Andy was lying in bed, mulling over his meeting with Graham, two days on. He had been preoccupied, at first, with the dizziness which had overwhelmed him at the beginning of their meeting. It was out of character for Andy; he’d jumped out of an aeroplane only last month – with a parachute, for charity – and had no problem with ski-lifts, although he hadn’t made it to the slopes since the children arrived. On his return home, he had marched straight up to the counter at his local pharmacy and tested his blood pressure, which was a little on the high side, but not dangerously so.
Once he had convinced himself that he wasn’t ill, he had been able to reflect on Graham’s offer. It was the chance of a lifetime, he knew that. And he was delighted to have been chosen out of all the multitudes. Despite his daily, confidence-inspiring ritual, involving chanting and chest-thumping in the early morning, which tended to sustain him through most moderately challenging days, he was not without self-awareness. He did appreciate that Graham’s invitation may not have been earned entirely by virtue of his many talents.
Nick, his head of chambers, had scored a very significant victory on Graham’s behalf, relating to Horizon’s bid for a rival, a year or so back. And, in addition to a fat fee, which had financed the refurbishment of a couple of meeting rooms, it had been rumoured that a further reward had been promised. However, there were twenty-two of them in chambers, ranging from John, aged seventy-eight and still doing some advocacy, albeit at a rather pedestrian pace, to Andy’s pupil, the deferential Caroline, wet behind the ears at twenty-four, but with great potential. And Andy had been chosen from all of them. That meant something.
He thought back to Graham’s words. ‘Five days a week,’ he had said, and ‘at least five nights, we haven’t decided on Saturdays yet’, checking that Andy didn’t balk at the hours. Andy wanted to say that it was no more than his family had asked of him for the past seven years, without any payment or appreciation, in fact, probably considerably less, as Graham wasn’t asking him to get up in the middle of the night and juggle a baby, a bottle and a blinding migraine. But he satisfied himself with nodding energetically and confirming that wouldn’t be a problem.
And ‘very high profile’ and ‘if you play your cards right, it could make you a star,’ to which Andy had replied that sounded very nice too and, if it meant he was recognised undertaking his late-night shop at his local Tesco, then he wouldn’t mind one bit.
Graham had asked a few questions too: ‘How do you feel about taking orders from a woman?’ To which Andy had joked that he already did, except this one was 99cm tall and still slept with her teddies. Then he had asked Andy if he felt it was appropriate to call out other lawyers, publicly, if they were poor at their job or made mistakes. Absolutely, Andy had replied, with the most enthusiasm so far. The public had the right to expect competent legal representation and there were no excuses for errors, when people’s liberty was at stake.
Then, finally, what did he think about ‘professionals from other backgrounds’ solving crimes? Andy wasn’t sure what Graham meant at first – thought he might mean people from state schools or deprived families – and he launched into a well-rehearsed speech about the benefits of diversity in the profession, before Graham put him right. What he had been asking about was additional professional disciplines: psychiatrists, psychologists, true crime researchers, AI specialists, experts in body language. This caught Andy off-guard; it was not something he had ever turned his mind towards, but he was able to reply – convincingly, he thought – that he adopted a ‘collaborative approach’ and felt that a fresh perspective was always valuable.
Alone now, briefly, while Clare was busying herself with the breakfast routine downstairs, Andy found himself frowning hard at the opposite wall. He did have a slight feeling of unease, as he wondered what was behind Graham’s questions, but he would have been stupid to say anything other than what he knew Graham wanted to hear, wouldn’t he? He had to give himself the best chance of moving on to the next stage.
And while it had been one of the most difficult secrets to keep in his entire married life, he had not said a word to Clare yet, in the main because he knew it would spark off hundreds of questions, to which he still didn’t have the answers. And, there was still the chance he might want to say ‘no’ if the terms weren’t right, and he wanted to be able to make that decision alone, without pressure from Clare.
‘Andy!’ Clare’s call broke through his reverie. ‘Can you grab a clean t-shirt for Mia? She’s spilt chocolate milk all down this one.’
Andy called out his acknowledgement, then rubbed his hand across his face before sitting up, putting on his slippers and heading for Mia’s room, which had been transformed, overnight, by his youngest progeny, from an orderly space into the aftermath of a major environmental disaster. As he ploughed forwards through the debris, to sort through her clothes for a suitable replacement top, he pushed away the nagging thought that, whatever Graham offered, if it meant less time at home for three months, that, in itself, might be no bad thing.