his answering machine to filter his incoming calls.
The voice said, ‘James, it’s me, Michael.’
Michael? ‘Ah yes, how are you?’ I said. Michael who? I thought.
‘James, I need your services. You do family law, don’t you? Matrimonial? You know your way about it?’
‘Yes, I …’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘then you’re just the man I need. When can we meet? Thursday – does Thursday suit you? Could you squeeze me in at, say, three o’clock?’
I was in danger of being steamrollered into an appointment with a stranger who claimed to know me. Then it clicked: that self-assured, irresistible tone? Surely not …
My tongue stumbling in my mouth, I said, ‘Excuse me, but I wonder if I might set something straight in my mind: I’m speaking to Michael Donovan of 6 Essex Court, aren’t I? It’s just that I have a bad line and I can’t hear you very well.’
‘The very same. Sorry, I should have explained; you’ve probably forgotten me after all these years.’
I laughed nervously. ‘No, no, no, it’s just that the line is poor … Now then,’ I said, changing the subject quickly, ‘Thursday you said? Let me just check. Yes, that would be fine.’ What was I saying? Thursday was not fine at all, the page in my diary was turquoise with meetings. Thursday was terrible. ‘Three o’clock? Yes, I can manage that. No problem at all.’
Donovan said, ‘Excellent. See you the day after tomorrow, then.’
The harsh tone of the disconnected line droned in my ear.
Michael Donovan! Michael Donovan had telephoned me!
My head suddenly weightless, I went to make myself that coffee, this time because I felt like drinking it. Back in my revolving chair with a hot mug warming my fingers, I spun round towards the window. I put my feet up on the window-sill, my toes in line with the rooftops across the road. I basked. So Michael had not forgotten me, after all. He knew that I was right here, at Batstone Buckley Williams. Joyously I swung my feet off the sill and walked over to the basin to rinse the coffee stains out of my mug. Of all the solicitors available to him, Donovan had turned to me. So, I had impressed him with my work. My long hours of painful, unpaid, meticulous research had made their mark, the mole had finally received his dues. Donovan remembered me, even after all these years, as someone he could trust; someone he could count on.
‘June,’ I said brightly, ‘please arrange Thursday to accommodate a three o’clock visit from Mr Donovan.’
‘What about Mr Lexden-Page? You know how he is.’
‘Mr Lexden-Page, June, can be rescheduled.’ Lexden-Page had tripped over a protruding paving-stone and was pursuing the responsible local authority in negligence for (a) damages for pain and suffering in respect of his small toe, and (b) the cost of an extra shoeshine arising from the slight scuff his shoe had received. Lexden-Page could wait.
I returned to my desk and rested the back of my head on the pillow my hands made. What could Donovan want? I asked myself. Then I thought about something completely different, if at all.
The morning of that Thursday saw me relaxed and confident. I wore an attractive blue shirt and my best pure wool suit. Although my desk was an iron one and my carpet was worn down by the chair-legs, it struck me that my office was not unprestigious. It was spacious and it enjoyed a fine view. Looking around it with a freshened eye, I felt a little pang of pride: there were more inconsequential stations in life than the one I occupied. With this office and with customers like Donovan, you had to admit that I was not doing that badly.
But I grew jumpy as three o’clock drew nearer and nearer. Drinking coffee after coffee, I watched the office clock show fifteen-hundred, then fifteen-ten, then fifteen-twenty-five. When, at a quarter to four, I returned from a visit to the lavatory, there it was, Donovan’s silhouette against the window.
‘Hallo,’ Donovan said, standing up with a smile. ‘Sorry I’m late. I want you to have a look at this.’ He reached into a slim briefcase and handed me a sheaf of papers. ‘It came two weeks ago.’ Then he sat down.
I moved into the room. It was as though the last decade had never happened.
I read what he had given me. It was a Petition for divorce. The Petitioner was Arabella Donovan.
‘I see,’ I said.
I leafed through the documents for a second time. The marriage had broken down irretrievably, alleged Mrs Donovan. The Respondent, Donovan, had behaved in such a way that the Petitioner could not reasonably be expected to live with him.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Then I suggested a cup of coffee and picked up the telephone to speak to June. I could easily have simply raised my voice for some, but that would have been undecorous. ‘Do you still take it black, no sugar?’ I asked.
‘That’s right,’ Donovan said, with a note of something – admiration, I think – in his voice.
June came in with a steaming tray and a splashy, red-mouthed smile. June is a tall black girl who used to long-jump for England when she was eighteen, and when she enters a room with her long, spectacular legs she tends to bring things to a standstill. While she poured the coffee, I took another look at Donovan, who was patiently waiting for his cup to fill. He was sitting with his legs crossed. His green eyes, and the skin around them, appeared rested, and his black, thick hair was positively glossy. His unexceptional, off-the-peg suit hung well on his large frame. What really caught my eye, though, were his hands, folded in his lap. They were in perfect condition. They were like the hands that hold the cigarette packets in the advertisements, manicured yet manly, good hands, hands you felt like shaking – the hands of an airline pilot or a surgeon, someone you could trust with your life.
How well he looked, I thought. And then it came back to me. His calmness. I had forgotten that Donovan was, above all, calm. And it was the best kind of calmness, profound and reassuring – it was a tranquillity, a serenity. Don’t worry, it communicated, everything is in hand. Everything is going according to plan. It also said, implicitly, leave everything to me; leave everything to me and everything will turn out well. It was this stillness that gave Donovan his authority, that subtly turned his suggestions into commands. Even then, as I watched him waiting for his coffee cup to fill, I felt the impulse to yield, to drop the reins.
When June had gone Donovan retrieved the papers from me and pointed to a passage in one of the pages. ‘I’m not experienced in this area, so I’m curious to know how often you come across these kinds of allegations.’ He was referring to the section in the Petition headed Particulars. Here Donovan’s culpable behaviour was particularized and broken down into sub-paragraphs (a), (b) and (c).
I was nervous. I said, ‘I must say, they are not commonplace. But I would not say that they were unusual, either.’
Donovan smiled at me and stood up. He began walking unhurriedly around the room. Hallo, I thought. He never used to pace around. Or did he?
He spoke gently. ‘I intend to contest this petition.’ He paused, indicating the arrival of a different point. ‘In my view there are good prospects of defeating it. My wife will not be able to substantiate her allegations, which in any case are unspecific, arguably to an unacceptable degree.’ He looked at me over his shoulder with his green eyes and resumed his pacing. ‘I think you will agree that the tone and content of the pleading are unconvincing.’
I broke a silence. ‘Yes,’ I said.
He continued slowly striding, and for the first time I noticed the inefficiency of his physical movements. He was not clumsy (this would have not been surprising, given that he was a biggish man), he was simply uneconomical with the way he transported himself. He took irregular steps across the room, he swung his arms by his sides with no particular coordination.
I cleared my throat. ‘I don’t have to tell you what my standard advice to clients is in this