A/N:
[1] Rated strong T.
Happy lockdown, everyone!
ix.
.
.
She's always been hopeless at hoping, always coped badly with coping. I never know when she's joking; she never lets anyone in.
Catch in the Dark – Passenger
.
.
The sad thing, though, the thing that kind of breaks her heart a bit, is that it doesn't happen. Clive said: 'If it doesn't happen, it's not for us,' so maybe, it just isn't for them.
They don't talk about it.
Martha doesn't want him to think she's insecure, doesn't want to make this more of a committed thing than it is, which is an odd phrase, considering the conversation they've had, considering the ring on her finger, but then they've been known to operate in reverse when it comes to whatever the fuck this is so, as Clive graciously pointed out, having a child before they actually get serious wouldn't exactly be a first.
She told him when she went off the pill, the next day, when they stopped in the car park beneath his building and her alarm rang on her phone. It was like she needed to confirm what had been said the night before, as if she wasn't necessarily sure that words whispered in the dark counted for anything. 'Okay,' he just said, catching her gaze.
'Okay?'
'Okay,' he smiled, nodded, standing against his car with his arms crossed as she stood against hers.
Bloody, fucking, 'okay', then, she thought, convinced that this was the worst idea they'd ever had. Pretty convinced, too, that it wouldn't happen.
So, it doesn't.
Other things happen, though.
.
The first thing – the main thing – is that she goes back to work. It's a little over three months after Martha's thirty-ninth birthday when she meets Charlotte. By that point, the lecturing stint with Evershed has gradually become a regular one and she's been going back and forth between London and Manchester a few times a month, making enough money with that and academic articles to pay her mortgage. Martha talks to students about a job she used to love and tells herself that it's enough, that that's what freedom must look like. It's depressing how clean her flat has been since she quit working, and how stocked her fridge is.
They're sitting at a hotel bar, sometime mid-November when Jo asks: "Aren't you bored?"
She asks because she's had four glasses of wine and it hits Martha like it should, like a drunken slap in the face, makes her freeze for a short instant. "I'm fine," she says.
"It just doesn't sound like you, the whole not working thing," Jo laughs, before liquid slides down her throat again.
In her words, Jo's always had the brutality of people whose daily actions don't bear many consequences, of people for whom it's accumulation that counts. Accumulation of good deeds and thoughtful words whispered to loved ones will grant her an outstanding marriage and first-class children, people around her who will be careful and caring, just like she wants them to be. Jo doesn't know about life-changing earthquakes and trying to stick the edges back together with pieces of tape.
Plenty of women stop working, Martha thinks. There is no rational reason for which she should be an exception. "You stopped working," she points out to Jo, looking at her hands. The counter of the bar is a dark shade of amber; Martha plays with the diamond of her ring with her thumb (Jo's reaction when she first saw it looked like her eyes had fallen off her eyeballs in shock), rolling it towards the underside of her finger, then back up again.
Jo laughs. "I've three kids to take care of and worked in a call centre scamming poor old couples into buying overpriced leather couches. It's not the same."
"Isn't it?"
"Please."
'You think you can get them off,' Clive told Martha, one night, putting on his coat. It was years ago, she was working, probably going to pull an all-nighter; she'd turned him down for drinks at The Crown. 'In the end, you're just feeding them hope.'
The truth is, back then, she thought hope was better than nothing. The truth is, too: Jo's right, somehow. Martha's bored. As hard as it may be to believe, it does get old, after a while, getting up whenever she likes. She reads novels and magazines. She finishes the books on her nightstand and actually makes medical appointments. She catches up on a decade of films she hasn't had time to see, discovers this thing called Netflix that develops into an actual addiction on certain cold, weekday afternoons. She lies on her couch with tea and a blanket wrapped over her body and makes it through anything remotely watchable in a few weeks. Then, it's back to square one.
Clive doesn't say anything. Clive goes to work and comes back, and invites himself over to 'watch something,' which is apparently what the kids call it these days. He makes her laugh. She misses him when he's not there. A part of her still can't quite fathom why he seems willing to stick around. Despite what he said when they were over in Manchester, Martha still kind of expected him to walk away, to get sick of the limbo they're in, but somehow, she wakes up in the morning and he's still there, trying to get inside her pants before heading off to work.
Ever since she moved back to London, she's started to feel a bit like a housewife.
Isn't sure whether that's a good or a bad thing, to be honest.
.
Sometimes, she misses Billy. It's an ache in her heart that gradually fades in the winter mist, but never truly goes away. Sometimes, things happen that she wishes she could tell him about. Sometimes, things happen that she's happy he won't see. Sometimes, it's just the memories that pop inside her brain, uninvited, out of reach, inches away from the tips of her fingers. She wishes there were other things to think about.
"You should get a dog," Clive suggests, once. Her glance drifts away from the telly and onto his face.
"I'm too busy," Martha answers automatically, because it's been her default answer to – well, everything for the past decade or so.
Clive laughs, is just enough of a bad boy when he counters: "Doing what, exactly?"
She glares at him. Does not get a dog.
.
The thing is, sometimes, she also misses Chambers. Misses watching Bethany and Jake circle around like a couple of peacocks eyeing each other up. Misses the rush of adrenaline of late returns and court dates, misses trying to wrap her brain around complicated things. For the lack of something better, she gets fascinated with biology, cycles, and pointless articles that dictate what she should or shouldn't eat (Trying to Conceive? The headline reads, Five Changes You Should Make to Your Diet).
Sometimes, she feels like a fish trapped in a fucking tank.
