J.L. BUTLER

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © J.L. Butler 2018

Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Vanessa Ho/Arcangel Images (hallway), © Shutterstock.com (woman)

J.L. Butler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008262419

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008262426

Version: 2018-10-29

Dedication

To JP

He wants his wife to disappear. So do you …

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

I don’t remember much about the night I was meant to die. It’s funny how the mind can block out the memories it no longer wants to store, you must know that. But if I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds of that night in May. The howl of an unseasonably cold wind, the rattle of the bedroom window, the rasp of the sea against shingle in the distance.

It was also raining. I remember that much, because the thin scratch of water against glass is still vivid in my head. For a minute it was hypnotic. For a minute it disguised the sound of his footsteps outside: tap, tap, tap, soles against flagstone in slow determined steps.

I knew he was coming and I knew what I had to do.

Lying under the duvet on the iron bed, I willed myself to keep calm. A faint glow from the string of bulbs on the coastal path leaked into the room. Usually this spectral darkness soothed me, but tonight it made me feel more alone, as if I were floating in space without a tether.

I balled my fist, hoping, praying that the comforting twilight of the new day would present itself at the window. But even without looking at the clock, I knew that this was at least four or five hours away and I didn’t need to tell myself that it would be too late. The footsteps were right outside the house now, and the faint metallic grumble of a key being pushed into the lock echoed up the stairs. It was hard to disguise sounds in the big, old building, it was too tired and weary for that …

How had I let myself get into this? I had gone to London for a better life, to improve myself and meet a more interesting set of people. To fall in love. And now here I was: a cautionary tale.

I 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.

Chapter 1

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 if they came down.’

‘And here I was, thinking he actually wanted to raise a glass to me.’

‘What are you drinking, birthday girl?’ asked Paul.

‘Lime and soda,’ I called after him as he headed for the bar, leaving me to make my way over to join Vivienne McKenzie, one of the most senior barristers at Burgess Court.

‘Happy birthday, Fran,’ said Viv, giving me an affectionate hug.

‘I think I’ve hit the age where I want to pretend this is just another day,’ I said, taking off my coat and hanging it over a chair.

‘Nonsense,’ said Viv briskly. ‘I’ve got two decades on you and I always relish the idea of new starts and fresh resolutions – a bit like New Year without the cliché and pressure of failing by Epiphany.

‘So. You know what day it is tomorrow?’ she continued, with a hint of complicity.

‘The day after my birthday?’

‘The Queen’s Counsel List is posted. Which means …’ she prompted.

‘The fulfilment of someone’s lifetime dream.’ I smiled.

‘It means that the application round for next year’s silk list begins,’ she replied in a theatrical whisper.

I knew what was coming next. Hoping to avoid the conversation, I let my eyes drift across the pub.

‘Are you thinking of applying?’ she pressed.

‘No,’ I said, with a finality that I had not been wanting to admit even to myself.

‘You’re not too young, you know that?’

I glanced up cynically.

‘Just what every woman wants to hear on their birthday.’

‘It was meant to be a compliment.’

Viv was studying me intently. I had seen this look many times before. Nostrils slightly flared, eyebrows raised a fraction, her grey eyes unblinking. She had the best court face in the business and deployed it to great effect. When she was my pupil master, I used to watch her in court and practise at home in front of the mirror.

‘You are one of the top juniors in the industry,’ she said with feeling. ‘Solicitors adore you. I can think of a dozen judges who would give you an excellent reference. You need to start believing in yourself.’

‘I’m just not sure it’s the right time to apply.’

‘Wine and soda for you,’ winked Paul, struggling with two goblets, a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a small can of Schweppes.

‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ I smiled, taking the glasses out of his hands.

‘I make it my business to know everything that goes on in Burgess Court.’

He poured the wine and looked up.

‘So. Silk. Are you up for it, Fran?’

‘Paul, not now,’ I said, trying to make light of the interrogation.

‘Why not now? Applications open tomorrow,’ he said, glancing at Vivienne.

The broad back in front of me twitched and then turned.

‘I think it’s time to join this conversation,’ said a smooth baritone.

‘Hello, Tom,’ I said, looking up at my contemporary in chambers. He was several inches taller than me, his rower physique toned on the Thames. ‘I thought Eton taught you the art of good manners,’ I chided.

