A/N:
[1] Rated M and trigger-warned for domestic violence.
x.
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It looks ugly but it's clean. Oh, Mamma, don't fuss over me.
Cherry Wine - Hozier
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Christmas is a slow and quiet affair, that year. Martha tells her mother she's spending it with Clive and his family, a chalet in Chamonix and snow on the windowsills. Then, Martha tells Clive that she doesn't know how to ski and frankly, can't be bothered to learn. Spends Christmas Day by herself, happy and relaxed, has a stress-free bath and a stress-free nap, and a stress-free takeaway dinner in front of the telly. Clive calls in the evening; she listens to his voice, imagines him in the snow outside the chalet, all wood and dim lighting escaping the windows, the dark night and the stars above him.
"I need to tell you something," she says, bites her lip. "I saw Charlotte Day again."
They laugh about it. About Charlotte's investigations into the both of them and Martha's silly objections to her proposal. "She's a good clerk," Clive settles, smiles into the receiver.
"Do you think I was right to accept, then?" Martha asks. When he laughs, his voice shivers a bit with the cold.
"Do you actually want to know what I think?"
And, on the one hand, yes, she guesses. It'd be nice to have his support. On the other, though, she'll probably do this regardless, would go back to work even if he stood there in front of her and told her exactly what a ludicrous enterprise it is. "No," she smiles. "Not really."
And so, he laughs again into the receiver; Martha kills her cigarette in the ashtray on her coffee table. Clive hates it when she smokes inside the flat but all the way over there in Chamonix, what he doesn't know can't hurt him. "Well, there you go, then," he smiles. "That's the Martha Costello I know."
Against all odds, she smiles, too.
.
Her first day back at work is the 11th of January, 2015. Martha hasn't had a first day in a new job in seventeen years. She's nervous. Clive tries to lighten the mood, a few days before, raises the idea of going jogging on his lunch breaks. "New year, new me," he says.
Martha eyes him from the armchair in her living room, a rare ray of sun on her face. "Hmmh hmh," she hums. Let's see how long that lasts.
Her own resolution was to sleep better, more, earlier. It feels fitting that it doesn't work, that she wakes up that Monday with about five hours of sleep; it feels like it used to. Her work uniform still fits and – How do I look? she texts Clive, a photo in the mirror. She didn't want him to stay over last night, wanted (needed) the time to think.
A confused emoji. Like you always do?
She rolls her eyes, shoves her phone in her handbag. A picture of Billy rests on a shelf in the entrance hall. Wish me luck, she asks him.
.
For once, it's early when she reaches Middle Temple. Martha doesn't know if it's the nerves, the idea that she might be late (as though she would somehow get lost), but the sun is still well below the horizon when she parks her car. The area is quiet; she barely sees anyone, takes her time, stands against one of the brick walls and smokes a cigarette. She was voted in last Monday – it was quick, Charlotte must have been labouring the field for weeks before they even met. She's a good clerk, Clive did say, after all, didn't he?
So, because it's gone through quicker than Martha anticipated, the short period of lull, that first morning, the cigarette before the storm, is greatly appreciated. She tries to make herself remember this feeling, store it away for later use. Excited, scared, certain and yet so full of doubts. The bitter, cold, January air bites at her fingers; she watches the wheels of the world slowly start to turn. In the car park, Clive pulls up at 7:55, like clockwork, his sedan quickly backing into its spot.
His gaze falls on Martha's, a good eighty metres out at least; she can still tell he's smiling. Goes a bit red in the cheeks; she glances at her phone when it chirps.
7:58 AM
You look stunning.
Alright, she thinks. Waits for the last two minutes to pass, watches Clive as he heads up the street towards Shoe Lane. One, two, three, she counts in her head.
Go.
.
In court, it's a learning curve. Her confidence gradually comes back, and eventually, so does her footing. It doesn't feel the same, necessarily – Martha's scarred, she guesses – but it feels similar enough that it allows her to breathe a bit better, to find a sense of purpose again.