But then sometimes, Clive gets a difficult case and the amount of times that he claims he doesn't carebecomes inversely proportional to how much he actually does. Martha sits on the couch next to him and tells herself she's glad not to be walking in his shoes. She genuinely wonders why anyone in their right mind would ever want to do this job.
She wonders if frankly she ever was, in her right mind, that is.
(Sean still writes to her. Almost weekly. She throws the letters away without opening them.
Guesses that at least, that way, she knows he's keeping his promise. He's still alive. )
.
September eventually blends into October, and as expected, October blends into November. The days get shorter; she's glad the dog never became a thing when the temperatures get below freezing and the idea of making unnecessary journeys outside becomes unfathomable.
As is universally agreed amongst human beings, November is the shittiest month of the year, so even the round trip to Manchester gets boring, after a while. They have her running a couple of workshops on criminal legal practice and a class on Evidence, which in and of itself is kind of a dull subject, and even if her lectures are generally a full house, Martha's not quite sure why. Evershed laughs at her. "You're honest, you say it like it is. That's why they like you."
She shrugs, thinks: maybe? "That's what I always liked about you," she tells him.
He smiles, a hand on her shoulder. "You're too kind."
Clive, though, she can tell, is happy. It makes her happy. Throughout the years that she's been alive on this planet, Martha Costello had become quite well acquainted with the concept of schadenfreude (the joy that one derives from the misfortune of others), but not so much with the opposite concept: feeling cheery just because someone else is. The new Head of Chambers role fits him like a glove, he thrives in the networking and people-pleasing aspects of it; it's an odd but beautiful thing to witness, when he comes home. Clive looks much less miserable than he used to, though maybe, Martha muses, she's got a bit of a hand in that as well.
"It's Harriet; it's the only thing," he says, one night. He's dicing red peppers at her kitchen table. Martha frowns, toys with the glass of wine in her hand.
"I thought things had settled a bit?" she says, phrased like a question. He looks up at her.
"They have," he insists, stops cutting the peppers and turns on the stove. He's found pans and utensils in her kitchen, over the past few months, items that Martha didn't even know she owned. "It's just, I don't know," he admits, shrugging. "I just don't really like her, I guess."
Martha does burst out laughing at that, stands up to go lay her glass down on the counter. "She's not a very likable person, Clive," she observes, smirking. He looks up, raises an eyebrow at her.
"Is that a hint of jealousy I'm hearing?" Martha smiles, shakes her head.
"Schadenfreude," she corrects, answers his curious look by walking in behind him and wrapping her arms around his hips, making him turn. Clive grins when she kisses his lips, claims him as hers. "The satisfaction that I get from her misfortune," she explains, laughs in his arms.
"Satisfaction, eh?" he whispers, teasing.
The Stones play in Martha Costello's head when she snogs the boy who stands in her kitchen until smoke starts to escape from the pan he's put on the stove and: "Stop, Clive, the fire alarm's about to go off," she tells him.
November isn't always the shittiest month of the year, she thinks.
.
Inevitably, November also blends into December. Early, a few weeks before Christmas. Little lights frame the streets, snow brown and mushy at the edges of the pavement. It's a secret (her secret) but she's always liked that time of year. Not Christmas itself but the efforts put into the windows of shops, the air brutally cold against her cheeks, scarf wrapped in three perfect circles around her neck, the churros sold at the markets. Clive brings a tree home (well, to her flat) one evening, a small but large thing that loses its thorns everywhere for the following three weeks and takes up at least a fourth of her living room.
"Trees are for children, Clive," she tells him, with a half-hearted eye-roll. She looks at the tree, looks at him and the mischievous smile on his lips and grins, too, against her better judgement.
"Well, isn't that what you said last time we argued?" he laughs from the other side of the room, wiping his hands on his pants after adjusting the tree in the corner. "'You're a fucking child!'"
Martha rolls her eyes again and steps around the kitchen counter, sets her empty tea mug on the sink. The last time they argued, actually, started like that, with a mug he hand-washed when it could easily have gone into the dishwasher. It was stupid, she knows, but she was bored and frustrated, so she argued a pointless point and made him sleep on the couch, banging the door on her way to the bedroom.
(Well, she guesses she did tell him to go back to his bloody flat, but he never did. The couch was his fault, then, not hers).
She doesn't say anything, now, just shrugs in a way that says I was right, and turns around to look at the tree. It's green, nude; at least, she thinks, it's a plant in her apartment that she doesn't have to worry about keeping alive.
"Well, I don't have anything to decorate it," she tells him, walking closer. He sits on the arm of the couch, the tree to their right; she stands in front of him.
The last time they argued, she had been a couple of days late, that morning. Had made herself wait those couple of days, just to be sure, before going into the shop and buying a test. She got home, walked into the bathroom to pee on the stick, just to discover blood on her underwear.
Clive doesn't know about this. They're operating under an unspoken tell-me-if-anything-happens agreement for it, so she keeps all that doesn't happen to herself, like the amount of articles she reads online and the app that she's almost ashamed to have downloaded on her phone to track things. She knows she shouldn't, knows it's never going to happen, knows she shouldn't hope this much, but then she's the world's greatest optimist, apparently, and there's not much else to channel her hopes in.
Never go to bed angry, her mother used to say, so maybe that's why Martha couldn't sleep, that night, tossed and turned for an hour or two before throwing in the towel, deciding that if she wasn't even going doze off, she might as well watch another episode of that bloody series on Netflix and figure out who Tommy chooses between May and Grace (she's with May, on that one, business before love, always). Foolishly, perhaps, she thought Clive had left after their argument (again, 'go back to your bloody flat!' she'd insisted), so it was a bit unexpected to hear the sound of his light snores when she entered the living room. Martha doesn't know why, exactly, but there, in the middle of the night, she padded across the room to sit on the coffee table, watch him sleep for a good half-hour. She played with her ring a bit, turning it around her finger: another bad habit she's built, whenever she feels unsure as to what comes next.
