Martin shook his head, staring at the desk. I thought he might have been pleased at the suggestion that we could avoid a fifty–fifty asset split, but he looked absolutely shell-shocked.

‘What happens next?’

‘The First Directions meeting is in ten days’ time.’

‘Will any decisions be made then?’

He had seemed composed throughout the meeting, but hints of anxiety were beginning to show.

I shook my head.

‘The clue is in the name. All very preliminary stuff, I’m afraid.’

‘Fine,’ he said uncomfortably.

It was dark outside now. He stood up to leave and pulled his shirt cuffs down from under his jacket sleeves. One and then the other. Then he looked at me.

‘I’ll see you then, Miss Day. I look forward to it.’

I stretched out my hand and as he closed his fingers around mine, I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again too.

Chapter 3

I liked getting the bus home from work, not just because I was a little claustrophobic and hated the tube system. The number 19 took me from Bloomsbury all the way home to Islington. It was not the quickest way to get to and from my place of work, but it was my favourite way to commute. I liked the head-clearing walk down Fleet Street and Kingsway to the bus stop, past the red telephone boxes outside the Old Bailey, and the church of St Clement Danes, especially when its mournful bells rang out the tune to the old nursery rhyme, ‘Oranges and Lemons’. And once I had boarded the bus, I enjoyed observing the sights and sounds of the city. When I first came to the capital, I used to spend the whole day riding the number 19 route, face pressed to the glass, watching the city drift by: Sadler’s Wells, the twinkling lights of the Ritz, the exclusive stores of Sloane Street, then down to Cheyne Walk and Battersea Bridge. It was a distilled version of the best the city had to offer, all for the price of a Travelcard. It was the London of my childhood dreams.

As I sat down and wiped the condensation from the window with my fingertips, I wondered if I should have made more of an effort on my birthday. Even David Gilbert, a workaholic if ever I’ve met one, thought I was off out for birthday drinks. But I didn’t see why I should break my weekly routine just because I was another year older. One of the perils of my job has always been the lack of a social life. There were plenty of pubs around Temple, and people to have a drink with, but I had always taken the view that, if you wanted to get the job done properly, then you had to make sacrifices.

I pulled my mobile out of my bag and phoned my local Chinese takeaway. I couldn’t decide between the beef with fresh basil or the yellow bean chicken, so I ordered both, along with a side order of dumplings and chow mein. What the hell. It was my birthday.

Ending the call, I thought back to my conversation with Viv McKenzie about applying for silk, and wondered what becoming Francine Day QC might mean.

There had certainly been little other change in my life in the past five years. I’d lived in the same flat on the sketchy edges of Islington since my late twenties, settled into an ordered routine. I went to the gym the same two evenings every week, took a ten-day holiday to Italy every August. Two short-lived romances punctuated a long stretch of being single. I saw friends less regularly than I should. Even the small detail of my life had a satisfying familiarity. I bought the same Starbucks coffee on my way into work, my copy of the Big Issue from the same Romanian man outside Holborn tube. Part of me liked this reassuring familiarity, and saw no need to change the status quo.

Peering through the water droplets on the cold window, I realized we were on St Paul’s Road. I nudged the snoring commuter beside me and squeezed off the bus, walking the rest of the way to my flat on the road that descended into Dalston.

As I neared my flat I groaned as I saw the headlight of a delivery scooter pull up and stop. I started to run but the pavement was wet. Almost slipping, I hissed a curse and slowed to a halt, fishing around my bag for my purse, tickets and sweet wrappers falling to the floor like blossom blown from a tree. I bent down to pick up the litter, but already the scooter was setting off again into the dark.

By the time I reached my front door, I was out of breath. There was a figure in the doorway holding a white carrier bag stuffed with cartons.

‘You owe me twenty-three quid,’ said my neighbour Pete Carroll, a PhD student at Imperial who had been living in the downstairs apartment for the past eighteen months.

‘Did you give him a tip?’ I winced.

‘I’m a student,’ he said with mock disapproval.

I debated running after the delivery man. They were my regulars. They gave me free prawn crackers and I didn’t want to short-change them or have them think I was tight.

‘I only called them fifteen minutes ago. They usually take ages.’

I handed him a twenty-pound note and an extra fiver, and stepped inside our neglected hallway, picking up my post and putting it in my bag.

‘Tuesday night is a bit decadent for takeaway,’ smiled Pete folding his arms awkwardly.

