I wanted to stay in Sophie’s ordered, efficient orbit, but that offer wasn’t on the table. I was dispatched after another call came through from a journalist, and I could tell that my presence made her jumpy.
The concierge flashed me a suspicious glance as I returned to the lobby, but I ignored him and pushed my way through the revolving doors back on to the street.
I felt naked, floundering, when they deposited me back on the pavement. Gripping the fabric of my gown, I wondered what to do next, inhaling deeply, trying to use the fresh air to clear my thoughts. I knew that I should return to court. My briefcase would still be in chambers, that’s if it hadn’t suffered the humiliation of being taken to security. But as it was almost four, when most lawyers had left, or were about to leave court for the day, I figured if I could get to the Strand before the courts closed, I could retrieve my possessions without being seen by anyone I knew.
My mobile rang interrupting the planning of my next move.
‘What the actual fuck is going on Fran?’ boomed Paul into my ear.
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was obvious he hadn’t finished his tirade.
‘In thirty years of clerking, I have never had to grovel as much as I did this afternoon on your bloody behalf,’ he said, his voice shaking with emotion, as if I was someone who had just pranged his brand-new car. ‘Tanya Bryan is talking about suing you for malpractice, not to mention the client Vivienne and I had on the phone for something like an hour, demanding we crucify you on Parliament Hill. I mean what the fuck happened?’
He was angry, confused, frustrated, perplexed and I didn’t blame him. Until that moment, I had been his model pupil who never put a foot wrong, the safe pair of hands on her way to silk and glory for the practice. Now he’d turned round and discovered I was rotten to the core. I hadn’t just been caught smoking behind the bike sheds, I was in free-fall, hurtling towards full-scale delinquency. I didn’t say anything for at least five seconds.
‘I think I’m having a breakdown,’ I said finally.
I hadn’t planned the line, or rehearsed the excuse, and although it wasn’t strictly medically true, it was how I felt.
It was Paul’s turn to fall silent.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK,’ he repeated more firmly, as if this was finally something that made sense. There was a pause, then: ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
A motorbike roared past me, so I slipped into an empty doorway to speak more privately.
‘Not yet. But I’m going to.’
‘You should. Today.’
I felt like a teenager who had just told her parents that she was pregnant, with Paul as the stricken, disappointed father. I heard him let out a deep breath.
I almost didn’t dare ask the next question. I knew what he was going to say, but I had to hear him say it, despite my hopes that my bizarre behaviour would have prompted the judge to adjourn the case.
‘What happened, Paul? With the case, I mean. What happened with Khan vs Khan?’
‘The judge granted temporary leave to remove.’
‘Any safeguards?’
‘No. Apparently you didn’t ask for any, so the mother had to hand over the kid’s passport.’
‘We can appeal …’ I said, even though I knew there was no way anyone would let me near the case again.
‘Fran, leave it. It’s done.’
Tears prickled behind my eyeballs, every emotion of the day crystallizing into a knot of panic and pain.
‘No. We must, for the child’s sake. If you can send someone to pick up my files, I can sort this … I’ll call Tanya.’
‘Please don’t.’
I didn’t need him to tell me that I was the last brief on earth she’d allow near one of her cases now, let alone this particular fuck-up.
I was only half listening as he continued speaking, though I registered the most salient point of his prophecies: ‘We will have to work very hard to avoid a professional negligence claim. I can’t imagine her firm will ever instruct anyone from this chambers again …’
But perhaps it was a voice in my head telling me how this would all pan out.
‘Fran are you listening?’ he asked. ‘Where are you?’
‘Bond Street.’
‘What are you doing there? You need to get home.’
‘I know,’ I said quietly.
‘Do you need me to come round after work?’
It was unexpectedly touching in the midst of a pretty horrible day. I felt a strong pang of affection for our senior clerk. A strong, embarrassed pang of affection that told me his support and friendship was more than I deserved.
‘It’s fine,’ I replied. ‘I just need to take some time out for a couple of days.’
‘There’s no rush. You left some stuff in court, but I’ve arranged to bring it back here. I’ll reassign your caseload. Vivienne will oversee the Joy case. Obviously there’s no legal work there for the moment, but given the way it’s blown up in the press, there will be plenty of firefighting.’
I felt sick, my mind immediately turning to the files relating to the case. Vivienne or whoever took over would have to familiarize themselves with those files and I was struggling to remember what I had written in my notes, if there was anything incriminating in there, even if it was only a childish doodle that might expose our relationship.
‘Don’t do anything yet,’ I said carefully. ‘Let me speak to a doctor. I think I’m just having a wobble. Maybe some medication will sort me out. Everyone’s on something these days, aren’t they?’ I said, trying to make light of it.
‘You know he’s been arrested,’ he said after a pause.
‘Who?’ I said, a little too quickly.
‘Martin Joy.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Dave Gilbert emailed me. Didn’t he contact you?’
‘My phone’s been switched off,’ I lied.
‘If he’s charged, it’s a PR disaster,’ Paul muttered.
‘I know,’ I said, my fingers gripping the phone a little tighter. Then I rang off.