Charlotte, her new clerk, quickly becomes an ally, and a friend. She's funny, one of those people whose laugh is loud and communicative – she plays stupid pranks on everyone and yet, somehow, still manages to be taken seriously. The clerks' room is full of bright colours, and life, and Martha can't help but smile every time she steps in.
The first case she gets is a fraud case. The second one, a driving offence. The third one, a murder.
"It's been two weeks," Charlotte says, in lieu of an explanation. "I've sheltered you enough."
And from then on, Martha takes it one case at a time. Eventually, it gets better. She stops thinking about Sean rotting in jail all the time. Eventually, she finds herself able to laugh with CW again (Harriet is always a good topic of conversation) and she meets new people in Chambers, too. Vanessa, the other barrister who shares her room is quiet but nice, doesn't speak when she works, a fact quite liberating after fifteen years spent pretending not to hear Clive as he whined and commented on his cases every ten minutes. Now, Martha feels like she's the loud one when she listens to music she's pretty sure can be heard past her earphones.
Of course, it's not like Clive's whines and attempts at distraction really go away. They simply move from her work desk to her kitchen table and get much harder to resist. Over time, they find their routine. It's an unspoken mutual understanding between the two of them that they don't want to become a thing that people care about. Martha has no interest in being one half of a legal power-couple so they ignore each other to a somewhat comical extent every time they're in the robbing room together, quite unsuccessfully if the look on CW's face is any indication. Martha finds that she doesn't really mind people guessing, just doesn't want to confirm it.
There's work, and then there's them, now, and they try to keep that as separate as they can. When they work from home, her kitchen table is split in two, Chinese wall in between. Anything shared in confidence may not, ever, be used in a court of law. Also, sex is a good way to relieve stress, Martha finds.
.
At work, over the next few weeks, she also reconnects with people, too. Bumps into him on her second day (literally bumps into him, with files in her arms and her phone perched between the side of her face and her shoulder, and everything falls off in a loud clatter). Nick - as he explains mid-way through an awkward apology, trying to help pick her things up - apparently landed at her new Chambers after Shoe Lane, and has been there for the last three years. The boy still looks ridiculously young but has somehow graduated from saving puppies to saving actual people, and two months later, when Martha wins a case and feels in a celebratory mood, even has money to pay for her drinks.
Over time, she forgets everything she's learnt, in her months of inactivity, about periods, cycles, and trying. Back then, when she and Clive were having sex, there was always a nagging though at the back of her mind, something that said: yes, this might lead to it, or no, this is just for fun. Now, most of the time, Martha frankly doesn't really know when her last period was. She's in Chambers four days a week, and in Manchester on Fridays (didn't want to let Evershed down mid-year when she promised she'd do two terms) and to be fully honest, her life just gets really, fucking busy.
Clive smiles at her one night; she falls asleep on the couch as he cooks in the kitchen, exhausted. "When you get pregnant, you'll work until you have that baby in court, I'm telling you," he laughs.
His look isn't on hers. The tone of his voice is casual but Martha knows him well enough to filter the nervousness underneath. They haven't talked about it in a good while, she realises, and maybe this is his way of asking if they're still trying, if she's still okay with trying with him.
That evening, Martha looks up after he speaks, stands and walks over, her hand covering his. She puts the knife down against the cutting board and forces Clive to turn to face her, kisses him open-mouthed, long, slow and deliberate. His hands find her hips, instinctive, and she feels the edge of the table behind her, scoots and sits on it. He stands between her legs; she whispers in his ear: "Maybe you should put a little bit more work into that, yeah?"
"Hey," he smiles. "I'm not the one who's been holed up at work for three days, refusing to talk to anybody," he teases and Martha feels his fingers lift the hem of her shirt, caressing the skin underneath.
"You were in Newcastle for three days before that, though," she points out, against his lips. "Can't make a baby on my own, can I? May have to look into other options -"
"Other options?"
She teases. "Other candidates, maybe?"
"Like who?"
And, that's when she simply bursts out laughing, quiet but genuine, shaking her head at him. Clive's look falls upon hers, hands still on her hips; he frowns. "You're jealous," she smirks, grins against his lips, bringing him back to her.
