While the jury deliberated, Phyllis, Roxy, the Countess and I sat in the cafeteria. The scratched modern plastic furniture clashed with the paint-clogged Victorian woodwork. Seconds plodded by, each separated from the next by an eternity.
‘This law malarkey is too soul-destroying. I want a new career,’ Roxy said conversationally. ‘There’s a woman who breaks in the Queen’s shoes. Not a chauffeur but a shoe-ffer. That would be perfect for me.’
But nobody was in the mood to banter. We said little and ate less. Roxy squirted Bach’s Rescue Remedy down our throats to calm our nerves, but it had about as much effect as a parasol in a gale-force hurricane. The fluorescent light above buzzed and crackled and bathed us all in its sickly yellow, almost furry glow. As time dragged on the atmosphere grew heavy, almost solid. The London traffic made a distant, surging sound, like a flooded, angry river. Visiting jail is like taking a trip through a sewer in a glass-bottomed boat. If I lost the case, Phyllis would be treading water there for the next ten years. She would probably die of old age in prison, if some maniac didn’t kill her first. My stomach turned at the thought.
Across the canteen from us slumped the two witnesses, wiping up the gravy on their plates with slabs of bread. Bash – the wiry, thin one with the ferret face – gave me a smirking salute. In his mouth bobbed an unlit cigarette. He removed it to wriggle his tongue at me lewdly.
I looked away, unable to describe my feelings about either of them without recourse to slang terms for faeces.
When the clerk called us back into court I couldn’t tell if it was a good or a bad sign that the jury’s deliberations had taken only one and a half hours. Bash bounced by on the balls of his feet. ‘Why did the feminist cross the road?’ he said to Stretch, for our benefit. ‘To suck my cock.’
Building down our hopes, we set out like prisoners off to our execution. Back in court, Stretch and Bash sat with the police. Bash balanced himself on the edge of his seat, as though ready to leap up with jubilation. He jigged his knee up and down and thrummed his fingers on the desk in time to some jangled rhythm in his head. Stretch flexed his muscular arms and gazed up distractedly at the ceiling as though High Command on Planet Neptune were telling him it was time to start Phase Two.
Phyllis sat in the dock, bent almost double, head angled towards her knees, arms wrapped around her flabby midsection. All I could think about was not giving Jaggers or Jack the pleasure of seeing me cry in front of them. It was an impossible case to win. We might as well have opened a glassware shop in downtown Baghdad. The tension was nerve-twanging . . . But not for Jack. He strolled back into court, pausing by my table to look me up and down.
‘I like the shoes . . . they show off your legs so nicely. Especially when your robes gape and I can see your short skirt. I’m going to talk to the judge about having you arrested for persistent inner-thigh exposure, as it’s really quite distracting.’
His cockiness was infuriating, but there was no time to retort because the usher was issuing the command ‘All rise.’
I jumped up out of my chair with an alacrity my body hadn’t seen since I accidentally electrocuted myself on a hairdryer in my mother’s bathroom. Jack’s dodgy clients rose simultaneously, too, as though doing callisthenics. We all turned to face the jury forewoman, who was looking straight at me. I couldn’t tell if she was sympathetic because we’d lost the case or just possessed a face which had a gravitational pull towards melancholy.
‘Do you have your verdict?’ Judge Jaggers asked, doing his over-the-top-of-his-spectacles peering routine, no doubt practised before many mirrors.
Devon had moistened again beneath my armpits. I looked at Phyllis in trepidation. Negative thoughts looped through my mind. Why had she entrusted her life into my hands? I mean, I was clearly out of luck. If I won a car in a raffle, it was bound to be a Skoda.
In the list of the most terrible words anyone could ever utter, besides ‘Incontinence hotline. Please hold’, ‘Your client is guilty’ is by far the worst. On the other hand, there’s no doubt that the most beautiful words in the English language, besides ‘You’ve won the lottery,’ ‘Peace has come to Syria’ and ‘Brad Pitt would like your hand in marriage’ are ‘not’ and ‘guilty’. Especially when uttered in the same sentence.
When the forewoman uttered the words which saved my client from prison and trounced my enemy, it took a moment for the reality to sink in, especially when I looked up to see Phyllis crying steadily. She was making proper wa-wa-waaaaahs, with gulping and coughing and hiccuping, which is why I thought we’d lost. But then I heard Roxy. The noise of her victory hoot rivalled, in decibel levels, a Harrier Jump Jet.
When I’d regained my senses, I strolled across to reclaim my one remaining square of purloined chocolate from the prosecution. ‘Like the Great Wall of China, your ego is visible from outer space. I think I’ll suggest you are arrested for persistent inflated-ego exposure, as it’s really quite distracting,’ I said. Revenge tasted even sweeter than the stolen chocolate which I reclaimed and devoured in one greedy gulp.
