Lover in Law (11 page)

Once the guided tour is complete and the coats have come off, I follow him to the kitchen, where he pulls a bottle of Napa Valley 1987 Reserve Cabernet out of the rack, carefully opens it and pours into two giant-size glasses.

“Dark, ripe and intense, with a rich core of cedar, currant, anise and spice flavours, finished with a firm tannic edge,” he reads off the bottle.

“Marvellous,” I smile, sticking my nose into the glass.

Most connoisseur jargon’s lost on me, but my nose can instantly tell the quality of a wine. Cheap rubbish often has a slightly vinegary, sharp smell that sticks in the nostrils. A fine wine, on the other hand, emits a deep, full-bodied aroma so tantalizing that the smell alone covers every part of your body in a velvety blanket of luxurious warmth. That’s how good this wine is.

“Mmmmmmm,” I say, eyes momentarily closed, savouring.

 “Cheers,” says Anthony, when I open them again.

“Cheers,” I say.

He holds up his glass, which I clink with mine. 

***

I doubt the culinary suggestion on a hundred quid bottle of wine would ever say ‘best served with pizza’, but ours might as well have. With no food in the fridge, Anthony had Domino’s deliver us a couple of Margheritas, figuring the cheese and tomato topping were neutral enough not to detract from the taste of the grape. After finishing my third and final slice, which bizarrely went quite well with the wine, I wipe my hands on a serviette and pick up my glass from the coffee table. The wine, the company, Bob Marley in stereo, they’ve all made me deliciously mellow. I’m aware, as ever, of Anthony’s physicality as I sit here, next to him, cross-legged on his deep black leather sofa, dangerously close, inches apart. As a comfortable silence descends, I reach for an old copy of
The Guardian’s Weekend Magazine
, lying next to the now empty pizza box and flick to my favourite page.

“I love the Q & A section,” I say.

“Who’s Iain Glen?” says Anthony, looking over at the paper resting on my lap.

“An actor, I think.”

It doesn’t matter who’s featured in the Q & A column, it’s their answers that count. Mr and Mrs Nobody often have far wittier, more erudite answers than the big names.    

“So, what’s your idea of perfect happiness?” I ask Anthony the first question in the column.

He thinks for a long time.

“Being alone with a sexy woman somewhere beautiful, hot, and tropical. You?”

I reflect.

“Being with my husband and our seven children having Sunday lunch round the dinner table.”

“You want seven kids?”

“Not really. Two or three would be nice though.”

“One’s hard enough.”

“You don’t want more?”

“I’m in no rush. Next question.”

“Alright, what’s your greatest fear?”

He ponders.

“Dying. You?”

I tilt my head from side to side, weighing up options.

“I’m more scared of HOW I die. I’ve had this horrible recurring nightmare about being run over by a lorry since I was three.”

I look down at the page.

“Oh no. More morbidity! Next question - what makes you depressed?”

 “Not winning. You?”

The wine has definitely gone to my head. I take another sip and come clean. Since puberty I’ve longed for a cleavage impressive enough to catch a peanut.

“My boobs.”

I feel naked in the spotlight as he casts his gaze down to my chest, dressed in a tight-fitting cream top.

 “What’s the matter with them?”

Can’t he tell my mammary glands are more disappointing than a sunken soufflé? 

I clear my throat nervously, catch sight of the next question, and toss the magazine back onto the coffee table.

“Why did you do that?” he asks.

“The rest of the questions are all boring.”

He picks it back up.

“Like do you believe in monogamy?” he reads.

“Yes, like that one.”

“Well, do you?”

“I have so far.”

“Good for you. I think it’s overrated personally.”

I snatch the paper from him.

“Right, last one, then enough,” I say. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Ok, what’s the most important lesson life has taught you?”

“You first,” he says.

“Alright,” I consider. “I think the most important lesson life has taught me is that you never know what’s round the corner.”

