I, too, like to sit cross-legged, and plant myself opposite her on the floor, her mirror reflection. Looks are where our similarities end. In personality, we consider ourselves completely different. I’m more settled, whereas Kayla’s what I would call a floater. She quit college before the first year was out, trained as a masseuse, travelled on and off for a while. She's since qualified as a basic yoga and chi ball teacher, which is what she does to fund her way through her latest venture. She’s training to be a homeopath.
“So, who was he?” I ask. She’s just come back from a week’s stint at a yoga ashram in India.
She gawps. “What do you mean? How did you know?”
We go through this rigmarole whenever I hit the nail on the head first time, and I’ve got a ninety-five per cent track record. We might ‘be’ very different, but I can still read her like a book, know her inside out. She’s more than just flesh and blood. She’s part of me.
“You’ve got the glow.”
“Oooooooooh,” she drawls lazily, linking her fingers, stretching her arms above her head. “HE was Vijay and IT was unbelievable.”
I prepare myself for one of her amazing stories.
“Pray tell.”
HE was no taller than five feet, a guru teacher, whose inspiration it transpired wasn’t just yoga, but the Kama Sutra and tantra. She hadn’t thought of him in a sexual way all week, but on the last night, sitting next to him over chickpea curry, when he asked if she would like her sensual spirituality stimulated, she impulsively decided that come to think of it, she would. Off they went to his quarters, where he blindfolded her, spent ages brushing her softly with feathers, furs and rose petals, awakening her sensuality and sexual energy before embarking on a three hour love-making marathon, in a variety of weird and wonderful Kama Sutra positions. Oh, and they both had multiple orgasms.
“I hope you used protection.”
“No need. He didn’t come.”
“What do you mean he didn’t come? You said you both had multiple orgasms.”
She tilts her head first to one side, then the other. “You’re confusing ejaculation with orgasm Ali and, contrary to popular belief, they don’t necessarily have to happen together.”
“Yes they do.” Well, they do in my book.
“No they don’t. If a man works hard enough at it he can learn how to orgasm without coming. That’s what tantric sex is all about, which means a man can last much longer and so pleasure his woman better. Oooooooohhhhhhhh,” she whines, horny at the thought.
“So will you see him again?”
“Only if I go back to the same ashram and he happens to be there. He’s never left India, doesn’t even have a passport.”
“You really should have used protection you know. You don’t know this Vijay from Adam –”
We both giggle because she DOES know Vijay from Adam and we’ve had a laugh at this gag from the moment I started going out with him.
“Anyway,” I continue, “you’ve no idea how many impressionable Western women he’s been with, or who the hell they’ve been either. It’s not worth it.”
“You’re right,” she holds up her hands, “it just never felt appropriate. But I won’t do it again, promise. Anyway, let’s change the subject. How are you, you know, with everything?”
She’s referring to me not getting pregnant.
“You know what, I’m fine. So fine that there’s not much to say. I think I’d just been pushing everything out of perspective. You know, I’ve got Adam, I’ve got work and I’m sure it will happen eventually, so what’s the rush?”
“Of course there’s no rush. I mean, you’ve got to realise that your lives will never be the same again? It’s the last thing I’d want right –”
The phone rings. It’s Adam. Kayla mouths that she’s got to leave, hugs and kisses me whilst my ear’s glued to the receiver, and let’s herself out.
***
A hand touches my shoulder as I’m leaving court later that day.
“Ali?”
I turn around, startled. I recognise the person straight away, but it takes me a couple of seconds to remember his name.
“Anthony, right? Anthony de Klerk.”
“Got it in one,” he smiles, with perfect large white teeth.
It’s our new member of chambers - the Will Smith meets the Lion King man. Looking rather dapper and warm in a long, camel cashmere coat. I haven’t seen him since we first met a couple of days ago. He looks at his watch.
“Fancy a drink?” he asks.
I’ve got time. I’ve got nowhere to be and Adam won’t be home for at least an hour. But even though I won my case, I don’t feel like celebrating. It was Adam who called as Kayla was leaving, with news of his sperm test. Apparently he was an ‘A’ grade pupil, with millions of very good quality little buggers. Fast swimmers too. Which has made me feel about as fertile as a dead dodo. I screw up my face, about to make excuses. I’m not sure I can be bothered to have a drink with a near stranger, however handsome.
“Come on. You look like you could do with one,” he says, nudging me away from the courthouse.
Perhaps it’s best not to be alone.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” I ask.
“Not really, this isn’t my patch. I was going to head for the nearest pub.”
I think out loud. “Mmmmmmmmm, no, I know. Let’s try Luigi’s.”
“Luigi’s it is. Lead the way.”
Luigi’s isn’t actually the name of a place. It’s the name of the guy who owns my favourite Italian restaurant on the Archway Road, called Capri. It’s cheap and cheerful with a year-round gas burner-heated al fresco area.
Luigi’s there to greet us, Hercules Poirot moustache neatly curled. His eyes question the company I’m in.
“This is Anthony, a work colleague,” I explain.
“So how is your lovely husband?” he asks.
I reassure him that he’s very well as we make our way out back, order a bottle of Chianti and some garlic bread. By the time we’ve taken off our coats, the wine and glasses have arrived. Anthony pours for us both, we clink and I take a huge glug, relaxing back in my chair.
“Better?” he asks.
“You bet.”
“Good day, bad day?”
I reflect. “Good day I guess.”
“Not such a bad place, Highgate Magistrates?”
“You know what, that’s been the best bit about my day. I live round here – well, ish, so I even made it home for lunch. Now days don’t get much better than that!”
“So how long have you been married?” he asks. He must have picked up on Luigi’s comment.
