Court Out

Chapter Six





I don’t see or hear from Serena until the following Sunday. Sebastian and I are sitting having lunch in our local pub: he’s stuffing himself with their legendary beer battered fish and chips topped with a mountain of creamy mushy peas, and I’m trying to be somewhat restrained with a grilled chicken and Mediterranean vegetable salad. I suspect that my hard work has been undone by the bottle of wine we’ve ordered, but it is the weekend after all. As I fork up another yummy mouthful of aubergine and peppers, I hear the strains of my favourite boy band coming from my jacket pocket and Sebastian rolls his eyes.

“Finally!” I exclaim, examining the display. I’ve been worried that I haven’t heard from her. If I hadn’t have been so busy I’d have gone round to find out what’s been going on with her. I chew my food, swallow and answer my phone.

“Serena! Where on earth-”

A cold, angry voice cuts me off.

“How could you let this happen?’

I drop my fork onto the wooden table. Sebastian looks at me questioningly.

“Eh? Let what happen?” I ask.

“I thought we were friends,” she continues.

She’s totally lost me and I tell her the same.

Her voice breaks.

“Lenihan. You could have stopped it from getting that far. Do you know how embarrassing that was on Friday? Having to explain to a packed court that no, I didn’t force him to plead guilty!”

I take a long swig of my wine and splutter as it goes down the wrong way. Still coughing, I try to explain.

“What was I supposed to do? He was adamant. Plus the judge knew something was up from the report?” I’m still coughing and decide that perhaps another attempt at the wine is a good idea. I can hear Serena breathing down the phone, planning her next line of attack.

“You could’ve told the judge that he wanted to maintain his plea and be sentenced despite what he’d told probation. We do it all the time!”

“Yes, when they do actually want to be sentenced! Lenihan didn’t and I wasn’t going to lean on him” I reply indignantly “That’s what started this problem in the first place! ”Shit. I think I just stepped over a line. “Look Serena, I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t have done anything underhand, but I was over a barrel. I’m not going to lie to the court. Can you imagine if that got out? I’d be toast. Plus, I didn’t think for a second that you’d be in trouble. How did it go anyway?”

“He’s been allowed to vacate his plea,” she replies forlornly.

“Well I’m sure that’s just to shut him up. Nothing to do with you. Please don’t think I did anything to make you look at fault or indicate that I believed him. Ask anyone there if you don’t believe me!”

Sebastian stands up and points at the now empty bottle of Sancerre which I interpret as ‘Do you want another drink?’ I nod, hoping that is in fact what he means and not in fact ‘You’ve got through that quick, don’t you think you’ve had enough.’

Serena sighs on the end of the line.

“Ok, I’m sorry, it’s just been a rough week. I was out of court until Wednesday then was left to deal with this mess.”

“You should have called me! You shouldn’t have let this fester!” I cry.

She pauses. “I was in the clerks room on Monday afternoon and saw your diary on the computer over Roger’s shoulder. I didn’t want to bother you as you’ve been so busy.”

“Don’t be daft. And, whilst on paper I’ve been busy, it’s been bitty things, hardly going to make me rich!” I exclaim. This is true; I’ve spent most of the week travelling around the Midlands doing odds and sods for other members of Chambers.

“Serena, you’re my best mate. I’m your bridesmaid! I’m never too busy for you.”

“Promise?” she asks.

“Promise, you Muppet. Anyway, it’s you who’s going to be to be run off your feet this time in a fortnight! You’ll probably blank me in the cafe when you’re sitting with your high flying friends and ignore me when I wave at you in the bar, of course you won’t be allowed to socialise with me anymore,” I joke. “When you’re on Midlands Today as part of the ‘Murder Defence Team’ you won’t want to be seen with a lowly barrister like me, prosecuting the careless drivers of the region.”

She giggles.

“Ewan seems to think that too. I’ve tried to reassure him that I don’t actually have to do anything apart from writing down what’s happening but he’s not convinced. Mind you, I hope I am included in some of the extra-curricular parts.”

“Like what?”

“Well the case dinner for a start,” she muses.

