books. After ten minutes I looked up and saw Ben deep in concentration. He had this habit of clutching his shoulder with the hand on the opposite side of his body, chin on his chest, as he squinted at the text. I had an unexpected urge to reach across and brush the marble-smoothness of his cheekbone with the back of my hand.
He glanced up. I quickly reassembled my features into exaggerated boredom, faked a yawn.
‘Drink?’ he whispered.
‘Triple shot espresso with ProPlus ground up in the coffee beans,’ I said, closing my reference book with a thud, half-expecting it to throw up a cloud of talcum-like dust.
Settled in the cafeteria, Ben said: ‘I can’t fail the first year, I have to get this degree and earn some money because my waster of a dad isn’t going to help my mum or sister any time soon.’
‘Do you see him?’
He shook his head. ‘Not if I can help it, and the feeling’s mutual.’
Chin propped on palm, I listened to his account of his dad’s abrupt departure from their lives, his mum working two jobs, and felt guilty I’d ever complained about the boring dependability of my home life. I also thought how, with some people, you feel like you’ll never ever run out of things to talk about.
When Ben got to the part where he tracked his dad down and his dad told him he didn’t want to be found, he was suddenly, to both our surprise, on the verge of tears.
‘I couldn’t believe it, you know, I thought all I had to do was tell him we needed him around and he’d be on the next train, or send my mum something.’ Ben’s eyes had gone shiny, his voice thick. ‘I felt such a dick.’
I sensed he needed a way out of the moment. I wanted to make the grade as a confidante. And I wanted – given at least one important person had fallen short on this score with Ben – to be caring.
I said, with feeling: ‘I know he’s your dad and I hope it won’t offend you if I say he sounds like an utter bastard. You did absolutely the right thing trying to get him to face up to his responsibilities. If you hadn’t tried, you’d always wonder about him and regret it. This way, at least you know it’s a hundred per cent on him. You think it was nothing but pain, but it removed all doubt. Consider it what you had to do for peace of mind.’
Ben nodded, grateful, having had the time to get his emotions back under control.
‘Cheers, Ron.’
I realised then that, underneath the clean-cut clothes and breezy air, Ben was as much of a work in progress as the rest of us. He simply wore it better.
17
‘All rise!’ barks the court clerk, for the last time today.
As I scrabble to put away my notebook and float out the door, this semi-dream state is tested to its limits by the appearance of a fulminating Gretton.
‘You can tell that bird-faced bitch that I’m after her, right? Press on press is not on,’ he splutters.
I wasn’t aware Gretton operated by any code of honour. This is a retroactive one because he’s lost out on a story, no doubt.
‘Who …?’
‘Your little sidekick!’
‘You mean Zoe? What’s the matter?’
I try to get him to lower his voice by speaking more quietly and hoping he’ll match my volume. A few people are glancing over at us.
‘She DELIBERATELY …’
Tactic failing, I clutch his elbow and steer him alongside me as I walk away. ‘Shhh, not here. Follow me.’
Being taken seriously seems to calm Gretton slightly, and he just about keeps a lid on his simmering rage until we’re in the street.
‘She tampered with my court list.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I was missing pages on 2 and 3, and when I go and get a replacement, I find those pages have today’s best stories on them.’
‘How do you know it was Zoe? Couldn’t the pages have slipped out? Loose staple?’
Loose screw, possibly. We’re each given our computer printouts with lists of the daily hearings in sealed envelopes every morning by the front desk staff, so I don’t see how this trick is meant to have been played.
‘That happen to have her cases listed on them? I’m not fucking stupid.’
At this moment, Zoe sails past. ‘Alright, Pete?’ she asks, cool as the cucumber she doesn’t eat.
‘I’m on to you, you conniving little cow,’ Gretton barks.
‘Stop talking to her like that,’ I say.
‘What’s the problem?’ Zoe asks, girlish eyes wide.
‘Ripping pages out of my lists. If you want to play dirty, we’ll play dirty. You’ve been warned. And you –’ he wheels round to jab a finger at me ‘– better watch out too.’
‘Why? What have I done?’
He stalks off, smoothing his rusty flyaway hair with one hand, the other jammed in his pocket, seeking out his fags.
Zoe adjusts her bag on her shoulder. I hadn’t noticed how appealingly shabby and insufficiently smart it is – a student-market-looking thing in sludgy colours, covered in little mirrors and tassels. It reminds me how new she is to all of this. She’ll probably get her first briefcase from her parents this Christmas. She’s smiling, a little too contentedly.
‘How’d you do it?’
‘I pulled the pages out of mine and swapped our lists over when he was busy looking at that leggy barrister who got her robe caught on a door handle.’
We look at each other and start laughing.
‘The fight back starts here,’ Zoe says.
I’ve always put up with Gretton as an unfortunate fact of life, but Zoe’s showing significantly more resourcefulness. Perhaps if I’d had this kind of energy ten years ago, I’d be in a very different place right now.
I put my hand out and she shakes it. ‘You should be very proud of your first week.’
‘Drink?’ Zoe asks.
‘Ah, no. Next time. I’ve got this meet-up with my friends.’
‘The female friend,’ she nods.
For a moment, I struggle to remember my untruth, and stare blankly.
‘Have a nice time,’ Zoe says, though I have a feeling her smirk says she’s rumbled me.
I walk away silently saying to myself: and you are learning Italian, and you are learning Italian.
‘You look nice,’ Caroline says as I pick my way to our meeting point by Piccadilly Gardens, taking in my shirtdress and my higher-than-usual heels. ‘All for my benefit, is it?’
‘You look nice too,’ I say, defensively.
‘I always look this nice for work.’
‘Show off.’
I hoped to convey ‘professional and together.’ And, OK, maybe a little bit hot. So far it’s earned: ‘Ahoy hoy, soliciting under the Street Offences Act, 1959? Court 7!’ from Gretton.
I asked Caroline to come in a fit of pre-match nerves when I realised I wanted support in facing Ben and this scary bloke. And maybe, possibly, it occurred to me that four was a better number for one-on-one conversations.