‘It did, but I’m not above eavesdropping. Not when something sounds so interesting,’ he grinned, helping himself to a top-up.

‘Well?’ said Paul. ‘What are Burgess Court’s brightest juniors thinking? To apply or not to apply for silk …’

‘Well, I’m under starters orders. Aren’t you, Fran?’

‘It’s not a competition, Tom.’

‘Yes it is,’ he replied bluntly. ‘First day in pupillage, remember? What was it you said? Despite my “so-called superior education and astonishing self-confidence”, you wouldn’t just beat me to silk, you’d beat our whole year.’

‘I must have said it to annoy you,’ I said with mock terseness.

‘You were entirely serious.’

I looked at him, silently admitting my own surprise that Tom Briscoe was not yet a QC. His reputation was growing as the go-to barrister for trophy wives in unhappy relationships – and what wife wouldn’t want him representing them. Handsome, clever, single Tom Briscoe. He didn’t just give women legal advice, he gave them hope.

‘I think Charles is about to give a little speech,’ said Tom, nodding towards our head of chambers, who was tapping a spoon against his wine glass. ‘I’m going in for a ringside seat.’

Paul stepped outside to take a call and I was left alone with Viv.

‘You know what Tom’s problem is?’

‘Too much testosterone coursing through his bloodstream?’ I smiled, watching him flirt with one of the pupils.

‘You should at least think about it,’ said Viv more seriously.

‘All that time, the effort, the expense of applying for silk … And what for? Two thirds of us will get turned down.’

‘You’ve done your homework.’ Viv folded her arms in front of her and sipped her wine thoughtfully.

‘You know, Francine, I have a theory about the gender pay gap.’

‘What is it?’

‘Women simply don’t ask.’

I snorted.

‘I’m not joking. I’ve seen it time and time again. Men believe in their own brilliance – warranted or not.’

She paused for a few questioning moments.

‘What’s really putting you off?’

‘People like Tom.’

‘Don’t let him get to you,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

‘It’s not him. It’s the system,’ I said quietly, voicing the fear, the paranoia I had felt ever since being called to the Bar. ‘You can’t deny how snobby it is.’

‘Things are changing,’ said Viv in those crisp Cheltenham Ladies’ College vowels that reminded me she didn’t really understand.

‘How many state-school-educated QCs are there, Viv? How many women, Northerners, ethnic minorities … The very top end of our profession is still full of white, upper-middle Oxbridge men like Tom.’

‘I thought you’d see that as a challenge,’ she said as a more insistent sound of metal against glass rang around the pub. ‘You just need a big case, Fran. A game-changer that will get you noticed.’

‘A case that will change my life,’ I said softly.

‘Something like that,’ Viv smiled approvingly, and we both turned to listen to Charles.

Chapter 2

I only stayed for one drink at the Pen and Wig before drifting back to chambers. I decided to go the long way, through the maze of quiet back allies, so that I could have a cigarette. It wasn’t even two o’clock and already the day looked as if it was drawing in, the skeletons of the naked trees imprinted against the pewter sky like cave paintings, the dark clouds pressing down on the rooftops, lending the city a wintry gloom.

I got back to Burgess Court a few minutes past the hour, in time for a meeting that was scheduled for a quarter past. Ours is predominantly a family law set, with a little bit of criminal work thrown into the judicial mix. I like the word ‘set’ to describe the collection of barristers that room together in chambers. It makes me think of badgers, an image that pretty much sums up this division of the law: wise, industrious men with their long black gowns, white horsehair wigs and Caucasian complexions, although there is a little more diversity in our chambers, which is probably why they let me in – a Northerner with the scar of a nose-piercing and a comprehensive school education.

These days I have two areas of speciality. Matrimonial finance and children-related cases. I thought the latter would be satisfying, crusading work, but the reality is difficult and heart-breaking cases. So now I concentrate on high-net-worth divorces, for the entirely shallow reason that the work is generally less distressing and, regardless of how long proceedings go on, you know that they have the money to pay my fee. I don’t go home and think I have changed the world, but I know that I am good at what I do and it pays the mortgage on a maisonette with an N1 postcode.

David Gilbert, the instructing solicitor, was already waiting for me in reception. He was dressed for the cold in a heavy navy woollen coat although his head was bald and shiny like a Burford brown egg.