'Are you going to stay here all night?' Clive's voice suddenly rang in the quiet of her flat, nudging her out of her thoughts. ''Cause frankly it's a bit weird,' he added, eyes shut and his voice groggy; she wondered how long he'd been lying like this for, awake and silent, how long it'd taken him to notice she was there.
'I don't know,' she said, honestly, guessed that yes, it may have seemed weird, true, but she didn't really want to move. After a bit, she watched him shift, his eyes still closed, visibly trying to fall back asleep. 'I'm sorry,' she said, looking at him.
His eyes opened at that, grey in the dark, immediately catching her gaze. 'Did I hear that right?' he spoke and beneath the sleepiness she could almost hear a smirk in his words. 'Did the great Martha Costello Q.C. actually apologise?'
She smiled back, nodded, guessed she had, as weird as it may have seemed.
'Say that again,' he said. A light chuckle escaped her lips.
'Don't push your luck.'
Clive smiled, quiet; Martha felt his hand on hers, fingers intertwined. It was warmer, had been under the blankets for a while. 'What's going on?' he asked, his gaze focused on her face.
She thought of telling him. Saying: I had my period today. Saying: I'm scared, and: What if this is a mistake? The thing was: the few times they'd ever talked about it, they'd always had a tendency to deflect, to talk like people whose actions don't bear consequences. Clive had brought it up a few times – still does, sometimes – but mostly as an excuse to have sex (as if they needed any). He did so when they got back to London, that Sunday in September and when she thinks back, it's the only real conversation they've ever had about this. They were in bed and she froze for a moment, bit her lip and said: 'Are we ready, though?'
He laughed, in her ear, hand travelling up her side. 'Absolutely not.' His lips were close to her skin; she could feel his breaths on there. 'So, good thing it takes time…' he added, voice flirty and low. 'And dedication…' His mouth trailed kisses down the line of her jaw, her neck to her collarbone. She pressed her hips against his; he shifted on top of her a bit.
'What if it happens and we're not ready?' she whispered and he sighed, looking down at her.
'Then, we'll get ready. Like last time.'
She raised an eyebrow at him as he moved up again, his face inches from hers. 'We were anything but ready last time.'
He laughed, briefly caught her lips. 'Look, I'm not saying the argument's flawless, but are we debating or fucking, here?'
She moved her hand from the small of his back to the space between them, feeling him beneath the fabric of his underwear; his breath caught in his throat. 'I don't know,' she whispered, biting her lip. 'You tell me.'
So, yeah, a few months later, she didn't say when he asked: 'What's going on?' because what could she say, anyway? They had agreed, after all, that if it doesn't happen, it's not for us, and there's not much either of them can do about it. She's not the kind of woman who's always wanted children, the kind of person to turn to doctors and medical procedures or adoption obstacle courses. It's not for her, not for them, because she knows that as much as she thinks about it, every month, a part of her is also relieved, in the back of her mind. If they can barely talk about it, they're clearly not ready, and she just needs something else to obsess about.
The night after they argued, his hand kept caressing hers until she spoke, quietly, biting her lip. 'Do you think I should go back to work?' she asked, looking down at him as he lay on the couch.
Clive let out a soft chuckle, an eyebrow raised at her that said: So, that's what it's about? and sat up, slowly, his back against the cushions as she sat facing him on the coffee table. He caught her gaze and her other hand in his. 'I'm not suicidal, Marth. I'm never going to tell you what to do as far as work goes,' he said, smiled. 'I've tried that before and we both know how itended.'
She smiled, then, shook her head and later, took him back to bed. She stays silent now, too, even if Christmas trees really are for children and it hurts, a bit, that there's nothing else that hits her mind. Her thoughts stop haunting her, though, when things escalate like they always do, on the couch, until they lose their balance and fall off on the floor. They're half-naked, limbs intertwined, her back hurts but she can't stop laughing. Clive pushes the coffee table away and rolls over next to her, arms behind his head. "Let's just stay down here, shall we?" he says and Martha laughs, rolls over to sit on top of him, this time, kissing him with a large grin on her face. "I love you," he says, when they part.
It's still new, that. He doesn't say it all the time and she's kind of thankful for it because she's not quite sure what to do about it. Most of the time, he speaks the words in the middle of the night, when he thinks she's asleep, and she doesn't answer, like another secret she keeps. It's not that she doesn't feel it, per se (she doesn't think about it, doesn't want to think about it), and what she feels is ambivalent, really, because she loves him until she remembers how much it hurt when they were at each other's throats and she's suddenly not so sure that these feelings she has are such a great idea, anymore. They bicker over stupid things all the time and have tiny, little rows like the last one but they have yet to properly, bloodily argue and Martha's not sure she wants to be there when that happens.
She kisses him, again, a bit later, hips sinking to meet his as he pushes into her; she bites his lip by accident but he doesn't seem to care. It's a while before they move, after they're done, bodies laying between the couch and the coffee table, on the floor of her flat. Clive's hand finds Martha's discarded bra next to him, throws it at the tree. One of the straps catches in the branches; she raises an amused eyebrow at him.
"There," he says. "Decorated."
Maybe Tommy Shelby chooses Grace, the optimist in her whispers, maybe that's what love is about.
.
It's another couple of weeks until she's waiting for him, sitting on a bench outside courtroom six, and that's when it happens. Martha never finds out whether the meeting's a coincidence, or if Clive had anything to do with it. She doesn't ask, has always been a believer in fate and good timing, anyway.
