‘There’s a very nice Friday-night Chardonnay in the fridge that needs opening. We can take it up to the roof,’ he said, disappearing into the bedroom and returning with two sweaters.

He threw one over to me.

‘There. You might want to put that on.’

I pulled the sweater over my head, slowly, carefully, inhaling it and feeling heady with his smell. The sleeves fell over my hands and I felt as if I had been zipped inside him.

When I looked up, he was holding a bottle of wine, two tumblers and a blanket. We went outside to the small decking area and up a thin spiral staircase that led to the highest point of the building. I spread the throw on the dusty asphalt and sat down. It was quiet up here. Black velvet sky surrounded us like a cloak. I could see chimney pots and distant lights from office blocks. I smiled to myself that there were people out there who worked harder than I did. I wanted to tell them to get a life.

Martin sat cross-legged next to me, poured wine into the two glasses and handed me one.

‘I would have stayed longer but I saw someone from chambers,’ I said finally.

‘I don’t see why we have to keep sneaking around the shadows. Alex knows. Worked it out even before we went to Ottolenghi. Said I’d been whispering and giggling like a schoolboy in the office, which made me sound incredibly uncool. I don’t want to hide you away,’ he said with an intensity that made me shiver.

‘I don’t want to hide you away either,’ I replied. ‘That’s why I brought Clare – I wanted you to start meeting my friends. But you’re still my client and I’m applying for silk. I have to be careful.’

He tipped his head back for a long slug of Chardonnay.

‘I just can’t wait for all this to be over.’

‘Over?’

‘The divorce.’

The view was quite spectacular. I felt as if I was on top of the world, empowered, ennobled. Alex’s observation that Martin had been a wreck after the breakdown of his marriage suddenly seemed immaterial, replaced by a clear and romantic sense that everything was exactly as it should be.

‘Why aren’t you married?’

I laughed but he just looked at me, waiting for an answer.

‘I’ve never been good at relationships.’

‘I’d say we’re doing pretty well so far.’

I felt as if we were both stripped naked, as if I could tell him anything. I took a breath before I spoke again.

‘When I was nineteen I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Manic depression,’ I added, to clarify.

‘The scars on your arms … I never wanted to ask.’

‘Self-harm, not a suicide bid. They’re old,’ I said, rubbing my hand self-consciously. ‘Second year at university. It was a difficult time. I almost dropped out of college but I got through it, thanks to Clare, my tutors and good medication. It’s under control, but I find relationships difficult.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s just easier to stay single.’

‘Is it?’

I shrugged, fixing my gaze on a distant red neon sign.

‘I’ve always wanted to keep my life as uncomplicated as possible, control things as much as I can. When you’ve had quite literal ups and downs, you just want things to be predictable.’

‘Everyone needs someone, Fran. Deserves someone.’

‘But letting people in brings problems. We find it difficult enough to control our own emotions, let alone other people’s. I like you, you like me, but what happens when Donna wants to talk again or says she wants to give your marriage another go?’ I said, thinking back to the night when he went to meet her, when I called him up, longing to hear his voice and his reassurance, and was met with nothing but a cold and sterile recorded message.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said finally.

‘It might.’

‘Come here,’ he murmured, inching towards me on the roof. He pulled me close then shifted his position so that he was facing me. He stroked my hair and held my head between his hands.

‘We just have to hang in there and soon, really soon, it’s going to be this. Just us. No Donna, no sneaking around, just me and you.’

‘Do you promise?’ I wanted to stay up here, almost touching the clouds, forever.

‘I promise,’ he whispered, and I shivered as he kissed me, knowing how completely I had fallen for him and how much that could damage me.

Chapter 11

‘Have a good night on Friday?’

I was filling the kettle in the small chambers kitchen when I turned and saw Tom standing in the doorframe.

‘Yes, thanks. It was fun,’ I replied, busying myself with lids and plugs so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Please leave, I said in my head, hoping it would work like a spell, but my magic was weak because Tom leant against the counter. Clearly he was in the mood to chat.

‘Hannah wanted to know where your dress was from.’

I froze, wondering if this was his way of saying that I was very dressed up at the gallery. Men didn’t usually notice those sorts of things, but then Tom Briscoe was the kind of man who didn’t generally miss anything, especially if he could use it to his advantage.

‘Hannah seemed nice,’ I said, dropping a teabag into my cup. ‘I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.’

‘I don’t,’ he shrugged.

‘Does Hannah know that?’ I asked, sliding the box of Twinings English Breakfast Tea towards him.

He stood in silence as we listened to the kettle bubble and finally click off.

‘So why were you there on Friday?’ he said. ‘Was it a date?’

So it wasn’t just a casual chat, Tom had smelt something in the air at the gallery.

I shook my head.

‘You really can’t believe I have anything resembling a glittering social life, can you?’

