I went to see my doctor a few hours after waking up at Pete’s flat. I didn’t want to go, but all the signs of toxicity were there, nausea, diarrhoea, tremors. Dr Katz had been treating me for years, although to date it had been little more than a maintenance job. He took my blood, checked my lithium levels and warned me that binge drinking on my dosage of medication was incredibly foolish. We talked about my condition. I explained that I had not had any manic or depressive episodes in a while. I considered my bipolar to be under control although my blackout hinted that it was still hiding in the shadows. Dr Katz confirmed it always would be.
I didn’t go back into the office until Thursday, until I physically felt human again. I used the time to finish my QC application form – the closing date was hours away – and I welcomed the distraction. I even phoned my mother and enjoyed her banal chit-chat about the woman in the post office and the price of potatoes in the Co-op, conversation I once found dull and alien, but which now seemed like a comforting fairy tale about a world I wished I could fall back into. The rest of the time, I slept. I slept and I read and dug out a self-help book that had once been useful. This too shall pass.
Burgess Court had a library on the first floor. It was one of the things that almost made me weep with joy when I turned up here on my first day of pupillage. There was a view over Temple Gardens from the leaded bay window. Hansard reports and leather-bound books lined the room. For serious study, I went to the Inner Temple library, but this was a place to think and plot and wonder. Usually it was about case law, but today I was on my laptop, scrolling through various medical websites and bipolar forums. Some of it was stuff I had known for years, some of it was impenetrable – extracts from papers scribed by psychiatrists and academics. Most useful were the threads. Real people and their experiences of blackouts. The drug-takers, the army vets, the depressed and the damaged.
I heard the door open. Paul stood there for a moment and closed it behind him. He paused, then turned the key.
‘What’s this? A lock-in?’ I asked, clicking the browser back to Google.
‘There’s nowhere to properly talk in this place. You can’t get two people in your office, there’s not a minute’s peace in mine.’
I smiled and put my pen down.
‘Preparing for tomorrow? The Joy vs Joy FDR.’
I wasn’t sure if he had seen the papers on the desk. The valuations for Martin’s business, accountancy reports, the Form E’s. I had marked up in red the areas where the two parties still disagreed. I was aware that it was going to be a combative day in court, and I knew I had to over-prepare. Today, though, it was easy to be distracted.
‘I’m meeting David Gilbert in an hour.’
‘Is the client coming?’
‘No need. Gilbert saw him yesterday,’ I said briskly, glad that I had been able to convince my instructing solicitor that an additional pre-hearing pow-wow was not necessary.
‘Do you think you’ll settle tomorrow?’
‘You mean, do I think it will go all the way to court?’
‘Think of the lovely fees,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
‘I’d rather not.’
Paul took a seat next to me. He drummed his fingers on the walnut surface then laid his hand out flat.
‘Are you all right?’ he said finally.
‘Of course I am. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. You just seem a bit … different.’
‘Just busy,’ I said, closing my laptop.
‘Did you get your silk application in?’
‘In the nick of time.’ I smiled.
‘Nick of time? That’s not like you.’
‘Like I say, I’ve been busy.’
Paul nodded, unconvinced.
‘I’ve set you up an appointment with Liz Squires. She heads up JCI consultants. They’ve coached dozens of wigs through the silk application process.’
‘How much is that going to cost me?’
Neither of us spoke. I could only hear silence and I thought how rare that was in a London office in this day and age.
‘You do know, if there’s a problem you can come and speak to me?’
‘I know that. You don’t have to worry about me.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘Paul, what’s the problem here?’
‘I spoke to Justice Herring today. You were supposed to meet him for lunch on Tuesday.’
Malcolm Herring was supposed to be one of the references for my QC application. A well-respected, and connected, high court judge, a glowing report from him would mean you were halfway to silk. But between the hangover and arranging my appointment with Dr Katz, I had forgotten all about it and stood him up.
I squirmed in my chair.
‘I was ill and slept for most of the day. I couldn’t call to cancel the meeting.’
‘You could have got me to.’
‘You were already rearranging my work.’
‘By the way, Tom took the Brown vs Brown contact order. He got what you wanted.’
‘Of course he did.’
Paul rubbed his chin and looked at me with disappointment.
‘As I said, if you need me for anything, just say the word.’
‘I know,’ I said quietly.
His expression hardened, his soft eyes held a hint of warning.
‘We’re a family in chambers. I will protect you, no matter what. But you have to tell me everything, because I can only help you if I know the truth.’
I smiled and put my hand gratefully over his, and thought how easy it was to lie.