‘I just saw Vivienne,’ he said, standing up to kiss my cold cheek. ‘Apparently, you’ve had a chambers trip to the pub for someone’s birthday and you didn’t even tell me.’

‘Would you have come bearing gifts?’ I chided.

‘I’d have come to the office with champagne at the very least. Happy Birthday, anyway. How are you?’

‘Older. Wiser.’

‘Mr Joy will be with us in a moment.’

‘I’ve just got to pop upstairs. Do you want to go through?’ I said pointing towards the conference room. ‘Helen can bring Mr Joy in when he arrives.’

I climbed the stairs to my office, a small space beneath the eaves at the very top of the building. It was little more than a broom cupboard, but at least I didn’t have to share it with anyone.

I scooped up the case files, grabbed a pen from the pot and ran my tongue around my teeth, wishing that I still had a packet of Tic Tacs on my desk to get rid of the sour tang of alcohol and cigarette smoke on my breath. When I came back downstairs meeting room two had been prepared for clients in the usual way, with a tray of sandwiches and a small plate of Marks and Spencer’s biscuits in the middle of the conference table. The pump-action coffee pot I could never work sat ominously on a chest of drawers by the door, alongside miniature bottles of Evian.

David was on his mobile phone. He glanced up and indicated he would just be a minute.

‘Water?’ I asked, gesturing towards our catering.

‘Coffee,’ he whispered, and pointed at the biscuits.

I grabbed a cup, faced the coffee pot with determination and pushed the top hard. Nothing happened so I pushed it again, harder, spurting coffee over the back of my hand.

I winced in pain as the liquid seared my skin.

‘Are you OK?’

Someone handed me a tissue and I used it to wipe my stinging hand.

‘I hate these things,’ I muttered. ‘We should buy a Nespresso machine and be done with it.’

‘Or maybe just a kettle.’

I looked up and a suited man was looking at me intently, momentarily distracting me from the burning sensation on my skin.

David snapped his phone shut and turned to us.

‘Do you two know each other?’

‘No,’ I said quickly.

‘Martin Joy – Francine Day. It’s her birthday. Maybe we can put a match in one of those fancy biscuits and sing to her.’

‘Happy Birthday,’ said Martin, his green eyes still fixed on me. ‘You should go and run that under the cold water.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said, turning to throw the tissue in the bin.

When I faced the table again, Martin had already poured two cups of coffee. He went to sit across the table from me, next to David, which gave me the chance to observe him. He was not particularly tall but had a presence that filled the room, something I noticed a lot with very successful people. His suit was sharp, his tie neatly drawn into a Windsor knot. He was around forty, but I could not say a precise age. There was no sign of grey in his dark hair, although a hint of stubble around his jaw glinted tawny in the strong lights of the conference room. His eyebrows were flat and horizontal across mossy green eyes. Two frown lines carved into his forehead gave him an intensity that suggested he would be a very tough negotiator.

I looked down and gathered my thoughts. I felt nervous, but then I always did when I was meeting clients for the first time. I was conscious of my desire to please those who were paying my fee, and there was always a certain awkwardness dealing with people who thought they were tougher, smarter than you were.

‘I take it you’ve read the file,’ said David. ‘Martin is the respondent. I’ve recommended you to him as leading counsel.’

‘So you’re the one who’s going to fight for me in court,’ said Martin, looking directly at me.

‘I’m sure David has explained that no one wants to go to court,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee.

‘Except the lawyers,’ replied Martin without missing a beat.

I knew how this worked. I had been in this situation enough times not to get offended. Family law clients tended to be angry and frustrated, even – especially – with their legal team, so first meetings were often tense and fractious. I wished he wasn’t sitting opposite me – a configuration I hated. I preferred to remind people that we were all on the same side.

‘Actually, I’m a member of an organization called Resolution. We favour a non-confrontational approach to marital dispute, avoiding courts where possible, encouraging collaborative legal solutions.’

‘Collaborative legal solutions,’ he repeated slowly. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me by using the stiff legalese. He was certainly judging me. The woman. The Northerner. The junior.

He leant forward in his chair and looked at me.

‘I don’t want this to be difficult, Miss Day. I’m not an unreasonable man; I want this process to be as fair as possible, but I can’t just sit back and let my wife take everything she wants.’

