I looked up at him, realizing I shouldnt have said that. For all I knew, the relationship might have broken down because of an inability to have a family. It was one of those things I never found out as a divorce lawyer. I knew that people wanted to get divorced, and I advised them how to do it. But I never really knew why, beyond the broad strokes of infidelity or unreasonable behaviour. I never truly got to know what made two people who had once genuinely loved one another, in some cases, grow to hate each other.
Were keen for a clean-break settlement, said David.
Absolutely. I nodded.
What sort of split do you think I can realistically expect?
I didnt like to be drawn on a number, but Martin Joy was the sort of client who expected answers.
We should start at a seventythirty split and go from there.
I put my pen down, feeling exhausted, wrung out. I wished I hadnt touched that wine and soda at lunchtime.
Martin shook his head, staring at the desk. I thought he might have been pleased at the suggestion that we could avoid a fiftyfifty asset split, but he looked absolutely shell-shocked.
What happens next?
The First Directions meeting is in ten days time.
Will any decisions be made then?
He had seemed composed throughout the meeting, but hints of anxiety were beginning to show.
I shook my head.
The clue is in the name. All very preliminary stuff, Im afraid.
Fine, he said uncomfortably.
It was dark outside now. He stood up to leave and pulled his shirt cuffs down from under his jacket sleeves. One and then the other. Then he looked at me.
Ill see you then, Miss Day. I look forward to it.
I stretched out my hand and as he closed his fingers around mine, I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again too.
Chapter 3
As I sat down and wiped the condensation from the window with my fingertips, I wondered if I should have made more of an effort on my birthday. Even David Gilbert, a workaholic if ever Ive met one, thought I was off out for birthday drinks. But I didnt see why I should break my weekly routine just because I was another year older. One of the perils of my job has always been the lack of a social life. There were plenty of pubs around Temple, and people to have a drink with, but I had always taken the view that, if you wanted to get the job done properly, then you had to make sacrifices.
I pulled my mobile out of my bag and phoned my local Chinese takeaway. I couldnt decide
between the beef with fresh basil or the yellow bean chicken, so I ordered both, along with a side order of dumplings and chow mein. What the hell. It was my birthday.
Ending the call, I thought back to my conversation with Viv McKenzie about applying for silk, and wondered what becoming Francine Day QC might mean.
There had certainly been little other change in my life in the past five years. Id lived in the same flat on the sketchy edges of Islington since my late twenties, settled into an ordered routine. I went to the gym the same two evenings every week, took a ten-day holiday to Italy every August. Two short-lived romances punctuated a long stretch of being single. I saw friends less regularly than I should. Even the small detail of my life had a satisfying familiarity. I bought the same Starbucks coffee on my way into work, my copy of the Big Issue from the same Romanian man outside Holborn tube. Part of me liked this reassuring familiarity, and saw no need to change the status quo.
Peering through the water droplets on the cold window, I realized we were on St Pauls Road. I nudged the snoring commuter beside me and squeezed off the bus, walking the rest of the way to my flat on the road that descended into Dalston.
As I neared my flat I groaned as I saw the headlight of a delivery scooter pull up and stop. I started to run but the pavement was wet. Almost slipping, I hissed a curse and slowed to a halt, fishing around my bag for my purse, tickets and sweet wrappers falling to the floor like blossom blown from a tree. I bent down to pick up the litter, but already the scooter was setting off again into the dark.
By the time I reached my front door, I was out of breath. There was a figure in the doorway holding a white carrier bag stuffed with cartons.
You owe me twenty-three quid, said my neighbour Pete Carroll, a PhD student at Imperial who had been living in the downstairs apartment for the past eighteen months.
Did you give him a tip? I winced.
Im a student, he said with mock disapproval.
I debated running after the delivery man. They were my regulars. They gave me free prawn crackers and I didnt want to short-change them or have them think I was tight.
I only called them fifteen minutes ago. They usually take ages.
I handed him a twenty-pound note and an extra fiver, and stepped inside our neglected hallway, picking up my post and putting it in my bag.
Tuesday night is a bit decadent for takeaway, smiled Pete folding his arms awkwardly.
Its my birthday, I replied without even thinking.
I wondered what the brightly coloured envelopes were doing scattered among the junk mail.