‘Five thirty it is.’
The train came roaring into the station. They sat side by side in the empty carriage as it hurtled back towards Chancery Lane. Natasha took out her iPhone and tucked a wireless headphone behind her ear. It must be a good quality system. Mel could never hear anything through her own earbuds in the noisy tube. She pulled out her Kindle and looked at the thriller she’d started a couple of weeks ago. She was still struggling to follow the plot. The words swam across the page.
Chapter Eleven
Natasha
‘It’s always been my ambition,’ she said, ‘ever since I was a kid.’
‘You were brought up in care, right?’ said Mel.
‘Till I was twelve. Then I was adopted. How did you know?’
‘It was on your application. You must have thought it relevant.’
‘I don’t know if it’s relevant. I just… well, I don’t hide it.’
It had got her the pupillage. Natasha knew that. She hadn’t mentioned the adoption on the application form. Just written that she’d been in care for ten years on the box marked ‘other relevant considerations’. She might as well get something out of those miserable years. Alisha told her they had been looking for another ethnic-minority candidate. Georgie had persuaded them they shouldn’t overlook well-qualified white women from disadvantaged backgrounds.
She and Mel were tucked into a booth at the back of Daly’s Wine Bar on the corner of Essex Street and the Strand. The place was surprisingly empty, perhaps because it was a warm evening. She would stay for one drink. A run in the park would be good, but Mel had asked her to join her and you needed to keep your supervisor sweet. Natasha was keenly aware that Mel hadn’t warmed to her in their first two weeks. It was time to turn things round.
So, over a glass of expensive Chardonnay, she spoke about her diabetes, how she’d discovered it at twelve, around the time of the adoption, the weight loss and repeated infections, the mood swings and exhaustion which everyone had put down to adolescence, that hot day at school when she’d collapsed and been rushed to hospital. She told of the doctor with the long face who’d talked down to her as she lay on the hard bed attached to a drip, her confusion at the diagnosis. Mel nodded. Natasha did not describe the feeling in her stomach as she sat in a fluffy dressing gown in the room off the children’s ward, staring at teddy bears and plastic toys, listening to warnings about possible blindness, kidney failure and amputations. Never mind that such outcomes were rare and could be prevented by careful management. All she could remember now was her insides turning, her fury that she had been picked to go through this nightmare.
She’d stayed in hospital for three days as the nurses explained about insulin and blood glucose and showed her how to measure her levels and inject herself. She had a terror of injections and after constant begging, they’d let her have a pump. It was horrible, stuck to her body all day like a leech, and she still needed to prick her fingers with the lancet. But it was better than jabbing herself with a syringe before every meal. Back home, her adoptive parents were too anxious to be any help, her mother was already sick and her new brothers and sister, though curious at first, quickly lost interest. In the end it was her social worker, Susan, with her plump, pink cheeks and ragged blonde hair, who had saved her.
‘You’re strong, Natasha, a fighter. You’re not going to let this thing beat you.’
‘It’s not fair.’
‘Life’s not about fairness. It’s about making something of yourself and you’re going to do that. There’s stuff you can’t control and stuff you need to control. You know which this is.’
Something had clicked in her and she started to heed the nurse on the diabetes team. Later she had joined an online support group. She never contributed to the group, but she read the posts and watched the clips. They knew nothing about the silent Natasha Baker, but for years they and Susan were her only friends.
‘That must have been really hard, I mean as an adolescent,’ said Mel, after listening to Natasha’s edited version of her diagnosis.
‘I had a good social worker,’ said Natasha. ‘If it hadn’t been for her I’d probably be blind by now. Or dead.’
‘How do you feel about it now?’ asked Mel, taking a big gulp of her Chardonnay. Natasha shook her head and smiled. She had no desire to feed Mel’s crude curiosity.
Mel had got to the bottom of her large glass and was looking at her. Clearly the head shake had not satisfied her. She was waiting for more detail.
‘It’s not very interesting. Not much to say. I was an average teenager. Bit of a goody-goody. Another drink?’ Natasha asked.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Natasha went to the bar, quickly caught the barman’s eye and asked for another large Chardonnay and a fruit juice. She had checked her glucose levels in the Ladies just before the wine. They were fine, but she needed to get back for supper soon. She would have to miss her run. When she got back to her seat Mel was scrolling her phone. She looked up as Natasha returned with the drinks.
‘Jacob’s home alone. Mustn’t stay too long.’
‘Do you have a photo of your son?’
‘Sure.’
Mel proudly produced one of a smiling, well-dressed teenager, taken at a family wedding.
‘Good-looking boy.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
‘Looks like you. How old is he?’
‘Sixteen going on twenty-five.’
‘Must be fun.’
‘Can be. He’s got GCSEs coming up, but he spends most of his time on Fortnite. That’s why I need to be around.’
‘Cool. I love Fortnite.’
‘You play computer games?’
‘Sure.’
Mel smiled. She looked pretty when she smiled. ‘Another generation.’
‘That’s me. Just a kid.’ Natasha felt herself smiling back.
‘Still, you want to join the Bar. Doesn’t it all seem a bit outdated? I mean our funny traditions. Wigs and gowns and dinners and the Inns of Court. Queens Counsel and silks. Who knows how much longer we’ll be here? You might have qualified as a solicitor.’
‘Yeah, everyone said there were more opportunities as a solicitor, more contact with the client. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to stand up in court. That seems like the point of it. I know I can do it – do it well.’
‘I’m sure you can. I’m sure you will.’
Natasha felt herself being scrutinised. That was all right. She could deal with scrutiny.
‘That domestic violence case. I was like on a complete high. OK, I confess, I love winning. And I can’t wait to address a jury.’
‘I was like that. Listen, Natasha, let me give you a bit of old lady’s advice. Don’t rush it. Learn the nuts and bolts, particularly the ethics. There are a lot of grey areas out there. You don’t want to come unstuck. The briefs will come. You’re doing well. Maybe you should specialise in Family Law. Think again about crime. There’s no money in it.’
‘Everyone tells me that. I don’t need loads of money.’
‘Really?’ Mel was looking pointedly at Natasha’s designer handbag.