‘I’m afraid the concept of “fair” isn’t for you or Mrs Joy to decide,’ I said carefully. ‘That’s why we have courts, judges, case law …’

I shifted tack: ‘Do we know her starting position?’ I knew some detail about the case already having spent two hours of the previous evening digesting it. But it was always better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

‘My wife wants half of everything. The houses, the money, the business … Plus, a share of future earnings.’

‘What is it you do?’ I asked briskly.

‘I head up a convertible arbitrage fund.’

I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

‘We trade off anomalies in the market.’

‘So you’re a gambler?’ I asked.

‘It’s financial investment.’

‘And is it successful?’

‘Yes. Very.’

I was reminded of Vivienne McKenzie’s words. About men and their buoyant self-confidence that makes them believe they are kings of the world.

‘We have only thirty employees, but it’s a very profitable business. I set the company up with my partner, Alex Cole. I own sixty per cent of the business, he owns the rest. The bulk of my assets are my shares in the business. My wife wants the valuation of my shareholding to be as high as possible. She’d prefer liquid cash to shares.’

‘When did you start the business?’ I said, writing it all down.

‘Fifteen years ago.’

‘Before your marriage,’ I muttered. According to the file, they had been married for eleven years.

‘We should probably go through the Form E,’ said David Gilbert.

I nodded. I had seen the financial disclosure documents for both Martin and his wife. His were remarkably similar to the dozens of other declarations of wealth I had seen over the years. The properties dotted around the world, cars, art, and overseas bank accounts.

I ran my finger down the form that his wife had submitted.

Donna Joy, a thirty-four-year-old with a Chelsea address, had the typically heavy expenditure and low personal income that seemed standard for a woman in her position.

There were pages of it, although my eyes picked out the more remarkable details.

‘Annual expenditure on lunches: £24,000,’ I muttered out loud.

‘That’s a lot of sushi,’ said Martin.

I looked up and our eyes met. I’d been thinking exactly the same thing.

‘She claims she is unemployable. Mental fragility …’ I noted.

Martin gave a soft, quiet snort.

‘Has she ever worked?’

‘When we met, she was the manager of a clothes shop, but she handed her notice in once we got married. She said she wanted to educate herself, so I paid for a lot of courses. Art courses, mainly. I set her up in a studio. She works there, but she won’t call it work for divorce purposes.’

‘Does she sell her stuff?’

‘A little. Honestly, it’s more of a vanity project, but she enjoys it. Her paintings are quite good.’

His face softened and I found myself wondering what she was like. I could picture her now. Beautiful, a little bohemian … high maintenance, definitely. I felt I knew her without having met her.

‘And everything that’s listed here. That’s it?’

‘You mean, am I hiding anything?’

‘I need to know everything. Pensions, off-shore accounts, shareholdings, trusts. We don’t want any surprises. Besides, she’s asking for forensic accounting into your affairs.’

‘So what do you think?’ asked Martin finally. I noticed that his shirt was very white.

‘Your wife is young, but she enjoyed a very high standard of living during the marriage. You had what we call a mid-length marriage. Her claim would have been more concrete if you had been together over fifteen years, less so if you were married under six years.’

‘So we’re in a grey area that the law loves.’

‘Provision for the financially weaker spouse is generous in this country. The start point is generally one of equality. But we can argue that she didn’t really contribute to the accumulation of wealth, that the business is a non-matrimonial asset.’ I scanned the file, checking a detail. ‘You haven’t got children. That helps.’

I looked up at him, realizing I shouldn’t have said that. For all I knew, the relationship might have broken down because of an inability to have a family. It was one of those things I never found out as a divorce lawyer. I knew that people wanted to get divorced, and I advised them how to do it. But I never really knew why, beyond the broad strokes of infidelity or unreasonable behaviour. I never truly got to know what made two people who had once genuinely loved one another, in some cases, grow to hate each other.

‘We’re keen for a clean-break settlement,’ said David.

‘Absolutely.’ I nodded.

‘What sort of split do you think I can realistically expect?’

I didn’t like to be drawn on a number, but Martin Joy was the sort of client who expected answers.

‘We should start at a seventy–thirty split and go from there.’

I put my pen down, feeling exhausted, wrung out. I wished I hadn’t touched that wine and soda at lunchtime.

Martin shook his head, staring at the desk. I thought he might have been pleased at the suggestion that we could avoid a fifty–fifty asset split, but he looked absolutely shell-shocked.

‘What happens next?’

