then she checks the time on Sky News and says, ‘Doesn’t that drugs five-hander start this morning?’
Meaning: you can’t afford to drop even one more ball.
Don’t I know it.
She turns away to her screen, to indicate my audience is over.
‘Yeah, I’m on my way,’ I say, to her back.
I had forgotten about it, and break into an undignified run once I’m out of sight of the office.
51
After a morning of taking notes in shorthand so shaky and fractured it looks as if I’m recovering from a stroke, I dodge Gretton and edge my way out of the court and into the fresh air. I head towards St Ann’s Square with my stomach on spin cycle.
Every step I take, my apprehension mounts. Now Simon’s at the top of my in-tray, as it were, I have more time to consider his feelings, and my conclusions aren’t good. Belatedly, I’m remembering how wary he was of journalists, how badly this must have blown up in his face as well as mine. I start to wonder whether the urbane, unruffled Simon persona will remain intact, as I’d hoped. I got scant clues from our exchange on the phone.
I have my answer as soon as I spot Simon pacing up and down by the fountain, craning to see me in the crowd. His homicidal intentions are plain.
‘Hi.’ My attempt at a confident tone quavers and Simon almost bares his teeth at me. It’s only then I see Ben next to him, frowning. This is too much. In fact, Simon’s more than enough by himself. I can’t deal with Ben lambasting me as well. I couldn’t deal with that on its own.
‘Are you here to hold his coat?’ I blurt.
‘I’m here to make sure he doesn’t go over the top,’ Ben says, looking wounded. ‘How are you?’
I’m so surprised at him asking the question that’s been on the tip of nobody’s tongue, I don’t know what to say.
‘Is it true that one of the people involved in the Mail story is a colleague of yours in court?’ Simon says.
‘Yes. Zoe. Was a colleague, she’s at the Mail now.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know, Simon. Honestly, I’m as shocked as you are.’
‘That’s the best you can do? What’s that, your Out of Office Autodenial? Rachel’s taken annual leave of her senses?’
I try to look like I’m coping. Panic rises up through my chest and throat.
‘It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. This has ruined our interview …’
‘Oh, you reckon?’
‘… Why would I destroy my own story?’
‘A bluff. You probably gave her the tip-off and you’re splitting the money while you keep your job here and your hands clean. How am I doing, eh? Bit more like it?’
An elderly couple sitting nearby eating messy egg mayonnaise sandwiches start listening in.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I say. ‘Does this seem anything like a plan going as planned to you? How brazen do you think I am?’
‘You don’t want me to answer that. How did your colleague know about this affair?’
I squirm.
‘I don’t know.’ Pause. ‘Did you know about it?’
Simon’s face twists. ‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘If it was a rumour, lots of people could’ve passed it to Zoe.’
‘Do you honestly think I’m a big enough spazz to believe you had nothing to do with this?’
I appeal for mercy, knowing it’s pointless. ‘Simon, I’m as upset as you are and I’m in a heap of shit at work.’
‘You’re in shit?!’
Egg sandwich couple are dropping cress all over themselves, eyes wide. Ben shushes Simon, which is like trying to put out a house fire with handfuls of mist.
‘… Jonathan Grant has been suspended. I’m being blamed for the bright idea of getting the media involved and, guess what, I’m not going to be made partner any time soon. The appeal could be fucked. Natalie Shale and her kids are in hiding because of the scumbags camped on her drive. Tell me, who gives a shit what kind of day you’re having?’
‘This looks terrible, I can see that, but I can’t control what my colleagues do.’
‘I had doubts about you from the start. Ben vouched for you,’ he casts an accusing look at Ben, ‘but I should’ve trusted my instincts.’
If Simon’s pulling no punches, I have to stand up for myself. I look from him to Ben and back.
‘Such misgivings that you asked me out on a date?’
Simon looks as if he wants to grab me by the throat. ‘And what was that about on your side, I wonder? It was research, mentioning Jonathan to see if I’d bite. Then it was job done, all batting eyelashes and “I’m not over my fiancé …”’
‘Simon, come on,’ Ben interjects, embarrassed on my behalf.
‘Strange that when I called you on the Friday, when the story was in the bag, you couldn’t get me off the phone fast enough,’ Simon continues.
‘What do you mean? We talked.’
‘For a few minutes, before you said you were home.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I called your landline and let it ring for a minute to say goodnight and check you got in OK. Thought you’d appreciate the gesture. You never answered.’
Simon’s nostrils flare, he’s triumphant.
‘Oh my God, what is this?’ I splutter. ‘The only reason I mentioned Jonathan was because he’s the showy lawyer everyone fancies. It was a coincidence. We talked about loads of people from work that night. And the only reason I remember mentioning him at all is because you went funny. And I said I was home because I was nearly at my block of flats. I hadn’t got the lift and literally put my key in the door and I had no idea you’d care either way.’
‘Billy Bullshit. I thought you had some kind of ulterior motive in getting involved with me and, again, I ignored my instincts. Good to see you prove that you can tell a barefaced lie when it’s expedient, though.’
I make a ‘I give up’ gesture. ‘I don’t know what you want from me or what I can say.’
My
