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The soon-to-be-ex-husband of one of Jen’s clients couriers over twenty-five boxes of his accounts at seven o’clock in the evening. Jen receives them from a jaded DPD driver with a T-shirt tan. Last time, she’d stayed to start going through them, indexing their contents and stacking the boxes neatly in her office. Rakesh had poked his head around the door and asked if she was building a fort.
He passes now, at the exact same time. But, today, not wanting to sort boxes, but not wanting to go home either, she asks if he fancies a drink.
‘For sure,’ he says, chewing gum. ‘What’s all this? You building a fort?’
Jen smiles to herself. It’s getting harder and harder to remember each day, the further she goes back. It’s nice to hear her predictions come true, in a funny kind of way.
‘I will be on Monday,’ she says. ‘Disclosure from the other side. The husband’s accounts.’
‘What does he do, work for the Bank of fucking England?’
‘Classic tactics,’ Jen says, shifting a box just so she can find a path to him. ‘Send so many boxes he hopes nobody will ever look.’
‘I’ll make sure you’re not buried alive under it, on Monday. I need wine in an IV,’ Rakesh says, grabbing her coat for her.
‘Bad day?’
‘I sent a petition off to my client today. To sign – nothing more. Next to count four of unreasonable behaviour she’s written – in pen – also wanked into socks all the time. Like this was some urgent addition. I need to re-send them to her now. We can’t file that at court.’
‘A fair complaint,’ Jen says. ‘Nice detail on the socks.’
‘You’re not the one who has to see him at the trial.’
‘Don’t follow him into the bathroom.’
As they leave, coats slung on arms in the now very, very early autumn, it’s so nice to be back here, at work, where people spend some of the most intimate hours of their lives. She’s worked with Rakesh for over a decade. She knows he eats potatoes most lunchtimes and gets bogged down in the Daily Mail website during his three o’clock slump. She knows he mouths Fuck off whenever his phone rings and that he once sweated through his own trousers during a particularly tricky hearing, says he left a mark on the chair.
And so it’s nice, too, tonight, to step out of the detritus of her family life. To leave the mystery, and to innocently anticipate a glass of wine with her old friend, to discuss their clients warring over who fucked someone else first, to drink two glasses – no, three – to smoke cigarettes out in the beer garden and laugh about it. It’s so, so very nice to pretend.
Jen has had too much wine to drive and so she walks home. It’s just after nine o’clock. She is weaving along the pavement, looking up at her lit-up house just ahead, and thinking about her husband, who she has told she is working late.
She’s a divorce lawyer, she is thinking morosely, and yet she missed her own betrayal. Didn’t see it coming whatsoever. Not a bit.
She tries to re-jig the events into shape, knowing what she knows now. The wine has helped to loosen her mind. It feels elastic and free in the chilly night. For once, she feels broad-minded and open, not neurotic and closed.
The burner phone belongs to Kelly. So the missing baby poster and the police ID must belong to him, too. But why were they in Todd’s room?
She hears voices as she approaches her house. They’re coming from outside, somewhere in the open air. They’re too loud to be inside. She stops by Kelly’s car. It gives off some heat. She places a hand on the bonnet: just been driven.
The voices belong to her husband and son, the very subject of her thoughts, and they’re yelling, urgent.
They’re in the back garden. Jen hurries as quietly as she can to the gate. She stops there, a finger on the cool black latch, immediately absolutely stone-cold sober.
‘Why have you told me this?’ Todd says. Jen is disturbed to hear that his voice is laced with panicked tears.
‘Because I have to ask something of you,’ Kelly says. ‘All right? I wouldn’t tell you otherwise.’
‘What?’
‘You have to break up with Clio.’
‘What?’
‘You have to,’ Kelly says. ‘I can ask Nicola for help, but you cannot continue to see Clio. Given everything.’
Jen’s stomach rolls over. She is suddenly nauseous, and it has nothing to do with the drink.
‘That will arouse even more suspicion,’ Todd says. ‘Let alone fucking break my fucking heart.’