‘The First Directions meeting is in ten days’ time.’

‘Will any decisions be made then?’

He had seemed composed throughout the meeting, but hints of anxiety were beginning to show.

I shook my head.

‘The clue is in the name. All very preliminary stuff, I’m afraid.’

‘Fine,’ he said uncomfortably.

It was dark outside now. He stood up to leave and pulled his shirt cuffs down from under his jacket sleeves. One and then the other. Then he looked at me.

‘I’ll see you then, Miss Day. I look forward to it.’

I stretched out my hand and as he closed his fingers around mine, I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again too.

Chapter 3

I liked getting the bus home from work, not just because I was a little claustrophobic and hated the tube system. The number 19 took me from Bloomsbury all the way home to Islington. It was not the quickest way to get to and from my place of work, but it was my favourite way to commute. I liked the head-clearing walk down Fleet Street and Kingsway to the bus stop, past the red telephone boxes outside the Old Bailey, and the church of St Clement Danes, especially when its mournful bells rang out the tune to the old nursery rhyme, ‘Oranges and Lemons’. And once I had boarded the bus, I enjoyed observing the sights and sounds of the city. When I first came to the capital, I used to spend the whole day riding the number 19 route, face pressed to the glass, watching the city drift by: Sadler’s Wells, the twinkling lights of the Ritz, the exclusive stores of Sloane Street, then down to Cheyne Walk and Battersea Bridge. It was a distilled version of the best the city had to offer, all for the price of a Travelcard. It was the London of my childhood dreams.

As I sat down and wiped the condensation from the window with my fingertips, I wondered if I should have made more of an effort on my birthday. Even David Gilbert, a workaholic if ever I’ve met one, thought I was off out for birthday drinks. But I didn’t see why I should break my weekly routine just because I was another year older. One of the perils of my job has always been the lack of a social life. There were plenty of pubs around Temple, and people to have a drink with, but I had always taken the view that, if you wanted to get the job done properly, then you had to make sacrifices.

I pulled my mobile out of my bag and phoned my local Chinese takeaway. I couldn’t decide between the beef with fresh basil or the yellow bean chicken, so I ordered both, along with a side order of dumplings and chow mein. What the hell. It was my birthday.

Ending the call, I thought back to my conversation with Viv McKenzie about applying for silk, and wondered what becoming Francine Day QC might mean.

There had certainly been little other change in my life in the past five years. I’d lived in the same flat on the sketchy edges of Islington since my late twenties, settled into an ordered routine. I went to the gym the same two evenings every week, took a ten-day holiday to Italy every August. Two short-lived romances punctuated a long stretch of being single. I saw friends less regularly than I should. Even the small detail of my life had a satisfying familiarity. I bought the same Starbucks coffee on my way into work, my copy of the Big Issue from the same Romanian man outside Holborn tube. Part of me liked this reassuring familiarity, and saw no need to change the status quo.

Peering through the water droplets on the cold window, I realized we were on St Paul’s Road. I nudged the snoring commuter beside me and squeezed off the bus, walking the rest of the way to my flat on the road that descended into Dalston.

As I neared my flat I groaned as I saw the headlight of a delivery scooter pull up and stop. I started to run but the pavement was wet. Almost slipping, I hissed a curse and slowed to a halt, fishing around my bag for my purse, tickets and sweet wrappers falling to the floor like blossom blown from a tree. I bent down to pick up the litter, but already the scooter was setting off again into the dark.

By the time I reached my front door, I was out of breath. There was a figure in the doorway holding a white carrier bag stuffed with cartons.

‘You owe me twenty-three quid,’ said my neighbour Pete Carroll, a PhD student at Imperial who had been living in the downstairs apartment for the past eighteen months.

‘Did you give him a tip?’ I winced.

‘I’m a student,’ he said with mock disapproval.

I debated running after the delivery man. They were my regulars. They gave me free prawn crackers and I didn’t want to short-change them or have them think I was tight.

‘I only called them fifteen minutes ago. They usually take ages.’

I handed him a twenty-pound note and an extra fiver, and stepped inside our neglected hallway, picking up my post and putting it in my bag.

‘Tuesday night is a bit decadent for takeaway,’ smiled Pete folding his arms awkwardly.

‘It’s my birthday,’ I replied without even thinking.

‘I wondered what the brightly coloured envelopes were doing scattered among the junk mail.’

