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‘Do you consider that your behaviour was disorderly?’
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘I think the magistrates might.’
‘I’m pleading guilty, Frankie. I want to get out.’ She was desperate again. I was surprised. This woman had gone in and out of prison very regularly at the height of the demonstrations. She never agreed to be bound over to keep the peace, she was always sent to jail.
‘OK.’ She knew the score. I would follow her instructions.
It was five to ten. I went back upstairs and spoke to the man representing the Crown Prosecution Service, who looked about fourteen. He had a large pile of buff-coloured files in front of him and was trying to talk to six barristers at once. I pushed myself to the front, hissing, ‘I’m a quickie, I’m a quickie,’ and got him to tell me what evidence the police were intending to give. Extraordinarily, their story was almost identical to my client’s, except that they said she asked a Belisha Beacon whether she was singing flat. ‘Lamp-post? Street furniture?’ I suggested hopefully. We settled on ‘inanimate object’ and I told him we would be pleading guilty. He seemed relieved.
The usher was bustling importantly at the back of the court, her black gown occasionally revealing flashes of a shocking pink dress. I pointed to the name of Baker on the list attached to her clipboard and told her that we were a five-minute job and we could be in and out before she had time to turn round. I thought I was being irresistible.
However it wasn’t until twenty-five past eleven that I leapt to my feet as Saskia was escorted into the dock. ‘I represent Miss Baker this morning, madam.’
They weren’t used to drunks looking like Saskia or being represented. The charge was put to Saskia, she pleaded guilty and I had hardly finished repeating my name for the third time for the benefit of the very old magistrate on the left when the chairwoman said, ‘Miss Richmond, we were thinking of a twenty pound fine and ten pounds costs or one day. Do you wish to say anything?’
‘No, madam.’
‘You may stand down, Miss Butcher.’
‘Baker,’ I corrected.
‘Yes.’
By being in custody overnight Saskia had served her one day in prison so she wouldn’t have to pay the fine. She knew that and grinned at me as she walked out.
I bowed to the bench, picked up my Guardian and slid along the seat. A shifty-looking man in his mid thirties, wearing a shapeless brown jacket with the collar up, and holding a spiral notebook, approached me at the back of the courtroom.
‘Miss Eh … ?’
‘Yes?’ I said pleasantly. I noticed that he bit his nails.
‘Your client there, isn’t she also known as Saskia Baron?’
‘You’d better ask her.’
‘And how do you spell your name, Miss Eh … ?’
‘Correctly,’ I said primly, and walked to the door of the court as he slid over to speak to the officer in the case. It was eleven thirty exactly.
Saskia appeared from the lavatory and we walked out to my car, which was parked in a side turning off Holloway Road. There was five minutes left on the meter.
‘Did that journalist speak to you?’ I asked her as she got into the car.
‘What journalist?’ she asked, clicking her seat belt into place.
‘In the courtroom,’ I said as I slowly turned the car in the narrow street where I had parked. ‘He had pock-marked skin and was wearing brown shoes. There he is –’ I watched him cross the road. ‘Why’s he leaving at this time? He can’t have finished work, it’s too early. And I doubt your case is the scoop of the day, it’s hardly frontpage news.’
As I waited for a large lorry to squeeze past me, I saw the man get into the passenger seat of a dark saloon car.
‘Where?’ Saskia twisted in her seat, as the car moved away in the opposite direction. ‘Where?’ Her voice was loud and anxious.
‘He’s gone,’ I said, irritated that she hadn’t seen him, concerned by her reaction. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her. I didn’t tell her he’d had a driver.
Saskia sat with her head back and her eyes closed, as if savouring her freedom. As we turned into Holloway Road I asked, ‘Do you want to nip in and see Kay? Her office is just down here. You could have a wash and brush up, then we could go somewhere nice for coffee. There are some good places on Church Street.’
Saskia pulled down the sun visor and looked at her face in the mirror. ‘Oh my God, look at me,’ she said mournfully, touching her face with her fingertips. ‘My cheek, my eye – Frankie, I can’t go out in public looking like this. Can we just go to your place? Would that be OK? I can’t face seeing anyone. Perhaps I could I have a bath or something …’
I looked at my watch. I could hear the appeal papers in Morris calling me. Rapidly I reorganised my timetable. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘OK.’ We drove past Kay’s office and I touched her arm gently. ‘You don’t look that bad.’