A gridlock of journalists were scrumming for position on the court steps. For days, the press had been crawling over Phyllis’s case like African ants over a corpse. The verdict was not what they had expected. The press now scuttled towards us like insects, microphones thrust forward. Roxy took centre stage, Phyllis at her side. As the crowd crushed in, an aggressive reporter mosquitoed around me, demanding comment. I glanced about wildly, desperate for a way out. Cameras flashed. I saw stars, like a cartoon character. Blinded, I lost my footing in my vertiginous heels, wobbled and lurched face forward into the mob. I was saved from a humiliating front-page nose-dive by a warm hand on my upper arm.
‘Elbowing you in the ribs as you pass is paparazzi speak for “Excuse me”.’ It was Nathaniel’s voice. He pulled me into his body, and the warmth of his skin radiated into mine. ‘Motorcycle escort, m’lady?’
Nathaniel’s height and musculature meant the crowd unclotted to let him pass. On the corner of the street, he unchained his motorbike and patted the seat behind him. I straddled the bike and curled into his strong back.
An hour later, I was on my third Martini and about two drinks away from suggesting we find a whipped-cream orgy for like-minded singles. Phyllis, the Countess and a few select supporters had come back to our little home for a drink.
As the afternoon wore on, Roxy, as impetuous as ever, decided that the best way to celebrate Phyllis’s freedom was to whisk her away to a music festival in Dorset. Portia and Chantelle were invited, too. My mother, who was still a mung-bean-munching Bohemian at heart, immediately got busy packing rainbow-coloured jumpers, Joni Mitchell CDs, tofu and tempeh.
‘Tilly, you must come!’ she enthused. ‘What a way to celebrate our feminist victory!’
I shuddered at the memory of my many childhood music-festival excursions. ‘Mum, I’m too exhausted. Eight people in a two-man tent will mean no chance of rest, and not just because some venomous insect will be constantly blinking its 9,000,623,002 eyes at me in the dark . . .’
Roxy recruited the Countess instead. Now, the Countess will sleep in any bed – providing it’s a four-poster Marie Antoinette-type antique or a heated waterbed filled with Perrier. She consequently set about booking a luxury camper van, driven by her new bodyguard, having sacked Danny’s old undercover pal.
‘I really should stay ’ere and cook yer somethin’ nice to say thanks,’ Phyllis offered, grasping my hand gratefully.
I had to admit, it was tempting. Burning the midnight oil preparing for Phyllis’s case, I’d lived on so much tea and toast I’d given myself a toaster tan. But then I looked at the fatigued face of my now-infamous gran. It was hard to spoil Phyllis O’Carroll. She had been shaped by resistance and had no concept of the joys of trust, of letting go and frivolous hedonism. I could see how excited she was by the thought of getting out of London with her granddaughter.
‘Don’t worry!’ Nathaniel placated the old lady. ‘I’ll concoct some culinary delight for our learned counsel,’ he said, smiling at me.
As the house drained of people, I thanked him for the offer. ‘My cuisine starts with broad categories such as “mineral” or “linoleum”. When I cook dinner, my call to come to the table acts as a cue for people to go shopping, disappear into the loo with the Encyclopaedia Britannica or take their passports and leave for an extended holiday.’
‘Well, you’re in luck. I take great delight in cooking. It will be my pleasure to pamper you.’ Nathaniel steered me to the living-room couch. ‘But let me freshen up your drink first. After that stunning win, you are now officially excused on Saturday and Sunday, and I doubt whether Monday and Tuesday will be all that productive either.’
Handing me another Martini, Nathaniel’s hand touched mine. He didn’t pull it away, but stroked my wrist. I made a vague purring noise as his gentle brush strokes progressed up my arm. It was as though he were laying fine silk threads all over my skin. A few minutes later, I was nothing more than currents and impulses. He smelt like coconut oil. Coconut ice and all things nice. As his fingertips brushed across my leg, I felt an instinctive sexual quickening within me. My purring must have gone up a few decibels as he then nuzzled my neck while slowly moving his thigh across my body. Forget food. This was exactly what I craved – weight, bulk, muscle, strength: something bigger than me and Phyllis’s court case. And yet, I pulled back from his embrace. It wasn’t as though we’d even had a date yet. There was no need to rush . . . But then Nathaniel pulled his shirt over his head and I saw the ridges of muscle on his stomach. They rose under his skin exactly like the divisions on a slab of chocolate. Tangy, sweet, nuggety chocolate with a twist of caramel toffee and roasted coffee. And that was it. I felt a volt of excitement through my body, a deep and desperate hunger. I simply had to devour him, whole.
Nathaniel pulled my hips towards his, to let me know how much he wanted me. I would have cleared my throat to say something appreciative, except his tongue was already down there. As he lay me on the carpet, he didn’t leave my mouth, not for a second. Everything became a blur of buttons, zips, hooks, carpet grazes, head bumps on lounge-chair legs, followed by moaning and amazement. And then all I was conscious of was life collapsing around me in panting, grainy pieces.