‘So you’re not going out?’

‘It’s mid-week. I’ve got work to do.’

‘Killjoy.’

‘I’ve got to prepare for court tomorrow.’

‘You boring sod. I’m going to march you down to the pub.’

‘Pete, no. I’m really busy. Work with a pork dumpling chaser,’ I said holding up the bag of Chinese. ‘I know that might seem an odd way to celebrate your birthday, but that’s what happens when you’re almost forty.’

‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he said, with a zeal that told me he meant it.

‘I suppose I’ve bought too much Chinese. I’ll supply the chow mein if you’ve got any drinks. But I’ve got to be at my desk in an hour.’

‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ he grinned.

Pete disappeared into his ground-floor flat and I walked up the stairs to mine.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, I hung my coat on the rack and set my bag down in the hall. I slipped off my shoes, enjoying the soft feel of carpet under my feet, and undid the top button of my blouse.

My flat was my sanctuary. A cool, calm, Farrow-and-Ball-painted haven for one, and I instantly regretted having invited someone in to share it.

Resigning myself to a visitor, I pulled two plates out of the kitchen cupboard, just as Pete appeared in the hall with a four-pack of lager.

‘Pass me a glass. I assume you’re not a straight-out-of-the-tin girl.’

He poured me a frothy glass of lager, then opened another can for himself as I carried the Chinese into the living room.

‘So, you’re almost forty,’ he said, perching on the sofa next to me. ‘You don’t look it.’

‘I’m thirty-seven,’ I said, realizing how little Pete and I knew about each other. We spoke more than most London neighbours: we saw each other at the bus stop, he was a willing fixer of laptops and fuse boxes. On one occasion last summer, I’d been walking past the local pub and he’d been having a beer outside. He invited me to join him, which I did because it was hot and sunny and I was thirsty from the gym, but I did not consider him a friend.

‘By the way, I got a letter from my landlord, yesterday,’ said Pete, peeling the foil top off the chow mein box. ‘He’s putting my rent up. The freeholder says the roof needs doing. Reckons both leaseholders have got to put fifteen grand into the sinking fund.’

‘Shit, I’ve not heard about that.’

‘But fifteen grand is just a day’s work for a distinguished lady of the Bar,’ he smiled.

‘I wish.’

‘Come on, you’re loaded.’

‘I’m not, I promise,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I am a jobbing barrister, in debt, thanks to thousands of pounds’ worth of unpaid invoices.’

‘You’ll get paid. The banks know you’re good for it. And then you’ll be rich.’

Rich, I scoffed quietly. My family thought I was rich, but everything was relative, and in London, mixing with lawyers and businessmen like Martin Joy, it was easier to view my financial situation through another prism. Perhaps if I made silk, things would change. I would land big, juicy cases, my hourly rate would double, so that one day I might even be able to afford one of those Georgian houses in Canonbury – the ones that had drawn me to the N1 postcode in the first place, the ones I still liked to walk past and dream about.

I thought about the £15,000 I would need to find from somewhere and took a commiseratory slug of beer, though I knew I shouldn’t.

‘You know, today, I was dealing with someone who spends £24,000 a year on lunch,’ I said, dipping a dumpling into some soy.

Pete shook his head. ‘And you’re missing a birthday night out on account of these people.’

He laughed and I knew he had a point.

‘I’m acting for the husband in that particular divorce. But you’ll be glad to know that tomorrow’s case, the case I should be preparing for, is a more deserving cause.’

‘Another poor rich husband about to get screwed,’ he smiled.

‘Actually, no. My client’s a man who is about to lose access to his kids. Just a regular guy who found his wife in bed with another man.’

‘People,’ said Pete quietly.

I nodded. ‘I bet you’re glad you only have to deal with computers all day. Things that don’t have feelings.’

‘Yet.’

‘Yet?’

‘If you subscribe to one model of how our brains create consciousness, you’ll believe that sentient computers will never exist. Other schools of Artificial Intelligence thought believe that the day is coming when computers will be able to imitate humans.’

‘That’s a scary idea. They’re going to make us all redundant, aren’t they.’

‘Some jobs are more future-proof than others.’

‘Like divorce lawyers?’

‘Machines are logical. Love and relationships are anything but. I’d say you’ll be all right for the foreseeable future.’

‘Glad to hear it, with a new roof to pay for.’