‘I’m sure you do on the quiet,’ he said. ‘All I meant was, that was a bloody hot ticket. Hugh Grant turned up after you’d gone.’

‘Should have stuck around then, shouldn’t I? Shame I’m so dedicated to my job.’

‘That’s why you left?’ he said with disbelief. ‘To go home and work?’

‘If you had my dedication, Tom,’ I said, filling my mug with hot water, ‘you might get on in your career. Instead, you’re hobnobbing with film stars and not having a girlfriend.’

‘Hannah? Well, Hannah’s … she’s a friend,’ said Tom defensively. I waggled a spoon at him.

‘Exactly what every woman wants to hear.’

‘It’s a complicated relationship.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, well, aren’t they all?’

‘Ah, so it was a date,’ he said with a teasing smile.

‘Nope. But it’s nice you’re spending so much time thinking about my love life. Hannah will be pleased.’

I took my mug and backed out of the kitchen, waving. He gave me a sarcastic smile, but there was still something in his face. A curiosity, a hint that he knew – or at the very least suspected – something. It scared me more than it should have.

Brooding on what Tom might or might not know put me in a terrible mood. Outside, the sky echoed my mindset: dark clouds that looked like they could burst at any moment. Even so, I decided to go the long way round to get to my next appointment. The route took me past the river and the view of the silvery Thames always soothed me.

It was an unremarkable café. A chalkboard sign outside advertised tea and bacon sandwiches, there was an unappetizing selection of factory-made cakes in the display cabinet, the smell of old cooking fat was so strong it seemed to have soaked into the walls. Few barristers came here – and that was precisely why Phil Robertson liked it.

He was waiting for me at the back of the room when I arrived.

‘You’re late.’

‘So sue me,’ I grinned, glad to see him.

I’d known Phil for years. He was smart and funny, a former men’s magazine journalist who had been made redundant and used his research skills to reposition his career. These days he called himself an enquiry consultant, but really he was a snoop, a private investigator who did our dirty work. It wasn’t something our profession talked about much, especially after the press got into all sorts of trouble for doing it, although they went too far and broke the rules. But the truth was, the law needed people like Phil Robertson. Barristers are wordsmiths and nit-pickers, but to win, we need information, ammunition. We need missiles to throw at the other side. And it’s all done in the client’s best interest.

I ordered a black coffee and watched Phil tuck into a muffin.

‘So what have you got for me?’

‘She has a nice life, this one, doesn’t she,’ he said, wiping brown crumbs from his chin. ‘Posh lunches, nights out, shopping sprees … Remind me to marry well in my next life,’ he said, as I leaned forward, eager to know more about Donna Joy.

The waitress put a mug in front of me and I took a sip of the thick, black liquid.

‘It’s the nights out we want to know about.’

‘You mean, is she seeing anyone?’

I curled my fingers around the mug and looked at him expectantly.

‘I think she is,’ said Phil finally.

A shot of energy surged through me and I knew it wasn’t the coffee.

‘Donna’s seeing someone?’ I asked, feeling the euphoria build.

Phil nodded.

‘Who?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Phil, come on. What am I paying you for?’

He peered down his nose at me. ‘Here’s the rub. I think it might be the husband.’

Although I was sitting, it was as if I was suddenly falling, down, down through a trapdoor that had opened and sucked me into a dark and bottomless void.

‘Look, I know it’s not what you want to hear …’

The truth of his words almost made me laugh.

I tried to compose myself but I felt weak and dazed.

‘Are you sure? Martin Joy left his wife. He’s the one who wants a divorce. From my reading of the situation, he has a pretty low opinion of her …’

The words were coming out of my mouth as quickly as I could think them.

Phil finished his muffin and rolled the paper case up into a ball.

‘Look, I’ve asked around and tracked her – which, believe me, wasn’t easy.’

‘Why not?’ I asked, as coolly as I could.

‘Lots of parties I couldn’t get into. Trips overseas – one via Heathrow on March twelfth and a Eurostar journey last weekend. I couldn’t get through the gates on both occasions to see where she went. I did text David Gilbert for authorization for overseas expenses but he said not to bother.’

‘And you think these were mini-breaks? With her husband.’

‘I don’t know who she was with. All I can be certain of is that she travelled to the airport and King’s Cross on her own. And there were three or four other occasions when she didn’t return home. That made me think she was seeing someone. Then I saw her meet a man for dinner and they went back to the house in Chelsea.’ He opened a document wallet that was on the table and took out a photo.

‘There they are, Donna and Martin Joy.’

I forced myself to look. It was a black-and-white image that reminded me of a Robert Doisneau photograph. Donna was laughing, her long hair whipping around her face in the wind; Martin’s profile was handsome and strong. There was no denying that they looked beautiful together.

