“And you’re my client,” I said.
“And friend.” He looked straight at me and my bullshit meter was working hard to detect any. “There’s no reason why we can’t be friends, right?”
No, no bullshit was being detected. “No reason. Will you be the type of friend who helps get me home safely on Friday after we’ve wet the baby’s head or the type who shakes their head in judgemental disgust?”
“I’ll be the type who stumbles home with you, carries you half way up the stairs before dropping you on your arse and then falls asleep in your bath. Eat some of this pizza,” he said, pointing to one of the boxes. “That’s your weird shit one.”
“It’s delicious,” I said. “Want to watch something on Netflix?”
He grinned, this one suggesting something naughty was flicking through his mind. “You’re the first woman who’s suggested actually watching Netflix and meaning it. I must be losing my touch.”
“Or maybe you never had it to begin with?”
He shifted closer on my worn sofa and kicked me gently in the leg. “I have it in spades. Whatever ‘it’ is. What are you going to do tomorrow?”
I turned to look at him, my mouth completely devoid of words with which to answer. “Work.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Yes. I have stuff to do. Nothing’s urgent, except starting to sort your file out, but I still have things to clear,” I said.
“Jackson was disabling your fob. You won’t be able to get in the building.” There was no heat or power to his words, they were said in the same tone as he might tell me what the weather forecast was. He picked up another slice.
“They can’t do that. I’m an equity partner.”
“And if they don’t do it, you’re going to be ill. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for your family who think you’ve been working too hard and worrying about everyone apart from yourself.”
I bit my bottom lip. Other people worrying about me was my least favourite thing. Having a few days where the only thing I worked on was Owen’s case I could cope with, if it helped my siblings. I especially didn’t want Claire worrying. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re blunt?”
He considered my words for a moment. “No. They didn’t have to. I just don’t see the point in not being honest. Is having a few days off too much for you to handle?”
The TV came on, the speakers doing their usual thing of being a hundred decibels too loud. “No. I have things to do. And it’ll give me chance to see Elizabeth and clean up here and maybe look for somewhere to buy.”
“And maybe just chill out and hang around a bookstore for a day, reading and drinking coffee?” His words were like honey.
“That would depend on whether I can find a decent bookstore.”
The remote control was wrangled from my hand. “Okay. Ignoring that. What are we watching?”
* * *
Sleep was fitful. I had a series of dreams, some involving babies locked in filing cabinets and another where I was locked in a bookstore but none of the books would come off the shelves so I couldn’t read while waiting to be rescued. Analysing the dreams seemed pointless and waking up without an alarm ringing on a Tuesday was strange enough to have me out of bed and making a coffee before even checking Instagram and my bank account.
I’d wiped down the kitchen after Owen had left, and put the dishwasher on its second cycle of the day. While my coffee machine did its thing, I started to plump cushions and dug out the vacuum cleaner, cringing at the state of the carpet. By the time my second coffee had filtered into my bloodstream I felt awake and that I’d achieved something productive.
And then I was hit by a sense of emptiness. It was eight am. I should be at work like any other day. My colleagues would be in the office now, or on their way to meetings or grabbing an espresso. Eli would be getting ready for a meeting with a QC; Seph was at a breakfast network meeting near Euston and I was in my pyjama shorts and tank top, and I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Don’t wallow in your self-pity.
I heard Owen’s words. They didn’t make me feel the anger I’d expected, instead they calmed me, maybe because it gave me a focus. I went into my bedroom and stripped the sheets off the bed; chucked the old magazines—most of which I’d never got around to reading—in the recycling; spluttered madly when I delved under the bed to retrieve old underwear and sleep shorts that were going in the bin and then I decontaminated the bathroom.
By ten o’clock I was sweating, had The Killers on loud and had an apartment that was cleaner than it had been when I first moved in.
And I felt as if I had achieved something other than a legal victory.
I searched around for my phone, finding it on my dresser, still on charge. A list of messages filled the lock screen but I ignored them and went straight for the camera, taking photos of my now tidy and rather pretty home, including the bookcase ordered by colour as opposed to anything as boring as author name.
My phone rang in my hand, Seph’s name flashing on the screen with a picture of him holding Elizabeth.
