Maud arrived late and so she had to sit at the back, next to a man who chewed gum loudly and just behind a woman with a dry, continuous cough. It was hard to concentrate. She untied her hair and pulled it back more tightly, capturing all the tendrils of hair, and bent over her notebook.
Litigant in person, she wrote, force majeure; dilatory tactics.
It was hot in the room and she was wearing too many layers of clothing because outside it was sleety and cold.
Someone seated near the front twisted round in his seat, scanning the rows. His eyes landed on her and for a beat he looked at her. That man from two days ago, who’d backed away from her as if she had the plague when she had said she was in the Met. Maud felt a spike of irritation. She held his gaze, not smiling, then turned back to her notes.
Avoidance, evasion, inclusion.
She needed to concentrate on the granular satisfaction of legal terminology, the way the law narrowed things down and down, until there were barely any cracks in the framework. But she kept thinking about the young woman with the destroyed face who wouldn’t press charges, and about the hostility in Kemp’s voice.
‘And that’s it,’ said the lecturer, a wispy man with a wispy grey beard and hexagonal spectacles perched on the end of his narrow nose.
Maud stood up, pulling on her waterproof jacket, gathering her things. The hum of conversation around her grew louder. People were heading out into the wet night in small groups. She saw the man – what was his name? Stuart? – wrap a scarf around his neck and slide his folder into a canvas messenger bag, and as if he could feel her eyes on him, he looked up and half smiled.
She didn’t smile back. Instead, she pushed against the flow of people and stood in front of him. He looked startled.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘It’s your turn. Or rather,’ she corrected herself. ‘It’s my turn.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To guess what you do, based on how you look.’ She scrutinised him. ‘Hair slightly too long. Beard needs a bit of a trim. Nice glasses: hipsterish, probably expensive. Baggy cords and a nice cotton shirt, though it’s missing the top button, did you know? Social worker?’
He shook his head.
‘Philosophy teacher at a sixth form college.’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you’re a graphic designer. No, I forgot, it’s got to be something that gives you the moral high ground. You work for an NGO, or you’re a baker, a sourdough baker…’
‘I get it. Stop.’
‘No. Seriously. What do you do?’
He coughed unnecessarily, bent down to pick up a bike helmet.
‘Actually, I’m in advertising.’
‘Advertising?’ Maud started to laugh. ‘You mean, where you persuade people to buy things they don’t need.’
‘Sometimes they need them,’ he said stiffly, but then smiled sheepishly. ‘You’re right. I was just startled when I found out what you did.’
‘Join the queue.’
‘Sorry. Do you fancy grabbing a drink?’
‘Not really.’
She saw his face fall, and left before she could change her mind.