Usually, if she has to meet up with him after court, she waits outside in the street. There, she can smoke and remain reasonably anonymous, avoid people who might know her. Today is different, though. Today, she's trying very hard to look like someone who didn't try five different outfits in the morning, actually wishes she could stand outside with a fag but she's washed and combed her hair earlier, put on perfume and make-up to try and make a good impression – we all want to be better people than we are – so, cigarettes are out of the question.
Today, they're meeting his parents for lunch.
Now, she's agreed to this about a week ago, when he mentioned lunch as they sat on her couch, a Chelsea game on mute in the background, her feet resting on his lap, fingers casually tracing lines up her calf. They had ended up buying fairy lights for the tree; they cast a low, blue shade across the room. 'Do you want to come?' Clive asked, strategically faking indifference, drawing patterns up and down her skin.
'Meet your parents?' And, with those words, Martha's heartbeat had spiked, panic alarm bells ringing loud in her ears. On the outside she didn't move, pretending to barely look up from her book.
'Have lunch,' he amended, glancing sideways, finally catching her gaze.
'With your parents.'
'Yes,' he smiled. 'With my parents. You're not meeting them, you've already met my parents,' he added, matter-of-factly, trying to gauge her reaction.
Well, she guessed that she had, in a very literal sense of the word, they had met and said: 'Hi,' the day Clive and she were called to the bar, and Martha had indeed very well overheard when Clive's mother had hushed: 'Ah, it's good that they take people like that in, now,' when he'd mentioned that yes, Martha really was from Bolton.
'Plus,' Clive added, caressing her skin. 'I've met your mum, now. It's time for you to return the favour, don't you think?'
And: Oh God, Martha cringed at the memory. It was at her parent's house, the day after they had made this crazy, big decision to engage in an adventure that entailed maybe having a child together, one day. Clive had been in the shower upstairs, when the unimaginable occurred. Martha was finishing her breakfast, setting her coffee mug at the top of the dishwasher when suddenly, the front door opened. She was in the entrance hall in a flash, found her mum with arms full of grocery bags in the doorway. 'Oh, so you did come home,' her mother observed but Martha barely registered the dig, heart beating fast in her chest. Clive is upstairs, the alarm bells went on in her head. And, let's hope he stays there, because this was not the plan.
'I thought you were working today,' Martha observed, desperately tried to fake a casual tone in her voice, in an attempt to both garner information and appear innocuous. She'd told Clive that her mum would be in work, this morning, thought -
'I told you fifteen times, Mar. I took the day off, Roy is coming to help me move some of the boxes to his,' she explained, dropping Tesco bags to the floor and shutting the door behind her. It would have been great, Martha suddenly mused, if she'd spent a little bit more time listening to her mother instead of worrying about Clive, over the past few days. 'Why, did you have other plans?' Maureen asked and Martha was suddenly reminded of the fact that she'd promised to pack up the shit in her room days ago, except, well, that hadn't been her main preoccupation, lately, and –
'No, I'm just surprised, I guess I –'
Forgot, is what Martha meant to say, there. Her mum and she stood in the entrance hall, facing the stairs, and she suddenly got interrupted by loud, running sounds cascading down the steps. Her mother looked up just when Clive stopped, halfway down the last staircase, clearly oblivious to what he'd just walked into, shouted: 'Marth, have you seen my –'
He froze. Martha's mother stayed silent, look falling onto him, then Martha, then back to Clive. Martha noted that he was wearing a towel around his waist (good) and nothing else (bad), hair wet and dripping onto the carpet. Maureen raised an eyebrow at her daughter and shot Martha a look who avoided it like the plague. 'Who's he?' her mother asked and if Martha wasn't mistaken, there was a humorous tone in her voice behind the pseudo-offended one.
'Clive,' she said.
Clive, who, instead of taking his cue to leave, actually, seemed to wake up from his trance, at the sound of his name. What are you thinking? Martha shot him a look when she saw him walk down the last couple of steps, extending his hand. 'Clive, Clive Reader,' he said. Fucking James Bond as well, Martha thought to herself. His fingers were wet so he attempted to dry his hand on the towel, moved it a bit (it did not fall, thank Lord). 'Hi, Mrs. Costello, I –' he started speaking to her mum.
Martha's truly not sure what he was thinking. Maybe because Martha's mother is a woman and Clive tends to be able to charm anything that walks, he thought being posh, lovely, and endearing might get him out of this situation but – truth be told, it did not work. Martha's mum very obviously ignored his extended hand and refocused her look on her daughter.
'He stayed the night,' Martha settled when her mother raised an eyebrow, decided to address the obvious. 'I thought you'd be working.'
Clive glanced up at her immediately, sharp, tried to stop her from saying anything else with a look. He clearly didn't know her mother. 'Marth, I think –'
Maureen's look suddenly left her daughter's, to settle back on Clive. Unexpectedly, it turned from hard and judgmental to likable and kind, as soon as their stares locked. How fucking unfair, Martha thought. I get a dressing-down and he gets – 'Oh, don't you worry, dear,' Maureen said, voice all sweet and mellow. Even Clive frowned at the change in her tone. 'You're far from the first one –'
Martha coughed and almost choked, caught Clive's gaze and – that fucking asshole, she thought. There was a chuckle, right there, she saw it almost come out of his mouth before she glared daggers at him and he stifled it instead. 'Mum!' Martha warned, call me a slut while you're at it.