“Always a recipe for disaster!” I laugh, “Getting drunk on a school night is never the best idea, but doing it with the Judge and your opposition present? Is it still Corr and Harte prosecuting?”

George Corr QC is something of an idol of mine. A man of few words, he makes the ones he does deploy count. Feared by criminals across the country he is a meticulous Prosecutor, with a reputation for demanding perfection from his juniors. He is head of a set of Chambers in London that has a reputation for housing some seriously brilliant criminal advocates.

Samantha Harte is a member of our Chambers, about fifteen years call and holds the junior brief in the Hobbs case. Late thirties with a bob so sharp you could cut yourself on it, she takes no nonsense from anyone, including judges. She gave me some useful advice at a drinks reception when I first joined Chambers seven years ago We were both pretty tipsy and had been discussing the difference between men and women at the Bar. A friend of hers had just had a baby and was being treated like a second class citizen in the tax law firm where she worked.

“It’s pure nonsense,” she had raged. “They think that now she’s a mother she has lost the killer instinct that makes her such a success.”

I nodded, knowing that the solicitor in question could give any man a run for his money on the professional field.

“The worst thing about this is, she is now starting to doubt herself. Lauren, please, please never forget that no matter what, have confidence in your own intelligence. You got here because of your talent, but you’ve stayed here because you’ve never doubted yourself. When all else fails, remember that you can rely on yourself.”

I’ve always tried to use that when I’m having a bad day, but it’s easier said than done. I’ve been against her in court a few times and I’m always awestruck by how formidable an advocate she is. I hope one day I can be half as good as her.

Serena interrupts my reverie.

“Did you send off your form for the Nottingham do?”

Whoops.

“No, I meant to. In fact, didn’t I ask you to remind me?” I rummage round in my bag to see if the form has survived a week of abuse in its leathery depths. I eventually locate it folded into a reminder that my tax bill is overdue. Double whoops. “Right, I’ll bring my cheque book in tomorrow and sort it out then.”

“Fair enough” replies Serena. “I’ll send you a text about it tomorrow too, make sure you don’t forget again.”

“Cheers. I’d better get my act together otherwise knowing my luck all of the tickets will have gone.”

“Yeah and I’ll be left sitting between Lucinda and Holly”

I groan, envisioning a repeat of last week. “Please tell me they’re not going?”

“No idea, but I doubt she’d have the front to show her face there”

“That woman has more front than Blackpool!” I laugh, scooping up some chicken.

As Sebastian returns with a chiller bucket containing another bottle of wine I smile at him. He takes his seat and starts fiddling with his cutlery.

“Serena? I’d better go before Sebastian kills me, but before I do are you sure everything’s ok?”

“Positive. I’m sorry I overreacted, I was just terrified that people would think I was incompetent.”

“They could never think that. Say ‘hi’ to Ewan for me?” I ask, mentally vowing to spend some time this week trying to undo any damage the Lenihan case has caused.

“Will do, speak soon!”

“Take care.”

As I fumble to disconnect the call, Sebastian munches thoughtfully on a piece of lettuce he’s pinched from my plate.

“What was that about?” he asks, looking quizzically at me.

“Nothing, just Serena flying off at the deep end about something.”

He picks up another piece of my now discarded lunch as I turn my attention to the fresh bottle of ice cold wine.

“Not more crazy wedding ideas?”

I think before Ewan proposed to Serena, Sebastian would have entertained the idea of marriage. Since he’s seen the way in which their plans have escalated exponentially I bet I’d have to physically drag him to a jewellers, force him to hand over his credit card and have him wait at the altar with my father holding him at gunpoint. Not that I’m desperate to get married or anything, but I would have liked to think it was at least a vague possibility.

Sebastian and I met just over three years ago in Selfridges. Can you imagine a more perfect setting? I was perched on a stool trying to decide between two divine pairs of shoes: a pair of patent nude courts with a bow detail and chunky heel from Chloe and a killer pair of pointy black sling backs with a needle thin five inch heel from Alexander McQueen. With one of each pair on each foot I stood up to admire my feet in a nearby mirror.

