“I bet you bloody were.” Too late now, all the jealousy is spilling out. Why does he always do this to me?
We walk together to the club. I try to take his arm a couple of times but he pulls away and before we reach the entrance, he pushes me into a dark corner between two office blocks, grasping my jaw for emphasis. “Keep your hands off me when we go inside.”
“I never put my hands on you.”
“Bollocks, Alison. The last time we ended up in here you were trying to grope me. You made it so obvious. I’m just trying to protect you.”
“Protect yourself, more like. You don’t want to be seen with me. I’m too old…” My voice trails off.
“If you’re going to talk like that you should just go home. It’s your reputation I’m trying to protect. All your colleagues are in here.”
“You want to get off with Alexia, you’re just getting me out of the way.” Tears leak out of my eyes, any dignity long gone.
“Stop making a scene.” His mouth is close to my ear, the words quiet. “If you make a scene I will never speak to you again. Now get off me.”
He pushes me away and walks round the corner. I stumble on my heels, putting my hand against the wall to hold myself up. Instead of the rough texture of cement and brick, there’s a sticky substance smeared right where I plant my palm. Steady on my feet now, I smell my hand and retch. Shit. Some joker has smeared shit all over the alleyway wall. The smell does more to sober me up than anything Patrick has hissed at me.
Should I take it as a sign to go? Hell no. There’s no way I’m going to leave Patrick to his own devices in that nightclub, not with all those hungry young women desperate to make a good impression on one of chambers’ most important instructing solicitors. I scrape the worst of the mess onto a clean bit of wall and walk with assurance to Swish, smiling at the doorman. If I wash my hands for long enough I’ll get the stink off. No one will ever know.
Tequila? Yes, tequila. Another shot. Yes, a third. The music thumps. Dancing now with Robert and Sankar, now with the clerks, now showing the pupils how it’s done, smiling, joining hands with them and spinning and back to dancing on my own, my arms waving above my head, twenty again and no cares. Another shot, a gin and tonic, head spinning backwards falling through the beat as my hair falls round my face.
Patrick’s in here somewhere but I don’t care, not looking out for him, certainly have no idea that he’s dancing very closely with Alexia with the smile on his face that should just be for me. I can play that game. I walk over to the bar, a wiggle in my stride. Looking good. Dark hair artfully pushed back from my face, fit for nearly forty—the match of any twentysomething in that room. Even Alexia. Especially Alexia. Patrick’ll see oh he’ll be sorry he’ll be so sorry he lost this chance messed this one up…
A new song comes on, with a heavier beat, and two men push past me to get onto the dance floor. I sway on my feet, then fall, unable to stop the momentum, my phone dropping hard out of my pocket. I knock into a woman holding a glass of red wine that spills everywhere, all down her yellow dress and onto my shoes. The woman looks at me in revulsion and turns away. My knees are damp in a pool of spilled booze and I try to gather myself a little before standing.
“Get up.”
I look up, then down again. “Leave me alone.”
“Not when you’re in this state. Come on.”
Patrick. I want to cry. “Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you. I just want you to get up and get out of here. That’s enough for one night.”
“Why do you want to help me?”
“Someone has to. All the rest of your chambers have found a table and are knocking back Prosecco. They won’t notice us leaving.”
“You’ll come with me?”
“If you get on with it.” He reaches out his hand and pulls me up. “Go outside now. I’ll meet you there.”
“My phone…” I look around the floor.
“What about it?”
“I dropped it.” I spot it under a table near the edge of the dance floor. The screen is cracked and sticky with beer. I wipe it off on my skirt and trail out of the club.
He doesn’t touch me as we walk to chambers. We don’t talk, don’t discuss it. I unlock the door, getting the alarm code right on the third attempt. He follows me into my room, ripping at my clothes without kissing me, before pushing me facedown onto the desk. I stand back up and look at him.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“You say that every time.”
“I mean it.”
“You say that every time too.” He laughs, pulls me close and kisses me. I turn my head away but he puts up his hand and twists my face back to his. My mouth’s rigid against his lips for a moment but the smell of him, the taste, overtakes me.
Harder. Faster. My head thumps into the files on the desk as he thrusts into me from behind, pauses for a moment, moves himself.
“I didn’t say…” I start but he laughs, makes a hushing sound. One hand’s pulling my hair and the other’s pushing me down onto the desk and my words turn to a sob, a gasp. Again and again against the desk and then the files fall and as they fall they catch the photograph frame and it falls too and the glass smashes and it’s too much but I can’t stop him and I don’t want to stop him but I do, and on and on and no don’t stop don’t stop, stop it hurts, don’t stop until a groan and he’s done, standing and wiping and straightening.
“We have to stop doing this, Patrick.” I get off the desk and pull up my underwear and tights, tugging my skirt neatly down to my knees. He’s doing his trousers back up, tucking his shirt in. I try to do up my shirt.
“You ripped off a button,” I say, fingers shaking.
“I’m sure you can sew it back on.”
“I can’t sew it on right now.”
“No one will notice. No one’s here. Everyone’s asleep. It’s nearly three in the morning.”
I look around the floor, find the button. Push my feet into my shoes, stumble into the desk. The room’s spinning, my head foggy again.
“I mean it. This has to stop.” I’m trying not to cry.
“As I said, you always say that.” He doesn’t look at me as he pulls his jacket back on.
“I’m finishing this. I can’t deal with it anymore.” Now I’m crying in earnest.
He walks over, holds my face between his palms.
“Alison, you’re pissed. You’re tired. You know you don’t want this to stop. Neither do I.”
“This time I mean it.” I back away from him, trying to look emphatic.
“We’ll see.” He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. “I’m going to go now. We’ll speak next week.”
Patrick leaves before I can argue any more. I slump into the armchair in the corner. If only I didn’t get so drunk. I wipe the snot and tears away from my face with my jacket sleeve, until my head slumps onto my shoulder in oblivion.
2
Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!”