My Husband's Wife(71)
The ironic thing is, after Tom was born, I was too busy to comfort-eat. My baby weight quickly disappeared (breastfeeding helped) and continued to do so as he grew older. The more my son smeared food on the wall, or – at times – something far worse, the less I felt able to eat. My inability to deal with a child who insisted on everything being in its place, yet at the same time was equally insistent on creating chaos, was far more effective than any diet. I also began to run before work. Just puffing once round the block at first, but then further. Running, especially at 6 a.m. when the world was just waking, helped me to escape the demons of my dreams.
As the weight fell off and my cheekbones began to perk up, I found myself able to slip into size twelves and then tens. I went to an expensive hairdresser in Mayfair and had my long blonde hair cut into a ‘take me seriously’ bob. People watch me now as I stride purposefully through the office in my new red stilettos. Power shoes. Clients do a double-take, as if one isn’t capable of winning a case and looking good. Once, in court, the opposing lawyer slipped me a note, asking if I’d like dinner that night. I turned him down. But I was flattered.
Court. That reminds me. I need to be there in precisely one hour. Ever since ‘that case’, I’ve specialized in serious cases like murder and manslaughter. Watching Tony Gordon strut across the floor all those years ago lit something inside me. Solicitors can take an extra qualification known as the Higher Rights of Audience in order to take on cases in court that would normally be handled by a barrister. It is another string to your bow and it increases your earning power considerably. So that’s what I did.
However, I will only take on cases if convinced of my client’s innocence. Any qualm on my part and I will pass him or her to someone else, claiming that I am ‘too busy’. I have no doubts about this afternoon’s case. A teenage girl. Knocked off her bike by a lorry driver. Justice has to be done.
‘Ready?’ I glance impatiently at our latest intern: a young boy fresh out of Oxford whose father is a friend of one of the other partners. I don’t like it, but what can you do? Nepotism flourishes when it comes to law. The boy is still fiddling with his Old Etonian tie as we stride along. ‘Aren’t we going to get a taxi?’ he whines.
‘No.’ My stride is long and measured. Walking is another way I continue to stay slim. And besides, the fresh autumnal air helps me to think as I run over the details of the case.
‘Do you get nervous in court?’ The boy looks up at me and I feel a touch of compassion. Good education and a privileged upbringing are no security blanket when it comes to baring yourself in front of a row of jurors and a judge – the latter don’t suffer fools kindly.
‘I don’t allow myself to be.’ We swing up the stone steps and into the court. It’s not as big as the Old Bailey but it’s imposing enough, with its grey stone pillars and clusters of black gowns, flapping as they walk. Unfair as it is, men still outnumber the women and yet …
‘Lily?’
I stop as a grey-faced, grey-haired man pauses beside me. Swiftly, I search my memory. I know him, I’m certain, yet his name eludes me.
‘You don’t recognize me.’ This was said in a rasping tone that was a statement rather than a question. ‘Tony. Tony Gordon.’
I’m shocked. I haven’t seen him for months, and then only in passing; just a small nod in recognition, as if we never spent all those hours together, heads close, poring over papers which would eventually result in a grave injustice. I’ve tried as hard as I can to forget those hours ever happened.
‘How are you, Lily?’ As he speaks – and as the shock dissipates – he touches his throat. And then I see it. An unmistakable lump rising from above the top of his collar. ‘Throat cancer,’ he rasps again. ‘They’ve done what they can, but …’
His words are almost swallowed by the busy, echoing voices around us. Beside me, my Oxford intern is shuffling from one foot to the other in embarrassment.
‘I saw your name on the list and wanted to catch you.’ Tony’s eyes – one of the few things that hasn’t changed about him – fall on my companion.
‘Can you wait over there, please?’ I tell the young man firmly.
My old colleague’s mouth twists as if in amusement. ‘You’re different. But I knew that already. Your reputation is spreading.’
I ignore the compliment. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Joe Thomas.’
My mouth dries. My body freezes. The sounds around us fade.
‘What about him?’
My mind goes back to the conversation I had with Tony all those years ago. The panicky phone call I made after Joe Thomas had proudly admitted his guilt. ‘What do we do?’ I begged.
‘Nothing,’ Tony replied. ‘He’s free and that’s it.’ His lack of surprise was all too clear.
‘You knew he was guilty?’
‘Suspected it. But I wasn’t sure. Besides, that doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes it does.’
‘Look, Lily. When you’re older, you’ll realize that this is a game. One which we have to win even if we’re dealt a bad card. There wasn’t enough evidence against Joe Thomas. Besides, it would have jeopardized all those other cases on the back of it. Just get over it. Move on.’
And that is the real reason I’ve tried not to cross paths with Tony Gordon again. It isn’t just the double life he led and the consternation on poor little Carla’s face as she tried to work out why her mother’s Larry was really called Tony. It’s because I don’t want to be a lawyer like him. My principles are higher. Or they should’ve been.