Please, she thought, don’t start, we both know how it is. While he was in the bathroom, she quickly dressed and looked in her bag for cash. He preferred not to use a card or cheque and she insisted on going halves. She placed the money on the table.
When he emerged from the bathroom and saw the notes, his face tightened with discomfort. He tried to protest, and she shook her head slowly. ‘No, Paul. We’ve talked about this before. This is how it is.’ Then, while he was dressing, she said, ‘I don’t think she’ll say anything.’
But she had no grounds for the prediction. It was no more than an attempt to reassure them both.
‘But why now?’ he said. ‘You said she just missed the tenancy. The timing feels significant.’
She knew what Paul was thinking. What had Natasha got to lose? But she said nothing. They walked out of the room and down the stairs to the hotel foyer. She stood back as he handed over the cash. Once she had offered to use her card to avoid him embarrassment: a few painful moments at the reception desk after their two-hour session, her lover hovering by the exit. Since then Paul had always made the payment.
They walked out together into the heaving rush hour that surged around the Kings Cross gyratory. The air was thick with fumes, gritty on her throat. Sometimes they stayed in a country house hotel, sometimes pubs. Once they had been for a weekend to Paris. But wherever they stayed it would always end in the same bleak misery of separation.
He kissed her cheek and she kissed him back. She knew he would head for the tube.
‘I’ll take the bus,’ she said and turned away. They made no plans to meet again.
Chapter Eighteen
Mel
The flat was empty when she let herself in at six p.m. Jacob had texted to say he would be back at seven for supper. She wondered why he was so late when all he had to do was pick up some information at college. But he was almost seventeen, he had friends, he had a life. Yet he seemed so innocent. No sign of drugs. And that wound on his arm was practically a badge of heroism. She thought of her afternoon with Paul, wondering if her son had inherited his mother’s instinct for secrecy and deviation.
She poured herself a red wine, sat on the sofa and pulled out the post from her bag. There were the usual uninteresting circulars, announcements from the Inn, appeals for money, an invitation to guest dining night. One intrigued her, a long thick cream-coloured letter stamped Crown Prosecution Service. She couldn’t imagine why they would be writing to her. There was a vague feeling she might have done something wrong, but she knew enough to be sure that any misdemeanour would not be addressed by a typed letter to her workplace.
It was a reference request for a Miss Natasha Baker who had applied for the post of Crown Prosecutor. The letter invited Ms Melanie Goddard to log onto the website where she could fill in the appropriate form. Natasha must have applied some weeks ago despite looking for a tenancy at Bridge Court. Anyone would do the same. Her pupil was just a young woman looking for work. But the thought of her as a prosecutor was even worse than the thought of her as defence barrister. She reached for her phone and called Natasha’s number.
‘Hi, Mel.’
‘Hello, Natasha. How are you?’
‘Fine. Busy. How can I help?’
‘It’s about the reference. For the CPS.’
‘Oh, that yes. Is it a terrible bore? It’s just they, well, they asked for my pupil supervisor.’
‘I thought you wanted to be a defence barrister.’
‘I do. But you know how it is. I need to find something, so I thought just in case. As it turned out, it’s lucky I applied. But if you don’t want to do it…’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Thanks, Mel. I hope it’s not too time-consuming. I know these reference things can be a pain.’
‘Not a problem. It’s part of my job as pupil supervisor. How are you feeling? It must have been a blow failing to get the tenancy. You should know you had a lot of support.’
Mel could imagine how Natasha might be feeling but she couldn’t help wondering what she would say. Would that shell of confidence eventually crack?
‘I’m sure you tried your best. So, is there anything you want to know? I mean for the reference?’
There was no getting out of the reference. Her colleagues already questioned her judgement about Natasha. Refusing to write a reference would beg more questions. And it would need to be a good reference. Candidates were entitled to see them, and a bad reference would only cause further trouble. Mel decided she would make it brief, fair on Natasha’s competences, of which there were many, but not overenthusiastic. Whether or not it would be good enough to get Natasha into the CPS was not her concern. It just needed to be good enough to get her out of Mel’s life. Yet Natasha intrigued her. She might as well admit she was fascinated by this elegant creature who moved like a cat and for whom other human beings were simply a means to an end. Why had she written to Paul? Mel needed to know her intentions.
‘How about meeting for a coffee?’
If Natasha was surprised she didn’t let on. ‘Next week?’
‘Well, I was thinking at the weekend. I’ll be in south London on Sunday. My mother lives in Dulwich. That’s not far from you, is it? We could meet at the Picture Gallery. Do you know it? It’s nice. There’s a cafe there. We could have a chat. More relaxed than chambers.’
‘OK. What time?’
‘About four thirty? Might be a bit crowded but I’m sure we’ll find a place. We could even take in the exhibition.’
There was a pause at the other end and for a moment Mel wondered if she had gone too far.
‘OK. Only I don’t want you to make a special trip. Is there anything I can tell you on the phone?’
‘I’ll be in Dulwich anyway. It’s been a few weeks since we last met up, and I’m still your supervisor. I’ll need to do a report.’
‘Sure.’
‘So, four p.m. at the cafe. Keep your phone handy in case.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Great. Bye, Natasha.’ As Mel shut down her phone, she realised she was trembling. What was happening? Why did this coffee feel like a step too far?
Chapter Nineteen
Natasha
Natasha hung up and opened Lola’s Facebook account. She’d been messaging Jacob when Mel rang and she wondered if he’d picked up on her latest picture, the one in the blue dress under the palm trees. It was ten years old, but he wouldn’t know that.
It was Friday evening. Just after six. Where would Jacob be at this hour? Did he have a girlfriend? Would she be keeping an eye on his messages? Teenage girls were smart, they had a nose for cheats. They wouldn’t be trusting like Luke.
And what if his mother checked his phone? But Jacob wouldn’t have picked up the chat thread if he sensed he was being watched. And if he was being watched, what could Mel do that she hadn’t already done? It was not like Natasha was doing anything criminal. She might even use the texts and photos to wangle a decent reference. She scrolled down the messages. Jacob had already replied.
You’re beautiful. I’d like to see more of that tan. Got a bikini shot?
She tapped in Sure.