‘When was it?’ I could feel my lips in a thin, tight line. My throat was dry, a white-hot hatred for Donna Joy had muted me.

Phil indicated the photo. ‘Date’s on the back.’

I turned it over and saw that it was the Tuesday night when Martin had told me they had gone to talk.

‘This doesn’t mean much,’ I said, trying to reassure myself.

‘I know what you want here,’ said Phil, holding up his hands. ‘Proof that she’s seeing another man, that she’s got a new, serious relationship that could affect any maintenance payments your client will have to pay. But this isn’t it.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but if you ask me, these two look as if they’re still in love. I bet they don’t even want to get divorced.’

He smiled and put the photograph back in the document wallet. And my tepid, black coffee began to make me feel sick.

Chapter 12

I was one of the first to leave chambers that night, much to the bemusement of Paul, who caught me on the way out. I took the District line to Sloane Square, and got lost in a sea of commuters as we piled out of the station. It was a grey day, the light poor, the dying sunlight blocked by clouds clotted with rain, and on any other occasion, I would have wanted to hurry home to a glass of wine and the central heating turned up full-blast. But I couldn’t go home tonight. Not yet. Not after my conversation with Martin.

He’d called a few hours after my meeting with Phil Robertson. Usually I loved hearing the sound of his voice, but that afternoon I could hardly bear to speak to him, not after the things Phil had told me which had jolted me into a reality I did not want to face. That I had allowed myself to be fobbed off by Martin’s casual assertions that he was meeting Donna simply to be polite and keep a dialogue open. That I had dismissed Alex Cole’s remarks that Martin had been a mess after his marriage had broken down, even though it contradicted his version of events. But before the call had ended, a masochistic and inquisitive impulse had kicked in and I had suggested dinner. I wanted to look him in the eye, like a defendant in the witness box, and see if he could lie to me. Or perhaps I just wanted him to convince me that I had nothing to worry about.

‘Supper, tonight after work,’ I’d said, and it had been impossible to miss the hesitation, the guilty, pregnant pause before he told me he couldn’t, he was busy. ‘Something’s cropped up. How about tomorrow?’

I knew where Donna Joy worked. It was one of many things I knew about her by this time. Her studio was in a little mews in the warren of streets behind Peter Jones. An arch led to a cobbled courtyard and I peered into the building. The complex was dark, eerie, deserted, like an old, abandoned school.

Through the window of one of the units I could see a middle-aged redhead turn off the only light in the block and lock up.

I turned to leave but she emerged into the courtyard and asked if she could help me.

‘Is Donna around?’ I asked, picking at the cuticles of my nails.

The woman smiled as she tied a floral scarf around her neck.

‘You’ve missed her by a minute. She just left.’

Thanking her, I hurried back on to the street and peered into the twilight, cursing myself for not getting there earlier. I took a second to plot my next move. Thoughts raced round my head like dodgem cars: stop, start, collide, reverse. But as my gaze fluttered, I caught a glimpse of pink, a wink of colour in the distance, telling me I was not too late. I set off in pursuit, my stride breaking into a jog as I hurried to catch up with her. Donna turned left and I quickened my pace further, until the roar of the King’s Road traffic grew louder and louder and I was back in the throng of shoppers and commuters.

The pink coat guided me like a beacon. She crossed the road, but I kept my distance. Specks of rain started to fall and she stopped to look for a taxi. There were none of course. Not at this time, in this weather. So she carried on walking, while I weaved through the crowded pavements, determined not to lose sight of her. Finally she stopped outside a restaurant and went inside. I pulled my hat out of my pocket and put it on. The rain began to fall hard. Donna had avoided the brunt of it of course, but I was caught in the downpour. Not that I really noticed it.

A sense of dread swelled in my stomach as I crossed the road to the restaurant. I pretended to read the menu in the window while I steeled myself, then opened the door and stepped inside. The maître d’ was helping a couple with their coats, which gave me a few seconds to peer into the interior. I saw them immediately, sitting at a table at the rear. She had just said something and Martin was laughing as he ordered a bottle of wine. My heart hammering, I slipped out of the restaurant, back into the dark and thunderous street.

There was a bus stop on the other side of the road. I darted through the traffic, my breath ragged, my ears oblivious to the blast of horns as I weaved perilously between the cars. I blended in with the sombre, damp people in the queue, letting one bus pass, then another and another, all the while watching the door of the restaurant while the rain soaked me to the skin.

I woke up fully clothed on the sofa. There was a blanket over my body and I felt stiff, groggy and nauseous. Pulling myself up, I swung my legs on to the floor and put my head in my hands, my fingers peeling slowly away from my eyes as I tried to focus and make sense of why I was there. I looked down and saw a long ladder in my stocking. Congealed blood was stuck to the nylon but I had no idea how I’d cut myself.

