One Secret Summer (21 page)

‘If you’ll just come this way …’ The receptionist came around the desk. She looked Julia up and down quickly, sizing her up.
Briefcase – too shiny; shoes – too new; suit – decent but hardly designer. In her own navy blue skirt and pink shirt opened
at the
neck to reveal an impressive string of pearls,
she
looked as though she was the trainee barrister, not Julia. She followed the bobbing blonde ponytail down one wood-panelled
corridor after another. Men and women in suits floated in and out as they climbed the stairs to the office where Julia would
be working. ‘Good morning,’ the receptionist murmured quietly to each one, for which she received a quick, pained smile. It
was so different from the relaxed atmosphere at the OPBP; would she
ever
fit in? Julia wondered to herself, then quickly tried to suppress the thought. She was shown into a large office and given
a desk by the window. There were two other trainee barristers in the room. She shook hands with each: Daniel, a tall, imposing
man from Nigeria, and Christopher, a short, rather earnest-looking young man who seemed surprised to see a woman. She quickly
stowed her things away and was led back down the corridor. ‘You’ll be working with Harriet Peters,’ the receptionist told
her. ‘Third door on the left, just down the hall. She’s expecting you. Good luck,’ she said pleasantly and disappeared. Julia
nervously smoothed down her skirt and tapped on the door.

‘Come in.’ She pushed open the door tentatively. Seated behind an impressively polished desk was a formidably stern-looking
woman. She took off her spectacles and peered at Julia. ‘Harriet Peters. I’m the senior counsel in charge of the family unit.
Gerald and I thought it would be a good place for you to start. We’re a new section in the firm. There are some who think
family law is a complete waste of time – doesn’t bring in the sort of cash or cachet that corporate law does. I, of course,
think otherwise. I’ve no interest in your own feelings on the matter except to say that whilst you work for me, I expect a
hundred and ten per cent loyalty to the cause and nothing short of devotion. When you do your second six, assuming you get
that far, of course, you can take your skills into whatever area of the law you choose. Now, I see from your CV that you spent
a considerable amount of time at the OPBP. You’ll be familiar, therefore, with the sorts of issues we tackle. The case I’d
like you
to clerk on …’ Julia listened as Harriet outlined in exacting detail what it was she’d be doing for the rest of the week.
After she’d finished, she handed over a stack of files. ‘Library’s on the fourth floor,’ she said briskly. ‘Report back to
me after lunch.’ And that was it. Julia hastily got to her feet, aware that her heart was racing with a mixture of extreme
excitement and extreme trepidation. One thing was abundantly clear: Harriet Peters wasn’t about to give anyone – least of
all another woman – a break. A first from Oxford meant nothing, or so her expression implied. Julia Burrows was there to
work
.

For the rest of the week, Julia did nothing but run from her office to the law courts, her arms piled high with Harriet’s
legal briefs and notes. When she was asked to do something other than fetch and carry, she spent hours in the library on the
fourth floor. The view over Fleet Street was the only respite from dusty tomes and leatherbound books that had been so well
thumbed the gold lettering was gone from their spines. Harriet wasn’t joking. By the end of her first month, Julia was so
tired she could barely stand. She’d never done as much reading in her life. Aside from doing the background legal research
for Harriet’s briefs, she drafted skeleton arguments that Harriet invariably tore up anyway, checked facts and precedents,
looked up rulings, edited and typed up case notes and did whatever else Harriet saw fit to throw at her during the day. In
her second week she found herself struggling up Fleet Street with a mountain of Harriet’s dry-cleaning in her arms. Patsy,
Harriet’s PA, smirked at her as she came in through the door. It was clear that picking up the dry-cleaning was one task she
was only too happy to pass along.

