Peering out of the large bay window of his smart, Mayfair flat he sees her pull up, right on time as always. In the nine months that they have been meeting she has never been early and she has never been late; she is always exactly on time. He watches two slender legs encased in sheer black stockings emerge from the car and the rest of her soon follows as she balances flawlessly in her neat stiletto heels. As she bends into the car to reach for her briefcase he catches a brief glimpse of her underwear; a conspicuous red thong, unexpected for one with such a professional exterior. She is obviously attempting to entice him because he knows that she knows that he watches her. Sure enough as she turns away from the car she gives him a jaunty wave and trots up the steps to the front door of the building. Neither of them wonder about who might see them – at this hour of the night they know that no one will be watching. Only when the orange glow of the streetlamps bouncing off her shiny car and the damp streets is all that is left to see out of the window does he turn and buzz her into the building.

'My Lord, I would urge you to reconsider…' she looks at him imploringly and tilts her head to one side. If she gave him puppy-dog eyes she couldn't be more obvious but she always has known how to have him eating out of the palm of her hand. Generally her mere presence is enough to have him doing as she wishes.

'Mrs Mills, I simply have no choice but to hand out a custodial sentence' he squirms slightly uncomfortably and for just a moment her smile falters and he sees the truly determined woman beneath. The woman who will never give up on what she believes in without first fighting to the death; the strong, principled woman who has long ruled both his head and his heart. The woman who since her recent engagement, he has tried exceedingly hard to deny the existence of, for it is not her smile that betrays uncertainty which he knows she does not feel that he loves, nor is it her kind eyes that allow him to see deep within her soul or the raucous laugh that he used to believe was reserved only for him. It is her sheer, unbridled passion for what she believes is right that he loves and the rest; well the rest is just a bonus.

'My Lord…' another beseeching smile and she glances up at the defendant, a small skinny lad of thirteen, barely more than a child. A child who misguidedly became embroiled in graffiti warfare with a much larger, more violent gang. A child so terrified by the leader of this gang that, against his own better judgement and that of his older brother who was the only member of his family in whom he confided, that he had started to carry a knife. No one, not even the prosecution could seriously believe that he had ever intended to use it and the injury to the thug whom he had turned on in a fit of panic was not severe; little more than a graze in the grand scheme of things but even so, the charge is severe and he knows that he has little choice. Perhaps there is even a part of him that thinks that the child would be better off in jail than on the estate still lorded over by the injured party and his gang, a place where surely he would be the victim of reprisal attacks.

'The charge of Actual Bodily Harm is a serious one and carried a minimum custodial sentence. I have implemented a recommendation that during this period both the defendant and his family are relocated to another estate so that, when he is released and that the sentence is served in a minimum security institution' he gives her a look and he knows that she reads him like a book; she knows him well enough to know that she is fighting a losing battle and he sees her turn and look apologetically to her client 'my decision will not be reversed'

'Thank you My Lord' she mumbles, giving him a curt nod before resuming her seat as court is dismissed and the great and good of one of the local sink estates meander away to either continue terrorising the other residents or live in fear.

'Mrs Mills' Coop's announcement is barely heard over the slamming, first of the door and then of the palms of Jo's hands on his desk. Only when she is leaning towards him, her eyes mere millimetres from his, lips that dare him to plant a thousand kisses upon them curling with distaste, does he look up and give a small smile of acknowledgement.

'Hello Jo' he murmurs, vaguely amused by her outburst as she pulls away from the desk, leaning her head back and kicking the sofa with temper, a small growl of frustration crossing her lips as she turns back to him, her blue eyes burning with outrage 'tea?'

'No' she waves a hand dismissively, throwing herself down on the hard leather armchair not occupied my Minnie 'no tea, no coffee, just answers. Why did you do that? He was thirteen – he'll never survive… have you learned nothing?'

'Jo, the law is clear. He was found guilty of a very serious offence and regardless of how strong his mitigation I had little choice but to hand out a custodial sentence. You will, of course, be perfectly free to contest the sentence but I warn you that any other judge would have handed out the same' he tips his head to one side and waits for her anger to run out of steam as it invariably does during this comforting dance that, while appearing to be based largely upon the professional, is as much personal.

'I never thought that you were one to hide behind the laws you profess to despise' she mutters, sinking her head into her hands and looking up at him with disgust 'I always thought that you were better than that'

'I know, I know' he gives another amused smile that comes out as little more than a grimace and moves to the sofa, sitting facing her and leaning towards her so, once again, there is little more than millimetres between their faces 'You thought that with my flagrant flouting of the sentencing guidelines and your passion for the underdog we could change the world…'

'One court case at a time' at this she gives a small smile and leans back in her chair, burying her face in her hands and he knows that this gesture is as much to avoid looking him in the eyes as anything else. He knows her so well that there is no small action or expression on her face that he cannot read like a book and he knows that she can say the same about him. The only thing he cannot understand is what happened to make it all fall apart.

'You cancelled your wedding yet?' he enquires innocently, a jaunty smile upon his face as he pours two cups of coffee and pours one towards her which she accepts with a twisted smile. This is a question that he asks whenever they meet and, like every other time, she neglects to answer it. He comforts himself with the knowledge that he will know when she has called off the wedding – he does not doubt that she will for they both know in their hearts that she loves Marc more for his son than for himself – that he will be the one called upon to pick up the pieces. That one day, ideally not too far in the future, she will appear on his doorstep with an overnight bag and a smile. Despite this certainty, he is beginning to wonder how long she will leave it; will she leave him on the eve of the wedding or worse, jilt him at the alter. He doesn't like the man but he doesn't deserve such humiliation, which isn't to say that he wouldn't enjoy it if it were to arise.

'John…' she glances up at him, a small smile upon her lips and an apology in her eyes 'I love Marc, I'm not just going to leave…'

'You loved me once…' he remarks wistfully and leans over to the small end-table and pours a measure of whiskey into his coffee '…not so long ago, as I recall. What changed'

'Nothing. That's the whole problem, John; nothing changed and I grew tired of hoping that something would. Marc is change, John. He's so different to you, he's warm, kind and he doesn't even look at other women. Can you honestly say that you love me enough to give up all of the other women for me?'

'Yes' his reply is without hesitation but as soon as the words cross his lips he can see that she doesn't believe him; that she cannot allow herself to once again be sucked into his relentless circle of lies, indiscretions and apologies.

'I don't believe you' she stands, pushing away her coffee and making her way to the door with barely a pause to affectionately rub the top of the dog's head and examine the dent that her earlier fit of temper left in the leg of the rosewood and leather sofa 'I'm sorry, John, I just can't believe you'