His hands start moving under her shirt again, but there's more purpose to them this time. Clive ends up chuckling against her skin, drops kisses on her neck. "You know what? I totally am," he says.
Martha laughs, catches his lips. Her kiss is slow, warm, like the spring blossoms that have just started to appear upon tree branches. Her hand is against his crotch; she feels him tense when she says: "I only want you."
This time, his kiss has nothing slow about it; Clive kisses her hard, proprietary, and to tell the truth, there's something so incredibly hot about it, about how quickly she was able to rile him up, make him reaffirm that she is his, at least for the time being. He stops again, a few moments later, catches her gaze and almost sounds surprised. "Jokes aside," he asks, frowning. "Six days? Has it really been that long?"
She chuckles, nods. Yes, she confirms. The last time they had sex was indeed before her trial, before his trip to Newcastle, and it's been a while. Clive argues that it can't be right but she's got to admit that it (very) unfortunately is. He looks around him, laughs in her ear.
"Fuck this food, then," he says, quick, eyes the half-cut tomatoes on the counter. "I'm taking you to bed."
.
So, yes. They're still trying.
It's not working, will probably never work, but it's fun. She learns to enjoy the fun.
She's happy and that's already a lot.
.
It is February when a case lands on her lap. She's talking to Nick, that day, the crazy stories that always come from the junior end; she sometimes needs them to be reminded of the kinds of shit that people do. "I mean look at this," Nick tells her, pictures laid out in front of him. "That can't be a party gone wrong," he laughs; his client is in for vandalism. "That's a workaholic demolition worker gone wild."
Martha's still chuckling when Charlotte comes in, smiles at the both of them. She drops a bunch of files on Martha's desk. "Miss, these are for you."
Martha sighs. It's five in the afternoon already. Nick looks up at Charlotte, seems to ask if she's staying, or wants him to leave. She shakes her head no; he stays put.
"When's it for?" Martha sighs.
"Oh, not until the end of March, Miss," Charlotte says. "Miss," she repeats, fast, eyeing the both of them. "Sir. I'll leave you to it."
It's a moment before Martha's even realises she's gone, sips on her tea and frowns to herself, catches Nick's look. "End of March?" she repeats, surprised. That's almost a couple of months out. It's not unheard of, sure, but it's odd, given that they're all more used to extremely late returns and things that are due yesterday.
Nick shrugs, looks at the time on his phone, sighs. "I think I have to get back," he says but Martha's already too intrigued by the file in front of her to really pay attention. It was odd, wasn't it? she thinks to herself. The way Charlotte dropped the binder on her desk and almost ran away, the way she –
Martha unties the ribbon and lifts the cover of the file as Nick packs his stuff, reads the name on the first page and gasps. Leaves the binder open on her desk and rushes out of the room, chasing after Charlotte in the corridor. As she shouts the clerk's name as loud as she possibly can, Martha notices a smile on Nick's face.
"Holy fuck," he says, quick. "Can I junior?"
.
It's officially the biggest case she's ever worked on. Martha's both scared shitless and excited to the point that she can't sleep at night. There are a million things to think about. Billy would never have taken on something like that. He would have said it would blow up in their faces. In all likelihood, it probably will blow up in their faces. Charlotte, though, seems to think that it won't.
"I'm going to need a pupil. And a junior. Full time," Martha announces from the get-go.
"Whatever you need, Miss."
And from then on, since they don't want the news to spread like wildfire over Middle Temple, Chambers is lockdown. The only outsider who knows, for a very long time, is Clive. Martha lays it out for Charlotte right away, that first evening when they talk time, resources and strategy – a whisper away from Nick's ears. "I need to tell Clive," she says.
Charlotte frowns, looks torn. "I'd rather we keep this internal."
"He needs to know why I'm going to be both unbearable and mostly unavailable for the next three months."
Charlotte smirks, catches Martha's gaze. "Will he keep it quiet?"
"Yes."