But it wasn’t all work. On Friday evenings, the pupils and other junior barristers met at the Cittie of Yorke pub just up
the Gray’s Inn Road. Harriet was never to be found at any of the social events, not even the High Dinners. No one seemed to
expect her either. From the little she was able to glean from others, Julia learned that Harriet was single, in her late forties,
lived in a frightfully smart part of Chelsea and drove a frightfully
smart car. Once a month she went to Ireland to a luxury spa buried deep in the countryside. Aside from a passion for horses
– she owned two thoroughbreds – there was nothing else to know about Harriet Peters other than the fact that she was brilliant
and one of the hardest taskmasters in the firm. Like almost everyone else, she’d been at Cambridge, done her sixes at one
of the city firms and been at B&B ever since. She was practically part of the furniture. She was the only female senior partner
although no one could ever accuse her of pandering to the fact. She had a trim, neat figure; wore her hair short and expertly
cut. She applied the occasional dash of lipstick and, once, just the faintest trace of perfume as she walked by … There was
certainly nothing overtly feminine about Harriet Peters. No one could ever have accused her of charm.

One Friday evening after a particularly long day in court, Julia was crossing the quadrangle of the High Court, half-buried
under the weight of documents, when Harriet, who was walking several paces in front of her, deep in conversation with someone
else, turned.

‘Drink?’ she asked, causing Julia to nearly drop her case.

‘Drink?’ Julia repeated, frowning. She wasn’t sure what Harriet meant.

‘Yes, a drink. Would you care for a drink?’ The person Harriet had been speaking to quickly excused himself and the two women
were left in the middle of the courtyard, Julia staring at Harriet as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

‘Um, yeah … smashin’,’ she said, wincing. Even to her own ears, the Geordie phrase sounded out of place. ‘That’d be nice.’
Was it her imagination or was there the faintest of smiles playing around Harriet’s lips? Julia couldn’t be sure. She staggered
into the private bar in the basement of the High Court, too astounded to take in her surroundings.

‘Coat, madam?’ A flunky suddenly appeared. ‘And your documents?’

Julia handed everything over gratefully and followed Harriet
to one of the upholstered booths. She’d heard about the bar – open only to senior members of the Law Society, which included
every judge, peer and law lord … and certainly
not
eager pupils a fifth of the way through the first six. She looked about her cautiously. She recognised half a dozen faces
– over there in the corner by the stained-glass window was Lord Musgrove, the firebrand Labour peer … and there, standing
by the bar with a large whisky in hand, was Anthony Chessington, the head of Libertas. And wasn’t that Grant Foster, the famous
divorce lawyer? The sound of wine being splashed into a glass brought her abruptly back to her senses.

‘Cheers,’ Harriet said when the waiter had obsequiously removed himself. She took a long, measured sip.

Julia quickly did the same. ‘Cheers,’ she said, swallowing more than she intended in order to hide her confusion. She was
sitting with Harriet Peters in a booth in the private bar underneath the High Court … drinking wine. Had the world suddenly
turned itself upside down?

‘What a day.’ Harriet rummaged around in her expensive-looking handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Want one?’

Julia shook her head. She was almost too astonished to speak. Harriet Peters
smoked
? ‘No, I … I don’t smoke,’ she stammered.

‘Good thing too. Don’t start. Silly habit.’

‘My dad smoked,’ Julia offered suddenly, she’d no idea why.

‘Mine too. Bloody miner. Died of lung cancer, the silly bugger.’

Julia stared at her. A miner? Harriet Peters’s father was a
miner
? No, she’d misunderstood. ‘Did you say he was a miner?’ she asked faintly, just to be sure.

Harriet nodded. ‘Mmm. We’re from Snaresborough. Mining town. All miners up there.’

Julia was too astonished to speak. All of a sudden, the north was back in Harriet’s voice. ‘I … I’d never have guessed,’ she
said finally, practically draining her wine in a single gulp.

Harriet smiled, blowing a cloud of smoke away from her face. ‘No, I don’t suppose you would. Oh, we’re not so different, you
and I. We’re more alike than you think.’

‘You don’t sound as though you’re from Snaresborough,’ she said finally, unable to think of anything else to say.

Harriet signalled to the bartender for another round. ‘Years of practice, my dear.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘It was different
in my day. When I did my pupillage, there were sixteen of us and I was the only woman and the only one from a working-class
background. Things have changed a bit since then … perhaps not as much as we like to think, but that’s another story. I’ve
been doing it so long I’ve forgotten what I used to be like. I don’t know you very well, Julia, but you don’t seem to have
changed a thing about you. It’s an admirable quality. Let people take you as they find you. I didn’t have the confidence for
that twenty years ago, but you have. Don’t lose it.’