'What, honey?' her mother directed at her, arms crossed. 'I'm just stating the facts, here,' she said, turned back towards Clive and finally extended her hand; he gladly took it, all smiles and charm (you fucking traitor, Martha swore under her breath). Her mother went all nice and thoughtful with him: 'Call me Maureen, please, I insist.' Martha was this far from taking off and just leaving the both of them the fuck alone when she heard her mother say: 'Did you know, she even got herself pregnant a few years ago? Wouldn't tell me who –'
'Oh-kay, that's enough,' Martha heard herself say, then, covering their voices – both her mother and Clive suddenly stopped talking and turned to her. Clive was grinning (as though very close to letting her mother know just how much he did indeed know about that, yes); it was fucking infuriating. 'Clive, upstairs,' Martha pointed, in a tone that left no room for negotiation. 'Wait for me there. And, Mum,' she added, after he'd turned the corner. 'If you have a point to make –'
.
Later, Clive smiled when Martha opened the door to her room. He was lying on her childhood bed in his jeans, bare-chested. Martha took one look at him and rolled her eyes. 'Nice woman, your mother,' he observed.
Martha stood in front of him with her hands on her hips long enough for him to decide it was time to get up. Clive smiled when she said: 'Oh, you took her by surprise. Wait to see what she's capable of when she's prepared.'
He chuckled but must have sensed the tension in Martha's body, back then, because he stepped closer to her, removed her hands from her hips and took them in his, held them for a bit before letting go. He dropped a kiss to her lips; she found herself leaning in to his touch, his hand on the small of her back, pulling her close. When Clive backed away, she was probably relaxed enough that he thought it alright to crack a joke in her ear. 'So, you got yourself pregnant?' he smirked; she rolled her eyes at him.
'Ha-ha,' Martha said, shaking her head and smiling, almost against her will. 'Very funny.'
.
So, when he mentioned lunch with his parents, months later, Martha pursed her lips, desperately looking for a way out. Her schedule wasn't exactly busy, these days, and classes in Manchester had stopped due to exams and the holidays, so there went her exit road. 'Your mum liked me,' he smirked, as though that was an argument to be made. 'My parents are going to like you, too.'
And: That's not fair, though, she thought. Her mum liked him because he's charming, and also moved furniture for her, which is quite a high bar to meet, as far as Martha's concerned. Her mother's boyfriend, Roy, and she, were in and out of the house all day, had hired a van to move things around; Clive was very happy to make himself very useful. Martha rolled her eyes. Roy loved him. Strangely enough, it was as though Martha has earned a hundred points in the man's credibility matrix overnight, simply by being accompanied by someone like Clive. Roy talked to him to ask where everything went, despite the fact that Martha did know where everything went, and the posh-bloke-down-there didn't have a clue. She was infuriated and couldn't even complain to Clive; he'd never seen Roy before, so wouldn't know any different.
After the van drove off around eleven, Martha found Clive in her bedroom upstairs. He was sitting on the side of the bed, leg lifted up on a cardboard box in the middle of the room. She considered going to sit next to him but decided against it, didn't think she'd be able to get back up.
'How's your knee?'
He laughed, shook his head. 'It's seen better days.'
'We can head back to London now, if you want.' (Anything to get out of this place and not have to interact with either her mother or Roy for another while, Martha thought.)
'Oh no,' Clive laughed, like he knew exactly what she was on about. Martha let out an almost imperceptible sigh. 'If moving furniture is the price to pay to get on your mum's good side, I'm all for it,' he joked. She rolled her eyes. 'Now, you're just mad because you know it's working.'
Martha crossed her arms over her chest, glared. 'I'm going to take a shower,' she announced, pretending to ignore him. She smiled, though, with her back to him.
.
So, fast forward a few months and that's how she gets here, waiting outside a bloody courtroom, reading yet another news article on her phone while attempting to focus on something other than what his parents might think of her. Clive met her mum so Martha had to agree to meet his, and he seems so certain that his parents are going to like her – at this point, they'd be happy with pretty much anyone if it means I've settled down, Marth, he said (was that supposed to make her feel better or worse, she's not sure. Is that what they did? Settle down? Martha thought they'd explicitly agreed to the opposite of that, actually) – that she has to resist the urge to point out to him everything that could actually go very, very wrong, there. She's going to keep a low profile, she's decided, only speak when asked a question, stay polite, don't touch on work or politics, make sure she doesn't get a piece of salad or lipstick on her teeth and hopefully, it won't be too much of a disaster.
She feels like she's going in for her silk interview again.
Clive's running late – that's fine; they actually banked on that, told his parents to meet at one when he was supposed to be out of court by noon – and as Martha waits on the bench outside court, a young woman comes to sit next to her. She's not young-young but definitely younger, late-twenties or early-thirties probably, hair long and a dark shade of brown, bangs falling straight just over her brows. Her eyes are a slightly lighter shade, somewhere between chocolate and dark green, skin pale, face round, smile large and genuine.
There's plenty of sitting space on another bench, a couple steps away, right by the door of the courtroom, so Martha has the very distinct impression that something is off from the beginning, without really knowing why.
"I'm Charlotte," the woman says, unprompted. Her voice rings somewhat high but she also speaks faster, sounds more confident than her looks suggest. "I really like your dress."
Instinctively, Martha's gaze drifts down to her lap, where the hem of her dress shows. It's black, plain, a little bit boring – she kept going back and forth between that and a suit this morning but figured Clive's parents would already know she stopped working, so showing up in a blouse and one of her pencil skirts would seem a bit weird.
"Thanks," Martha just says, followed by an awkward pause, doesn't really know what to add. She can't honestly reciprocate the compliment (Charlotte is wearing some sort of flashy flowery shirt with orange pants – it fits her, oddly, but Martha thinks it would be going a bit far to say she likes the outfit), doesn't know what the woman wants, exactly, but feels like it would a bit rude not to respond. Martha decides to return the introduction, at least. "I'm Ma –" she starts, but gets interrupted.
