I replay the message. Obviously just to check for stuttering. Not because I want to check his voice again or analyse the tone.
Oh, lovely Daniel. I can picture him now. In fact yes, I can – I pull up his profile shot on his chambers’ website.
He’s younger then – when he first got called to the bar, I bet. Clean-shaven still, not yet the confident permissive stubble of a man who’s made it. No empathy lines round the eyes yet, or mouth. But all the good signs in that smile and frank gaze that they will appear. Brown hair that is just brown – no coppers or goldens or anything fancy like that. Not a posh twat, Daniel. Lawyerly, yes. Decent, polite, yes. Well spoken, true – doesn’t drop the ‘t’ in Luton. But he went to his local comp like the rest of us. He mentions that, on the site. No names, but we get the message: normality. Not some private-school tosser.
But why is he calling? The case, yes, but I haven’t even had a briefing from Tim yet.
Could it be personal?
I should call him. Or is that going to be too awkward? Damn it. Bloody Tim not telling me more about the case – or I could fall back on that. Maybe I should wait until I’ve spoken to Tim?
But it would be good, wouldn’t it, after the window scare of lunchtime to hear a safe voice. An almost-friend voice? The voice of someone to whom I came very close to disclosing some of my shit. Too close. I had to rein it back.
I listen to the message again, then hit ‘call this sender’ before I can rethink it.
‘Earl Court Chambers?’ says a voice.
Oh. Of course. The clerks, not a direct dial.
‘Hi. It’s Jen Sutton from Rotham Wyatt. Is Daniel Farley around?’
‘Jen, good to hear from you. Dan’s been missing you!’
Oh good, so there’s clerks’ room gossip about us. Over nothing. How nice.
‘Ha, yes, well, the feeling’s mutual.’ Can’t explain it’s because of the case, I guess, if it’s so secret.
‘Let me put you through to Dan.’
There’s a silence, out of which emerges some Mozarty stuff. Then a voice.
‘Jen, hi!’
‘Hi, Daniel.’
Silence.
‘So I got your –’
‘I left you a –’
Over-keen laughter as we each start then stop sentences simultaneously. I can see that happening for the whole phone call.
‘You go,’ I tell Daniel. ‘You know why you were calling.’
‘Sure, fine,’ he says. He doesn’t sound fine. He sounds strangled, choked. Then he lets a bit of breath out. ‘Listen, Jen – I just wanted to say, really looking forward to working with you again. I know there was a bit of …’
He stumbles. I catch him.
‘Stuff?’ I say.
‘OK, yeah. Stuff. There was a bit of “stuff” last time but don’t worry about it, OK. I’m genuinely looking forward to working with you again.’
Me too, I think. But I don’t fill the silence, in case there are more words to come.
More silence.
‘OK, well anyway,’ he continues, ‘this case looks like a really intense one. I don’t know if you’ve seen the exhibits file yet. It’s –’
‘I’m looking forward to working with you, too, Daniel.’
There’s another pause. A baby pause.
‘Thanks, Jen.’ His voice is softer now. Less manic. ‘I’m glad.’
‘We’ll speak soon, OK? On the case.’
‘Yes, on the case.’
I want to say: ‘And on more “stuff” too.’ But I don’t.
‘Bye, then,’ I say instead.
‘Bye.’
We hang up.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s times like this I wish it wasn’t so tricky being me. That I could simply have ended the call by suggesting a drink. It’s not just the childcare angle. It’s the caring for my child. The guard goes down slowly, slowly, slowly. Otherwise how do you know who you can trust?
‘This is for you.’
With a thud, something lands on my desk.
I look up. A file. The cover is blank. Above the file, Tim.
This must be what Daniel was talking about.
I open the file up, and just get to see a sheet saying ‘The Crown v Rhea Stevens. Exhibits’, before Tim closes the cover again.
‘Have a flick through this,’ Tim tells me, his voice quiet, low. There’s no one around my desk (he’s chosen his moment well, if he’s that fussed about secrecy) but he’s still cautious. ‘Good to go in cold, before I’ve given you the background. Then when we chat you can tell me what you make of it. What you think it’s best to do. I’d really value your opinion – fresh pair of eyes, and all that.’
‘Sure, thanks,’ I say. I stroke the cover. Daniel is reading this too.
Snap out if it, you daft girl. You’ve not even kissed him; you can’t go soppy for him. Focus on the professional side. Someone giving a damn about my opinion for a change, not just looking at me with a sad face like Bill – give the girl a chance, but no proper work.
‘Watch out for the photo at page 5,’ he mutters. ‘It’s a shocker. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
He walks off.
I can’t not open the file now.
And there it is. Straight away.
The old world.
A single wrap of cocaine on a dusty floor.
I slam the file shut.
I close my eyes.
I try to dispel the image.
But I can’t. Because that’s all it took, that time. Well, almost all. That and another nineteen wraps like it.
And the promise of more.
I need some, oh what do I need – air. That’s it. Some air.
I push back my chair and head for the door.
I walk straight into Bill.
‘Oh, good. You’re ready for the meeting,’ he says.
Meeting? Oh. Of course. Note-taking. I dart back to my desk and grab my notebook.
‘Forgot this!’ I say, holding up my notebook. ‘Silly!’
I don’t think I can manage any more words without cracking in two.
Bill looks at me closely.
‘You all right, Jen? You’re a little pale.’
‘New face powder,’ I say. An old line, like they used to use. When it wasn’t the wraps.
‘Ah, fine – well, maybe back to the old one, hey? Golden Jen works best!’ He does an embarrassed laugh. Maybe he thinks I’m going to start talking about feminine hygiene products next.
We go into the meeting room. I slip into a seat next to Bill. He is nice and big and comforting. Like a dad. Not my dad, obviously. Even when he