‘It’s my birthday,’ I replied without even thinking.

‘I wondered what the brightly coloured envelopes were doing scattered among the junk mail.’

‘So you’re not going out?’

‘It’s mid-week. I’ve got work to do.’

‘Killjoy.’

‘I’ve got to prepare for court tomorrow.’

‘You boring sod. I’m going to march you down to the pub.’

‘Pete, no. I’m really busy. Work with a pork dumpling chaser,’ I said holding up the bag of Chinese. ‘I know that might seem an odd way to celebrate your birthday, but that’s what happens when you’re almost forty.’

‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he said, with a zeal that told me he meant it.

‘I suppose I’ve bought too much Chinese. I’ll supply the chow mein if you’ve got any drinks. But I’ve got to be at my desk in an hour.’

‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ he grinned.

Pete disappeared into his ground-floor flat and I walked up the stairs to mine.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, I hung my coat on the rack and set my bag down in the hall. I slipped off my shoes, enjoying the soft feel of carpet under my feet, and undid the top button of my blouse.

My flat was my sanctuary. A cool, calm, Farrow-and-Ball-painted haven for one, and I instantly regretted having invited someone in to share it.

Resigning myself to a visitor, I pulled two plates out of the kitchen cupboard, just as Pete appeared in the hall with a four-pack of lager.

‘Pass me a glass. I assume you’re not a straight-out-of-the-tin girl.’

He poured me a frothy glass of lager, then opened another can for himself as I carried the Chinese into the living room.

‘So, you’re almost forty,’ he said, perching on the sofa next to me. ‘You don’t look it.’

‘I’m thirty-seven,’ I said, realizing how little Pete and I knew about each other. We spoke more than most London neighbours: we saw each other at the bus stop, he was a willing fixer of laptops and fuse boxes. On one occasion last summer, I’d been walking past the local pub and he’d been having a beer outside. He invited me to join him, which I did because it was hot and sunny and I was thirsty from the gym, but I did not consider him a friend.

‘By the way, I got a letter from my landlord, yesterday,’ said Pete, peeling the foil top off the chow mein box. ‘He’s putting my rent up. The freeholder says the roof needs doing. Reckons both leaseholders have got to put fifteen grand into the sinking fund.’

‘Shit, I’ve not heard about that.’

‘But fifteen grand is just a day’s work for a distinguished lady of the Bar,’ he smiled.

‘I wish.’

‘Come on, you’re loaded.’

‘I’m not, I promise,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I am a jobbing barrister, in debt, thanks to thousands of pounds’ worth of unpaid invoices.’

‘You’ll get paid. The banks know you’re good for it. And then you’ll be rich.’

Rich, I scoffed quietly. My family thought I was rich, but everything was relative, and in London, mixing with lawyers and businessmen like Martin Joy, it was easier to view my financial situation through another prism. Perhaps if I made silk, things would change. I would land big, juicy cases, my hourly rate would double, so that one day I might even be able to afford one of those Georgian houses in Canonbury – the ones that had drawn me to the N1 postcode in the first place, the ones I still liked to walk past and dream about.

I thought about the £15,000 I would need to find from somewhere and took a commiseratory slug of beer, though I knew I shouldn’t.

‘You know, today, I was dealing with someone who spends £24,000 a year on lunch,’ I said, dipping a dumpling into some soy.

Pete shook his head. ‘And you’re missing a birthday night out on account of these people.’

He laughed and I knew he had a point.

‘I’m acting for the husband in that particular divorce. But you’ll be glad to know that tomorrow’s case, the case I should be preparing for, is a more deserving cause.’

‘Another poor rich husband about to get screwed,’ he smiled.

‘Actually, no. My client’s a man who is about to lose access to his kids. Just a regular guy who found his wife in bed with another man.’

‘People,’ said Pete quietly.

I nodded. ‘I bet you’re glad you only have to deal with computers all day. Things that don’t have feelings.’

‘Yet.’

‘Yet?’

‘If you subscribe to one model of how our brains create consciousness, you’ll believe that sentient computers will never exist. Other schools of Artificial Intelligence thought believe that the day is coming when computers will be able to imitate humans.’

‘That’s a scary idea. They’re going to make us all redundant, aren’t they.’

‘Some jobs are more future-proof than others.’

‘Like divorce lawyers?’

‘Machines are logical. Love and relationships are anything but. I’d say you’ll be all right for the foreseeable future.’

‘Glad to hear it, with a new roof to pay for.’