Whilst I couldn’t strictly afford either pair, I’d had a particularly stressful day and it was either footwear or cake.

As I started to strut towards the mirror I realised that the heel on the Chloe shoe was a good inch shorter than that on my other foot. All too late, I felt my ankle twist over on itself and almost in slow motion, felt myself tipping to my right. To my credit, I remained calm, accepting my fate and waiting for the inevitable pain when I collided with whatever display I was near to. Just as I’d resigned myself to another week of bruises, I felt something interfere with my progress towards the ground. I looked, confused, up to see that a very tall man had managed to catch me about a foot above an angular display unit. Late twenties and wearing an exquisitely cut Paul Smith suit, he smiled down at me.

“Was that a swoon?” he asked, holding me in something similar to a ballroom ‘dip’.

“No, I was throwing myself at you,” I replied, righting myself to an upright position. I balanced on the chunky heel and took a better look at him. Well over six feet tall, with thick dark hair and sparkling green eyes, he wasn’t what I would consider my usual ‘type’ but I was intrigued.

“So do you normally hang around the women’s shoe department waiting for damsels in distress?” I asked, taking hold of his arm to steady myself.

“Yep, nine to five. It’s a legitimate source of income.”

“And do you get much business? Wait, you mean I have to pay you for this?”

“Oh I think you’ll find my rates are quite competitive. I’m sure I have a business card in here somewhere.”

He put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a divine black Mulberry wallet. When I saw it I swear I fell in love at that moment. He opened it and handed me an eggshell business card with neat black writing on it.

‘Sebastian Reid, Director’

Below that was the name of his company and his contact details.

“So let me get this right,” I ask, studying the small print. “An architect that specialises in rescuing females suffering with shopping related mishaps?”

“Well..” he paused, looking amusedly at me “Not exactly. Tell you what, I’ll waive the fee in lieu of a drink.”

I considered this for a split second. I should stress that I didn’t normally pick up random men in the footwear department.

“Before I agree, can you please tell me what you, a lone male is doing looking at ladies shoes?”

“Well, I do have a certain predilection for strappy heels,” he mused.

After silently praying that he wasn’t some kind of weirdo with a foot fetish, I had realised he was potentially too good to be true. Just as I was about to write the encounter off as yet another random encounter with someone certifiable, he laughed.

“It’s my sister’s birthday next week and she’s very specific about what she wants.”

His hand returned to his inside pocket and he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper torn from a fashion magazine. He unfolded it and showed me a photograph of strangely familiar looking shoes. I laughed and pointed to my right foot.

“These what you looking for?”

He stared at my feet for a few seconds before meeting my gaze again, looking troubled.

“Yes, but aren’t shoes generally supposed to match?”

I was about to explain when his face creased into a smile and I realised he was joking. I punched him softly on the arm, nearly losing my balance again in the process. He held my elbow until I righted myself. I looked around.

“As long as she’s not the same size as me, I’ll grab an assistant and you can get a pair.”

“Thanks. After that, what about that drink then?”

I considered this for all of a split second.

“Promise you’re not going to talk about feet the whole time?”

“I’ll try. My therapist says I’m making progress.”

“Ok, but any mention of toes and I’m out.”

He laughed and signaled to a hovering assistant who rushed over, eager to help such a handsome man. I left the shoes in the end, caught up in the unexpected turn of events my afternoon had presented.

We spent a long sunny afternoon at a canal-side bar, idly picking at bar snacks and drinking cold beer. I learned that he had just moved to Farrington from London having set up his own firm in the city centre. As we chatted, I marveled how much we had in common: our love of the Soprano’s, skiing (I know, for someone with no balance, it really shouldn’t work, but by some inverse law of physics, I’m actually quite good) and decent food. We parted with him promising to call me later that week. Whilst the pessimist in me tried to convince myself that he would never make contact, deep down I always knew he would.

When I got into Chambers on the following Monday, our receptionist Carole came bounding up to me with the sort of energy level one normally associates with Labrador puppies.

“You’ve got some parcels!” she’d exclaimed.

