Lost in thought, Anderson sheltered from the winter downpour in the hotel entrance. Streetlights illuminated a deserted St Peter’s Square. The trams had long since stopped for the day. Rods of northern rain crashed into the great dome of Manchester’s central library, then bounced off and slid down the grey Portland stone pillars.
The taxi rank was empty. Five more minutes, then he’d make a dash for Albert Square and catch one from there. Anderson didn’t want West or his father to realise he’d snuck off and come looking for him. John Anderson loathed these events. He’d never been good at having fun – relaxing. Boozy nights out with colleagues were to be avoided at all costs. Nothing made him more uncomfortable. Only the potential receipt of an award had made his attendance that evening unavoidable.
It was the job he loved. The courtroom. Working to a script. Somehow, in court, he always knew what to say. Within a framework, everything had its place. Everyone had a role. The awkward silences were always someone else’s.
‘Penny for them?’ A female voice.
Anderson turned. That girl from chambers. Connor’s pupil. He recognised her, but hadn’t really noticed her before. She’d made the odd appearance at court during the trial to see her pupil-master, but Anderson had been focused on the job in hand. Now, seeing her properly for the first time, her figure silhouetted against the lights from the lobby, he could see how attractive she was. Beautiful, even. Hair groomed. Soft features and definitely a twinkle in her eye. Defensively, Anderson replied: ‘I’m just waiting for a taxi.’
She returned an impish smile. Already in control. Holding out her hand: ‘Tilly Henley-Smith.’
Reciprocating, Anderson enjoyed the physical contact. ‘John Anderson.’
‘I know who you are. Anyway, I thought barristers weren’t supposed to shake hands?’ she teased.
Without humour, Anderson replied: ‘Only when robed.’ No one knew the etiquette of the courtroom better than him.
What was she thinking? Why was she smiling? Was she flirting with him? In a moment the great prize-winning barrister had been replaced by a nervous adolescent.
‘I live two minutes away, in Spinningfields. You can call a cab from mine if you like?’
He gave her a double take. She had some nerve – to make a pass at a senior member of chambers. The confidence that came from being well-bred. Almost arrogance. Anderson felt a rush of excitement. He looked down Quay Street towards Spinningfields, contemplating the offer. ‘Must be handy for chambers?’
Still smiling: ‘Yes. That’s why I got it.’
An awkward silence – only for Anderson. She was enjoying her dominance.
A black cab pulled into the rank.
Relief. ‘Here we go. That’s me,’ he said. ‘Do you want a lift?’
Coyly: ‘Yes, please.’
Holding the door open, Anderson caught sight of her lightly tanned calves as she stepped up and into the taxi. She slid across the back seat, leaving a place for her new friend.
Anderson climbed in and gave her a meaningless smile, unintentionally conveying anxiety. Filling the silence, he said: ‘How’s the pupillage going?’
‘Very demanding of course, but fascinating.’ Wasting no time, she swivelled round to face him as the cab made its thirty-second journey down the street. ‘I’m so lucky that Connor’s been on the Ahmed trial.’ She paused. ‘So I could see the great John Anderson in action.’
Deeply flattered, Anderson laughed off the praise.
‘This is me. Just here, please.’
Suddenly disappointed, he said: ‘Oh, of course. Right. See you tomorrow?’
‘See you tomorrow, John Anderson.’
Anderson watched her take an extendable umbrella out of her handbag, then skip delicately around the puddles and into her building. She didn’t look back.
Waking from the reverie of their brief encounter, Anderson said to the driver: ‘M56, please. To Wilmslow.’