I blinked hard and glanced around. It was dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t tell that this room, although familiar, was not mine. I rubbed my temples and exhaled, grateful, at least, that I was on the sofa, alone. My handbag was next to me on the rug and I was tempted to take it and let myself out, but I needed to know what had happened.

I stood up, unsteady on my feet as I searched for memories from the night before.

Pete’s place was smaller than mine with a similar layout, although his was not a maisonette. I went straight to the kitchen and ran myself a glass of water. I was dehydrated and my hands trembled as I held the glass. My breath quickened in panic as I realized that my lithium levels were too high.

I located his bedroom and peered inside. There was a faint, sour smell of sweat and running shoes, and I could see the curve of his body under the duvet. I felt guilty about waking him, but he stirred as if he was aware of the presence in the room, and pulled himself up on the pillow.

‘I’m going,’ I whispered after a moment. ‘I’m so sorry about this. I must have had too much to drink. I don’t remember what happened, but … well, I’m sorry.’

The red digits of his clock glowed in the dark. It wasn’t even six o’clock. Pete rubbed his eyes and turned on his bedside lamp.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

‘Shit. Absolutely shit,’ I replied, feeling exposed and self-conscious.

I ventured further into the room, aware that he was watching my every step. The cut on my leg was smarting as I moved.

‘Pete, why am I here?’ I asked finally.

‘You don’t remember?’ he said, sitting up straight.

I shook my head slowly. I couldn’t remember anything. Not from about nine or ten o’clock, anyway. I had followed Martin and Donna from the restaurant to a quiet street behind Cheyne Walk, a street that reeked of success and money, and they had disappeared into one of the white, stucco-fronted terraced houses. There was a pub almost opposite and I’d found a seat by the window where I could see the property. I recalled thinking the house looked peaceful and at rest, except I knew that Mr and Mrs Joy were not sleeping. I recalled ordering a double vodka tonic to try and dull the pain of betrayal. After that, I remembered nothing.

‘I had a lot to drink,’ I said, looking at him, an invitation for him to fill in the gaps as much as he was able, while I perched awkwardly on the end of his bed.

‘There was banging on the front door at around two o’clock in the morning. It was some mini-cab driver – you were passed out in the back seat of the car. Not in a great way. Apparently, you collapsed in Chelsea,’ he added apologetically.

‘I don’t remember,’ I whispered, feeling my cheeks pool red with shame.

Pete gave a weak, sympathetic shrug. ‘Cabbie said someone found you, got you in a taxi. I don’t know how they got your address. I’m guessing you told them or they found it in your bag. Wasn’t sure I could manage you up the stairs,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Besides, I was worried about you. You hear all these stories about people vomiting in their sleep and dying and stuff. I thought you might be safer here. I made sure you were propped up. Just in case.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, my humiliation almost complete.

‘The evils of alcohol.’

Neither of us spoke for a few moments. I could hear the rumble of the night bus outside and a lonely tweet of the dawn chorus getting under way.

‘Big night?’

‘I got drunk. I just got very, very drunk. Alcohol doesn’t agree with me.’

‘Is everything OK?’

‘It will be if you remind me never, ever to drink again.’

‘Where were you last night?’

I closed my eyes, my body yearning for sleep.

I’d been crying for a few moments before I realized it.

‘Shit. Are you OK?’ he said awkwardly. He swung his legs out of the bed and came to sit next to me. He was wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts but I was too dazed to take in the intimacy of our situation.

‘I’m fine,’ I said wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

‘Man trouble?’

I made a soft sound of disapproval.

‘Is it that bloke I saw you with the other week? Martin. Martin Joy.’

Looking back, it was strange that he remembered the most fleeting of introductions, but at the time, it didn’t register. I was desperate to talk about Martin and Donna, even if it was with my barely dressed neighbour.

‘I shouldn’t have been too surprised that he turned out to be unreliable.’

‘Rich commitmentphobe?’

I shrugged. ‘He has a wife. They’re separated, but it looks like she’s not exactly out of the picture. I saw them together,’ I said, puffing out my cheeks and struggling to compose myself.

‘And you got totally wasted,’ said Pete sympathetically.

‘I can’t remember how much I drank.’

‘We’ve all been there.’

I gave a quiet, nervous laugh. My hands were still shaking and it alarmed me.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘My lithium,’ I whispered, dipping my head. ‘I shouldn’t really drink alcohol. Dehydration affects the levels of my medication.’

‘You’re bipolar?’

I nodded.

‘Should I call a doctor?’ His young, eager face looked concerned.

‘I don’t know. No. Look, I should go. Thank you for everything. How much was the taxi?’

‘It’s all right,’ said Pete, looking at me intently.

I needed to be sick. I had to get out of there.

‘He’s not worth it, Fran,’ he said as I got up to leave. His voice was cool and measured and in the darkness it had a quiet and convincing authority.

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