said, behind her. In her screensaver, Natasha could just make out the downturn of her secretary’s lips. The office tea-towel was slung over Natasha’s shoulders, catching little feathers of dark-blonde hair as she worked.
‘No time.’ Natasha was back to the file in front of her, glasses at the end of her nose, stockinged feet on the desk. ‘Got to read through these files. I’m due back in court at two for closing submission.’
‘But your highlights have grown out. You need touching up.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘I haven’t done anyone’s highlights for years, and especially not in a lunch hour. You earn enough. You should get a proper job done. One of those celebrity hairdressers.’ She picked up a lock of hair and let it fall.
Natasha snorted. ‘My worst nightmare.’
‘You could make something of yourself if you tried.’
‘You sound like my parents. Is there any tea going?’
She speed-read the last page of her notes, then closed the file and reached for the one that sat under it. Her phone beeped. Mac had texted her twice that morning asking when he could come to the house. She had put him off for almost ten days now.
Sorry. Too much on tomorrow. Maybe Thurs. Will let u know
she typed. She had barely put her phone down when it beeped again.
Half an hour. Weds evening.
She didn’t want to face him. There was so much going on here. He had stayed away for a year; another day or two wouldn’t hurt him. She typed back.
Cannot get away. Judicial review. Sorry.
But today he appeared to have lost patience:
I need my stuff. Next Friday latest. I can pick it up without you being there. Pls advise if locks changed.
She flipped her phone shut, regrouped her thoughts. ‘Anyway, Lin,’ she said, ‘why should I go to a proper hairdresser? Your haircuts are fine.’
‘Steady on the praise now, Mrs McCauley.’
‘Miss.’
‘Oh, yes. I was going to ask you if you wanted to be “Ms” on your correspondence . . . I’ve got to reorder.’
‘Why would I want to be “Ms”?’
Linda shrugged. ‘Dunno. You’re just that type.’
Natasha ducked forwards, away from the scissors, and spun round in her chair. ‘What type?’
Linda was unabashed. ‘Independent, wants everyone to know it, and glad to be.’ She considered this. ‘“Ms” is a been-through-the-mill sort of title. Not oh-gosh-I’m-still-hoping-for-the-white-wedding, like “Miss” is.’ She placed her hands on either side of Natasha’s head and swivelled it so that she faced the front.
‘Been through the mill,’ Natasha repeated. ‘I don’t know if you’ve just insulted me or said something quite nice.’
Ben came in and put another file on the desk. She leant forward to pick it up, prompting a curse from behind her.
‘Linda, did that social worker ring back about Ahmadi?’ She wasn’t sure what she was going to ask but she needed clues: how could she have been so wrong about the boy? Had anyone else worked out that his history couldn’t have been as he claimed?
‘Ahmadi . . . Is that the kid who was in the paper? The one you represented? I thought I recognised his name.’ Linda missed nothing. ‘He attacked someone, didn’t he? Surprising, really. Didn’t seem the type.’
Natasha didn’t want to discuss this in front of her trainee. ‘They never do. Come on, Linda, you must have finished. I’m due in court in twenty minutes and I haven’t had a sandwich yet.’
‘How’d you go?’
Conor was waiting for her outside court. She leant forward and kissed him, no longer concerned about the glances of other lawyers. They were an established couple now. Two separated, older, wiser people. Nothing scandalous there. ‘Got them. I knew I would. Pennington was woefully underbriefed.’
‘That’s my girl.’ Conor stroked the back of her head. ‘Nice hair. Dinner?’
‘God, I’d love to, but I’ve got to sort out a ton of paperwork for tomorrow.’ She saw his face cloud and
‘No time.’ Natasha was back to the file in front of her, glasses at the end of her nose, stockinged feet on the desk. ‘Got to read through these files. I’m due back in court at two for closing submission.’
‘But your highlights have grown out. You need touching up.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘I haven’t done anyone’s highlights for years, and especially not in a lunch hour. You earn enough. You should get a proper job done. One of those celebrity hairdressers.’ She picked up a lock of hair and let it fall.
Natasha snorted. ‘My worst nightmare.’
‘You could make something of yourself if you tried.’
‘You sound like my parents. Is there any tea going?’
She speed-read the last page of her notes, then closed the file and reached for the one that sat under it. Her phone beeped. Mac had texted her twice that morning asking when he could come to the house. She had put him off for almost ten days now.
Sorry. Too much on tomorrow. Maybe Thurs. Will let u know
she typed. She had barely put her phone down when it beeped again.
Half an hour. Weds evening.
She didn’t want to face him. There was so much going on here. He had stayed away for a year; another day or two wouldn’t hurt him. She typed back.
Cannot get away. Judicial review. Sorry.
But today he appeared to have lost patience:
I need my stuff. Next Friday latest. I can pick it up without you being there. Pls advise if locks changed.
She flipped her phone shut, regrouped her thoughts. ‘Anyway, Lin,’ she said, ‘why should I go to a proper hairdresser? Your haircuts are fine.’
‘Steady on the praise now, Mrs McCauley.’
‘Miss.’
‘Oh, yes. I was going to ask you if you wanted to be “Ms” on your correspondence . . . I’ve got to reorder.’
‘Why would I want to be “Ms”?’
Linda shrugged. ‘Dunno. You’re just that type.’
Natasha ducked forwards, away from the scissors, and spun round in her chair. ‘What type?’
Linda was unabashed. ‘Independent, wants everyone to know it, and glad to be.’ She considered this. ‘“Ms” is a been-through-the-mill sort of title. Not oh-gosh-I’m-still-hoping-for-the-white-wedding, like “Miss” is.’ She placed her hands on either side of Natasha’s head and swivelled it so that she faced the front.
‘Been through the mill,’ Natasha repeated. ‘I don’t know if you’ve just insulted me or said something quite nice.’
Ben came in and put another file on the desk. She leant forward to pick it up, prompting a curse from behind her.
‘Linda, did that social worker ring back about Ahmadi?’ She wasn’t sure what she was going to ask but she needed clues: how could she have been so wrong about the boy? Had anyone else worked out that his history couldn’t have been as he claimed?
‘Ahmadi . . . Is that the kid who was in the paper? The one you represented? I thought I recognised his name.’ Linda missed nothing. ‘He attacked someone, didn’t he? Surprising, really. Didn’t seem the type.’
Natasha didn’t want to discuss this in front of her trainee. ‘They never do. Come on, Linda, you must have finished. I’m due in court in twenty minutes and I haven’t had a sandwich yet.’
‘How’d you go?’
Conor was waiting for her outside court. She leant forward and kissed him, no longer concerned about the glances of other lawyers. They were an established couple now. Two separated, older, wiser people. Nothing scandalous there. ‘Got them. I knew I would. Pennington was woefully underbriefed.’
‘That’s my girl.’ Conor stroked the back of her head. ‘Nice hair. Dinner?’
‘God, I’d love to, but I’ve got to sort out a ton of paperwork for tomorrow.’ She saw his face cloud and
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