friendship, I wonder? How did he think of me? If he thought of me at all …
This is the first conversational pothole of many on the road that lies before us, if we’re going to be friends. It’s possible Ben doesn’t see the start of anything here, only a favour to another friend. A trip down memory lane, a swift three-point turn and back out again, foot firmly on accelerator.
Ben’s obviously thinking this way too, because he says: ‘This is mad, isn’t it?’ gesturing at me, him, our being together. ‘Where does the time go?’
I’m sure it went faster for you, I think, nodding. Caroline and Simon’s tandem conversation about high finance shows no signs of stopping. Ben therefore obviously deems it safe to ask: ‘What happened with you and Rhys? If you want to talk about it? Totally fine if you don’t …’
‘It was everything and nothing in particular. We reached the end of the line. Cockfosters.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The end of the line. The Underground? Never mind.’
‘Ah.’ Ben smiles politely, bemused.
At university, I’m sure that would’ve made him laugh. I don’t know him any more. He’s changed. Or maybe I should try again with a better joke.
Half of me wants to throw myself on Ben and tell him every last thing, gesturing to the barman to bring us the rest of the bottle and telling Caroline and Simon they’re good to leave us. The other half of me knows not only is this the wrong person to seek sympathy from, I can’t bear to see a grain – the smallest speck – of relief in his eyes. Relief that he got away from me.
‘Anyway. What made you want to move back up here?’ I continue, slightly desperately.
‘Apart from the fact that Simon said his firm had a job going? Dunno, really – I was fed up with London, couldn’t face the commuter belt, I couldn’t live somewhere too small, and this is the other big city I know and like.’
‘Was your wife keen to move too?’
‘Not exactly. We reached the decision through a process of mature debate. And, er, compromise and … concession.’
Simon overhears this and interrupts: ‘What he means is, they’re here, but Olivia gets her way now until either of them dies.’
He adds: ‘And while we’re on the subject of pushy women, Caroline thinks Ben should get some more drinks.’
‘I didn’t say that!’ Caroline protests, enjoying Simon’s teasing. She’s always liked cocky blokes.
Ben shakes his head in mock disapproval. ‘Come on, Caroline. We’re not doing slammers in the union bar any more. She was monstrous at university …’
‘Really?’ Simon says, contemplating Caroline, obviously hoping ‘monstrous’ is code for ‘open to suggestion’.
‘What was Rachel like?’ Simon asks Ben.
Ben mutters ‘Worse’ and gets up swiftly.
19
‘Are you going to tell Rachel about this story, then?’ Ben asks Simon, on his return. I’d have liked to sustain the illusion that this isn’t about business for a little longer.
Yet I add: ‘Yeah, what is it? I’m curious.’
‘Can I trust you? Is this off the record?’ Simon says, warily, pushing forward on his seat, eyes darting round the bar as if my plainclothes associate might be loitering by the fag machine.
‘I don’t come to wine bars wired for sound.’
Simon glowers at me.
I make a cross on my chest with a fingertip. ‘Promise this goes no further. On my life. You are safe to speak.’
Simon leans further forward. ‘I’ve got an important client who’s ready for an interview. With the right paper.’
‘We can’t pay big money,’ I say.
‘I said the right paper, not the one that can pay the most.’
‘Who is he?’
Simon leans back again, scrutinises my face as if it’s a map that contains the key to my trustworthiness. ‘She. Natalie Shale. So wife-of-client, strictly speaking.’
My pulse quickens, before natural pessimism returns it to normal.
‘She doesn’t do interviews.’
‘She didn’t, I’m advising her differently.’
‘To who?’
‘Her husband’s last solicitor,’ Simon says, mouth twitching slightly, possibly in irritation at being doubted. ‘I’ve taken over from a colleague who’s snowed under.’
‘You must be doing well to get given it …?’
‘Simon’s in line to be made a partner,’ Ben supplies.
‘So, you up for it or what?’ Simon asks me.
‘Natalie would do a face-to-face piece, photos, everything? An exclusive?’
It’s been a while since I got truly excited by a story, but I can feel the proper journalist in me stirring after a long, deep, Rip Van Winkle length sleep. My news editor will do somersaults.
‘Yes. But no spoilers on the fresh evidence for the appeal, and I’d want your assurance that it wouldn’t be a dredge of hubby’s murky past. She’s very sensitive about it, as you can imagine. She doesn’t want to do anything that’s going to dim the glory when he’s freed.’
‘What if he isn’t?’ asks Caroline.
‘He will be,’ Ben says.
I make a noise of agreement.
‘Why?’ she persists.
‘Because he’s innocent … and because he’s got a great legal team,’ Ben says, tipping his bottle to clink it against Simon’s. Ever the optimist.
Caroline glances at me and I know she’s thinking, since when was that a guarantee? Ever the pragmatist.
‘He needs great barristers,’ Simon says, evenly. ‘And as a miscarriage of justice he needs attention, so Johnny Judge accepts you don’t get that many people holding placards outside the Court of Appeal and tooting vuvuzelas unless there’s a bloody good reason. We need to keep it in the public eye. Natalie’s interview could help with that.’
Simon pronounces bloody as ‘bladdy’ and I wonder if he went somewhere properly flashy like Eton or Harrow.
‘And Natalie’s very media friendly,’ he concludes. ‘If you get this right, it’s made of win.’
‘I thought you said she doesn’t do interviews?’ Caroline asks.
‘He means she’s attractive,’ I say.
‘Correct,’ Simon says. He reclines, so laidback he’s practically horizontal, figuratively as well as literally.
20
Having university friends studying accountancy, business management and cognitive science meant one thing, for sure (apart from them all ending up considerably better paid than me in later life): I had many, many more hours wafting around on ‘free study periods’.
Naturally, Ben and I finished our end of first year exams about a week before everyone else. For reasons lost to history, we did our celebrating in a hideous Scottish-themed pub called MacDougal’s in Fallowfield. If it honoured the ancient MacDougal clan, I never much wanted to meet them. It had tartan curtains,