All of a sudden, Julia found herself close to tears. It was the hardest thing about losing both her parents – there was no
one to talk to, not the way she and Harriet were talking now. Her father had always been full of stories and anecdotes, small
snippets of information, homilies that at a deeper level were really instructions to his only child. He was the one who’d
always told her to be proud of her roots, proud of who she was. How many times in the past few years had the longing to talk
to him overwhelmed her? It was the cruellest twist of fate that just when she needed him the most, he was no longer there.
She muttered something incoherent to Harriet and ran into the toilets. She had the strong intuition that unexpected confidences
aside, tears would not be welcome in front of Harriet. She was right. When she emerged five minutes later with reddened eyes
and nose, Harriet was gone.

‘She left this for you,’ the bartender said, handing over a scrap of paper.
Trial application for Hardy vs Matthieson at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Hand in at High Court
. Julia gave a rueful smile. There was a reason why Harriet Peters had the reputation she had. She had a feeling it would
be a very long time before she caught a
further glimpse of the woman behind the façade. A miner’s daughter from Snaresborough? She shook her head in disbelief as
she collected her coat. She would never have guessed.
You don’t seem to have changed a thing about you, Julia. Don’t lose it
. Harriet’s words rang loudly in her ears. It was the closest anyone had come in the past few years to understanding just
how hard it was to feel perpetually out of place. Harriet, of all people. Clever, smart, über-professional Harriet. Julia
felt suddenly buoyed by the unexpected confession. If Harriet could do it … well, why couldn’t she?

MADDY

New York, November 1996

‘Maddy? Cover for me, will you, honey. Table 12. I gotta go take a pee!’

‘No, no … Carla, don’t. I’ve got my hands full … I can’t—!’ Too late. Maddy looked on despairingly as Carla whacked down a
plate on to the counter and disappeared down the hallway. Carla was three months pregnant; you couldn’t argue with that. Maddy
sighed and picked up the order. Her own table had been waiting for fifteen minutes – a lifetime in the service lexicon of
most New Yorkers. Not only would she
not
get a tip, she’d be lucky if the boss didn’t deduct the cost of their much-delayed breakfast from her salary. She held the
plate above her head and pushed her way through the crowded bar area towards Table 12, where a man was sitting, his face hidden
by a large salmon-pink newspaper. ‘Good
morning
,’ she sang cheerfully, setting the plate down carefully. ‘Sorry about the wait. I’ve taken over from your waitress for a
minute. I’ve got eggs-over-easy, bacon on the side, grilled tomatoes and hash browns.’

‘Thanks. Um … could I possibly trouble you for some ketchup?’ The man lowered the paper. He was English.

‘Absolutely. Back in a second.’ She turned and hurried back to the bar. ‘There we go. Anything else I can get you, sir?’ She
blushed even as the words came out. She’d slipped into character without even thinking – an
English
character to boot!

‘You’re English?’

Maddy shook her head, aware that the colour was still up in her cheeks. ‘Sorry, no. I was just showing off.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Showing off ?’

He was really rather good-looking, Maddy thought to herself, trying not to stare. Blond, blue-eyed; a square, determined chin,
broad shoulders, finely tapered fingers … There was something oddly familiar about him, but she couldn’t place him. She dragged
her eyes away from his face. ‘I’m an actress. Well, sort of. I played an English girl once, at drama school …’

‘Well, you sounded pretty convincing to me. You must be quite an actress.’

Maddy had to smile. ‘Oh, absolutely. So much so, in fact, that I’m a waitress. I’m just waiting for my agent to call.’ She
was a little taken aback by her own lightness. There was something easy about him, she thought to herself. His face was full
of boyish charm. She was quite used to customers flirting with her – it seemed part and parcel of the job. She’d studied the
part of a waitress diligently – the gum-chewing, wisecracking sassy redhead with a sharp retort and a sexy, swinging walk.
After nearly three years, she had the repertoire down pat.

‘Well, I hope he does.’

‘She. Thanks.’ She gave him a quick, jaunty wink and made her way back to the counter. Her own customers were waiting and
Carla, likely as not, would scoop up the tip. You couldn’t argue with a pregnant woman, Maddy reminded herself.