"Alright, then."
.
And honestly, that's good news because in retrospect, Martha thinks she couldn't even have kept it from him even if she'd tried. She arrives at his on Friday evening with three cardboard boxes of files filled to the brim. "New case?" he asks, helps her carry the boxes inside. He's been cooking: his lips taste like cinnamon when she kisses him. "Go on, take a look," she tells him.
They've had dinner and a chat about his brother's upcoming wedding by the time the topic gets back on the table. Clive is cleaning up the kitchen, eyes her over the counter. "So, Berrian, eh?" he asks.
And: yes, she thinks. William Berrian, Etonian, charity sponsor, Tory MP and Minister for Foreign Affairs - married to the gorgeous, posh, blond and quiet Isabelle Berrian, née Dupuis. Old money, French descent. On Christmas morning, about a year ago, she (allegedly – Martha insists) found out she was pregnant, tied her husband up to a chair in their kitchen, crushed two of his fingers with a hammer and shot him in the head. As far as the press is concerned (and the whole of England, frankly), she's a monster. The plan would have been perfect; she would have been able to escape if only the neighbour hadn't interrupted to ask if the Berrians wanted to join her and her husband for brunch.
Isabelle couldn't bring herself shoot Mrs Pierce, so she ended up turning herself in.
The Sun has been all over the case for months and as a result, so has most of the country. From what Martha's gathered, multiple briefs have been hired, fired, multiple solicitors, too. Isabelle has money. So did her husband. The families are at each other's throats in a constant back and forth of interviews and press declarations and, to Martha's knowledge, Isabelle has not uttered a word since her arrest. Not to her solicitor, not to her parents, not a word. She's being charged with murder, torture, and half a dozen other things Martha hasn't even had time to look into. For now, she's had her baby in jail and they've allowed her to keep it in custody, pending the outcome of the trial. Martha looks up at Clive, smiles.
"Have you met her?" he asks. Then: "Has she really said nothing at all?" and "Is she pleading?"
The questions come in quick fire; she can see the fascination behind his eyes, topped by a sense of pride that she's the one defending it. "Curiosity killed the cat, Clive," she tells him, playfully, because honestly, confidentiality dictates that there are a lot of things she just can't tell him. He laughs, relents.
"Who's prosecuting?" he asks.
"Mark Brooke. He's at Roberts' now, I think," she adds, seems to remember the racket it created when the man left Wellings Chambers a few years ago. Clive wipes his hands on a tea towel and takes her wine glass, steals a sip. "I'm told he's good," Martha muses. Vaguely remembers meeting Brooke at a couple of sucking-up bar events; he was nice, she recalls, kind of kept to himself.
"He is," Clive says, drinks. "Had a case against him a couple years ago." He pauses, then, catches Martha's gaze. "I'm better, though."
There's a playful look in Clive's gaze and it makes her laugh, dares her to come over to him. She does, smiles, stands on her tiptoes and drops a kiss to his lips. He responds in kind, hands finding her hips and pulling her closer.
"Kind of lucky Shoe Lane didn't get that one, right?" he whispers against her, his hands trailing under her shirt and around her back; she feels one of his palms on her bum, over the fabric of her leggings. "You'd have been conflicted out."
And, well: trying for a baby with opposing counsel? Yeah, that might actually have been something the BSB would have frown upon, Martha muses. "You'd have been conflicted out," she smiles, catches his gaze. "I'd have fought you dirty to keep that one."
Clive laughs, against her lips. Kisses her, strong and open-mouthed, wandering hands. "Yeah? What would you have done?" he teases. A whisper: "Keep talking, Martha Costello."
.
They're lying in bed, later, and he catches her gaze; she's snuggled up against him. "How do you feel about it, really, though?" he asks.
She watches his face, shrugs. "Excited?"
It's odd, really, and he's the only one she'd ever admit that to (it would look bad, horrible even, given the gruesome nature of the case, if she said that to anybody else), but there's something deeply flattering and humbling about being picked to run a case like this, especially considering how bumpy things have been, for her, since Billy died. Weirdly, there's a part of Martha that still doesn't understand how this landed on her lap, like it may all be one big mistake. Clive smiles, though, understands.
