‘Yes you are,’ said Brett. ‘Don’t be a sore loser. Come and have a drink with me.’
Tati almost laughed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly,’ said Brett. ‘Why? What else are you doing? If you stand there much longer the pigeons’ll start to crap on you.’
Despite herself, Tatiana laughed. He was right about her having nothing better to do, and nowhere she wanted to go. Marco was expecting her call. She’d already arranged to stay at his place tonight, assuming that the case would run until tomorrow at the very least. But she couldn’t face talking to him now, explaining the humiliation of today’s proceedings, listening to his sympathy. At least with Brett Cranley she could be what she wanted to be – angry. She got into the cab.
‘Where are we drinking?’ she asked.
‘The Ritz,’ said Brett. ‘Where else?’
The shock still hadn’t worn off as they walked into the Rivoli Bar. The place was full of suits, almost none of them English, and busy, given that it wasn’t yet six. Every man in the room turned to look at Tati, most of them because she was such a stunning girl, although one or two clearly recognized her from the newspapers. Nobody recognized Brett, which suited him perfectly. He steered Tatiana to a quiet corner table and ordered a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon 1990.
‘No champagne for me,’ said Tati. ‘I’m not celebrating.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Brett.
‘I’ll have a bourbon on the rocks,’ Tati told the waiter, who nodded and left.
Brett looked at her appraisingly across the table.
‘You know, you could look on today’s verdict as an opportunity,’ he said.
‘For what? Penury?’ Tati said witheringly.
‘No. For moving on with your life. You’ve been clinging to the past for a year now. Let go.’
‘I’ve been fighting for my birthright,’ Tati said furiously. ‘Fuck. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Not if I knew I couldn’t win,’ said Brett.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Tati.
‘Yes you did.’
She glared at him in furious silence. The drinks arrived. Brett barely sipped at his champagne. He watched as Tatiana downed her Jack Daniel’s in one, immediately ordering another. She’d kicked off her shoes under the table and untucked the camel silk shirt from the cream woollen waistband of her suit skirt. Little by little, the armour was coming off, but not the fighting spirit. There was something belligerent, almost violent in her self-destructive tendencies. Disastrous relationships. Court cases she couldn’t win. Taking herself out with hard liquor, as if the answer to her problems lay at the bottom of a cut-crystal glass.
‘I saw a lot of Jason while you were away,’ she said, deliberately baiting him. ‘He’s such a sweet boy.’
‘He is,’ Brett agreed. Tati gave him a surprised look.
‘If you really think so, why are you such a cunt to him all the time?’
Brett winced. He didn’t like to hear women using that word. It made them sound hard and ugly. He didn’t want Tatiana to sound hard and ugly. But he answered the question nonetheless.
‘He’s too sensitive. He needs to toughen up.’
‘Says who?’ said Tati, knocking back another huge slug of bourbon.
‘Says me.’
‘And who made you the expert on everyone else’s lives?’
‘I don’t know. Who made my son’s life any of your business?’ retorted Brett.
‘He’s my friend,’ said Tati.
‘Bullshit. He’s just a kid. He fancies you rotten and you enjoy the attention.’
‘Do I?’ Tati was toying with Brett now, playing suggestively with an ice cube from her drink while she maintained eye contact.
‘If you really cared about him, you’d stop encouraging him,’ said Brett, unable to tear his eyes away from Tati’s lips.
‘Well you should let him be himself,’ said Tati. ‘Stop trying to turn him into a miniature version of you. Not everyone’s cut out to be a heartless bastard, you know.’
‘Is that what you think I am?’
Tati looked deep into Brett’s dark eyes. She recognized something fragile there – she knew from their encounter back at Logan’s parent-teacher day that Brett Cranley wasn’t without weaknesses – but he masked them with so much aggression and ambition and testosterone that they were all but completely buried most of the time. Brett wasn’t handsome in any classical sense. Not like Marco. But he was the most masculine man Tatiana had ever met, as strong and unyielding as a wall of flint.
‘It’s not what I think you are,’ she said boldly. ‘It’s what you are.’
Brett’s hand shot out across the table, like a spider lurching suddenly for its prey. He firmly held her wrist. Tatiana’s heart rate shot up, a mixture of fear and desire taking over her body.