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‘Mr Joy will be with us in a moment.’
‘I’ve just got to pop upstairs. Do you want to go through?’ I said pointing towards the conference room. ‘Helen can bring Mr Joy in when he arrives.’
I climbed the stairs to my office, a small space beneath the eaves at the very top of the building. It was little more than a broom cupboard, but at least I didn’t have to share it with anyone.
I scooped up the case files, grabbed a pen from the pot and ran my tongue around my teeth, wishing that I still had a packet of Tic Tacs on my desk to get rid of the sour tang of alcohol and cigarette smoke on my breath. When I came back downstairs meeting room two had been prepared for clients in the usual way, with a tray of sandwiches and a small plate of Marks and Spencer’s biscuits in the middle of the conference table. The pump-action coffee pot I could never work sat ominously on a chest of drawers by the door, alongside miniature bottles of Evian.
David was on his mobile phone. He glanced up and indicated he would just be a minute.
‘Water?’ I asked, gesturing towards our catering.
‘Coffee,’ he whispered, and pointed at the biscuits.
I grabbed a cup, faced the coffee pot with determination and pushed the top hard. Nothing happened so I pushed it again, harder, spurting coffee over the back of my hand.
I winced in pain as the liquid seared my skin.
‘Are you OK?’
Someone handed me a tissue and I used it to wipe my stinging hand.
‘I hate these things,’ I muttered. ‘We should buy a Nespresso machine and be done with it.’
‘Or maybe just a kettle.’
I looked up and a suited man was looking at me intently, momentarily distracting me from the burning sensation on my skin.
David snapped his phone shut and turned to us.
‘Do you two know each other?’
‘No,’ I said quickly.
‘Martin Joy – Francine Day. It’s her birthday. Maybe we can put a match in one of those fancy biscuits and sing to her.’
‘Happy Birthday,’ said Martin, his green eyes still fixed on me. ‘You should go and run that under the cold water.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, turning to throw the tissue in the bin.
When I faced the table again, Martin had already poured two cups of coffee. He went to sit across the table from me, next to David, which gave me the chance to observe him. He was not particularly tall but had a presence that filled the room, something I noticed a lot with very successful people. His suit was sharp, his tie neatly drawn into a Windsor knot. He was around forty, but I could not say a precise age. There was no sign of grey in his dark hair, although a hint of stubble around his jaw glinted tawny in the strong lights of the conference room. His eyebrows were flat and horizontal across mossy green eyes. Two frown lines carved into his forehead gave him an intensity that suggested he would be a very tough negotiator.
I looked down and gathered my thoughts. I felt nervous, but then I always did when I was meeting clients for the first time. I was conscious of my desire to please those who were paying my fee, and there was always a certain awkwardness dealing with people who thought they were tougher, smarter than you were.
‘I take it you’ve read the file,’ said David. ‘Martin is the respondent. I’ve recommended you to him as leading counsel.’
‘So you’re the one who’s going to fight for me in court,’ said Martin, looking directly at me.
‘I’m sure David has explained that no one wants to go to court,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee.
‘Except the lawyers,’ replied Martin without missing a beat.
I knew how this worked. I had been in this situation enough times not to get offended. Family law clients tended to be angry and frustrated, even – especially – with their legal team, so first meetings were often tense and fractious. I wished he wasn’t sitting opposite me – a configuration I hated. I preferred to remind people that we were all on the same side.
‘Actually, I’m a member of an organization called Resolution. We favour a non-confrontational approach to marital dispute, avoiding courts where possible, encouraging collaborative legal solutions.’
‘Collaborative legal solutions,’ he repeated slowly. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me by using the stiff legalese. He was certainly judging me. The woman. The Northerner. The junior.
He leant forward in his chair and looked at me.
‘I don’t want this to be difficult, Miss Day. I’m not an unreasonable man; I want this process to be as fair as possible, but I can’t just sit back and let my wife take everything she wants.’
‘I’m afraid the concept of “fair” isn’t for you or Mrs Joy to decide,’ I said carefully. ‘That’s why we have courts, judges, case law …’
I shifted tack: ‘Do we know her starting position?’ I knew some detail about the case already having spent two hours of the previous evening digesting it. But it was always better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
‘My wife wants half of everything. The houses, the money, the business … Plus, a share of future earnings.’
‘What is it you do?’ I asked briskly.
‘I head up a convertible arbitrage fund.’
I nodded as if I knew what that meant.
‘We trade off anomalies in the market.’
‘So you’re a gambler?’ I asked.
‘It’s financial investment.’