"I know who you are," Charlotte says, turning towards her.
Okay, then, Martha thinks. Well, she guesses she is sitting outside court, after all, and although she hasn't been working for the last six months, people still know who she is. It's kind of why she usually prefers to stand outside the building or wait for Clive at the Prêt across the street with earphones in her ears so that people aren't tempted to start chatting, wondering why they haven't seen her around Middle Temple in a while.
"I always wished I had this perfect plain black dress, you know? The kind of thing that classy people wear to fancy restaurants or something," Charlotte continues, still unprompted, her look traveling up and down Martha's form for a second before she adds: "Well, it seems that you've found it."
The first thought that occurs to Martha, then, is that it's the dress she wore to Billy's wake. She actually thought about that this morning when she considered putting it on, wondered if Clive would remember, wondered if maybe she should change into something else. She tried, but then she'd already decided against the suits, and the blue dress she'd bought for their date was too summer-y, and the other grey dress had creases on it which she didn't have time to iron out – she figured Clive's parents would be the kind of people who would notice creases – so in the end, she changed back into the black dress. Awkward, Martha just tries to clarify – "I'm sorry, what –" but as she opens her mouth again, the door to the courtroom does, too.
Little groups of people start making their way out in tiny packs like sweets out of a box of tic-tacs. People from the gallery are first, followed by the defence – she thinks she recognises the guy from somewhere – and Clive, with Nicola from the CPS looking down at her notes on a legal pad, deep in conversation. He absentmindedly throws a sideway glance at Martha, looks slightly surprised (pleasantly, though) to see her inside the building and mouths: five minutes, before he focuses back on whatever Nicola is saying. On second thought, though, as Nicola keeps talking and looking at her notes, Clive throws another glance in Martha's direction and this time, spots Charlotte. His expression changes, Martha notices; smile turning into a frown, he throws a questioning look at her and she, in turn, throws the same look at Charlotte.
Slowly, Charlotte gets up from the bench, leaving a piece of paper next to her, in small, neat handwriting. She smiles, says: "This is my number. I'd love to grab coffee sometime, if you fancy."
.
So: "Did you sleep with her?" Martha asks Clive, a few minutes later, on the way to the restaurant, because the entire interaction was so odd that at least it would make sense, in some way, would explain the look they threw each other and the invitation for coffee.
Clive bursts out laughing, loud; they cross a street, the chill in the air hitting Martha's cheeks. "She's gay," he says, the cold driving fog out of his mouth, as they step back onto the pavement.
Okay, Martha thinks, although that's not really an answer to her question but does cut short of the only plausible explanation she'd found for the encounter.
"That's Charlotte Day, Marth," Clive clarifies and: Of course, Martha fucking thinks, because she should have known. It's been years since she's last seen the woman, always been too busy to attend bar social events and –
Charlotte Day is the daughter of Daniel and Catherine Day. Father's a judge, mother's one of the first women who ever made Head of Chambers in a London set. Charlotte went into clerking for one of the biggest defence sets in London.
Clive winks at Martha, speaks again: "You're being headhunted."
She rolls her eyes at him, shakes her head. Ridiculous, she almost says.
.
Surprisingly, though, lunch with his parents doesn't go as bad as Martha thought it would. They're older than her mum (she'd say late sixties, early seventies) but reasonably active. Clive's mother talks a lot, Martha finds out, which makes the conversation quite easy-going, with chats about their last trip to New York and the play they've seen there, and Clive's brother's new job and the flock of grand-children Clive's three siblings seem to have brought to the family. Martha drinks a glass of red – enough to signal she's not pregnant, not enough to actually get tipsy – and Clive's father asks a bit about her family (no, she's never been married; no, she doesn't have children), and siblings, and what her father did, and when she moved to London, and whether she'd ever consider moving back. Clive throws her a glance, at that; she purses her lips.
"I've been here almost twenty years, now. That's where my life is."
She feels Clive's hand squeeze her knee under the table. Thinks it's a bit weird but when they all walk out of the restaurant and go their separate ways, Martha guesses maybe his parents don't dislike her too much, after all.
.
Now, about Charlotte: sure, Martha rolls her eyes at Clive when he jokes that she's being headhunted, but still, the encounter keeps replaying in her head for the next week or so (so often, in fact, that she actually forgets to worry about whether or not she's going to get pregnant one day). So, on December 22nd, just shy of Christmas, Martha caves in and calls. It's probably nothing, she insists, she's just curious, is all.
The coffee shop where Charlotte offers to meet that afternoon at has a bunch of elaborate explanations handwritten on blackboards as to what kinds of beans they grind and what kind of water they use, and a sign on the window at the entrance that reads no, we don't have the Wi-Fi password. Talk to each other. The people sitting at the tables look like they're attempting to make a statement Martha's not sure she fully understands.
Charlotte takes the lid off her cup, blows on the hot liquid a bit. "Look," Martha starts, briefly glancing at the couple to their right, then back at her. "I'm professionally flattered by the attention but –"
"You've called me here to tell me you're not interested."
"Yes," she confirms. Charlotte took off her bonnet when they got in, a couple of snowflakes still perched at the top of her fringe. She seems to ponder over Martha's words for a minute, looking at her coffee mug, before catching her look.
"Okay, try that," Charlotte pauses, challenges. "Look at me and tell me you're not bored."