There was a long silence. We had eaten our food and run out of conversation.

‘I should get on with some work.’

Scooping up the leftovers, I took the plates into the kitchen. When I turned round, Pete was in the doorway. He took a step towards me and cupped his hand on my jaw. Gasping in surprise, I didn’t have time to think whether he had misinterpreted this as a sign of my desire, because his lips were already on mine. I could taste the ginger and yellow bean on his breath. His saliva smeared across my cheek.

‘Pete, you’re my friend. And you’re drunk,’ I replied, pulling away.

‘Sometimes you need to get drunk,’ he said.

I took a step away from him. I couldn’t say his approach had been a complete surprise. The way he had loitered outside with the takeaway should have alerted me.

‘It’s the age difference, isn’t it?’ I registered the pique in his voice. Men and their self-confidence. ‘If I was a thirty-seven-year-old man and you were my age, no one would even bat an eyelid.’

I felt guilty, cruel. I don’t suppose he had any reason to think I would turn him down. After all, I had invited him up to my flat, for dinner, on my birthday.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I know I’m a miserable old spinster, but I like it this way.’

‘Do you?’ he said, challenging me.

‘I work eleven hours a day, Pete, I come home, and I work some more. There’s no room for anything else.’

‘Stop blaming your job.’

There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared that Pete was not my type, when we’d have ended up in the bedroom, but tonight, I just wanted him to go.

‘I should leave,’ he said flatly.

I nodded and he exited the flat without another word. And as I closed the door behind him, I leant forward, pressed my head against the door and puffed out my cheeks.

‘Happy birthday’, I whispered, desperate for the day to be over.

Chapter 4

There was no getting away from the fact that I needed a new bag. Over the past week, the rip in the seam of my trusty Samsonite case had been getting longer and longer. Work had never been busier, with new instructions and cases springing to life after weeks of dormancy, and the numerous files that needed transporting between court, home and chambers, meant that my bag was one vigorous pull of the zip away from fatal damage.

I was brought up to be thrifty and part of me thought that I just needed to fix it. But I had no idea who repaired bags these days – cobblers? Tailors? In our consumerist society it seemed our only option was to buy a new one.

Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was not yet seven o’clock. Burgess Court was well placed for pubs but less convenient for retail therapy. But I calculated that if I took a taxi, I could be on Oxford Street by quarter past, out of there by seven thirty, and home in time for a ScandiCrime drama that was starting that week on cable.

‘You off home?’

Paul was standing at the door to my office with a bundle of files.

‘In a minute,’ I replied, fishing around in my desk drawer.

‘I’ve got something for you tomorrow, if you fancy it.’

I knew I should have turned it down but saying no to work had never been one of my strong points.

‘What is it?’

‘Freezing application tomorrow. Listed for nine thirty.’

I hesitated; the only reason I had earmarked a night in front of the TV was because my workload for the following day was relatively quiet.

‘I can get it biked round to Marie or Tim,’ he offered.

‘Give it here,’ I sighed. ‘It’ll save you hanging around for the courier.’

Paul looked at me, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You know, it’s fine to have the night off sometimes.’

‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ I replied. Not finding what I was searching for in my desk drawer, I glanced up at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare carrier bag? My case is fit to burst and I’m worried it’s not going to make it home.’

‘I’m sure we can do better than a carrier bag for a sophisticate like yourself,’ he laughed, disappearing downstairs. He returned a couple of minutes later with a cloth tote bag branded with the Burgess Court insignia.

‘What’s this?’

‘Marketing. By the way, I popped the QC application forms in there for you.’

‘A master of subtlety, as usual.’

I left the office and hurried across Middle Temple, past our grand Elizabethan hall and the fountain firing a silver flume of water into the night sky. It was eerie after sunset, when the gas lamps had flickered on; the cloisters threw shadows around the square and the sound of your shoes against the cobbles tricked you into thinking you were not alone. Increasing my pace, I threaded my way down the thin, dark alley of Devereux Court, one of the artery routes on to the Strand, just as the rain began to fall. A cab responded to my outstretched hand and I jumped in before it really began to pour. The driver asked me where I wanted to go and I said the first department store name that came into my head: Selfridges.

I am not a great shopper. That gene escaped me and I don’t think it’s because I was once on free school dinners. I remember one client, a Russian model, who in one breath told me how she used to pick up rotten fruit from the markets to take home to feed her family, and in the next breath told me that she needed at least a million pounds in maintenance per anum from the property magnate husband she was divorcing. Growing up poor sent you one way or the other.