I can feel Anthony looking at me and for some reason, go coy. My heartbeat quickens, pulsating at the temples, as his gaze bores a hole in the side of my head. I concentrate on my glass, holding the stem in one hand, running a finger round the rim with my other.

“Do you want to know the most important lesson life’s taught me?”

“Go on,” I say, lifting my eyes to meet his and feeling an electric shimmer of excitement as I do.

“The most important lesson life’s taught me is to live for today.”

With that he removes my glass from its grip, sets it on the table, cradles my face with his hand and draws my mouth to his.   

***

My pink panties are lying somewhere on Anthony’s bedroom floor, strewn with the rest of our clothes. They’d been lying at the back of the cupboard, unworn since that day I tried them on in France. Why I put them on this morning, of all mornings, is probably best understood by my subconscious. They were the last item of clothing to be removed and didn’t go unnoticed. They should have though, because they should never have come off, but it’s as much as I can do to concentrate on the here and now. On Anthony running his hands masterfully over my body, up and down the insides of my legs, tracing a teasing line from my collar-bone to my navel, dwelling lightly on my breasts as I arch to meet his touch, telling me they’re not too big, not too small, but perfect. I writhe underneath as he lies on top of me, softly kissing the sides of my neck, the front and then my mouth, more urgently. I dare a man to have a better body than his. His frame is tall, perfectly proportioned, broad yet lithe, naturally athletic with beautiful muscle definition. He is, quite simply, gorgeous. And the feel of his skin, oh his skin, on my hands and my body. It’s soft and smooth and I can’t get enough of it as my hands stroke up and down his back, from his shoulders to his sculpted buttocks, pulling him tighter and closer, yearning to have him inside. His eyes, big dark brown eyes with flecks of black and green, his thick, yielding, sexy mouth and the deep, rich, coffee-colour of him are intoxicating. In all my life I’ve only ever been with one man. I never knew I could feel so heated, this animal, this necessity, this pleasure and such ecstasy as he finally enters huge and deep and slowly, expertly, exquisitely brings us to climax. 

***

“Don’t go,” he says, trying to catch my arm as I roll over to get up.

“I’ve got to,” I say.

It doesn’t feel right to stay the night, even if Adam is away. Anthony offered to drive me home, but I opted for a cab, which is on its way. I get dressed, item by item, as he lies there, watching.

“You have got the most beautiful body. You know that, sexy lady?”

He must be talking about somebody else.

“You’re not bad yourself.”

I turn my head. I shouldn’t be here, having this conversation. Accepting and paying compliments this way.

“What is it?” he asks.

He can’t see my face, but the way I’m holding my body, so very, very still, probably gives away how I’m feeling. Tense, confused, excited and yes, the first soupcon of guilt is seeping in. I’ve never done anything like this before, never even been tempted. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you’re attached. I should have left well alone. It’s just there’s something about you,” he peters out.

I don’t want to ruin the beauty of what we’ve just shared and it’s not about attributing blame anyway.

“Don’t apologise,” I say. “It takes two to tango.”

“I know, but I want you to know that I don’t make a habit of this,” he carries on. “Seducing women who are attached isn’t really my style.”

 The buzzer rings.

“Right then,” I say, picking my jacket up off the floor. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Anthony pulls the sheet round his waist, gets out of bed and follows me to the front door.

There’s an awkward moment. I’m not quite sure what to say. I turn the latch.

“Right then. See ya.”

“See ya,” he replies.

He bends down, kisses me on the mouth, I open the door, kiss my finger, place it to his lips and leave.

