My Husband's Wife(63)

The guilt over Carla is getting worse. I’ve been hoping to go round and apologize, but there’s no answer to my knocks. One of our other neighbours said she heard ‘some kind of commotion’ on the evening of the night I last saw them. Is this my fault? Have they moved away because of what I said? The worry actually makes me feel sick.

‘Forget it,’ says Ed. ‘You’ve meddled enough.’

‘Aren’t you concerned about little Carla?’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘You can’t help everyone, Lily. She’s not our child.’

It’s amazing how an artist can take such care and compassion over a piece of work, while ignoring his subject’s well-being.

Yet isn’t that the same as the relationship between lawyer and client ? You’re together for hours, talking endlessly about a case. But when it’s over, your relationship is finished. Just like that. Or at least that’s how it’s supposed to be.

To be honest, I can’t help wondering where Joe Thomas is. What he’s doing. Whether he’s made it to Italy.

And then, one evening, he’s there. Hovering by the entrance to the office as I emerge after a long day’s work. How incredible that someone can change so much in a few weeks! Gone is the beard. Gone are the prison scrubs. Gone too are the brogues and shirt. This clean-shaven man in a moss-green tweed jacket (light-brown suede collar turned up) looks more like an estate manager than an insurance salesman.

‘I came to say goodbye.’

We fall into step beside each other, just as we did after the drink when we won the case. Even steps.

I don’t know where we’re going and I don’t care. In some ways, this man is more real to me than Ed. Haven’t I spent over half a year of my life trying to save him?

‘You’ve got a job?’

‘Yes.’ He speaks briskly. ‘I took your advice. Remember you talked about working in Italy? Well, I’ve gone for France instead.’

His arm brushes mine as we cross the road together.

‘A friend in Corsica wants me to help out with a renovation.’ He looks down at his hands. ‘I’m quite good with these. And it’ll be a change.’

‘Will there be a problem with the language?’

There’s a grin. ‘No, thanks to the prison library. I taught myself to speak French and Spanish.’

It doesn’t surprise me.

We’re going into a restaurant now. A smart one. ‘This is a thank you.’ He speaks as though this has all been arranged beforehand. Doesn’t he realize that I’m expected home? The presumption both irritates and thrills me. Yet I go along with it, allowing the waiter to take my coat.

‘You did a lot for me,’ he adds, handing me the menu. I use it to hide my blush.

‘I did my job.’ Then my questions pour out as though he is an old friend I haven’t seen for years. ‘How are you? What are you doing? Where are you living?’

‘The same friend in France has a place in Richmond. It’s rather nice.’

Richmond? I compare it in my mind with Clapham. The tiny kitchen where Ed is still drawing, unpaid, with job application forms around him.

‘What about you?’ His voice is direct. ‘How is married life?’

‘OK.’

I’m tempted to tell him about Ed and Davina, but I said too much the last time we met. I’m no longer drunk on too much G&T and that excited flush of having won the case. I have to remind myself that I have a position of responsibility here. Confidences are not appropriate.

‘Only OK?’

I manage a smile. ‘It’s great. We might be moving actually.’ I made that last bit up, but perhaps we will.

‘Sounds lovely.’ Joe Thomas sits forward in enthusiasm. ‘I can see it now, Lily. A country cottage. A horse like Merlin …’

‘Merlin?’ I say slowly. ‘I never told you the name of Daniel’s horse.’

‘Didn’t you?’

His smile is less certain now.

I go cold.

‘You had something to do with it, didn’t you?’

I expect him to deny it. Despite my question, I don’t believe it. There has to be some kind of plausible reason.

‘I had to.’ He rearranges his cutlery neatly around him. ‘I needed to keep you onside. If a lawyer doesn’t believe the client, he or she won’t try hard enough.’

Bile is flooding my mouth. ‘You poisoned Daniel’s old horse to get me “onside”? How?’

There’s a shrug. I’ve never seen him like this before – not with me. ‘I arranged for someone to slip something into his feed when your parents were out. I wanted to make you angry enough to believe my story.’

I stagger to my feet. His cunning is unbelievable. His honesty is breathtaking. Sickening.

‘And my bag? The one that was taken on Westminster Bridge?’ I am beginning to see it now. How stupid I’ve been! ‘You got someone to do that too so everyone in court thought someone in the boiler industry was trying to bully us?’

He shrugs. ‘It was the courts that messed up. The water was too hot. If they’re going to play dirty tricks, they have to expect the same.’

Tony Gordon, I suspect, might just agree. But not me. One wrong does not justify another.