Paul wasn’t to know that I couldn’t go home. That my 500-thread-count sheets were now stained with Pete’s Carroll’s semen, that if I went back and made even the slightest noise, my neighbour might come back and want a repeat performance of what had happened the night before.
Dozens of people scurried past me, the energy of London as overpowering as aftershave, but at that precise moment I’d never felt more alone.
I paused before I sent Clare a message asking if she could meet me. Before Martin, she would always have been my first port of call, my safe harbour and sounding board, but I felt more remote from her than ever, and still hadn’t replied to the text she had sent me two days earlier.
I was relieved when she replied almost immediately and we arranged to see each other at her house in Queens Park.
I bought a packet of cigarettes on the walk to Oxford Circus, and stuffed my robe and wig into the five-pence carrier bag I’d asked for when I purchased my nicotine fix.
A stack of Evening Standards were piled high outside the tube station. I reached out to grab my copy, but stopped myself, knowing that reading another Donna Joy story was just torture.
I joined the jostle of commuters streaming into the station and headed for the Bakerloo line. Standing on the edge of the tube platform, I could feel the familiar hum as electricity began to flow through the rails, quickly followed by the rush of warm air as the train sped through the tunnel. I watched the headlights approach, wondering idly how fast an underground train moved as it came into the station, whether you’d feel the shock of the electricity before the speeding carriage smashed into you. Would you be killed instantly? Would you be dragged along, torn limb from limb, just a long red smear some traumatized tube worker or firefighter had to scrub away before the morning rush? But by the time I’d thought all this through, the train was already in the station, a solid wall filling the platform. The doors slid open, and I let the stream of zombie workers and disorientated tourists pass, then stepped inside, numbly sitting on a hard fold-down seat.
I didn’t usually take the tube – I preferred the anonymity of the bus where everyone faced away from you, and I liked the fact you could watch London pass by, unobserved. No one ever paid any attention to anyone on a bus. On the tube, people seemed to enjoy peering right into your face, it was almost a sport. Mercifully, the carriage was almost empty, just a smooching couple wrapped up in each other, and an elderly African man, eyes closed, swaying with the motion of the train. I could see my own reflection in the dusty window – eyes sunken, cheeks hollowed out – I averted my gaze.
It was getting dark by the time I got to North London. I lit a cigarette and walked slowly to Clare’s house, hestitant to even get there.
I turned into her street and ground the butt into the pavement with my foot. It was cold now too, and I pulled up the collar on my thin black jacket to stop a chill at the back of my neck. For a moment, I allowed myself to slip into self-pity. But then I thought of Martin, at the police station, anxious and afraid, lying on a thin mattress with only rank sweat-stained air to breathe. How I longed to be with him, to stride in there waving my new briefcase, demanding that the duty sergeant release my client or, failing that, lock me up next to him.
Clare lived in a smart terrace, sandwiched in a row of identical houses on a quiet road off Salusbury Road. I knocked on her front door and took a moment to look around her tiny front yard. There was a flower box I had never noticed before on the window ledge, where a clutch of pansies and crocuses were beginning to bud in the soil. A row of empty milk bottles stood in a line on the step, waiting to be collected by the milkman, and the domestic order of the scene made me momentarily forget about my own chaos.
The door opened and a rush of warm air from the hall seemed to suck me in.
I didn’t say anything at first and Clare stepped on to her front step, pulling me into a hug.
‘Everything’s gone wrong,’ I said into her shoulder.
‘Get yourself inside and we can start with a big mug of tea.’
I followed her into the kitchen, the scene of countless Sunday lunches. The lights had been dimmed, candles lit so that it smelt of figs and flowers; I don’t know if this effort had been especially for me, but it did help to soothe my panic.
‘Where do you want me to start?’ I said, as Clare switched on the kettle.
‘Well, I’ve read the papers. Worked out some of the bits you haven’t told me.’
She had every right to be angry with me; Clare was supposed to be my best friend and I’d deliberately kept the details of my relationship from her. An omission, yes, but it might as well have been a fat lie. But there was no disapproval or disappointment in her voice.
‘So I assume Martin is your client,’ she said, not waiting for me to answer. ‘And the Donna Joy in the papers is his wife, correct?’
‘Clare, that’s why I never said anything at the gallery or the party. It was awkward. And of course, I’m not supposed to be seeing my clients.’
Clare paused and looked embarrassed.
‘The Evening Standard’s reporting that someone has been arrested.’
‘You mean, is it Martin?’
‘I don’t want to pry …’ she said.
I nodded and closed my eyes.
‘It’s a mess, Clare,’ I whispered. ‘The fact they’ve arrested Martin means at the very least they think he’s hiding something. I feel so helpless, my head’s going round and round …’
I sank down on to the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. The kettle had boiled, and Clare made tea. She put the cup in front of me and I wrapped my fingers around the hot mug as she sat opposite me.
‘Take it slowly, tell me everything.’
So I told her. I told her how Martin and I had met, and how our relationship had developed after the night we bumped into each other in Selfridges – like lighting the fuse of a firecracker. I told her how happy he made me feel, and how desperate and crushed I had felt when Phil had told me that he thought Donna was still in a sexual relationship with her husband. I took a deep breath and told her I had followed Donna and saw her meet Martin at the restaurant, because I had to tell somebody what I had seen.