“Ok...” At the time there was nothing unusual about that, as I had normally got everything that I order off the Internet posted to Chambers.

“I’ve put them on your desk! Make sure you come show me later”

“Erm, thanks”

I’d travelled the lift to the top floor and watched as the ground sunk quickly below me. As I swiped my pass card into our floor, I let my mind wander to the work that was waiting for me. On approaching my desk, the source of Carole’s enthusiasm became clear because instead of the Amazon packaging, or the usual department store wrapped box, sat there was two very familiar shoe boxes. I squealed and ran over, not really needing to open them to know their contents. Sure enough, in one box the nude Chloe heels, the other the black Alexander McQueen pair. A card lay in the base of the second box. In elegant script the message read ‘I hope to catch you every time you fall, S.’

He looks at me now and I reply. “No, Not more crazy wedding ideas. Well not today anyway. I wouldn’t put it past her to have rearranged the whole ceremony to fit in with some new-fangled idea she’s seen on Wedding TV by tomorrow though.”

“Poor Ewan, she’s driving him round the bend, not to mention to bankruptcy.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?” I ask, worried that Serena is way in above her head.

“Yeah, but you know how proud he is; he’d never say that he couldn’t afford every whim she’s been demanding.”

Sebastian and Ewan have become friends over the past few years through being dragged out with Serena and I. Whilst they come from completely different backgrounds, they’ve bonded through the stress of dating women who spend half of their lives working and the majority of the remainder either drunk or asleep. Ewan has told Sebastian on a number of occasions of his wish that Serena will one day pack it all in and stay at home to become a mother. Whilst it’s a nice idea in theory, I doubt very much that she’d ever give up the career she’s worked so hard to forge.

“Lets not talk about them now,” I say. “We have much more important things to discuss.” With this I straighten up in my chair, clear my throat and look at him expectantly.

Sebastian pales visibly, his eyes flicking from side to side in panic.

“No escape from this I’m afraid darling. It has to be done. I mean, neither of us are getting any younger and we really have to seize the moment.”

He licks his lips and drums his fingers on the table. There’s a long pause that I struggle not to fill.

“Lauren, what are you talking about?”

I deliberate making him worry a little longer but a rumbling noise makes me cut the torture short.

“Dessert. I don’t know about you, but that chocolate sponge pudding with custard has my name on it.”

He throws a lone sachet of tomato ketchup at me, not appreciating that I opened it earlier. I shriek as the sauce splatters across my face and launch a crouton from my plate in his direction.

“Now, now!” he laughs, “You have to convince me I can trust you with a hot meal before I order you anything else!”

“As if I’d waste a good pud on your ugly mug!” I giggle.

“Ah, good point. Are you this eloquent in court too?” He retorts.

“Right, this is war Reid!” I cry, flinging random pieces of Mediterranean vegetables in his direction.

By the time the waitress arrives to take our order, we are covered in various items from our leftover meals. Sebastian’s come out worse, but I suspect the mushy peas on my nose are what are causing her to stare.

“Anything off the sweet menu?” she enquires in a nasally voice, patting down the front of her uniform when she gets a better look at Sebastian. I smirk, even underneath a face mask of assorted condiments he can still pull. Sebastian has the good sense to order me the chocolate sponge and adds on a treacle tart for himself. The waitress sashays off to the kitchen and I lick my lips in anticipation of the sugary goodness to come. Something dawns on me.

“Can I try a bit of yours too?”

“No. If you wanted that one then you should have ordered it”

“But I only want a little bit. It’d have been a complete waste if I had a whole one”

“No.” He replies adamantly.

I poke him with my fork and adopt a whiney voice, “You wont eat it all anyway. Please?”

“No”

I try and think of any bargaining chip at my disposal. After I pause I realise, “If I can’t try yours then you can’t try mine. Plus I’ll tell your personal trainer about the fish and chips.” Got him. He looks at me with an expression of amusement and mock horror.

“What! Oh fine then.”

He removes the fork from my hand to prevent further attack and plants a kiss on my forehead.

And this Ladies and Gentlemen is why I’m a good barrister.