She smiled at me gratefully. ‘You know, you haven’t changed a bit,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘You’re still … well, smart and crisp, all professional in your black clothes,’ she said. ‘I like your hair, is it different?’
‘No.’ I looked at myself quickly in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s always been like this.’ It was short at the back and long at the front. ‘I’ve just had some blonde streaks put in, to highlight the brown or something.’ I flicked my fringe back.
‘Well, it’s lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘It’s like coming home.’
At my flat I ran a bath in my small white bathroom and found some green herbal essence which filled the room with something vaguely related to the smell of fields and trees as I poured it under the running tap. I put out two giant blue towels and an old clean shirt of mine and left her to it. In the kitchen I made coffee and took some apple strudel out of the freezer to put into the microwave on Saskia’s reappearance.
I rang chambers and told Gavin I’d be in later.
‘You’ve got a couple of messages,’ he said. ‘Can you please ring Dr Henry. And someone called Hayman or Wayman rang – I can’t read this, Jenna wrote it, she’s a lovely girl, but her handwriting’s shocking – anyway, I think it says it’s not urgent and they’ll ring back.’
‘Who is Dr Henry?’ I asked.
‘I thought you knew,’ he said. ‘She said he’d ring you at home, he has your number.’
‘Who did?’
‘The secretary. I thought it was personal.’ He gave me Dr Henry’s number again, reminded me of my appeal papers and rang off.
I dialled the number. ‘Dr Henry’s surgery,’ an efficient female voice said.
‘Is Dr Henry there?’ I could hear Saskia singing something folky in the bath.
‘I am afraid Dr Henry is in consultation at this moment. Could I ask you to call back later?’
‘Well, no,’ I said. ‘Dr Henry appears to be trying to contact me.’
‘What is this concerning?’ The thin voice was guarded.
‘I have no idea. My name is Frances Richmond.’
‘Oh, Miss Richmond,’ her tone was concerned, caring, ‘I’m afraid Dr Henry is so busy right now, but I’ll say that you called. I know that the doctor is very anxious to speak with you.’
I thanked her and put the phone down as Saskia came in, smelling sweet and looking much better than I ever did in my grey denim shirt. Her blonde hair stood up in wet spikes.
‘Frankie, that was a life-saver. Mmm, something smells wonderful.’ She sat down at the kitchen table as I poured coffee into two cups. The autumn sun cut through the French doors. Outside two late pink roses swayed in the wind. Saskia looked like a battered angel as her hair dried into soft pale layers.
The microwave pinged and I took out the strudel. I cut slices and put them on my blue and yellow Italian plates. ‘Now,’ I said, pulling out a chair, ‘we are going to do some serious talking.’
She nibbled her strudel.
‘First of all,’ I began, ‘where do those bruises come from?’
She picked up her cup and ran her fingers across the blue-painted rim. She took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Heaven.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well …’
The phone rang in the living room.
‘Frankie! You’re in! I was going to leave a message on your machine.’
‘Lena, I’m a bit busy at the moment. Can I call you back?’
‘Well, actually, sweetie, you can’t – that’s what I’m ringing about. I’m just off for three days to Paris.’
‘Paris!’ I turned to raise my eyebrows at Saskia, to see her disappearing into the hall.
‘Saskia!’ I called and heard the front door click.
‘Frankie? Frankie?’
‘Look, Lena, I’ve got to go.’
‘I’m ringing just to say I’m going to Paris with Sophie.’
‘With Sophie? My God. I thought you two weren’t talking to each other.’ I stretched the cord of the phone as far as I could and looked out of the large bay window. I banged on the glass as I saw Saskia heading towards Stoke Newington High Street.
‘She rang last night after I spoke to you and said she was exhausted and –’
‘Lena, I’ve got to go.’
‘You’re not upset, are you?’
‘No, no, have a lovely time, send me a postcard. Bye bye.’
‘It means I shan’t be able to make the film.’
‘No problem. Bye.’
‘OK. Bye. I’m sorry. Bye.’