Well, respectfully, I am, Martha thinks, if she's honest with herself, but respectfully, I can't do it again. "I –"
"Tell me Martha Costello Q.C. is happy taking the train up to Manchester a few times a month to go teach an hour-long class on what it's like to practice criminal law at the London bar while chilling on her sofa the rest of the time and is not even a little bored," Charlotte cuts in, sets her coffee down, untouched. "Tell me that and I'll go."
The coffee is too hot, it almost burns the tip of Martha's tongue when she tries it. She sets it down, warming her hands against the cup. They're sitting too close to the door, people coming in and out bringing in the winter chill with them. Martha shivers, opens her mouth, closes it. "I haven't practiced in six months," she settles, after a bit. Charlotte frowns.
"So? You've forgotten the difference between murder and manslaughter?"
"That's not what I meant, I –" Martha starts, stops, thinks she's going to get interrupted again, isn't. In the end, she can't recall what she wanted to say.
Charlotte looks down for a moment, purses her lips, hesitating. "Look," she breathes, sitting up. "I don't want to replace Billy Lamb. I could never replace Billy Lamb, even if I wanted to; I'm frankly not as good as he was. But I understand clerking. I'm not an office manager," she pauses, bites down her lip, seems to consider her words. "I also don't take bribes or put my barristers in a position where they have to cover for me."
Well, okay, there we are, Martha thinks. True: the girl isn't exactly basking in diplomatic skills but at least she's done her research, is clear and honest (which is also something to be appreciated, at the end of the day). Martha waits a bit, playing with the ring on her finger. Down, up, down, up, down; Billy, she thinks. "Look, again," she sighs. "I appreciate the attention but –"
"You don't prosecute," Charlotte starts speaking, counting on her fingers at the same time. "You don't do rape, and you have a very self-sabotaging tendency to get overexcited by cases that don't pay a cent," she continues; Martha breathes out something between a sigh and a laugh, looks down. "You took the McBride case because he was a friend and he fucked you over. Well, shit happens," she stresses. Martha's jaw clenches, about to speak when: "Tell me I'm wrong," Charlotte adds and, regretfully, Martha's mouth stays shut. "See, it's my job to know my barristers -" the girl adds, reconsiders. "Well, potential barristers, I guess."
And, so, that's it, Martha thinks. She knew what this was from the beginning, knew that before she even walked in, but Clive was right: she is being headhunted. And yes, it is flattering, somehow, but then as soon as she met Charlotte, the other day, as soon as the thought of going back to work became a possibility, however remote, rather than a mere fantasy, she started thinking back to the nights spent boring over centuries-old precedents and dreaming of Sean's head hanging off a noose like Johnny Foster's, and concluded that well, she's not ready.
Yet: "With all due respect," Martha starts, breathes. "Even if I were interested – and that's a big if," she insists. "You're not the one voting me into Chambers, peers are."
It's true, and after everything that happened, she can't quite fathom how any set in the world would actually vote her in. True, it's a technicality, but a pretty big one, by all standards. Charlotte doesn't seem phased, though, like she expected this and sits up in her seat, leans forward, chess player advancing her pawns. "That's my problem," she says, looking up. "And honestly, I wouldn't have dared come to you if I wasn't sure I could get you the votes."
Right, Martha thinks, stays quiet for a bit. Oddly, in that moment, she remembers Shoe Lane. She remembers sitting outside on a bench, next to Clive, waiting for either of them to be called in. He kept talking about how his moot had gone, the stuff that he'd said and the stuff he hadn't said, replaying it in his head while Martha sat in silence, looking at her feet. She must have tuned him out because she didn't notice when he stopped talking, until he gently, briefly, put a hand on her knee.
'Do you think there's a chance we might both get in?' he asked. She turned her head to look at him, found him staring right back, unexpectedly close. Sighed.
'No.'
It killed her because of course, she knew what that meant. Martha had double the amount of things to prove and not enough time to do so. The moot had come and gone, not particularly bad but not particularly good for either of them, she guessed, and if it wasn't the both of them, well, she knew who was more likely to win on a draw.
She felt Clive's lips against hers before she could really understand what was happening, unexpectedly soft and tentative, just shy of deepening the kiss, his hand against the side of her face, pulling her closer. It wasn't like the hungry, hot, get-each-other-naked-as-quick-as-we-can kisses she'd imagined, frankly (because yes, of course, she'd thought about it; he wasn't her type but at the end of the day, they had spent the last six months practically living together in their room in Chambers, so obviously, it had crossed her mind) but it felt nice, strangely quiet and intimate. It was the first time he kissed her, she remembers.
Clive pulled back and Martha raised an eyebrow at him, a short laugh escaping her lips.
'What?' he asked, looking away. She chased his look and realised, to her own astonishment, that there was shyness, right there, in his eyes, against all odds: the first glimpse she ever got at the real Clive Reader. He quickly found his footing again, raised an eyebrow back at her. 'Since we're not going to be working together anymore…' he added, didn't finish his sentence, just cocked his head to the side, waited.
She laughed, loud, genuine, shaking her head at him. 'Since we're not going to be working together anymore, what, Clive?' Martha asked, then, mischievous, their bodies so very close to each other that she could feel his warmth on her skin. It was getting dark already, day setting around them, few people walking past, going home. 'You thought a quick shag was in order?'
It was his turn to laugh, then, stare right into her eyes and tease: 'Who said anything about quick, Marth?'
She laughed again but quickly looked away, feeling herself go a bit pink in the cheeks. Well, she guessed, if (or when – at this point, she obviously didn't think it would take them another couple of years) it happened, she actually hoped it wouldn't be quick, to tell the truth, but –
'Come on,' Clive winked at her; she bit her lip. 'Tell me, you haven't thought about it.'
