I hadn’t planned to ask Kelly around for dinner. I wasn’t even sure it was dinner, not a proper dinner. Not a change your underpants, put on your best aftershave and prepare a playlist for your iPod with hanky-panky in mind, dinner.
No, this was just a casual, come round for what posh people would term supper – that’s all. And I wasn’t going to get excited about it. I mean, she probably had no idea that I fancied her. And if she had thought that then she might have run a mile, suggested that we do the interviews back in chambers or in one of the conference rooms by the court, rather than put herself in my flat, with me, alone.
By the time I got home, I had temporarily forgotten about Tasha Roux and the problems that we were having and I was preparing myself for my night with Kelly Backworth.
I decided to cook that most staple of dishes known to single men: spag bol. I couldn’t go wrong with spag bol. Unfortunately, when I checked my fridge, I found that I had precisely two cans of lager, one bottle of strange sauce that my parents had brought me back from a holiday to Peru two years earlier, half a bottle of milk and a bumper pack of yoghurts. This wasn’t good.
I took myself off to the corner shop and got the ingredients.
I then considered what to wear.
I didn’t want to look like a barrister, but at the same time, I didn’t want to look like someone desperately trying not to look like a barrister.
Many barristers find dressing outside of court a huge challenge. The occasional chambers parties or away days are like a gathering of fashion criminals, as my colleagues mix red corduroy with brown brogues, pink v-neck jumpers with striped shirts, high-waisted jeans, and occasionally garish T-shirts which have clearly seen better days.
She was due at 8pm. I had a shower, prepared the food and dressed myself in a casual shirt and jeans. I was definitely better dressed than most barristers. Of that I had no doubt.
I then set about flossing and brushing my teeth.
This was important. One of the worst aspects of being a barrister is that occasionally, one is prone to ‘court breath’, a particularly pungent brand of halitosis that sets in if you have had about five cups of coffee and spent most of your day sitting in a courtroom without saying very much. The worst aspect of ‘court breath’ is that the sufferer may well have to turn and speak quietly and close up to a solicitor or opponent, which means invariably letting out death breath fumes directly into their face. It’s awful and I wasn’t taking any chances.
Just in case. I mean, you never know.
At 8.10, Kelly arrived at my door.
It was the first time I had seen her out of her dour grey and black suits. It was the first time I had had the chance to see her shape, unleashed and feminine and, as I had expected, she was gorgeous. She looked at me, and I could tell that she was a bit embarrassed and nervous.
‘Hi,’ I said, ‘come in.’
She offered me a bottle of white wine, which I immediately put in the fridge.
‘I didn’t know if it was appropriate,’ she said, ‘you know, to have a glass of wine whilst we were working, but I thought after today, we both needed one.’
I smiled and thanked her. She looked different. Her hair was clean and springy, her face was softer and her lips seemed smooth, with a glistening quality.
It struck me that perhaps she thought this was a ‘dinner’ dinner. Shit, I started to wish I’d put together a suitable playlist now.
‘I’ve just cooked spaghetti bolognese,’ I said, adding nervously, ‘is that alright?’
‘That’s great,’ she said, adding, ‘if I’d had to bet on the food you’d cook, I would have chosen spag bol.’
I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not. I got the feeling not, or perhaps it was good that she was teasing me. Damn, it had been bloody ages since I’d done this. I was starting to realise that I’d spent too long being single, I was clueless, I couldn’t read the signs that are particular to girls. She’d only been in my flat three minutes, and already I was confused.
We sat down and I opened the wine. And then we talked.
We talked about music. I told her about Neil Young, and she said she’d never heard anything by him, so I played her ‘Ruby in the Dust’, which she didn’t seem too impressed by. But this was okay, I could work with this.
We talked about the law, and she told me which barristers she liked and which ones she hated. By now we’d had a drink and she was starting to relax and show an indiscreet funny side. She told me that she had liked my friend, Johnny Richardson, but she thought that Angus Tollman was a complete arse who was rubbish with clients. I’m not proud to say it, but this made me quite happy. She said that she was scared stiff of Jenny Catrell-Jones, so I told her that I was even more scared of her boss Mrs Murdoch.
I asked if I was still NIHWTLBOE, and she told me that I probably was.
And we both laughed.
Things were going well.
I liked having her in my kitchen. I liked looking at her face, I liked laughing with her. I started to wonder how I might move things along.
‘Well, I suppose we’d better get down to it then,’ she said.
And I burst out laughing. ‘Yeah, but what about the interviews?’
She feigned shock. ‘Russell!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’d get the sack for going anywhere near you. First rule of our firm, never shag barristers. Especially NIHWTLBOE ones.’
I felt my innards swoon, she was thinking about it, I knew she was. She’d used the word shag. I was in. Was I? I was. There was a pause, I looked at her. I leant over, and I kissed her.
There, I’ve said it. I’ve confessed, I’ve told you that I kissed Kelly Backworth, in my flat, in my kitchen, just before we edited the police interviews that had been carried out with Tasha Roux.
And it was bloody nice as well.
You don’t need to know any more.