Page 77 of The Way We Are Now

‘Make sure you do.’

Gemma looked at her watch. ‘A Sara Cleeves rang while I was making coffee. Wants to make an appointment.’

‘OK.’ I reached for my notepad and pen. ‘Any details?’

‘Not really. Just said she’d heard you were the best and wanted to speak to you.’

‘What’s my work diary like?’

‘You’ve space on Thursday afternoon at 10 a.m. Although, what state you’ll be in after Wednesday night is anyone’s guess…’ Gemma trailed off.

‘Gemma, Michael and I are just having a lovely celebratory dinner at some Michelin-starred restaurant that he’s booked. You know what a foodie he is. Mind you, is turning forty something to celebrate? It’s bloody old, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t say that when I’m forty next year and trying to tell myself that having a baby at my age is fine.’

‘All will be well,’ I said, looking at the clock. ‘Right, has my 10.30 arrived? Wheel her in.’ I placed a box of tissues strategically to hand, opened a new page in my notebook and waited.

Michael Wrathmell and I had been together for almost a year. We’d met at a political rally I’d gone along to with David and Christopher and when David managed to collar him, pinning him down for comments on what was going on, he’d been polite, friendly and cooperative. Hovering at David’s side, Christopher and I had turned our backs and chatted, knowing that David needed to get on with doing the job he was paid for. After a good five minutes, Michael thanked David and made to walk off but then came back and turned to me.

‘You’re Anna Piasecki?’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry…?’ I offered up a questioning look.

‘I’ve met David a couple of times. Making a bit of a name for himself, isn’t he? I’ve seen your photo, recognised you and assumed you were related somewhere along the line. I just wanted to say thank you for taking on and handling the Marianne Graham case with such expertise.’

‘Oh? You know Ms Graham?’

‘She’s one of my constituents.’ He smiled.

‘But she’s not from Liverpool. As you so obviously are.’

‘That obvious?’

‘Er, well, yes. To be honest, I love a Scouse accent.’ Was I flirting with the man?

He laughed. ‘I thought I’d toned it down a bit. No, I may be from Liverpool, but my constituency is down here in London. And you’ve not lost your Yorkshire accent?’

‘Oh, I think I’ve had some of it knocked off.’ I smiled, realised I was actually dimpling at him. ‘I’ve lived in the south almost twenty years. A standard English accent probably gets to us all down here after a while.’

An official-looking man on his left was beckoning Michael.

‘So, thanks again for helping Marianne. I don’t think she’d have been able to vindicate herself in court without your expertise.’

He smiled down at me, and I thought, Woah, this man is lovely.

Michael offered up a final, ‘Good to meet you, Anna,’ gave me a rather hot lingering look and moved off into the crowd.

I knew we’d immediately hit it off; there’d definitely been a spark between us, so I wasn’t surprised when, a couple of days later, he rang me at the office and asked me out for dinner. Him being in government, I’d heard of him of course, had watched him when he’d been invited to put forward a particular view on breakfast TV, read a couple of articles he’d written for the national press and, although he sometimes came over as slightly arrogant, full of himself almost, he spoke exceptionally well, his strong Liverpool accent quite beguiling.

‘How did you get my number?’ I asked once I’d joined him at the reserved table at the River Café in Hammersmith, a short taxi ride away from my apartment in Fulham.

‘Pretty easy really, knowing who you are and that you were instructing solicitor for Marianne Graham. And, like your brother, you’re beginning to make a bit of a name for yourself too, Anna Piasecki.’

The way he said my name and held my eye made me feel both shy and lustful all at once and, somewhat confused, I hid my discomposure in the glass of water he poured for me.

‘How come an obvious socialist like yourself frequents a restaurant like this?’ I glanced round at the iconic, brightly lit open kitchen, a focal point which allowed its diners to watch the chefs at work. The interior designer had gone for vibrant coloured walls and a rather eyewatering bright blue carpet. ‘Don’t know if I like the carpet,’ I went on, talking too much as usual. ‘Feel as though I’m on the high sea and, to be honest, I’m not the best swimmer. Got my Learner’s Certificate for swimming a length and that’s about it.’

Michael laughed. ‘But don’t you just love the industrial feel of it all? And how many restaurants have a woodburning stove in the middle of the floor?’