‘Don’t do that. They’ll take you away and stick you in a care home. Anyway, Dad’s sorry. He said so.’
She calculated. He wouldn’t dare do it again and she was better off where she was. She stopped fighting. But no one would stop her doing what she wanted. And now there was Luke, her constant protector.
Poor doting Luke. From the start, she had tested him. She was living in a tiny bedsit and he had invited her to share his flat in Brixton soon after they met. Two days before she was due to move in, at a crowded party, she had met Elliot, a rangy American with floppy brown hair and long-lashed blue eyes. His gaze transfixed her. He wanted her, and she liked to be wanted. While Luke was drinking and chatting, Elliot had taken her hand, led her upstairs into a bedroom and placed a chair against the door. There she let him remove her clothes, standing naked in front of him as he removed his. He said nothing as she silently detached her pump and laid it on her clothes. There was no shame or anxiety, only the deep mutual understanding that this was something they must do. They had kissed at last, deep slow kisses, his tongue inside her mouth. Still without speaking they lay down, his smooth dark chest swaying over her, the silk of his cock against her thigh, lust in his brilliant eyes. There must have been forty people in the house, but she and Elliot were alone in the world. Their bodies fitted. As he nudged against her, pleasure rippled to her toes. Sex was good with Luke but there was an edge here, an excitement she had never known. Twenty minutes later he got up and dressed.
‘Wait a few minutes,’ he said. They were the only words he ever addressed to her. He removed the chair and went downstairs.
She did as she was told. There was a mirror in the bedroom so after dressing she was able to tidy her hair and her clothes. She didn’t dare take a shower. Not here, not in someone else’s house. She barely knew her hosts; they were social workers, friends of Luke. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw Luke waiting for her. The look on his face told her that he knew what she’d been doing. Would he hit her? Tell her it was over? Instead he said, ‘Let’s go.’
They walked to the tube. Neither spoke. She wondered whether to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ But she wasn’t sorry, didn’t regret those twenty minutes with Elliot.
Luke said, ‘If you don’t want to move in…’
‘But I do.’
‘OK.’ He paused. ‘There’s one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t ever do that again.’
‘I won’t.’
‘That’s good. Because if you do, I…’ Luke hesitated. Some instinct had prompted her to test him and she waited in silence for his response. ‘I don’t know what I would do.’ He had passed the test. Just. She never apologised.
Natasha remembered those words as she stepped out onto the bath mat, Leonard Cohen still wailing through the bathroom door.
Her phone was ringing as she stepped into the bedroom. She saw the name on the screen and answered.
‘Mel?’
‘I’m sorry, Natasha.’
‘I didn’t get it.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Why?’
‘There were lots of good people. It was a really difficult decision.’
‘There was me and Nigel. You could have taken us both. Marcus reckoned you would.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not up to Marcus.’
There was a pause. Mel said nothing. She could have explained. But Natasha knew why she didn’t explain. It wasn’t just the Attendance Note. Mel had disliked her from the start. She had never wanted a pupil, particularly one who was quick, who could see through her waffle. Oh, Mel could talk the talk. She could be nice to clients, work out the legal issues. But put her on her feet, give her someone tough to cross-examine and she would fall apart. Natasha had seen it. Mel didn’t want another tenant on her patch who was better than she was. Younger, sharper, who would steal her solicitors, take her work. That’s why she voted for that bloke in a wheelchair. Mel’s practice was looking thin. She was never around when the work came in. Not like Natasha who stayed in chambers every evening till the clerks went home. She knew from those emails where Mel was spending her afternoons when she pretended to go home to work on papers.
‘I’d like feedback.’
‘OK. I’ll pass that on.’
‘So, what now?’
‘You’ve still got three months. They might let you have a third six months if you don’t find anywhere else. What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘I’m in Westminster Magistrates’ Court.’
‘Well you seem to be getting plenty of work. You could always squat.’
Natasha didn’t want to squat. Barristers were self-employed so technically they could work anywhere. But traditionally they clubbed together in chambers where they employed clerks to bring in the work. As a tenant she would have had status, a say in the running of chambers, a secure foothold. As a squatter she would be a nobody, available for work but with no base on which to build a practice. Squatters never lasted long. The tenants could kick her out any time. And a third six as a pupil was even worse. There would be no reason for the clerks to put her forward if they knew she wasn’t staying. New pupils would move into her territory to be nurtured by Andy and the other tenants. People might be friendly; they might pretend to support you. But when you were no longer any use to chambers, they wouldn’t bother. Mel had destroyed everything.
‘Listen, I have to go. Jacob’s just had his biology exam. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. We’ll speak soon.’
‘All right.’
As if everything was just the same. Which, Natasha supposed, it was; the same shitty, badly paid trudge around the courts of Greater London, waiting for someone to give her a crumb of work. She had played the game, chatted up people she despised, worked all hours for less than the minimum wage. Everyone thought barristers were well paid. She could make three times the money in escort work.
She put down the phone, sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. She had worked so bloody hard. If only they had given her a male supervisor, none of this would have happened. Men didn’t take offence at the tiniest hint, didn’t set up cabals and cliques. Chambers were no better than school. The girls had always been tricky, shifting like silverfish. Natasha had preferred hanging around with boys. You didn’t have to keep proving yourself. She felt something rise within her, the same something that in her childhood turned to bites and punches.
Natasha knew from experience that the mood wouldn’t pass unless she did something active. She used to try to blame her diabetes, but it wasn’t that. She shook out her hair, reattached her pump and checked her blood glucose. It was low, and she ought to eat, but a run would help to calm her down. She could stop if she felt unwell and she would take her phone. She put on her shorts and a T-shirt and went into the kitchen where Luke was standing over the stove.
‘I’m going for a run,’ she said.
‘But I’m just about to put it on the table.’
He watched her as she opened a drawer, took out a glucose gel sachet, ripped it open and swallowed the contents. ‘Keep it warm for me,’ she said. Then, as he gave her his hurt, worried look, she added, ‘I’ll be fine. Once round the park. Twenty minutes.’ With that she darted out of the front door and down the stairs.