The taxi dropped me off on Cumberland Street. The rain was pelting down now and the pavements looked black and oily. Cursing the weather, I ran into the store.

I knew within minutes that I was in the wrong place. I hardly ever came to Selfridges and I had forgotten how expensive it was. Boutiques lined the outer perimeter wall: Chanel, Gucci, Dior, each one like a jewellery box, glitzy and polished. I preferred the shops in the City, where everything seemed more ordered and less dazzling for time-pressed people like me. But in the West End, in Knightsbridge, shops were caves of temptation for tourists and trophy wives, retail labyrinths designed to make you get lost and spend, whereas I just wanted to find a bag and go home.

Taking a breath, I told myself that it wouldn’t hurt to look, that my bag, my image, was my calling card. I browsed the central handbag area and a beautiful bag displayed on a plinth caught my eye. It was smaller than the pilot bag I had been carrying around the past five years, its black leather soft and buttery to the touch. It was a QC’s bag, I realized, as I picked it up and hunted around for the price tag.

‘I thought it was you,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned round and for a second I didn’t recognize him. His hair was damp from the rain, and he was wearing glasses with smart, tortoiseshell frames.

‘Mr Joy.’

‘Martin,’ he smiled.

‘Sorry, Martin,’ I replied.

‘Retail therapy?’

I started to laugh. ‘You make it sound pleasurable. I’m actually on a mercy mission to replace my briefcase.’

‘A woman who doesn’t like shopping,’ he said, his eyes playing with mine.

‘There are some of us.’

‘Nice bag.’ He nodded towards my hands and I shrugged.

‘Well, I can’t find the price tag, which is never a good sign. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it and all that,’ I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious to be talking about money with a client.

‘You’ve just had a birthday. Treat yourself.’

‘Yes, my birthday,’ I said, surprised that he had remembered. ‘That seems a long time ago now.’

He held my gaze and I could count the spots of rain on his forehead.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘My office is round the corner. I wanted to pop into the wine shop downstairs on the way home.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘It had better be.’

There was a brief silence. I didn’t know whether to make my excuses and leave, although I didn’t want to.

‘So I’m seeing you on Friday …’

I nodded. ‘The First Directions hearing. It’s all pretty harmless.’

‘Harmless? Donna has a lawyer whose nickname is “the Piranha”.’

‘Well, you don’t want to know what they call me …’

‘Are you going to buy that?’ His voice was soft and low, with a rasp that hinted of late nights and cigarettes.

I looked down and saw that I was still clutching the bag. My hands had made two long sweat marks across the leather.

‘Sorry, no. They probably think I’m about to steal it,’ I said, setting it back on its plinth. ‘I should let you go and buy your wine.’

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

‘Any last-minute tips for Friday? In fact, while you’re thinking, come with me. Come and help me choose a good red.’

Before I could even think about refusing him, I was following him down the escalator into the basement, conscious of the thrill heightening as the escalator descended.

‘Just over here,’ he said as I followed him into the wine room.

I was impressed. It was large, well stocked and came complete with a bar that looked as if it belonged on the set of some glamorous Manhattan-based movie. There were racks of wine glasses hanging from the ceiling. The light was rich and low.

‘Drink?’ asked Martin. ‘Or do you have to rush off?’

‘I think I can stay for one,’ I replied without even thinking.

We walked towards the bar and he motioned towards a stool. The bartender handed me the menu. I wasn’t supposed to drink but I chose the 1909 Smash, a delicious-sounding concoction of gin, peach and mint. After all, that’s what you were supposed to do in the movies.

I perched awkwardly on the stool and wished my cocktail would hurry up.

‘So … Friday’s court hearing.’

I glanced over to him and realized that he was probably trying to get free information. There were no time sheets here at Selfridges’ wine shop, and suddenly I felt disappointed and duped.

‘Tips for Friday?’ I said, as coolly as I could. ‘Just stay calm.’

‘Why, what are you expecting?’ he said with a slow, cynical smile.

‘It can get quite heated and that generally doesn’t solve anything.’

The bartender returned with our cocktails. I took a sip and it was cold, sweet and refreshing on my tongue.

Martin swilled a stirrer around his drink so the ice cubes clinked against the glass.

‘David speaks very highly of you.’

I tried to brush off the compliment with a modest shrug.

