said.
‘She’s definitely eccentric,’ Joanne said, and Mona arched an eyebrow.
‘I couldn’t believe the stuff she was coming out with in the witness box. She sounded like she was high on something. You know?’
‘Mmm,’ Joanne said. She looked at the last sentence she had underlined in the transcript. No longer quite at home . She thought of Elizabeth Lefroy crossing the yard at dusk on
Sunday evenings, standing in the window of her silent home, looking out at the smoke-clogged outhouse her son had made his own. She imagined her in the witness box, deep lines on her face, a
necklace of dark stones – jet, she thought – at her throat, a soft cardigan hanging on her thin frame. She tried to imagine her voice. She kept hearing one that, embarrassingly, was
probably the Queen of England’s. She tried to be more imaginative than that, but the Queen or some woman from Poirot was the best she could do.
‘Eoin says she drinks a lot,’ Mona went on, sorting through the pages on her own desk now, putting a stack into her drawer. ‘And then there’s her age. Her age makes it
easy for us, really.’ She slammed the drawer shut, pulled her chair up tight to her desk, and turned her computer on with one gleamingly manicured finger. The previous week, Joanne had seen
Imelda look at Mona’s nails, then glance at her own, and then – all in the time it took her to take a document from the folder she was carrying and hand it to Mona – peer over the
room to where Joanne’s unpainted nails, with their calcium spots and tattered cuticles, were hammering away on her keyboard. Imelda had given her usual curt nod then, evidently satisfied that
her grooming was not the worst in the office, and their morning briefing had begun.
‘You know she’s over eighty?’ Mona said, over her shoulder, while her computer screen drifted through the slow, whirring slideshow of its start-up. ‘I mean, her
testimony’s clearly unreliable. At that age, who isn’t delirious? Anyway, it’s poor Rupert I feel sorry for.’
‘The son?’
‘Yes, the son, obviously,’ Mona said, turning around with an expression of disbelief. ‘He’s only our client, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Sorry,’ Joanne said. ‘Wasn’t thinking. Not fully awake.’
Mona took a small mirror from her desk drawer and checked her makeup; seeming to see some flecks of mascara beneath her eyes, she brushed at them with the quick, delicate strokes of a fingertip.
‘God, I’ve been awake since six,’ she said. ‘I hate dragging myself to the gym, but what can you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joanne said vaguely, and looked down to the page in front of her, back to Elizabeth’s words. Clearly, they just meant so much more to me than to
him , she was saying. She was talking about the Sunday afternoons in the mews. Her counsel had asked Elizabeth whether she now suspected those afternoons merely to have been part of a ruse, and
Elizabeth was saying, no, that she did not think that, that she could not think her son, back then, capable of such deceit. Such capability came later, her counsel offered, and Elizabeth, then,
said nothing at all.
‘Actually, it was Rupert’s new restaurant I ate in on Saturday night,’ Mona said now.
‘Nice,’ said Joanne, with what she hoped would be enough enthusiasm to satisfy Mona.
‘God, omakase to die for. Rupert says it’s as good as anything you’ll get in New York.’
‘You met Rupert in the restaurant?’
Mona looked around and gave Joanne a frown that suggested she really wasn’t keeping up. ‘I was with Rupert at the restaurant. He invited me. He said it was important for us to
know the kind of establishment he runs.’
‘Oh,’ Joanne said, as evenly as she could. Mona’s little crush on the Lefroy son had been evident for a while now. Joanne didn’t think Mona could be sleeping with him
– she couldn’t be that stupid: word would spread, it would hobble her career – but she was
‘She’s definitely eccentric,’ Joanne said, and Mona arched an eyebrow.
‘I couldn’t believe the stuff she was coming out with in the witness box. She sounded like she was high on something. You know?’
‘Mmm,’ Joanne said. She looked at the last sentence she had underlined in the transcript. No longer quite at home . She thought of Elizabeth Lefroy crossing the yard at dusk on
Sunday evenings, standing in the window of her silent home, looking out at the smoke-clogged outhouse her son had made his own. She imagined her in the witness box, deep lines on her face, a
necklace of dark stones – jet, she thought – at her throat, a soft cardigan hanging on her thin frame. She tried to imagine her voice. She kept hearing one that, embarrassingly, was
probably the Queen of England’s. She tried to be more imaginative than that, but the Queen or some woman from Poirot was the best she could do.
‘Eoin says she drinks a lot,’ Mona went on, sorting through the pages on her own desk now, putting a stack into her drawer. ‘And then there’s her age. Her age makes it
easy for us, really.’ She slammed the drawer shut, pulled her chair up tight to her desk, and turned her computer on with one gleamingly manicured finger. The previous week, Joanne had seen
Imelda look at Mona’s nails, then glance at her own, and then – all in the time it took her to take a document from the folder she was carrying and hand it to Mona – peer over the
room to where Joanne’s unpainted nails, with their calcium spots and tattered cuticles, were hammering away on her keyboard. Imelda had given her usual curt nod then, evidently satisfied that
her grooming was not the worst in the office, and their morning briefing had begun.
‘You know she’s over eighty?’ Mona said, over her shoulder, while her computer screen drifted through the slow, whirring slideshow of its start-up. ‘I mean, her
testimony’s clearly unreliable. At that age, who isn’t delirious? Anyway, it’s poor Rupert I feel sorry for.’
‘The son?’
‘Yes, the son, obviously,’ Mona said, turning around with an expression of disbelief. ‘He’s only our client, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Sorry,’ Joanne said. ‘Wasn’t thinking. Not fully awake.’
Mona took a small mirror from her desk drawer and checked her makeup; seeming to see some flecks of mascara beneath her eyes, she brushed at them with the quick, delicate strokes of a fingertip.
‘God, I’ve been awake since six,’ she said. ‘I hate dragging myself to the gym, but what can you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joanne said vaguely, and looked down to the page in front of her, back to Elizabeth’s words. Clearly, they just meant so much more to me than to
him , she was saying. She was talking about the Sunday afternoons in the mews. Her counsel had asked Elizabeth whether she now suspected those afternoons merely to have been part of a ruse, and
Elizabeth was saying, no, that she did not think that, that she could not think her son, back then, capable of such deceit. Such capability came later, her counsel offered, and Elizabeth, then,
said nothing at all.
‘Actually, it was Rupert’s new restaurant I ate in on Saturday night,’ Mona said now.
‘Nice,’ said Joanne, with what she hoped would be enough enthusiasm to satisfy Mona.
‘God, omakase to die for. Rupert says it’s as good as anything you’ll get in New York.’
‘You met Rupert in the restaurant?’
Mona looked around and gave Joanne a frown that suggested she really wasn’t keeping up. ‘I was with Rupert at the restaurant. He invited me. He said it was important for us to
know the kind of establishment he runs.’
‘Oh,’ Joanne said, as evenly as she could. Mona’s little crush on the Lefroy son had been evident for a while now. Joanne didn’t think Mona could be sleeping with him
– she couldn’t be that stupid: word would spread, it would hobble her career – but she was
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