Martha opened her mouth and shut it, felt suddenly drawn to him, ready to lean in and let him know how much, exactly, she had indeed thought about it when suddenly, she spotted Billy walking down the street, right there behind his shoulder. She froze and from the look on his face, so did Clive. The clerk's look went from Martha to Clive, then back again when he reached the both of them; her heart hammered in her chest. Billy took what felt like a century to speak.
'You're in,' he said.
Neither of the kids reacted, neither of them knowing who the good news was addressed to. Billy had stopped closer to Clive, Martha thought, it must have been meant for him. It would have made logical sense if it was him.
'Oi, did you hear me?' Billy asked, though, rolling his eyes at them. 'You're in, both of you. Now, go on, and be in at eight tomorrow.'
Martha felt her hand automatically reach her mouth to keep herself from screaming, all thoughts of Clive forgotten. It was a few, extra seconds before she tuned back in to reality, felt herself madly grinning at him. She couldn't even believe it. Had she heard this right?
'Well,' Clive said, a bit later, smiling back at her, shoulder bumping against hers. 'Looks like we are going to be working together, after all,' he added and she laughed, shook her head at him. 'I'm glad,' he joked, smirking. 'And yet so, incredibly sad.'
Martha burst out laughing, pretending to roll her eyes in disbelief. You're in, you're in, you're in, Billy's words kept repeating in her head. I'm in.
Eventually, Clive laughed, too, put his hand on her knee again, pushing himself up before offering her a hand. 'Come on, Northern lass, let's go get pissed.'
Martha smiled, she remembers, back then, took his hand and got drunk with him. Neither of them stayed over, though, until a couple years later, that night when her father passed away and the question of whether or not they were working together stopped being of any importance to either of them, and frankly, there are times when Martha does wonder what would have happened, maybe, how her life would have turned out if their thing had initially fed on a triumph rather than a tragedy. Today, she sits in silence and holds Charlotte's gaze as she thinks about the last time she got voted into Chambers, her thumb nervously playing with the ring on her finger. She had fun at the bar, being honest with herself. Lots of fun, so yeah, it's tempting but it's not like before; it's tempting but not obvious, or secure and even if Charlotte does have the votes, it's a risk to take, a decision to make. She's never been really good at making decisions, she just -
"I'm trying to get pregnant," Martha admits, catching Charlotte's gaze.
And, finally, she thinks, she sees surprise in the other woman's eyes. I'm pregnant, can you sell that? she remembers the look Billy threw her, that ability he seemed to have to know everything but the right thing to say. Well, Martha thinks, almost everything.
Charlotte stays silent for a while before she smiles, leans back in her chair. "And that's supposed to what? Make me go back on my offer? You're not even actually pregnant."
Martha catches herself frowning a bit, guesses that wasn't the reaction she expected, guesses -
"Listen," Charlotte starts, the tip of her forefinger tapping against the wood of the table. "When I was about thirteen, fourteen years old, I had a dentist appointment that Dad was supposed to take me to, so I went to court to meet him after school. I was in the gallery, it was a murder trial – pretty gross, you know, the guy had slaughtered his girlfriend with a kitchen knife, but with the discussions at home, frankly, I didn't think it was anything out the ordinary," she laughs. "You were defending the guy."
There's a pause in her speech but Martha doesn't open her mouth to counter, this time. She's learnt to listen, sometimes, to what the client has to say.
"You were like, what, twenty-six?" Charlotte goes on, smiles. "Dad was one of the best barristers in the country, a Q.C., he was relentless with you, but you never gave up. I kept creeping back into the courtroom every evening after school and you were just – I'd seen many people go up against Dad before, they all gave up or let their nerves get the better of them. You never did."
Yeah, right, Martha thinks, smiling. Plead, it's common sense, Marth, Clive used to say, before he understood there was no talking her out of anything. "Did I win?"
"God, no," Charlotte laughs. "Bloke got life, thank God," she adds and Martha somehow catches herself laughing, too. Charlotte pauses, looks up at her. "I've wanted to clerk for you for almost twenty years, I'm not going to reconsider just because you and Clive Reader want a fucking kid."
And there, suddenly, after she finally managed to start drinking her coffee when it reached an acceptable temperature, Martha feels herself almost choking on it. With difficulty, she swallows, throws a confused look at Charlotte.
Charlotte sighs: "Please," she says, quickly, but Martha frowns, insists. They've been careful. It shouldn't be - "You were waiting for him outside court the other day," she says, explains. "Made a wild guess; the look on you face just confirmed it, thanks."
Shit. Okay, Martha thinks, there's no denying it, so: "That –" she starts, again.
"Isn't public knowledge," Charlotte interrupts, looking at her across the table. "I know. It doesn't need to be. Just like what you just told me shouldn't be of anyone's business."
It usually is, though, for women, and frankly, Martha finds it a bit unsettling that now, it doesn't seem to matter. She expected her last objection to close the deal against her, expected Charlotte to go back on her offer, but now, it really is up to her, isn't it? On cue, Charlotte gets up, out of nowhere, like back on that bench, like she's done with her speech now, can rest her case.
"Sleep on it," she says, grabbing her takeaway cup from the table. "Talk it over with your new beau, or whatever you two do. Call me tomorrow."
.
And, of course, Martha does the exact opposite, actually. She doesn't tell Clive, or talk it over with him, and she certainly doesn't sleep. She stares up at the ceiling all night deciding that she should walk out of there while she still can, deciding what a terrible idea this is.
The next morning, she calls Charlotte and says: "Okay," just like that. It clicks.
On the 23rd of December 2014, Martha Costello decides to go back to work.
.
.
[1] (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones (obviously.)