***

At first my face is alive and bright, breaking in and out of smiles as I replay the evening in my head, things said, things done, over and over. Sitting in the back of the cab, winging from west to north London in a speedy fifteen minutes, at this hour, almost midnight, it takes a while for the smile to go. Guilt finally wipes the creases out of my cheeks, adds a glaze to my eyes as I stare out the window, remembering Adam and feeling the size of an amoeba. Apart from giving my address, the driver and I do not converse all the way, but I wish we had. By the time I get out, I regret not having asked him to wait because I’m suddenly aware, as I take a step back on the garden path, house lights that I didn’t leave on this morning are now shining bright. I look left and right, to neighbours, searching for signs of being awake, but all around are closed curtains, darkened hallways. I brace myself, bravely put the key in the latch, wondering if perhaps I did flick those switches inadvertently this morning.

“Hello,” I speak loud enough to make my presence heard.

My tone might ooze confidence, but the hairs on my arms are stood to attention. 

Silence.

“Anyone there?”

Silence.

I’m relieved, more certain that I did just forget I turned on the lights, on the brink of closing the front door behind me, when I hear footsteps on creaky floors upstairs. My heart bolts to my throat, adrenaline gushes to my pores. This ‘what goes around comes around’ lark works fast. Could this be my comeuppance, being attacked by a burglar? 

Creak.

Creak.

I stand, at the foot of the stairs, body frozen, shaking hands thankfully more active, frantically reaching for my mobile phone with my left, digging for my new, real Burberry umbrella in my bag with the right. The creaks get louder and louder, closer and closer until a menacing shadow looms, at the top of the landing.

“I’ve called the police and I’ve got a gun,” I quiver.

Step.

Step.

Step.

A tall man wearing a beanie hat comes into view at the top of the stairs.

“Thought I heard something,” he says.

Chapter 13

It was Neeta’s idea to dine in Hall, not mine. She whizzed into the office from court, famished, didn’t have much time and thought it the best option. We’ve just found a table end, which means we might actually be able to talk
à deux
. That’s the problem with dining in Hall. The whole point of it is to be sociable, for Barristers to mingle with whoever happens to be sitting next to them on the long, wooden benches. Lunchtime’s a tolerable affair. The grub’s good, self-service, classy school dinners roast kind of fare at subsidised prices. I can just about tolerate coming here in the middle of the day. Dinner, however, is another matter. It’s three courses, waited on at table, with port to end and much more formal, wearing black gowns is compulsory. It used to be that you had to dine twenty-four times before you could be called to the Bar, but happily they changed the rules. Now students get away with half that amount. Neeta and I used to dread those damn dinners. I sat next to some pretty eminent people on occasion, ex cabinet ministers and the like and they were always really nice, surprisingly not condescending.  My biggest claim to fame was being two seats down from guest of honour, Prince William, who’d been sandwiched between two crusty judges. Neeta and I were gutted they hadn’t put him next to us. That was before he married Kate, before he’d even proposed, before his hairline started to recede – not that we cared about that!     

You can count the number of times we’ve taken lunch in Hall since qualifying on two hands. When I’m here, I don’t know why. It’s a beautiful, grand Elizabethan hall. Rather like the library, only more elegant and refined. With a minstrel’s gallery and a hammer-beam roof, it’s often used for filming period dramas. Charles Dickens has sat here and so has Thackeray. It’s a pretty humbling experience.

We’ve piled our plates, she with cheesy potato mash and a mound of veggies, me with two slices of beef, roast potatoes, green beans, Yorkshire pudding and a healthy slop of gravy. I’ve no idea why. I had no appetite for breakfast and as I look down at my plate I’m still not hungry. Far too wired. 

“So, how’s your morning been?” asks Neeta.

It’s the day after the thing I shouldn’t have done and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Anthony. I was agitated, like a nervous teenager, when I got into chambers, waiting on tenterhooks for him to arrive, wondering what we’d say, how it would be. Thankfully Jon put me out of my misery fairly early on, passing on a message that my senior counsel wouldn’t be coming in because his grandmother had just died. So it was back to business and after forcing myself to concentrate, I managed to dig some promising dirt on the new Prosecution eyewitness in the Scott Richardson case. I’m now privy to enough information to discredit this witness, make them quite unreliable. I tell Neeta this, then ask how her case is going.