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I put everything she wants in jeopardy just because I wanted to be the guy who could give her the world. I wanted to lay her dreams out before her and the worst part of that is it’s not even just for her. It’s a selfish kind of gift. I want to give her the world not because I want her to have it but because I need to be the one who hands it to her. I made her dream about me.
Olivia is destined for greatness in law and I want to be part of that. I had my chance and I chose to defend low-life scum. So what? I think I can have two bites of the cherry? That I can somehow push my way into her career? Become a part of her dreams and hopes and future?
It’s just not possible.
Soon I’ll be back in Dublin, back at my desk, in my office, with my scum clients and Michael Brophy and this will all seem like a strange, distant dream.
She’ll go on to live her life, without me in it. And her life will be fucking amazing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ANGER IS A funny beast. Anger at Connor lingers within me, unbroken, for days. It taunts me and follows me and any moment I have when I might be close to forgetting, fresh anger surges and my fight is renewed.
It is worse because I need it to be. Because anger allows me refuge from analysing anything else I’m feeling. Anger lets me forget that I’ve done something really, spectacularly stupid and fallen in love with someone like Connor. Someone like Connor? There is no one like Connor.
Anger stalks me. But early on Sunday morning I go for a run. I run hard and fast, grateful for the way the air explodes through my body, torturing lungs that crave kisses from Connor.
I run along the Thames, all the way to Barnes, over the bridge, and then I loop my way back, hard and fast, crossing the Common, barely noticing the way autumn has begun to take hold of the ancient trees that populate its banks. Grand and stately, and gradually being denuded of their summer finery, their greenery slowly shaking loose and tumbling away, into the river and out to sea.
He tried to call me yesterday. And Friday. Twice each day. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I want to hear his voice. I want to go back to what we were before Senior Crown Prosecutor Alexander, but something’s shifted. I understand what I feel now, but not what I want. There is nothing simple about this—desire, lust and love have to be weighed against the reality of our situation. Most importantly, how I feel has to be weighed against how he feels.
The road lifts up in a none-too-gentle hill as I approach Putney, running along the river, and I keep going, each agonising step after the other, until finally I reach the café on the corner of my street. It’s busy, as usual at this time of the week. I join the queue—it’s almost out of the door—and shuffle forward incrementally, just me and my anger, and a need for coffee I have been delaying since daybreak.
I order the biggest size, a jumbo, and shift away from the counter, absentmindedly reaching for a paper. I lay it on a vacant table at the back and turn the pages, pretending to read without really taking any of it in.
My name is called by the barista and I turn the page once more, simultaneously lifting my head as if to move to the counter and collect my drink.
But Connor is there. His eyes. Somewhere. I have the vaguest impression of having stared straight into them moments ago.
My blood pounds through me and my body squeals with instant, gale-force recognition. I scan the café urgently, my frown deepening when I can’t locate him. I shift my attention back to the paper, to return it to the front as I leave, and then I see him once more. His ocean eyes stare at me from the pages of the magazine section.
Donovan’s Goliath, the headline reads. I scoop the paper up and reach for my coffee.
‘Can I buy this?’ I ask the barista, lifting the paper higher.
‘Nah, it’s yesterday’s. Help yourself.’
‘Yesterday’s?’
Anger is a funny beast, like I said. It has stalked me and hounded me but in that moment it dissipates instantly. New feelings overtake it.
My coffee and the paper deserted, I bustle out of the café and move briskly down the street. My head is bent, my heart thumping. It’s not from the exertion of my run, though.
Donovan’s Goliath
The article beckons me. I fumble my key into the door and push it inward then place my coffee down on the kitchen bench, spreading the paper out wide and flicking back to the magazine. It takes me a few moments to find the right page but, when I do, my heart throbs painfully. It is a great photo of him, a posed publicity shot. He’s staring straight at the camera and his expression is both impatient and sardonic, as though he has no tolerance for the vanity exercise of a photographic portrait.
Connor Hughes, long-regarded as a Teflon defence barrister, has gone from criminal-defence wunderkind to a veritable Goliath of the justice system. Adored by his clients, his fame—or should that be notoriety—extends across the country, and now the world. At thirty-five, he’s garnered the kind of professional success most can only dream of, amassing a fortune and a prestigious law firm along the way.
His previous wins are notable, but none more so than the stunning verdict he was able to procure for Murray Donovan. The accused’s acquittal in the case that had gripped all of Great Britain was shocking to any who followed the trial. For his client’s guilt had been predetermined by many, and yet Connor Hughes proved otherwise.
Today we take a closer look at the man who seems to have the Midas touch when it comes to winning unwinnable cases.
I frown, continuing to skim the article. It catalogues several of his previous legal victories, most of them also controversial in the same way: where public opinion largely disagreed with the verdict rendered.
It’s a flattering puff piece. Long and detailed, yet it gives no new information and the only quotes from Connor have obviously been compiled from previous interviews. There’s no mention of his parents’ death, either, nor the fact he was raised from the age of twelve by his local priest. Both of these titbits are worthy of running in a story like this, which makes me realise that those facts mustn’t be widely known.
I skip to the bottom of the piece—a paragraph that hangs beside another photo of Connor, this one with his partner, Michael Brophy.
