Due to Sophie’s persistence, we get an appointment with Attwood, Chalmers and Co, for Tuesday morning. They have come highly recommended and have handled a few fairly high profile divorces and achieved great results for their clients. I wasn’t too fussed about a great result, I just wanted a divorce. Sophie on the other hand, insisted that we use the best divorce lawyers out there, as in her words, “Marcus was a slippery little fucker, who couldn’t be trusted as far as his dick could rise whilst watching me fuck myself with a twelve inch dildo. Which, from what she’d heard, wasn’t very far!”
I spat my coffee, she shrugged and just said, “What? You know, it’s true.”
Late Monday morning I received a call from my brother. He was beyond pissed off with me and I told him something that I should’ve told him years ago… to go fuck himself. It was my life and I would live it however I see fit. I gave him a brief synopses of what took place between Marcus and myself on Friday night and he told me that I probably just pushed him too far, and I should’ve been more compliant after the very stressful month Marcus had just had. I hung up the phone.
My mother was the next to call. I was surprised to hear from her. I’d grown used to her indifference to my life, my entire existence, in fact. Really, I should’ve been expecting her to be in touch once she’d heard the news. Marrying Marcus was the only positive thing I’d done with my life, according to her. My career choice being the biggest negative. Not that that stopped her from using my salons for a free wash and blow dry twice a week, free haircut every four weeks or discounted facials, massages and just about every other treatment she could claim from the girls that ran our spa rooms. She had even tried to garner discounted Botox from the doctor that rented a room from us, to administer to our clients once a month. No, my mother was all about getting what she could from my business, all whilst telling me how disappointed she was that her daughter was a hairdresser.
Once I’d made it clear to my mother on the phone that my mind was made and I wouldn’t be giving Marcus a second chance, she ended the call, but only after telling me that I’ve never failed to disappoint her.
The meeting with the lawyer goes well. He is rather looking forward to going up against another lawyer and I wonder whether Marcus will use someone from his own practise to represent him. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was my own brother. I can only assume that because they specialise in corporate law that it won’t be.
Nathaniel Attwood is charming, amusing, and intelligent, he is also very well versed in all things pertaining to the laws of divorce. He also happens to be around thirty-five and smoking hot. Sophie and I spend the first fifteen minutes of the meeting with our mouths hanging open and imagining lots of things involving him, us and his big wooden desk, instead of listening too much of what he was actually saying.
“Mrs. Newman?”
Shit, I’m looking right at him, but totally oblivious to a word he’s just said to me. He tilts his head to one side and smiles. He has a sparkle in his blue eyes as he rolls his pen around his thumb and index finger of each hand.
I’ve answered the usual stuff, like name, age, occupation and address whilst on auto-pilot. I must’ve then zoned out as thoughts of sex with Nathaniel Attwood, preferably on or over his desk enter my head. I don’t know why my thoughts have turned in such a sexual direction, I’m not usually like that. I’ve only ever slept with two men in my life, and they both let me down massively.
“I’m sorry Mr. Attwood. It’s been a stressful couple of days, I zoned out a bit there for a minute.” I can feel a blush creep up my neck and over my cheeks as his eyes don’t leave mine. I hear Sophie clear her throat from beside me as I realise we’re just staring at each other in silence.
“I totally understand. Would you both like some coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” I tell him.
He lets out a long sigh, still not taking his eyes from mine and presses the intercom on his desk and asks someone to bring in coffee for the three of us.
“So, Mrs. Newman—”
“Please, Mr Attwood, can you not call me that? My name’s Nina, Nina Matthews. I stopped being Mrs. Newman in the early hours of Saturday morning when my husband punched me in the face.”
His smile and the sparkle in his pretty blue eyes is gone in an instant.
“Your husband hit you?”
I nod my head, yes.
“Did you report this to the police?”
I shake my head, no.
“I took photos of her face,” Sophie adds, “but she refused to get the police involved.” She turns toward me. “You need to tell him the rest. You need to tell him what happened Friday night and you need to tell him what happened at the park on Saturday.”