There was a long silence. We had eaten our food and run out of conversation.

‘I should get on with some work.’

Scooping up the leftovers, I took the plates into the kitchen. When I turned round, Pete was in the doorway. He took a step towards me and cupped his hand on my jaw. Gasping in surprise, I didn’t have time to think whether he had misinterpreted this as a sign of my desire, because his lips were already on mine. I could taste the ginger and yellow bean on his breath. His saliva smeared across my cheek.

‘Pete, you’re my friend. And you’re drunk,’ I replied, pulling away.

‘Sometimes you need to get drunk,’ he said.

I took a step away from him. I couldn’t say his approach had been a complete surprise. The way he had loitered outside with the takeaway should have alerted me.

‘It’s the age difference, isn’t it?’ I registered the pique in his voice. Men and their self-confidence. ‘If I was a thirty-seven-year-old man and you were my age, no one would even bat an eyelid.’

I felt guilty, cruel. I don’t suppose he had any reason to think I would turn him down. After all, I had invited him up to my flat, for dinner, on my birthday.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I know I’m a miserable old spinster, but I like it this way.’

‘Do you?’ he said, challenging me.

‘I work eleven hours a day, Pete, I come home, and I work some more. There’s no room for anything else.’

‘Stop blaming your job.’

There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared that Pete was not my type, when we’d have ended up in the bedroom, but tonight, I just wanted him to go.

‘I should leave,’ he said flatly.

I nodded and he exited the flat without another word. And as I closed the door behind him, I leant forward, pressed my head against the door and puffed out my cheeks.

‘Happy birthday’, I whispered, desperate for the day to be over.

Chapter 4

There was no getting away from the fact that I needed a new bag. Over the past week, the rip in the seam of my trusty Samsonite case had been getting longer and longer. Work had never been busier, with new instructions and cases springing to life after weeks of dormancy, and the numerous files that needed transporting between court, home and chambers, meant that my bag was one vigorous pull of the zip away from fatal damage.

I was brought up to be thrifty and part of me thought that I just needed to fix it. But I had no idea who repaired bags these days – cobblers? Tailors? In our consumerist society it seemed our only option was to buy a new one.

Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was not yet seven o’clock. Burgess Court was well placed for pubs but less convenient for retail therapy. But I calculated that if I took a taxi, I could be on Oxford Street by quarter past, out of there by seven thirty, and home in time for a ScandiCrime drama that was starting that week on cable.

‘You off home?’

Paul was standing at the door to my office with a bundle of files.

‘In a minute,’ I replied, fishing around in my desk drawer.

‘I’ve got something for you tomorrow, if you fancy it.’

I knew I should have turned it down but saying no to work had never been one of my strong points.

‘What is it?’

‘Freezing application tomorrow. Listed for nine thirty.’

I hesitated; the only reason I had earmarked a night in front of the TV was because my workload for the following day was relatively quiet.

‘I can get it biked round to Marie or Tim,’ he offered.

‘Give it here,’ I sighed. ‘It’ll save you hanging around for the courier.’

Paul looked at me, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You know, it’s fine to have the night off sometimes.’

‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ I replied. Not finding what I was searching for in my desk drawer, I glanced up at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare carrier bag? My case is fit to burst and I’m worried it’s not going to make it home.’

‘I’m sure we can do better than a carrier bag for a sophisticate like yourself,’ he laughed, disappearing downstairs. He returned a couple of minutes later with a cloth tote bag branded with the Burgess Court insignia.

‘What’s this?’

‘Marketing. By the way, I popped the QC application forms in there for you.’

‘A master of subtlety, as usual.’

I left the office and hurried across Middle Temple, past our grand Elizabethan hall and the fountain firing a silver flume of water into the night sky. It was eerie after sunset, when the gas lamps had flickered on; the cloisters threw shadows around the square and the sound of your shoes against the cobbles tricked you into thinking you were not alone. Increasing my pace, I threaded my way down the thin, dark alley of Devereux Court, one of the artery routes on to the Strand, just as the rain began to fall. A cab responded to my outstretched hand and I jumped in before it really began to pour. The driver asked me where I wanted to go and I said the first department store name that came into my head: Selfridges.

