Mel had read her mother’s statement. It was uncontentious. But how would she fare under cross-examination?
Having resolved nothing, she stood up and set off for the tube, through the arch that led into Middle Temple Lane. A man swung around onto the path in front of her, blocking her route. She waited for him to stand aside, annoyed by the thoughtless way he had rushed into the narrow alleyway. But he stood firm, a couple of feet from her, his broad face cracking into the huge smile she knew so well. Of all her fellow tenants, this was the one she was happiest to see. Ten minutes later she and Georgie were seated in a small cafe in Holborn.
Georgie liked to talk, particularly about his pet hates: certain politicians, a few irascible judges, the iniquities of the Home Office. But he also liked to listen. He knew how to pump information from witnesses, relaxing his technique with friends and acquaintances. If he liked someone, he wanted to know them. He liked Mel, and this afternoon, over cappuccino and a slice of rich chocolate cake, he listened.
He asked about the prosecution, and she told him the now well-rehearsed version she intended to tell the court. But her words seemed to come from somewhere beyond her body and as his questions grew more precise, more focused, they began to feel like a line of tiny wedges slowly splitting her in two. Was this what he did to witnesses? She looked away and then down, picking up her coffee cup.
‘Please, Georgie, I’m not your client, I’ve just come from a conference with Alisha. My head’s full of it. I’d rather have a break.’
She swallowed her coffee. She had wanted to spend this time with him. But now she wanted to be somewhere else. It seemed to happen in every encounter with anyone she cared for.
Georgie looked concerned. ‘I get that. Force of habit. Rebuke taken. What else have you been up to?’ His concern warmed her, and it was her own voice that answered.
‘Looking after Mum, feeding Jacob, painting the kitchen, watching Netflix.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’ There was a tired sadness behind his smile and she could see he meant it. The Criminal Bar might appear romantic to outsiders, but unless you were defending murderers and fraudsters in the Old Bailey, it was poorly paid, the hours were unpredictable, and it could take a terrible toll on your private life. His partner Farouk was several years younger and worked in the music business. Mel wondered how much time they had together. She knew they had considered adoption. It seemed improbable, given their work patterns.
‘You’re exhausted,’ she said.
‘Has nobody told you, Mel, that the one thing exhausted people hate is to be reminded they are exhausted?’
‘Well, if we can’t talk about you either…’ She grinned.
‘OK.’ he said. ‘How about your love life? You seeing anyone?’
Mel laughed. ‘Christ, Georgie. That’s the last thing I’m thinking of right now.’ Another lie. On several evenings, when Jacob was out, she had interspersed TV drama with Tinder surfing. A brief flirtation with fantasy which only aggravated the loneliness.
‘You need support,’ he urged.
‘You’re my support. You and everyone in chambers.’
A quiver of uncertainty in his eyes lit a fuse paper and another anxiety flared in her. Mel could be sure of him but what of the others? Natasha had been a pupil. It was she who had suffered injury. Safeguarding. Wellbeing at the Bar. These were hot issues. Bridge Court’s reputation had already been dented by the incident. If Mel was found guilty she’d be thrown to the wolves. Even if she was acquitted, some of her colleagues might have doubts. She gripped the slippery handle of her coffee cup. She must focus on the moment. Not the past. Not the future. Only now.
‘You know what I mean, Mel. You’re a beautiful woman; you’re young…’
‘Ish,’ she interrupted quickly.
‘Forty’s the new thirty. But life’s short. Jacob’s growing up. You don’t want to…’
At that something snapped in her. He was sounding like a parent in a Victorian novel.
‘Can we drop it, Georgie?’ She didn’t need him to tell her what she wanted.
He pushed his chair back and raised a hand off the table. ‘Badly phrased. But it’s only because I care. Just tell me you’re not still seeing that married guy?’
What was it to him? She loved Georgie, but his concern for her well-being made her feel as if her heart were being ripped open to public view. Was that how Jacob felt? Was that what prompted her child to stay away from her?
‘I haven’t seen him for months.’ That at least was true.
‘Good. You deserve better than that. If I knew any nice heterosexual men I’d introduce you like a shot.’
‘Thanks, Georgie. Not really your field of operation but if you do… And before you ask I’m not interested in anyone under thirty-five.’
At his reference to nice heterosexual men, the image of the Palestinian dentist surfaced in her mind. Sami had rescued her once. Could he rescue her again? But the timing had been wrong. He had rung a few times since the incident on the railway path. They had even met for coffee. But after what she had come to call ‘the Dulwich afternoon’ she had stopped answering his calls. What kind of relationship starts with a lie? And now he had stopped ringing her. She was sorry she had not come to know him better.
‘Tricky. They’re mostly spoken for. I’ll keep an eye open.’
She felt herself smiling as she stood up. Georgie followed her to the cash desk to pay. He offered to pay for her coffee, she offered to pay for his and they agreed to share it.
‘Have you got a trial date?’
‘Monday week.’
‘Would you like me to be there?’
‘Professional interest?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘You always liked Natasha.’
‘I hardly know her. She seemed OK. But you’re my friend, Mel. Don’t forget it. Who else will be there for you on the day?’
‘Mum. She’s a prosecution witness. Maybe Jacob. I’m not sure.’
‘I had better come then. You’ll need someone to break the neck on the Bollinger.’
‘Don’t be too confident.’
‘Mel. You’re not going to lose.’
‘CPS must think so. Why else would they have brought it?’
‘God only knows. How many days is it listed for?’
‘Three.’
‘I’ll try to get there on Wednesday.’
They walked out into the crowds and tumult of Kingsway. He would leave her here to walk back to his flat near Waterloo. She looked up into his rough, compassionate face and flung her arms around him. His strong arms embraced her in return, and she was held, grounded, and in that moment, safe. It had been too long since she had felt the strength of a man’s body against hers.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Natasha
The waiting room was stifling. On the wall by the door there was a display panel indicating a temperature of 24 degrees, a line of metal buttons and what looked like a circular thermostat. Natasha fiddled with the thermostat and pressed a few buttons. The figure displayed did not budge.
‘Centrally controlled,’ said Luke. ‘Stops arguments. We’ve got the same thing in Social Services.’