"Nervous, too," she adds. It's almost an afterthought, not so much because she naively thinks that she won't be (she knows, already, that there will be a point where fear will almost petrify her, when the hardest thing will be to get up, stand up in the morning, and just keep going), but because it's not the dominant feeling right now, not this far out from the trial date. "I mean, like I said, I haven't met her yet but if it's true that she's not talking, then I can't take instructions, and if I can't take instructions, what the fuck am I going to do?"
The tips of Clive's fingers brush a strand of hair from her face. "She'll talk to you," he smiles, reassuring. "They all do."
.
Well, Martha finds, a few days later. 'They all do,' but Isabelle fucking Berrian doesn't. She really doesn't ever talk.
At first, it's awkward. Martha doesn't know how to react. She tries the usual, shares things about Clive, about her dad, about herself. More often than not, Nick isn't in the room so she's able to get real personal, even tells Isabelle bits and bobs about the assault. Even then, though, it's like talking to a fucking wall. An expressive wall. Martha sometimes reads surprise over Isabelle's face, interest, amusement but no sound ever comes out of her mouth. To a degree, there's something almost comforting in the woman's silences, a sort of consistency that helps Martha deal with the craziness of the world outside.
Even in the face of the evidence they present her, Isabell still doesn't open her mouth. One night, Nick and Martha uncover records of about thirty hospital visits in the last five years. Different A&Es, different clinics around London. "27th of February," Martha lists, flinging each file against the table between her and her client, prison walls that call for desperate measures. "You fell. And, then, let's see," she pretends to look at the papers in front of her, doesn't want to look into the other woman's eyes. "10th of April, you, yourself, burnt your own palm on the stove for 'fifteen seconds or more' according to the doctors' reports," she breathes, speaks again. "And, here, 15th of August, you fall, again," Martha places another folder on the table between them. "And again," she says, with each file. "And again."
The client remains mute, trapped in the years of abuse her husband's clearly inflicted upon her. 'You can't ask her about it,' Nick said, the night before, coming to Martha with the thirtieth report. 'She'll freak out.'
Martha nodded, took stock, said nothing. Ran the DV argument by Clive, later on. Has to admit that in spite of the best efforts she initially made at keeping him out of the case, he's become her unofficial sounding board, over the past few weeks. He shows her the things that she fails to see. That night, he reviewed the reports, sat in silence for a while.
'You have to use this,' he said. 'You're not acting in her best interests if you don't use this.'
So that's what she's doing, now: using this. And the client still doesn't budge, looks at Martha flinging files on the table with eyes filled with fear and regret, but doesn't say a word. "Isabelle," Martha says. "Please help me out here. Because either you were very, very clumsy or he was beating the shit of you on a regular basis and that's why you killed him."
The silence weighs heavy on the room. Martha counts in her head. One. Two. Three. Four. Her client is a public-school ice queen, nothing ever seems to betray what she's thinking. Isabelle remains mute, still, but a few minutes later, right before they leave, hot, heavy sobs start cascading down her face. Martha takes her client's hand and sees her nod, blink, almost imperceptible.
"Okay," Martha says; her voice almost breaks when she speaks. "Okay. We'll run that, then."
Isabelle smiles, later, at Nick, at Martha, a sad, understanding smile. Doesn't say anything, still.
"You care," Nick points out, outside. Martha's tears have finally torn down the wall she imposed upon them and have begun to wet her cheeks. There's no judgment, in his voice; he hands her a pack of tissues – Martha blows her nose into one, dries the salt on her skin.
"Yep," she admits. They're getting in the car; she sits in the driver's seat and lays her hands flat on the wheel. Doesn't look at him. "I care so much it fucking tears me apart."
.