I am not a great shopper. That gene escaped me and I don’t think it’s because I was once on free school dinners. I remember one client, a Russian model, who in one breath told me how she used to pick up rotten fruit from the markets to take home to feed her family, and in the next breath told me that she needed at least a million pounds in maintenance per anum from the property magnate husband she was divorcing. Growing up poor sent you one way or the other.

The taxi dropped me off on Cumberland Street. The rain was pelting down now and the pavements looked black and oily. Cursing the weather, I ran into the store.

I knew within minutes that I was in the wrong place. I hardly ever came to Selfridges and I had forgotten how expensive it was. Boutiques lined the outer perimeter wall: Chanel, Gucci, Dior, each one like a jewellery box, glitzy and polished. I preferred the shops in the City, where everything seemed more ordered and less dazzling for time-pressed people like me. But in the West End, in Knightsbridge, shops were caves of temptation for tourists and trophy wives, retail labyrinths designed to make you get lost and spend, whereas I just wanted to find a bag and go home.

Taking a breath, I told myself that it wouldn’t hurt to look, that my bag, my image, was my calling card. I browsed the central handbag area and a beautiful bag displayed on a plinth caught my eye. It was smaller than the pilot bag I had been carrying around the past five years, its black leather soft and buttery to the touch. It was a QC’s bag, I realized, as I picked it up and hunted around for the price tag.

‘I thought it was you,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned round and for a second I didn’t recognize him. His hair was damp from the rain, and he was wearing glasses with smart, tortoiseshell frames.

‘Mr Joy.’

‘Martin,’ he smiled.

‘Sorry, Martin,’ I replied.

‘Retail therapy?’

I started to laugh. ‘You make it sound pleasurable. I’m actually on a mercy mission to replace my briefcase.’

‘A woman who doesn’t like shopping,’ he said, his eyes playing with mine.

‘There are some of us.’

‘Nice bag.’ He nodded towards my hands and I shrugged.

‘Well, I can’t find the price tag, which is never a good sign. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it and all that,’ I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious to be talking about money with a client.

‘You’ve just had a birthday. Treat yourself.’

‘Yes, my birthday,’ I said, surprised that he had remembered. ‘That seems a long time ago now.’

He held my gaze and I could count the spots of rain on his forehead.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘My office is round the corner. I wanted to pop into the wine shop downstairs on the way home.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘It had better be.’

There was a brief silence. I didn’t know whether to make my excuses and leave, although I didn’t want to.

‘So I’m seeing you on Friday …’

I nodded. ‘The First Directions hearing. It’s all pretty harmless.’

‘Harmless? Donna has a lawyer whose nickname is “the Piranha”.’

‘Well, you don’t want to know what they call me …’

‘Are you going to buy that?’ His voice was soft and low, with a rasp that hinted of late nights and cigarettes.

I looked down and saw that I was still clutching the bag. My hands had made two long sweat marks across the leather.

‘Sorry, no. They probably think I’m about to steal it,’ I said, setting it back on its plinth. ‘I should let you go and buy your wine.’

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

‘Any last-minute tips for Friday? In fact, while you’re thinking, come with me. Come and help me choose a good red.’

Before I could even think about refusing him, I was following him down the escalator into the basement, conscious of the thrill heightening as the escalator descended.

‘Just over here,’ he said as I followed him into the wine room.

I was impressed. It was large, well stocked and came complete with a bar that looked as if it belonged on the set of some glamorous Manhattan-based movie. There were racks of wine glasses hanging from the ceiling. The light was rich and low.

‘Drink?’ asked Martin. ‘Or do you have to rush off?’

‘I think I can stay for one,’ I replied without even thinking.

We walked towards the bar and he motioned towards a stool. The bartender handed me the menu. I wasn’t supposed to drink but I chose the 1909 Smash, a delicious-sounding concoction of gin, peach and mint. After all, that’s what you were supposed to do in the movies.

I perched awkwardly on the stool and wished my cocktail would hurry up.

‘So … Friday’s court hearing.’

I glanced over to him and realized that he was probably trying to get free information. There were no time sheets here at Selfridges’ wine shop, and suddenly I felt disappointed and duped.

‘Tips for Friday?’ I said, as coolly as I could. ‘Just stay calm.’

‘Why, what are you expecting?’ he said with a slow, cynical smile.

‘It can get quite heated and that generally doesn’t solve anything.’

The bartender returned with our cocktails. I took a sip and it was cold, sweet and refreshing on my tongue.

Martin swilled 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.

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