he asked how the date went, I felt like he was on the porch in his rocking chair, with a shotgun. You sure you two have never collided without clothes on?’
This throws me and annoys me in equal measure. Dig, dig, dig. Ben seems to be looming far too large in our conversations, and I can’t work out why. I consider mentioning Simon’s continuing stirring to Ben. Only that would mean us both admitting there’s a pot to stir. No chance. Always question people separately. I can see why they’re going to make him a partner.
‘I’m sure, Simon, I think I’d remember. Why the obsession on this point when you’ve been given an answer?’
‘I’m a lawyer, Rachel. We keep going until we get an answer we believe.’
‘That’s funny, the lawyers I know take the answer they think will fly with the duty sergeant.’
‘You’re very good at the art of deflection yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Why are our conversations more like a battle of wits?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Hah. Well … I’m home now, thanks for the company.’
‘Have a lovely evening,’ Simon replies, smoothly.
I’m three streets away from my flat, but the talking had gone as far as I wanted it to.
49
I wake up groggy on Sunday morning, rays of feeble sunshine on my face. Rupa’s billowing voile magenta curtains that pool on the floor are incredible in every respect apart from the ‘keeping the light out’ bit.
I spent a hectic Saturday night watching DVDs and drinking wine alone with no co-drinker to help hide how much I’ve had. I’ve slept so long my bones have gone floppy. I briefly imagine it’s dawn because of the birdsong, before gradually realising it’s the tweeting and chirruping of my phone, submerged under discarded clothing. I get out of bed, sweeping my hair out of my face and cursing whoever thinks it’s acceptable to disturb me.
It stops as I pick it up. I check the missed call ID. Pete Gretton. What the hell does he want? I can’t remember why we ever exchanged mobile numbers but I’m sure it was on the tacit understanding he’d never use it. I notice he’s called four times already. No message. As I’m contemplating the size of the flea in the ear I’m going to give him tomorrow, he rings again. I answer it in a snap of annoyance.
‘What, Pete?’
‘Woken you up?’ he asks, uninterestedly.
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Have you seen the Sundays?’
‘Obviously not if I’m still in bed.’ Oh yuck, I mentioned being in bed to Gretton.
‘Go and get the Mail.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not going to tell you. Go and get it and call me back.’
‘Listen, this is shitting me up. What are you on about, Pete?’
‘Go and get it.’
Heart beating a little faster than I’ve told it to, I pull a jumper over my pyjama top and cast around for some shoes.
I decide on the way to the newsagents that I won’t read it in the shop so I can absorb whatever blow this is in privacy. The person in front of me buys scratch cards and Benson & Hedges and spends an excruciating amount of time counting out their change. I almost run back to the flat, slam the door behind me, throw the paper on the floor and kneel over it. The pages stick together as I scrabble through them. Some grotesque latest twist in the lipo story, perhaps.
I turn to a double page spread, headlined: ‘The Armed Robber, His Wife, His Lawyer – Her Lover.’
There are some long lens shots of Natalie Shale in a fedora, pulled low like a pop star exiting a hotel, arriving at a house that isn’t her own. The door’s held open by a thin, rakish figure that I recognise as Jonathan Grant, the twenty-something solicitor who’s often swaggered around court full of self-consequence, flirting with female QCs. There’s Lucas Shale’s arrest mugshot, and a photo of Natalie stood demurely behind Grant as he addresses a gaggle of press outside the court.
I can barely concentrate on the story long enough to do anything more than pick up the odd phrase. ‘Secret trysts at Grant’s £350,000 lovenest in Chorlton-cum-Hardy …’ ‘In public, Natalie Shale was a devoted wife and mother, who protested her husband’s innocence, in private, friends say she was “increasingly desperate” and Grant provided a shoulder to cry on …’ ‘The 27-year-old is regarded as a rising star at his firm …’
Then I spot it. The fact that makes something this bad a hundred times worse. The first name on the story is a well-known Mail staffer. But there’s a second name in the byline.
I spend longer than is respectable for someone with no formally recognised learning difficulties wondering if there’s another Zoe Clarke.
At a loss for what else to do, I call Gretton back.
‘Seen it?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘I feel for you, Woodford, I really do. What she’s done to you is a fucking disgrace. I presume this is something you’ve been sitting on and she’s nicked it?’
‘No.’ I feel feverish and dizzy. Gretton’s not going to be the only one who thinks I’m involved. Not by a long way.
‘How’s she got this then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, she’s certainly stolen your thunder and shat in your trifle.’
‘I can’t believe it … I don’t believe she’s done this. It could ruin Lucas Shale’s appeal … Jonathan Grant is going to lose his job …’
‘To give Clarke her dues, she had some brass balls to negotiate herself a job off the back of it.’
‘What?’
‘I hear she called in last thing on Friday saying she wouldn’t be back.’
‘She left on Friday? Why did no one tell me?’
‘I tried to call, you had your phone turned off. I left a message.’
The film, with Caroline. After I finished talking to Simon, I noticed I had a voicemail and decided it could wait. Gah.
‘She didn’t say why she was going,’ Gretton continues, and I realise he’s enjoying himself hugely. ‘She told them she didn’t have to work notice according to her contract, gave them the old back-to-front victory sign. I expect you were going to get the bad news on