‘And is it successful?’
‘Yes. Very.’
I was reminded of Vivienne McKenzie’s words. About men and their buoyant self-confidence that makes them believe they are kings of the world.
‘We have only thirty employees, but it’s a very profitable business. I set the company up with my partner, Alex Cole. I own sixty per cent of the business, he owns the rest. The bulk of my assets are my shares in the business. My wife wants the valuation of my shareholding to be as high as possible. She’d prefer liquid cash to shares.’
‘When did you start the business?’ I said, writing it all down.
‘Fifteen years ago.’
‘Before your marriage,’ I muttered. According to the file, they had been married for eleven years.
‘We should probably go through the Form E,’ said David Gilbert.
I nodded. I had seen the financial disclosure documents for both Martin and his wife. His were remarkably similar to the dozens of other declarations of wealth I had seen over the years. The properties dotted around the world, cars, art, and overseas bank accounts.
I ran my finger down the form that his wife had submitted.
Donna Joy, a thirty-four-year-old with a Chelsea address, had the typically heavy expenditure and low personal income that seemed standard for a woman in her position.
There were pages of it, although my eyes picked out the more remarkable details.
‘Annual expenditure on lunches: £24,000,’ I muttered out loud.
‘That’s a lot of sushi,’ said Martin.
I looked up and our eyes met. I’d been thinking exactly the same thing.
‘She claims she is unemployable. Mental fragility …’ I noted.
Martin gave a soft, quiet snort.
‘Has she ever worked?’
‘When we met, she was the manager of a clothes shop, but she handed her notice in once we got married. She said she wanted to educate herself, so I paid for a lot of courses. Art courses, mainly. I set her up in a studio. She works there, but she won’t call it work for divorce purposes.’
‘Does she sell her stuff?’
‘A little. Honestly, it’s more of a vanity project, but she enjoys it. Her paintings are quite good.’
His face softened and I found myself wondering what she was like. I could picture her now. Beautiful, a little bohemian … high maintenance, definitely. I felt I knew her without having met her.
‘And everything that’s listed here. That’s it?’
‘You mean, am I hiding anything?’
‘I need to know everything. Pensions, off-shore accounts, shareholdings, trusts. We don’t want any surprises. Besides, she’s asking for forensic accounting into your affairs.’
‘So what do you think?’ asked Martin finally. I noticed that his shirt was very white.
‘Your wife is young, but she enjoyed a very high standard of living during the marriage. You had what we call a mid-length marriage. Her claim would have been more concrete if you had been together over fifteen years, less so if you were married under six years.’
‘So we’re in a grey area that the law loves.’
‘Provision for the financially weaker spouse is generous in this country. The start point is generally one of equality. But we can argue that she didn’t really contribute to the accumulation of wealth, that the business is a non-matrimonial asset.’ I scanned the file, checking a detail. ‘You haven’t got children. That helps.’
I looked up at him, realizing I shouldn’t 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.
‘We’re keen for a clean-break settlement,’ said David.
‘Absolutely.’ I nodded.
‘What sort of split do you think I can realistically expect?’
I didn’t like to be drawn on a number, but Martin Joy was the sort of client who expected answers.
‘We should start at a seventy–thirty split and go from there.’
I put my pen down, feeling exhausted, wrung out. I wished I hadn’t 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 fifty–fifty 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, I’m 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.
‘I’ll 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 (#u6c233fb2-285b-5114-9e41-849662fb051d)
I liked getting the bus home from work, not just because I was a little claustrophobic and hated the tube system. The number 19 took me from Bloomsbury all the way home to Islington. It was not the quickest way to get to and from my place of work, but it was my favourite way to commute. I liked the head-clearing walk down Fleet Street and Kingsway to the bus stop, past the red telephone boxes outside the Old Bailey, and the church of St Clement Danes, especially when its mournful bells rang out the tune to the old nursery rhyme, ‘Oranges and Lemons’. And once I had boarded the bus, I enjoyed observing the sights and sounds of the city. When I first came to the capital, I used to spend the whole day riding the number 19 route, face pressed to the glass, watching the city drift by: Sadler’s Wells, the twinkling lights of the Ritz, the exclusive stores of Sloane Street, then down to Cheyne Walk and Battersea Bridge. It was a distilled version of the best the city had to offer, all for the price of a Travelcard. It was the London of my childhood dreams.
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 I’ve met one, thought I was off out for birthday drinks. But I didn’t 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 couldn’t 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. I’d 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 Paul’s 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.
‘I’m 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 didn’t want to short-change them or have them think I was tight.
