Sometimes you need to get drunk, he said.
I took a step away from him. I couldnt say his approach had been a complete surprise. The way he had loitered outside with the takeaway should have alerted me.
Its the age difference, isnt it? I registered the pique in his voice. Men and their self-confidence. If I was a thirty-seven-year-old man and you were my age, no one would even bat an eyelid.
I felt guilty, cruel. I dont suppose he had any reason to think I would turn him down. After all, I had invited him up to my flat, for dinner, on my birthday.
Im sorry, I said quietly. I know Im a miserable old spinster, but I like it this way.
Do you? he said, challenging me.
I work eleven hours a day, Pete, I come home, and I work some more. Theres no room for anything else.
Stop blaming your job.
There was a time when I wouldnt have cared that Pete was not my type, when wed have ended up in the bedroom, but tonight, I just wanted him to go.
I should leave, he said flatly.
I nodded and he exited the flat without another word. And as I closed the door behind him, I leant forward, pressed my head against the door and puffed out my cheeks.
Happy birthday, I whispered, desperate for the day to be over.
Chapter 4
There was no getting away from the fact that I needed a new bag. Over the past week, the rip in the seam of my trusty Samsonite case had been getting longer and longer. Work had never been busier, with new instructions and cases springing to life after weeks of dormancy, and the numerous files that needed transporting between court, home and chambers, meant that my bag was one vigorous pull of the zip away from fatal damage.
I was brought up to be thrifty and part of me thought that I just needed to fix it. But I had no idea who repaired bags these days cobblers? Tailors? In our consumerist society it seemed our only option was to buy a new one.
Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was not yet seven oclock. Burgess Court was well placed for pubs but less convenient for retail therapy. But I calculated that if I took a taxi, I could be on Oxford Street by quarter past, out of there by seven thirty, and home in time for a ScandiCrime drama that was starting that week on cable.
You off home?
Paul was standing at the door to my office with a bundle of files.
In a minute, I replied, fishing around in my desk drawer.
Ive got something for you tomorrow, if you fancy it.
I knew I should have turned it down but saying no to work had never been one of my strong points.
What is it?
Freezing application tomorrow. Listed for nine thirty.
I hesitated; the only reason I had earmarked a night in front of the TV was because my workload for the following day was relatively quiet.
I can get it biked round to Marie or Tim, he offered.
Give it here, I sighed. Itll save you hanging around for the courier.
Paul looked at me, a smile playing on his lips. You know, its fine to have the night off sometimes.
Ill sleep when Im dead, I replied. Not finding what I was searching for in my desk drawer, I glanced up at him. I dont suppose youve got a spare carrier bag? My case is fit to burst and Im worried its not going to make it home.
Im sure we can do better than a carrier bag for a sophisticate like yourself, he laughed, disappearing downstairs. He returned a couple of minutes later with a cloth tote bag branded with the Burgess Court insignia.
Whats this?
Marketing. By the way, I popped the QC application forms in there for you.
A master of subtlety, as usual.
I left the office and hurried across Middle Temple, past our grand Elizabethan hall and the fountain firing a silver flume of water into the night sky. It was eerie after sunset, when the gas lamps had flickered on; the cloisters threw shadows around the square and the sound of your shoes against the cobbles tricked you into thinking you were not alone. Increasing my pace, I threaded my way down the thin, dark alley of Devereux Court, one of the artery routes on to the Strand, just as the rain began to fall. A cab responded to my outstretched hand and I jumped in before it really began to pour. The driver asked me where I wanted to go and I said the first department store name that came into my head: Selfridges.
I am not a great shopper. That gene escaped me and I dont think its because I was once on free school dinners. I remember one client, a Russian model, who in one breath told me how she used to pick up rotten fruit from the markets to take home to feed her family, and in the next breath told me that she needed at least a million pounds in maintenance per anum from the property magnate husband she was divorcing. Growing up poor sent you one way or the other.
The taxi dropped me off on Cumberland Street. The rain was pelting down now and the pavements looked black and oily. Cursing the weather, I ran into the store.
I knew within minutes that I was in the wrong place. I hardly ever came to Selfridges and I had forgotten how expensive it was. Boutiques lined the outer perimeter wall: Chanel, Gucci, Dior, each one like a jewellery box, glitzy and polished. I preferred the shops in the City, where everything seemed more ordered and less dazzling for time-pressed people like me. But in the West End, in Knightsbridge, shops were caves of temptation for tourists and trophy wives, retail labyrinths designed to make you get lost and spend, whereas I just wanted to find a bag and go home.