That night, Clive turns the radio on, loud, in her flat, takes her hand and forces her up, away from her desk. She doesn't know the song - it's just BBC Radio One – but after a while, she finds herself giving in to his smiles, moving her body to the beat as he holds her hand and makes her sway. Lady, it says, running down to the riptide, taken away to the dark side, I want to be your left-hand man. I love you when you're singing that song and I've got a lump in my throat 'cause you're going to sing the words wrong.
"You're going to win this," Clive whispers, in her ear, when the music dies. "Trust me."
.
She honestly doesn't know, though. It all feels uncertain.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, the Thursday before trial, Martha decides to take Nick out for a drink. They laugh, try to talk about anything but the case, he admits he's been dating Niamh for the past two years, thinks of proposing to her in Greece, over the summer. Martha smiles, genuine, the kind of happy ending she only sees in films.
"I do miss Shoe Lane sometimes," he confesses to her, a bit later. Martha's had a few drinks, notices a text from Clive popping up on her phone, asking if she wants to come over. It's past eleven in the evening so, clearly, he's not asking her over for tea.
She keeps listening to Nick, uncrossing and crossing her legs, again, automatically.
I'm at the pub, she texts back, placing the phone down against her thigh. "It was a good place to learn," Nick adds. "You and Clive, you were a powerhouse when you worked together."
Martha looks up, tries to gauge where he's going with this. Nick suspects, she's pretty sure. He's dropped hints over the past few weeks, definitely knows she's seeing someone from Shoe Lane, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out who that could 's a bit of game, to tell the truth, that Martha's never confirmed nor denied his suspicions – it makes him laugh, she thinks.
Clive's been there, for her, over the past few weeks. He's helped her make sense of the case, see the prosecution angle that she sometimes couldn't see, all of that for free, just because he claims to like her company. It's a different way of working with him, Martha knows, but it seems to function all the same.
Against her thigh, her phone keeps vibrating at regular intervals, throughout the evening. She ignores it, doesn't want to give in to Nick's speculations, waits until he goes to the toilet to check. She scrolls down the screen, bites her lip.
11:34 p.m.
That's a shame.
I miss you.
11:35 p.m.
Well, also I want you.
11:42 p.m.
See, you would leave the pub and come over. It would be dark, already.
We would kiss at the door. I would pull you in and have you up against the wall. My lips against your neck, fingers between your legs.
11:55 p.m.
And you know how good I am with my fingers.
11:58 p.m.
I don't think we'd make it past the hallway, this time.
I would hike your skirt up your legs –
She doesn't get to finish the messages because someone, in front of her, coughs. Nick. Martha shakes her head, bites her lip again, looks away.
"You okay?" he asks, an amused glance on his face.
She responds on autopilot. "I, uh. I think I've got to go."
"Somewhere to be?" Nick says, amused, raising an eyebrow at her. He makes a show of looking at his watch. Yes, it's late, she thinks, rolling her eyes.
But: "Yes," she also just says, reaching for her bag.
.
Martha makes it to Clive's about twenty minutes later; he opens the door in his pyjamas and she kisses him, open mouthed, before he can say anything. For about a second, he's a bit shell-shocked until he quickly follows her lead, closing the door behind them and pushing her against it. He's working on pulling down one of her stockings when he breaks the kiss for a second, raises an eyebrow at her. "Had fun at the pub?" he says and she lets out a chuckle, nods.
"Had a couple bottles of wine."
"On your own?"
She laughs, presses against him, finds his hand on her hip and moves it between her thighs (he doesn't get to send her texts like that when it's late and she's had a few, and then take his time, for fuck's sake). Her pencil skirt gets in the way so she lets him hike it up and lift it over her head, then it's back against the wall she goes. "No, with Nick," she corrects, her fingers trailing under his shirt.
Clive raises an eyebrow, his mouth against her collarbone, fingers pushing her underwear aside. "Did you see my texts?" he teases.
She chuckles, slips a hand inside his pants; it does seem to get his attention, from the look he throws her, breath caught in his throat. Quickly, she finds that she doesn't really care for the foreplay he seems to have tried to instigate, here. She shifts a bit; what she wants is him inside her right now, actually. "I did, yes," she confirms.