“I haven’t, I’m not – married that is,” I admit. “I live with someone. We’ve been coming here for at least five years; I guess Luigi just presumed we were husband and wife. You?”
“Divorced.”
“Already!”
“What do you mean ‘already’?”
“Well, you don’t look like you’ve had enough time to get married AND divorced.”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“No way!”
Black men often look much younger than they are. With his funky fuzzy orange streaked hair, I’d presumed Anthony was about my age.
We fall silent, comfortably, giving me time to take in his smooth chocolate skin, his huge dark brown eyes rimmed with a thick black circle, his flirty full mouth. This man does not look like a Barrister.
“You don’t look like a Barrister,” he says.
“I was just thinking the same about you!”
“So, why did you do it?”
“To prove a point. You?”
“Snap!”
Believe you me, black Barristers are few and far between. The bar is notoriously under-represented by ethnic minorities, women and non-Oxbridge graduates. That Anthony, Neeta and I are all members of the same set of chambers is a one in a million. And all of us have had to work ten times as hard as the average plumy, upper class, male Caucasian to get there.
Anthony is an extremely interesting man. Turns out he’s mixed race, although he doesn’t look it. His father is a white South African; his mother is from Mozambique. After they married, they tried living in South Africa but met with so much hostility, due to their different shades of skin, that they moved to England, where his Dad already had some family. He’s got nine siblings – two who are white. I’ve always found that fascinating, how children of mixed race parentage can turn out so differently. Like that set of twins who came out one white, one black. It was in the papers years ago, with anthropological analysis on how the twins were each likely to be treated very differently in life due to their respective colours.
Anthony, it transpires, has a kid from his marriage - an eight-year-old daughter. He pulls a well-thumbed photo out of his wallet of the prettiest little girl and my heart melts. I’m lulled into a semi-trance by his deep, Barry White voice and when we part ways, an hour later, I feel uplifted. Slightly buzzing, a little high.
***
Most rooms in our house ooze with original features - picture rails, cornices, period fireplaces and the like. The lounge is the only hearth that’s actually got a fire in it though. Its flickering flames are a welcoming treat when I get back, warming up the terracotta walls and wooden floor that can get so cold in winter, even though most of the boards are carpeted by a large, no-expense spared burgundy and orange Nepalese rug from Selfridges. Adam’s lying on our large, tatty green sofa, a hand-me-down from Adam’s grandfather who died a couple of years ago.
“Hi babes,” I say, taking off my bag. “Something smells nice. What is it?”
“Jamie Oliver chicken.”
“Oh, yes,” I enthuse.
Adam can spend hours in the kitchen creating culinary delights. Jamie Oliver’s roast chicken, however, is one of the few recipes he cheats, stuffing only soft butter and chopped garlic (half the recommended ingredients) under the breast skin, before bunging it in the oven. It still tastes delicious.
“Good day?” he asks.
I’m not in the mood for conversation. I suddenly feel horny. I shimmy towards him with a come hither look, kick off my shoes, straddle his body, lean forward and kiss him.
“Oh Al, I’m too tired.”
He’s taking the Mickey. Adam will take it anywhere, anyplace, anytime. I’m the one who uses the tired excuse!
I kiss him again.
“Mmmmmmm,” he moans. “You taste of wine.”
“I’ve been drinking,” I say huskily, worming my hands under his jumper.
“Who with?”
He slides his hands under my shirt, pulls me towards him and kisses me deeper.
My “doesn’t matter” is muffled by the kiss. I’m not trying to avoid the question, it’s just there are other, more pressing things. We spill from the sofa onto the floor. Adam’s clothes are strewn across the carpet. I’m left naked under my new, slinky black Zara skirt and an unbuttoned white shirt. I giggle tipsily as we roll this way and that, changing from under to over again and again. I feel womanly, sexy, excited and excitable. I don’t for one second think about procreating. We climax in unison in what is the best, the longest and the most heartfelt lovemaking session we’ve had in ages.
FEBRUARY
Chapter 4
“So how are things Ali? No REALLY, how are things?”
I’ve got an uneasy sense of déjà vu because the person asking me this question is Maxwell Hood QC, again. Only this time we’re in his office, which is like a mini, doll’s house version of the law library. Not that the books are miniature, but the range, the lengths of dark Elizabethan wooden shelves, the space, they’re all much smaller. It’s a lovely room, if not a trifle imposing. His desk is of gargantuan proportions. It’s red leather trim a matching set with the four high back leather chairs, one of which I’m sitting in. It must have cost at least £100k to decorate, and it’s not the company that pays, it’s the individual, which is why, in comparison, Neeta and my cubbyhole resembles a ramshackle student common room. Neither of us was particularly flush with cash when a lick of paint and new carpet were in order five years ago. Our desks are Ikea, our chairs Office World. The kind that run on wheels and that you can pull a lever to raise or lower. And we don’t have Max’s fantastic view of the Thames, because we don’t have a view at all.
I’d been summoned to his office, but on getting there Maxwell had been dashing off. He told me to take a seat, that he’d be back in five. Which gave me plenty of time to bite the sides of some of my nails down, worrying about why I’m here. Normally, the boss asking to see you first thing in the morning spells trouble. And his opening question hasn’t pacified me.
I wait a couple of seconds.
“Things are good,” I say slowly, deliberately.
“I’m pleased to see you’re back on form,” he nods approvingly.
I’m hardly the Red Rum of Barristers, more an outside bet in the right conditions, but I’ve won the two cases I’ve had so far this year, and neither of them easy. I’m now, however, slightly thrown. If I’m not here to be admonished, then why AM I here?
“Thank you,” I smile.
He sits back in his chair, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.