I slammed down the phone and ran out of the house. At the corner of the road there was no sign of Saskia but a 149 bus was sailing majestically towards Dalston. ‘Shit,’ I said and turned back to the flat. ‘Shit,’ I said again as I realised I was locked out.
THREE (#ulink_0679cd01-b7a9-53f8-a49a-bc23c38b5cbf)
Thursday Afternoon – Chambers (#ulink_0679cd01-b7a9-53f8-a49a-bc23c38b5cbf)
‘You look a bit cold, Frankie,’ Gavin said, as I walked into chambers an hour later. ‘You should have come out in a coat.’
‘I should have come out with my handbag, keys and wallet and then I wouldn’t have had to walk most of the way and been frozen half to death,’ I said stiffly. I had found a pound in my jacket pocket but I’d had to get off the bus at Liverpool Street. I had come into chambers because I kept a spare set of house keys in the drawer of my desk. I know most people have a good friend or neighbour who looks after a spare set of keys for moments such as this, but Lena lived in Finsbury Park, which was too far away, and I didn’t know my neighbours very well.
There had been attempts, by my neighbours, when I first moved in to the flat. The woman who lived in the top flat invited me to a make-up party. It was shortly after my split with Kay, and I thought I could buy my way back to attractiveness and social success through cosmetic products. As it turned out, I spent the evening feeling bleak and out of place and signed a cheque for £27.50 for two small bottles of something green for my complexion. I hadn’t spoken to them since.
I felt I could do with something green for my complexion now, particularly my nose, which I knew was red and glowing.
I thought that was the reason for Gavin’s stunned look. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in, so Marcus is having a con in your office.’ He was apologetic. ‘He’s, eh, he’s only just gone in.’
I groaned. Marcus was famous for his two-hour conferences with clients.
‘Think of it this way,’ Gavin said, ‘he’s a sad bloke and it’s the only social life he’s got.’ Marcus was a self-made upper class man. He had changed his voice, his education and his background to become more aristocratic than any of them.
‘Think of it this way: I’m a sad woman,’ I said, thinking of the now cold cup of coffee and the congealing slice of apple strudel waiting to be eaten in my kitchen. ‘I am not Marcus’s social secretary. This means I can’t even get on with my appeal papers.’
I slumped on to a chair.
‘Jenna’s just popped out to pick up some books from the High Court,’ Gavin said. Jenna was the newest recruit in the clerks’ room, our fourth junior clerk. ‘So you can sit there for a moment.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. There was a constant battle in the clerks’ room between the clerks trying to retain their territory and barristers wanting to flop down in the secure and busy atmosphere of the centre of chambers.
‘I think Simon wanted to speak to you, actually.’ Gavin picked up the phone. ‘Simon, Frankie’s in. Didn’t you say you wanted a word? She looks as if she needs lunch … He’s coming right down,’ he said to me.
‘Gavin!’
My life was an open book to the clerks, but Gavin still persisted in trying to get me off with men.
‘I know you’re, you know, That Way,’ Gavin had said to me in the pub one evening, ‘but I also see you as a very open-minded person.’ He had been drunk. ‘Now Simon, he’s just the type of man you could do with.’
‘Does he dust? Does he clean? Would he have my dinner on the table when I got in?’
Gavin blinked at me.
‘Well then, what’s the point?’ I said.
‘No no, he’s, he’s, well, you’re a bit of a thinker, aren’t you? And Simon isn’t. What, for you, could be more perfect? A lot of ladies do find him good looking, you know.’ Gavin had been looking at too many computer screens. ‘Plus, he’s loaded.’
Thinking of the pots of money I knew Simon had inherited only recently after the death of a doting grandmother, his regular private income and his part share in a farm, when he walked into the clerks’ room, I said, ‘All right, Simon, you can take me out for lunch.’ I looked at his wide smile and his good teeth. He really was quite good looking in an old-fashioned way. If he paid more attention to his choice of tie, I thought, he’d be quite a catch for someone.
We went to the Café Rouge in Fetter Lane. As soon as we sat down Simon ordered a bottle of Bourgueuil.
‘Is that just for you, or are we sharing it?’ I asked as the waitress walked away.
