I don’t know who first came up with the nickname ‘the Piranha’ for Robert Pascale, but it was wholly appropriate when it came to his legal reputation. A former investment banker turned divorce lawyer, he had created a lucrative niche for himself at the very top end of the market – his speciality being the sort of bank-balance depleting, pip-squeezing court cases that made Daily Mail headlines and millionaire businessmen shiver.
But Robert Pascale did not look like a ruthless carnivore. His appearance was that of an old-school dandy, silver hair swept back from his face, impeccable suits with a top pocket in a contrasting shade of silk. Out of court, he was invariably charm itself, and I knew that charm was about to be directed at me when I saw him in the corridors of High Holborn’s Central Family Court.
He put his mobile phone back in his pocket as I approached him.
‘Francine, How are you? You’re looking so radiant I’d have to kiss you if I wasn’t afraid the client might see us and think I was fraternizing with the enemy.’
I laughed nervously at the mention of his client. I had come early, without David, without Martin, for two reasons. The thought of being alone with Martin was one that filled me with both terror and excitement. I had not seen him since I had left his Spitalfields loft two days earlier. We had texted like teenagers the afternoon I had received my leather bag and panties, but our correspondence had tailed off to more sober exchanges that involved me reassuring him about the First Directions meeting, and the anxiety that had invariably followed had made me think that my forgotten medication had been more damaging than I thought.
But I also wanted to come early to see her. To see Donna. I did not want my first sight of Martin’s wife to be in a windowless courtroom, when I knew that all eyes would be upon me, and I could not be trusted to hide my curiosity and my emotions.
‘I’m very well, Robert,’ I said, glancing around the corridor. ‘So where are your troops? I thought you’d be locked in conference.’
‘Jeremy Mann is here. We’re just waiting for the client,’ he said, starting to send another text before he diverted his full attention back to me. ‘So. Tell me about the rumour that you are applying for silk this time around.’
I gave a good-natured snort. I figured it wouldn’t do my career any harm if word got out that I was applying.
‘Would it mean you might instruct me every now and then?’ I asked him pointedly, not needing to remind him that he was one of the few leading family law solicitors who had never done so. I suspected it was because Robert Pascale was a snob and, despite the fact that his stock in trade was representing women, he was also a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist.
He leant in and touched me on the shoulder.
‘If you are applying for QC, Francine, go easy on any headline-grabbing stunts. This is a divorce case, two people’s lives, not a professional showcase,’ he said with a hint of warning.
‘You know I always play fair,’ I replied as I glanced up at the big clock and knew that David and Martin would soon be here.
I excused myself and went to find a free interview room, texting David to let him know where he could find me.
I pulled the small bottle of Evian water from my bag and took a sip and glanced around the room. The Central Family Court lacked the grandeur of the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand, where you could feel the years of history. It had the look and feel of a comprehensive school and the room in which I was sat was cold and bland.
After a few minutes I heard the door open behind me and David and Martin came into the room. I had been willing myself to remain calm, but at the sight of him I felt my heart race and all I could think about were the words of a text he had sent me two days previously.
I like the taste of your cunt.
I avoided shaking hands by motioning towards the table. They sat down and I launched into a prepared speech about what we could expect that morning, how I proposed to apply for a high court judge to preside over the Financial Dispute Resolution, how to keep things as straightforward and non-confrontational as possible.
‘Jeremy Mann has brought Richard Sisman with him,’ I informed David.
‘Who’s that?’ Martin cut in.
I took another sip of water and noticed that my hand was trembling.
‘Richard is Jeremy’s junior counsel.’
Martin frowned.
‘Shouldn’t we have someone else?’
His voice had a note of accusation and panic in it.
‘You don’t need anyone else at a First Appointment.’
‘Then why have they got one?’
His hostility unnerved me. I didn’t know what I had been expecting. Had I expected him to flirt with me? Comment on the new leather bag I had brought with me?
‘The attendance of counsel isn’t necessary at these preliminary meetings,’ I said, feeling my heart pound faster.
‘Then why are you here? And why’s Donna got two barristers?’