Clive smiles, again, his thumb on her clit. She sighs, heavy, shaking her head. She's pushed his pants down, has him strong in her hand, inches away from where she wants him to be, bites her lip.
"Are you going to own up to it?" she whispers, in his ear. "Or was it all just talk?"
He laughs but pushes into her then, suddenly, and she responds with a loud moan that she's pretty sure can be heard by his neighbours down the corridor but frankly, it feels too good to care. He doesn't move immediately after that, though, for a bit, just stays there, deep inside her until she opens her eyes, crosses his gaze.
"Hey," he says, pushing a strand of hair off her face. Martha smiles, lets out a quiet laugh.
"Hey."
.
They do end up in bed, eventually, for round two, and frankly, she doesn't know if it's the orgasms or the alcohol but she feels a bit drunk, still, sleepy and lazy. It's past 3 a.m., now, and she's got a train to Manchester at six (she doesn't really want to be there when her alarm goes off in an hour) yet, she tries to keep her eyes open, her head on Clive's chest, the lamp on his bedside table shading a soft light on his face.
"I really, really like you, Clive Reader," she says, looking up at him. He laughs, hand trailing up and down her arm.
"You're drunk."
Martha laughs, too, gently slaps his shoulder, says: "Maybe. I'll take that back, then."
He shakes his head at her and a moment passes; she almost closes her eyes. "So, you were out with Nick?" Clive asks, teases. Martha rolls her eyes at him.
"Yes."
"The one who pushed me down the stairs?"
"You were high and you tripped."
"We seem to have different recollections –"
Martha interrupts him with a glare, moving up to face him. She makes sure he stops talking before resting her head back down. "You do that again and I'll kill you, by the way," she says, after a moment, somewhat mumbling against his skin. "I'm not sleeping with a cokehead."
Clive chuckles, his chest shaking a bit. "Didn't seem to bother you bef–"
Martha moves her head again, rests it on the back of her hand and glares into his eyes, dead serious. "Finish that thought and I'll murder you in your sleep, make it look like an overdose, and get away with it."
Clive bursts out laughing, then, shakes his head at her. "I haven't used since you got silk and I didn't, Marth."
She frowns, arching an eyebrow at him, trying to read if he's telling the truth. He seems to be. She doesn't know what to say, what to make of that fact, so: "Good," Martha just responds, then, lying back down. "I'm sleeping now," she adds and hears Clive chuckle as she closes her eyes.
.
On Monday morning, she visits Isabelle, one last time before the start of the trial. The crowd in front of the courthouse is the largest Martha has ever seen, the press swarming in like vultures over William Berrian's dead body – Monster on trial, the headlines read on people's phone this morning.
"I couldn't sleep last night," she tells Isabelle, who fidgets with the skin at the edge of her delicate fingers. "Looked you up on Wikipedia. You read law at Oxford, didn't you? That's how you met him."
Him – her husband: the charming, handsome posh boy who abused her for years – Martha guesses that he didn't beat Isabelle up with class and/or dignity. The woman's gaze finds Martha's - a nod, shy and discreet. Her back is always straight, blonde hair plaited at the base of her neck, she always looks like she'd fit perfectly in a castle, calling for a prince to come and save her.
Martha shakes her head, then, and lets out a sad sound, between a sigh and a laugh, something heartbroken and heavy. "So did Clive," she tells Isabelle. Thinks of the sacrifices the boy in her life has accepted to make for her, thinks about her own past, too. "I obviously didn't," Martha smiles to herself, an afterthought. Repeats what she told Billy: "Just went to lots of nightclubs in Manchester," she chuckles, soft. And even then, she wonders, sometimes, if her dad hadn't gotten sick, would she even have gone to law school at all? "It's funny, isn't it?" she asks, then, but also kind of just talks to herself. "How things just sort of happen?"
"'It's what life is,'" Isabelle says, quotes, like the easiest thing in the world, like these are not the first worsts she's uttered in months. "'It's a series of rooms and who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to what our lives are.'"
