Much as I hate to admit it, Tom’s absence also gave Ed and me a chance to be a couple again. There was time to talk over meals. To lie on the sofa in the evenings, my legs wrapped round his in companionable silence. To rediscover each other’s bodies in one bedroom. I can’t say it was – or is – wildly passionate. But it’s comfortable. Loving.
Meanwhile, Ed was still trying to make a name for himself. We’d both hoped it would happen sooner, especially after coming third in that award. But the market was slow, or so he was told. Every now and then he persuaded a gallery to let him display some of his work. But it was hard going until an anonymous buyer bought The Italian Girl. Finally Ed got enough money to achieve his dream – to start his own gallery.
Ironically, my career has blossomed since Tom’s birth. To my delight, I was made a partner on the back of my continued success after the Joe Thomas case, which led to a cluster of settlements throughout the country and a change in the law on health and safety. Our contribution has gone down in the law reports. I’ve made a name for myself.
Just as important, in my mind, has been the fact that Davina is now safely married to a Yorkshire landowner. We declined the wedding invitation. Ed swore blind that he had never been unfaithful to me with her, but I still felt awkward in her presence.
Still, Ed and I have become much stronger as a couple. They say that when you have an ill child or one who presents certain challenges, you either grow apart or together. Surprisingly we have done the latter.
‘MY SHOES! I can’t wear them now you’ve touched them!’
My son’s anger brings me sharply back to the present. If I don’t catch the early morning train to Waterloo, I’ll miss my meeting.
‘I’ll sort it,’ says Mum firmly. At times, I’m convinced she’s taken Tom on in order to get it right this time. She failed with Daniel, or so she thinks, but she won’t do the same with her grandson. ‘Here. I almost forgot. This letter came for you during the week.’
And so I go, coward that I am. I leap into the car where Dad is waiting, and I lean back, closing my eyes with relief.
‘Ed meeting you at the other end?’ he asks.
I shake my head. Unusually, my husband hasn’t come down with me this time. He was invited to attend a Sunday showing in an elite gallery off Covent Garden which is displaying a copy of The Italian Girl. There is something about that painting – the vibrant, almost harsh, colours, and the half-knowing, half-innocent look – that unsettles me every time I see it. Or is it just because I still feel irritated about Francesca using us as babysitters so that she could be with Tony Gordon? Or rather Larry. How could someone live two lives?
Now, as the train jolts through Sherborne, I turn over the envelope in my hand. I’m not going to let Joe Thomas touch me. Not even mentally. I’m not going to allow myself to think about my part in helping a guilty man to walk free. If I do that, I won’t be able to live with myself.
And that’s why, as soon as I get to London, I’m going to tear up this envelope, with my former client’s distinctive capital-letter writing on it, and drop it in the nearest bin.
When I reach my office, there’s the usual urgent, steady, controlled panic. I love every minute. Adult panic. Adult battle of wills. Adult adulation.
It’s not just my career that’s on the up. It’s my body too. Some women age badly, like Davina – I can’t stifle my grin of triumph – whose picture in Tatler’s Bystander column the other month showed her looking decidedly heavy jowled. Others, like me, appear to improve. Or so I’ve been told. ‘Middle age suits you,’ Ed told me the other morning as he gazed down at my flat stomach and slim thighs.
I’d tickled him with mock indignation. ‘Middle age? Forty is the new thirty, I’ll have you know. Or thirty-eight at the very least.’
The ironic thing is, after Tom was born, I was too busy to comfort-eat. My baby weight quickly disappeared (breastfeeding helped) and continued to do so as he grew older. The more my son smeared food on the wall, or – at times – something far worse, the less I felt able to eat. My inability to deal with a child who insisted on everything being in its place, yet at the same time was equally insistent on creating chaos, was far more effective than any diet. I also began to run before work. Just puffing once round the block at first, but then further. Running, especially at 6 a.m. when the world was just waking, helped me to escape the demons of my dreams.
As the weight fell off and my cheekbones began to perk up, I found myself able to slip into size twelves and then tens. I went to an expensive hairdresser in Mayfair and had my long blonde hair cut into a ‘take me seriously’ bob. People watch me now as I stride purposefully through the office in my new red stilettos. Power shoes. Clients do a double-take, as if one isn’t capable of winning a case and looking good. Once, in court, the opposing lawyer slipped me a note, asking if I’d like dinner that night. I turned him down. But I was flattered.
Court. That reminds me. I need to be there in precisely one hour. Ever since ‘that case’, I’ve specialized in serious cases like murder and manslaughter. Watching Tony Gordon strut across the floor all those years ago lit something inside me. Solicitors can take an extra qualification known as the Higher Rights of Audience in order to take on cases in court that would normally be handled by a barrister. It is another string to your bow and it increases your earning power considerably. So that’s what I did.
However, I will only take on cases if convinced of my client’s innocence. Any qualm on my part and I will pass him or her to someone else, claiming that I am ‘too busy’. I have no doubts about this afternoon’s case. A teenage girl. Knocked off her bike by a lorry driver. Justice has to be done.
‘Ready?’ I glance impatiently at our latest intern: a young boy fresh out of Oxford whose father is a friend of one of the other partners. I don’t like it, but what can you do? Nepotism flourishes when it comes to law. The boy is still fiddling with his Old Etonian tie as we stride along. ‘Aren’t we going to get a taxi?’ he whines.
‘No.’ My stride is long and measured. Walking is another way I continue to stay slim. And besides, the fresh autumnal air helps me to think as I run over the details of the case.
‘Do you get nervous in court?’ The boy looks up at me and I feel a touch of compassion. Good education and a privileged upbringing are no security blanket when it comes to baring yourself in front of a row of jurors and a judge – the latter don’t suffer fools kindly.
‘I don’t allow myself to be.’ We swing up the stone steps and into the court. It’s not as big as the Old Bailey but it’s imposing enough, with its grey stone pillars and clusters of black gowns, flapping as they walk. Unfair as it is, men still outnumber the women and yet …
‘Lily?’
I stop as a grey-faced, grey-haired man pauses beside me. Swiftly, I search my memory. I know him, I’m certain, yet his name eludes me.
‘You don’t recognize me.’ This was said in a rasping tone that was a statement rather than a question. ‘Tony. Tony Gordon.’
I’m shocked. I haven’t seen him for months, and then only in passing; just a small nod in recognition, as if we never spent all those hours together, heads close, poring over papers which would eventually result in a grave injustice. I’ve tried as hard as I can to forget those hours ever happened.
‘How are you, Lily?’ As he speaks – and as the shock dissipates – he touches his throat. And then I see it. An unmistakable lump rising from above the top of his collar. ‘Throat cancer,’ he rasps again. ‘They’ve done what they can, but …’
His words are almost swallowed by the busy, echoing voices around us. Beside me, my Oxford intern is shuffling from one foot to the other in embarrassment.
‘I saw your name on the list and wanted to catch you.’ Tony’s eyes – one of the few things that hasn’t changed about him – fall on my companion.
‘Can you wait over there, please?’ I tell the young man firmly.
My old colleague’s mouth twists as if in amusement. ‘You’re different. But I knew that already. Your reputation is spreading.’
I ignore the compliment. ‘How can I help you?’