‘David’s good. Really good. And I don’t just mean because he recommended me as counsel. Why did you choose him?’ I asked, always interested in the process.

‘I googled “top divorce lawyer” and his name came up.’

‘That’s how it works, is it? Like picking a plumber.’

‘Something like that,’ he said, looking at me over the rim of his glass.

‘And thank you for instructing me. Most men prefer male lawyers. I suppose they think they’ll be more macho in a fight. So hats off for not thinking like an alpha male.’

‘Actually, I did have my doubts about you,’ he said, putting his glass on the marble counter.

His candour caught me off guard.

‘Ouch,’ I said into my drink.

‘I’m just being honest. I know divorce isn’t about winning, but I wanted a QC. And I was worried that you’re not.’

‘The word “junior” is a bit of a misnomer,’ I said, looking back at him. ‘There are some barristers I know who were called to the Bar thirty years ago and who aren’t silks, not because they’re not brilliant but because it wasn’t the right decision for them.’

‘Is that the case with you?’

‘I’m probably going to apply this year.’

‘So if my case drags on, I won’t be able to afford you.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘To Francine Day QC,’ he said, clinking his glass against mine. ‘I’m glad you’re representing me. Although you’re going to have to explain what’s the bloody point of having both a solicitor and a barrister.’

I laughed. It was a question I got asked a lot and I gave the standard answer.

‘It used to be the right of audience in court,’ I shrugged. ‘That’s changed now, but I would say barristers are generally more comfortable with the advocacy side of things. Solicitors come to us with the more complex issues too.’

‘So you’re saying you’re cleverer than solicitors.’

‘We have different skill sets, that’s all.’

‘They say that, don’t they?’ he replied. ‘That politicians and barristers are just frustrated actors.’

‘Is that so?’

I caught the playful tone in my voice and I was aware that I was flirting with him.

There was a long complicit silence.

Martin observed me carefully, as if he was assessing me. It made me feel interesting.

‘I can imagine you treading the boards at Oxford.’

‘That’s such a long way from the truth it’s not even funny.’

‘Oh yes. LLB Birmingham. First class.’

I glanced at him in surprise.

‘Your CV is on the website.’

‘My dad is a bus driver. I went to a comp. I was the first person in my family to go to university.’

‘Then we’re not so different, you and I.’

I smiled cynically. Every ounce of him had the polish of a public school and Oxbridge. He caught my eye and knew what I was thinking.

‘Let’s get some food,’ he said, signalling the waiter. I have never been particularly good at reading men’s signals, but I could tell he was showing off.

We ate and danced around one another, easy conversation between mouthfuls of food, small plates of tapas that we shared. Only occasionally did I feel fleeting moments of panic that I shouldn’t be here, with a client, in a low-lit bar three days before the First Directions for his divorce proceedings.

‘Another drink?’

I noticed that the bar had emptied out.

‘I’d better not.’

He pushed his shirtsleeves up and I noticed what good forearms he had: strong and tanned with a light trail of hair across the top.

‘You probably think I’m a wanker.’

‘Why would I think that?’

‘The husband with money. Out to screw his wife.’

‘I’m here to help, not judge.’

‘Still, you’ve probably met a lot of men like me.’

‘I like acting for men. I think they get screwed a lot of the time, especially when there are kids involved.’

‘Your job – it must put you off marriage.’

‘How do you know I’m not married?’

‘I don’t.’

‘I’m not,’ I said holding his gaze a moment too long as the mood shifted instantly between us.

‘I think we’re about to get thrown out,’ said Martin, looking around. The place was empty. The waiter looked as if he was tidying up for the night. It couldn’t have been later than nine o’clock, but it felt late and intimate like the dregs of the day.

The bartender put our bill on a small silver tray. Martin picked it up and had it settled before I even had a chance to reach for my purse.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, putting his right hand on the small of my back.

We were ushered out of the store by a security guard and exited on to Duke Street. It was raining more fiercely than it had been when I came into the store, so hard that the rain bounced off the flooded pavements. My heels sliced through a puddle, splashing cold, dirty water on to my stockings.

‘Where’s a taxi when you need one?’ I shouted across the West End noise. My canvas Burgess Court tote was already sodden and I feared that the QC application form wouldn’t survive the downpour.

‘There,’ he said, as we lifted our coats over our heads, laughing, and groaning as we splashed through puddles.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘Islington.’

‘Then we can share,’ he said as he opened the door, and before I knew it I had jumped in.

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