and pinched my nostrils shut. It was as cold as a mortuary; a macabrely apt simile. I was even lying like a mummy, arms by my sides, trembling fingers tucked under my thighs, as heavy and immobile as if they were dead weights, anchoring me to the bed.
As the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, I pulled my hands out from the warmth and settled them on top of the cool cotton duvet cover. My fingers were clenched, nails pressing against my palms, but at least I was ready to fight. I suppose that was the lawyer in me.
He hesitated outside the bedroom door, and the moment seemed to compress into a cold, suspended silence. Coming here had not been a good idea. Closing my eyes, I willed the single tear not to weep on to my cheek.
A soft push of wood against carpet as the door opened. Every instinct in my body told me to leap out of the bed and run, but I had to wait and see if he would, if he could, do this. My heart was hammering out of my chest, my limbs felt frozen with fear. I kept my eyes shut, but I could feel him looming over me now, my body retreating into a menacing shadow. I could even hear his breathing.
A hand pressed against my mouth, its touch cold and alien against my dry, puckered lips. My eyes opened, and I could see a face only inches from mine. I was desperate to read his expression, desperate to know what he was thinking. I forced my lips apart, ready to scream, and then I waited for things to run their course.
Three months earlier
I had only been back in chambers five minutes when I felt a presence at the door of my office.
‘Come on, put your coat back on. We’re going out,’ said a voice I recognized without even having to look up.
I carried on writing, concentrating on the sound of my fountain pen scratching across the paper, an old-world sound in the digital age, and hoped that he would go away.
‘Chop-chop,’ he said, demanding my attention.
I glanced at our senior clerk and gave him a grudging smile.
‘Paul, I’ve just got back from court. I have work to do, orders to type up …’ I said, taking some papers out of my pilot case. I noticed it had a rip in the leather and made a mental note to get it repaired.
‘Pen and Wig for lunch,’ he said, picking my black coat off the rack by the door and holding it out so I could slip my arms inside.
I hesitated for a moment, then resigned myself to the inevitable. Paul Jones was a force of nature and insubordination was not an option.
‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked, looking at him as if a lunchtime excursion was the most extraordinary suggestion. Most of the time, it was. I don’t think I’d had anything other than a sandwich at my desk for the past six months.
‘A new partner’s started at Mischon’s. I thought it was time you met.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘She’s just moved down from Manchester. You’ll get on.’
‘Wooing clients with the Northern card,’ I smiled, flattening out my regional accent for comic effect.
I grabbed my handbag and we walked out of my office, down the long sweep of stairs into the bowels of chambers. It was like a ghost town, although at this time of the day – a little after one o’clock – that was not unusual. The clerks were on their lunch breaks, phones went quiet and the barristers were still at court or making their way back.
Stepping out on to the street, the crisp, February wind slapped against my cheeks and made me catch my breath. Or perhaps it was the sight of Middle Temple, which after fifteen years of working here, still had the power to dazzle me. Today it had a particularly bleak beauty. Sandwiched between the river and Fleet Street, Middle Temple, one of London’s four Inns of Court, is a warren of cloisters and listed buildings, a sliver of London that has remained locked in time, one of the few places in the city still lit at night by gas light, and it suited dank and grey days like today.
I thrust my hands in my pockets as we walked to the pub.
‘Good day?’
This was Paul-speak for Did you win?
It was important to Paul to know how well we did in all our cases. I liked our senior clerk a lot, he was supportive – paternal even, although I didn’t pretend for a moment his concern was altruistic. Work for all barristers in chambers came in by referrals and personal recommendations, and Paul, who as senior clerk juggled the entire system, got a percentage commission of all the fees that came through the door.
‘You’ve got something interesting this afternoon, haven’t you?’ he said.
‘Pre-First Directions meeting with solicitor and client. Big-money divorce.’
‘How big? Do you know yet?’
‘Not Paul McCartney big.’ I smiled. ‘But big enough.’
Our senior clerk shrugged.
‘Shame. We could do with a few more headline-making cases. Still, nice work, Miss Day. A divorce that size is usually a job for silk, but the solicitor requested you specifically.’
‘It’s Dave Gilbert. I send him excellent Scotch at Christmas and he’s good to me all year.’
‘Perhaps he knows you’re the best-value wig in London. I’d come knocking at your door if the missus ran off with a millionaire scrap-metal merchant,’ he winked.
The Pen and Wig, a typical Temple pub that had fed and watered barristers since Victorian times, was located a few minutes’ walk away from chambers. I was grateful for the warm blast of air as we were sucked inside the cosy, wood-panelled room.
I frowned in puzzlement as I recognized a group of my colleagues huddled in a raised alcove area, at the far end of the bar. It was unusual to see so many of them in one place, unless they were gathered for clients’ drinks at chambers.
‘What’s this?’
‘Happy birthday!’ Paul grinned as Charles Napier, our head of chambers, turned and waved over the tops of the heads of our two petite female pupils.
‘So we’re not meeting a solicitor?’ I asked, feeling stitched-up and self-conscious. Although my very line of work demanded that I stand up in court, I hated being the centre of attention. Besides, I had deliberately kept the fact that I was turning thirty-seven that day under wraps, not least because I wanted to forget about my march towards forty.
‘Not this lunchtime,’ he grinned, leading me through the pub.
‘Bloody hell. Decent turnout,’ I whispered, knowing how difficult it was to corral so many of my colleagues in one place.
‘Don’t let it go to your head. Rumour has it old Charlie-boy has made the short-list for High Court judge. I think he was in the mood for celebrating and promised everyone champagne