I glanced at David Gilbert and shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
‘Games,’ I said with as much authority as I could muster. ‘Two barristers at a First Appointment is the legal equivalent of a military show of might. The Russians parading their weapons. But it’s pointless, unnecessary and expensive. I’m all for a bit of posturing, but within reason. Robert Pascale, on the other hand, is an expert at spending other people’s money.’
‘But perhaps that’s why he’s so successful. Spend to earn.’
‘Martin. You have to trust us.’
Our eyes locked and I saw a softening apology in his expression. I knew I had to take everything less personally, but it set my resolve to do whatever I could for him.
‘It’s almost ten,’ I said, scooping up my files. ‘We should go.’
We walked in silence to chambers, one of the small courtrooms used for more informal proceedings.
The judge was already in the room at the head of the long conference table. Jeremy Mann and his junior were also sitting down. Robert was standing in the corner of the room checking his messages. I could not see Donna Joy anywhere.
I took a seat opposite Mann and arranged my papers and collected my thoughts. I put my pen horizontally above my file, pointing to the left. A mechanical pencil and a block of Post-it notes were put to the left and right like a knife and fork.
Soft murmurs rippled around the room, otherwise all we could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
It was now a few minutes after ten o’clock and still there was no sign of Mrs Joy. I glanced towards District Judge Barnaby and caught his eye. He was a judge of the old school, on the verge of retirement, irascible but efficient, and I could tell by the arch of his brow that he was anxious to get on with another day at the coal-face of the breakdown of human relationships.
‘Are we ready?’ asked District Judge Barnaby finally.
Robert Pascale looked unhappy.
‘We’re just waiting for my client,’ he explained.
Barnaby tapped his pen lightly against the table.
‘And are we expecting her soon?’ he said pointedly.
‘Any minute,’ Pascale said glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll just go and wait outside for her. She might have got lost.’
I didn’t dare look at Martin, who had started muttering to David in such a low voice that I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Robert left the room for what seemed like a very long time. When I heard the door open again, I couldn’t resist turning round, expecting to see her, immaculate and unflustered despite her late arrival, but instead it was Pascale, looking unusually agitated.
‘No sign,’ he said.
‘Have you called her?’ asked Jeremy Mann pompously.
‘I’ve tried, but it’s going straight to message. I spoke to her yesterday, and she was all set for today.’
‘Maybe there’s bad traffic.’ Martin said it as if he didn’t believe it.
‘Five more minutes,’ said Barnaby witheringly. ‘I have a very busy court list.’
‘I suggest that we start without Mrs Joy,’ said David, looking at me for approval. I knew what he was about to ask without him saying anything.
Robert objected but District Judge Barnaby raised a hand.
‘Fine,’ he said, looking seriously unimpressed.
‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ spat Martin as we left chambers forty minutes later.
‘Her presence really wasn’t necessary,’ reassured David.
We watched Robert and his team disappear down the corridor.
Martin was still shaking his head.
‘Are you going to speak to her?’ I asked.
He gave a light snort. ‘I don’t think anything I say will have any impact on her behaviour.’
‘Behaviour?’
‘It’s just so bloody typical of her.’
David looked sympathetic. ‘It’s not the first time a client hasn’t turned up to court. Happens more often than you might think. And perhaps Robert had implied that it was just a fairly rudimentary hearing …’
I tried to catch Martin’s eye, tried to work out what he was thinking but he looked unhappy and distracted.
‘What happens now?’ He focused his entire attention on David. I felt a heavy thump of disappointment.
‘As you saw in there, we set out a timetable for events. Now we need to gather information, liaise with Robert, wait for a date for the FDR.’
‘Which should be when?’
‘Six to eight weeks, with a bit of luck. If the forensic accounting doesn’t hold us up.’
‘Let me know. I’m off to Switzerland tomorrow; it’s been booked for a while and I don’t want to cancel, but it’s only for a week.’
I knew this information already. It had been mentioned in passing at the Spitalfields loft and at the time I wondered if he had been gearing up to fob me off.
