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Then I remember that it happened and that he’s gone, and I am broken anew.
It has been one month since he left.
The first milestone of many I know I will have to mark and move past.
One month and now there is no Connor, no LLS—nothing.
There is no light in this darkness, and I’m glad of that.
* * *
A week later, the letter arrives. The beautifully embossed envelope carries the Queen’s seal. I am shaking when I hold it in my hand and tears spring to my eyes because I have a letter from the Crown Prosecution Service and all I want is to take it to Connor’s and open it with him beside me. Good news or bad, there’s only one person I wish to share that with.
My dependence on him angers me.
I rip the envelope open unceremoniously, as if to prove a point to myself and my addiction, and pull the paper out. My fingers shake.
Dear Miss Amorelli,
It is with great pleasure that I write to offer you the chance to undertake a trainee position through the Crown Prosecution Service.
The rest of the letter blurs before my eyes. I read the opening sentence of the letter again, and sink to the floor.
I sit there, my eyes squeezed shut for several seconds, before forcing myself to continue.
Your application was exemplary in all aspects. The Crown Prosecution Service seeks individuals of the highest academic calibre, applicants who have consistently proved their dedication to the study of the law, and who have the resilience and strength to strive for the highest level of success in their career.
Your academic results, references and interview have left the committee with the firm opinion that you will be a valuable addition to our team.
Please advise of your acceptance of or withdrawal from the traineeship programme in writing, no later than 30th August.
Yours faithfully,
Anita Martin
My breath is on fire. I push to my feet and let out a squeal of jubilation. For the first time in five weeks, I feel something other than misery and it’s a good feeling!
Connor has taken so much from me, but nothing can touch this. Nothing. I’ve fought hard for this, and I’ve won.
It feels good and, for a moment, so do I.
* * *
The River Liffey is glistening in the late summer sunshine. I stare out at it from my corner office, my eyes chasing the dancing lights atop the current’s ebb and flow, but I’m thinking of a different river—that which flows fast and powerful through the centre of London. That which I can see from my Canary Wharf penthouse.
And I’m restless again.
I stand, pacing across my office, grabbing for the ball I keep on the edge of my desk—a gift from a client I defended many years earlier—one of the few I genuinely believed to be innocent. I toss the ball from one hand to the other, the expression on my face grim. The ringing of a phone doesn’t help my mood.
I want to be alone with my scowl and my impatience, and preferably a litre of whiskey.
But I’ve done that. Weeks one, two and three after leaving London were punctuated by a haze of alcohol and anger.
It didn’t help.
I snatch up my phone and answer it without checking who’s calling. Only a handful of people have my private mobile number.
Olivia is one of them.