‘You followed Martin and Donna,’ she said slowly. ‘And that was the last night she was seen alive?’
I knew how it sounded, I could see the concern on her face, but I wanted her to know how I was feeling.
‘Clare, I had to find out,’ I said, close to tears. ‘I had to find out if I could trust him.’
She raised her eyebrows as if to say, Well, you certainly found that out, didn’t you?
‘So what happened then?’ she said. ‘After the restaurant? I mean, I read in the papers that Donna Joy just disappeared. Has Martin told you what happened that night?’
I nodded, dreading her next question.
‘They went home together,’ I replied.
‘Did he admit that?’
‘I followed them. You’d have done the same,’ I said, looking up at Clare, challenging her to deny it, but she didn’t react.
‘And then?
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered hugging myself. ‘The next thing I know, I was at home. I think I blacked out. I don’t remember getting there. Pete says I got a cab.’
‘Pete? Who’s Pete?’
‘My downstairs neighbour,’ I said quickly, not wanting to discuss him, not wanting to think about him. Instead, I stretched my arm across the table and grabbed her hand.
‘Clare, please, I need to know what happened that night I saw Martin and Donna. If I can just remember something, anything, maybe it can help Martin. Maybe I have information locked in here that can help find Donna,’ I said, tapping my temple. ‘Maybe I saw her leave. I mean, she’s unpredictable, selfish. Who knows, maybe I saw someone else go inside or someone come to collect her. A number plate maybe or … I don’t know.’ The words were tumbling out of my mouth and Clare looked at me sceptically.
‘Were you drinking?’ She was disapproving now.
‘I was upset.’
‘Francine, you shouldn’t drink when you’re on your medication, not to mention the condition itself.’
I held up my hands to stop her. ‘I know, I know.’ We’d had this discussion enough times down the years, I didn’t need to hear it again right now.
‘How much?’ she asked. ‘How much did you have to drink?’
‘A lot. Look, Clare, you need to help me recover my memory,’ I begged. ‘Martin needs us to help him.’
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Because you don’t believe he’s innocent?’ I said incredulously.
‘I can’t,’ she repeated, more firmly.
‘What do you mean, can’t?’ I frowned. ‘There’s got to be a way.’
Clare shook her head sadly.
‘Memories lost in an alcohol blackout can’t be brought back.’
‘What? Why?’ I said, hearing the panic in my voice. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I needed her to help me trawl my memory. She had to help me retrieve some fragment of information that could help Martin.
‘Because those memories were never properly imprinted on the brain. The theory is that alcohol saturates the blood and shuts down the hippocampus, the bit of the brain responsible for long-term memories. So those memories aren’t lost, Fran, they were never formed in the first place.’
I felt the darkness swirling up around me, like leaves in a sudden wind.
‘No, I have to help him.’
Clare laid a hand over mine. For a second I thought she was restraining me.
‘Look, I know you want to believe that Donna is going to turn up any minute, that Martin’s got nothing to do with her going missing. And it might be true. But you’ve also got to prepare yourself. The police must have strong suspicions if they’ve actually arrested him. Statistics show that the spouse is by far the most likely suspect in a murder.’
‘Murder?’ I snapped, cutting her off. ‘She’s not dead, Clare. She’s missing – on holiday. In Hong Kong, at the spa, I don’t know. She’s somewhere.’
Clare recoiled and I realized I had been too forceful in my reaction. I softened my tone as I spoke again.
‘Look, I trust Martin,’ I said. ‘I know the statistics, I know what everyone is thinking. I’ve even had those same thoughts myself. But you don’t know him like I do. You have to trust me. Please.’
‘Shh …’ she whispered. ‘We will work this out.’
I looked at her and nodded. It’s what Clare had said when I was nineteen, when she had found me in the bath, dark ribbons streaming from my wrists. She’d held me while the ambulance came and stayed with me at the hospital, and had been the powerhouse behind getting me the right psychiatric help and support at university. She had seen me at my lowest, at my most vulnerable, Clare had made it OK.
‘Do you want to stay here tonight?’
I opened my mouth to tell her about Pete Carroll, but, despite everything, I couldn’t. I wasn’t even sure yet if it was all real.
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘I’d love you to stay. I hardly see Dom these days. His entire world revolves around the restaurant. I’m not far off ringing the speaking clock for some company.’
‘You could call me,’ I said finally.
‘So could you, you know. I’m always here for you. Always have been, always will be. You only have to send out the bat signal.’
We both smiled at the memory. The ‘bat signal’ was a code, a pact we had made in the earliest days of my bipolar episodes, an agreement that I’d call Clare and tell her when I was out of control, that I needed urgent help.
‘I’m sorry we’ve not seen that much of each other over the past few weeks,’ I said. I was about to tell her that I never want to be that person who disappears when she gets a lover, but under the circumstances it seemed an inappropriate thing to say.
‘Come on, I’ll ring Dom and get him to send some food over from the restaurant.’
I nodded, grateful beyond words. All I wanted was to curl up, close my eyes and wish everything away.
Everything.