‘Will do,’ said David, shaking his hand.
Martin turned to me to repeat the gesture.
He took my palm and held it a moment longer than necessary. As his fingers curled against mine, I thought about them inside me. Where they had been on Tuesday night. Where I wanted them to be right now.
‘See you next time,’ I said finally.
He nodded, and turned to leave without another word. I watched his form retreat into the distance and I was so transfixed I didn’t even stop to wonder if David Gilbert had noticed any spark or awkwardness between me and our client.
‘One day people with money will find themselves some manners,’ said David when he was out of earshot.
‘Martin?’ I asked with panic.
‘The wife. It’s so bloody disrespectful.’
‘Maybe she’s ill. Or got the wrong day.’
‘Maybe,’ said David cynically.
‘I think we should consider a researcher,’ he added after a pause.
‘What for?’
‘I handled a divorce recently. It was pretty unremarkable from a legal point of view, but it was a soap opera of a story. That wife didn’t turn up to her First Appointment either. We thought she was just being cavalier until I found out that she’d moved to LA without telling her husband. Hooked up with some multimillionaire record producer out there, all the while trying to screw my client for fifty per cent of his business.’
‘So you don’t trust Donna Joy either.’ I was aware of the glee in my own voice.
‘I just want to know what we are dealing with at her end,’ said my instructing solicitor. ‘If we can prove she is seeing someone … a rich new someone … that might help our cause.’
‘I know just the person who can help us,’ I replied.
There was little left to say to David. His thoughts had already turned to his next meeting, another client. We said our goodbyes and I stood in the lobby wondering how to kill time before a prohibited steps application that was listed for noon. There was no point returning to chambers so I went to Starbucks for a coffee, and read through my notes.
Sitting by the window, I pulled out my iPad and used it to surf the net. Usually I checked the headlines or the weather, but today I found myself typing in Donna Joy. The first three pages of search results yielded nothing I hadn’t read before, but as I dug deeper, I found the name of the studio from which she worked, a gallery that had exhibited her work, a party she had been to the previous summer. Most revealing of all was her Instagram account – endless stills of exotic locations, glamorous friends and smiling selfies, a window into a gilded world that made my own life seem lonely and colourless.
I stuffed the tablet back in my bag, put some red lipstick on in the loo and returned to court for my prohibited steps. I fed my coat and bag through the scanners and said hello to an acquaintance from law school who had also just arrived. The instructing solicitor for my next case had already texted to say that she was running late, so I hung around the foyer and read the court list.
I first noticed her out of the corner of my eye. It was her coat that grabbed my attention – hot pink and expensive-looking, the sort of item I would not wear myself on account of its colour, but could nonetheless admire.
I looked closer, and knew it was her. She was smaller than I expected, in the same way that the only two celebrities I have ever met were pocket-sized. Her hair was darker, more a rich toffee than a dark blonde. Her bag was large and exotic-looking – a textured skin I did not recognize. Lizard, alligator? I wondered if he had bought it for her.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
She turned to face me and I tried to absorb every detail of her face. Thin lips, strong brows, surprisingly little make-up on her pale, creamy skin, a long swan-like neck, around which hung a delicate gold necklace with the initial ‘D’.
She muttered under her breath with undisguised annoyance. ‘Not unless you can turn back time.’
I wanted to tell her that she was one hour fifty-two minutes late. That her solicitor would now be back at his office and that the wheels were in motion for her divorce. I wanted to ask her why she was so late. Was it a blow-dry to impress her husband, I wondered, looking at the smooth waves that fell over her shoulders. Or had she simply not bothered to write down the details of that morning’s application in her undoubtedly stuffed diary?
I stood motionless for a moment, my heart beating hard, wondering if I should introduce myself. But I knew she would find it strange and coincidental that the barrister she had met at the court lists was her husband’s own lawyer.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ I replied, gripping my leather bag tighter.
Her face softened as she smiled at me, and I knew exactly what Martin Joy had seen in her. The collar of my shirt felt tight against my neck, and I headed straight for the exit, desperate to get some fresh air.