The sound of her voice is beautiful, Martha thinks, albeit hoarse,probably one of the loveliest sounds that have ever been heard. There is the slightest hint of a French accent in the vowels that her client speaks and all that Martha can think is that Isabelle's voice is a treat that the whole world should get to hear. Tears crowd at the back of her eyes when she glances away.
"Don't," Isabelle says, adds, smiles, and Martha feels her hand against hers. "You've got a good heart."
It's ten minutes to trial, and she's speaking, finally, and even if it's only for a few seconds, she's strong, Isabelle, and vulnerable, and Martha just wants to save her. "Give me instructions," is the first thing she replies, shaking her head in disbelief. "If there's anything that you want me to say, out there -"
The client is soft when she answers. Her barrister doesn't know it yet but they will be the last words that she'll speak, the last words she'll ever hear from Isabelle before she will wall herself up in silence again. That soft, elegant voice of hers. "I'd like to keep the baby with me," she smiles, sad. "If that's possible."
.
Nick stares when Martha speaks: "She wants to keep the baby."
"In jail? Shit, she'd have to get less than eighteen months, Martha."
"I know."
.
The client shakes like a leaf every time a man speaks a bit too loud during trial. Looks away when the neighbours go on and on describing what a great man William was.
She's is charged with murder. Is found guilty of manslaughter. Gets five years.
The client screams.
.
Martha thinks she'll never forget that scream. The scream of a woman who's just lost a child.
That night, she sits in the dark with a bottle of whiskey.
It's a good hour before Clive uses his key– she hears the lock turning before he steps in. He's never done that in the past - use his key. Has had one for years, for safekeeping in case Martha loses hers (it does happen pretty regularly she must admit), but it feels oddly intimate, now. He doesn't turn on the lights; the couch dips as he sits next to her, waits until she talks – she doesn't. Two shots later, she reaches close to the bottom of the bottle - he takes it away. "I think you've had enough," he says.
Martha disagrees but finds that she doesn't have the energy to fight him.
"Marth," he starts. She can't look at him. "Marth, you got five years on a gruesome murder charge with the whole world against you, that's one hell of a win -"
"She's not going to be able to keep the baby," Martha interrupts, slurs, states facts and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the table. She's clumsy, lets it fall; Clive sighs, takes that away, too. "It's the one thing she asked and it's just –"
She feels like crying. Feels like she can't breathe, strangled sobs escaping her lips. Martha looks up at Clive, the sad gaze in his eyes and it's stupid, fruitless, really, but she tries to kiss him. Draws him to her and pushes her lips against his. He pulls away, tries to stop her: "Marth," he says but she catches his mouth again in an attempt to silence his objections, starts fiddling with the buttons of his jeans. She's seeking comfort, maybe, or validation that she's still good enough for him. Clive's gentle – too gentle, when he pushes her away.
"Right," she says, cold, shakes her head, relents and pulls away. "You don't even want me anymore. Great."
But, instead of being harsh like she wishes him to, Clive is soft. Too soft, too kind when he catches her gaze. She wants him to scream at her, tell her she tried so hard and still failed because she'll never the person that she wants to be. She'd like him to say he hates her, she thinks, is disappointed in her, so much that he doesn't even want to fuck her.
(He's never not wanted to fuck her before.)
"Not like this. You've had too much," he observes, throwing a look at the empty bottle, next to her. "You're not thinking straight."
It hits her like a punch in the gut. Tonight's the first time, the first time she drinks enough that the world is blurry around her, the first time since –
She glares at Clive, lets out something between a howl and laugh, gets defensive, hurtful, like she always does when she's wounded. He knows that, is used to that. A song floats through her head: I'm sorry I broke it, never forgive me, it says and she tries to ignore it, tries to push away what it's trying to say.
"That's never bothered you before," she throws back at him, faux-casual. He takes the hit, clenches his jaw, stares right back at her.
"That's mean," he observes, matter-of-fact, oddly certain of his words. She crosses his gaze and guesses that it is, yes, and maybe she is being unfair, because in truth, she's never felt like he's ever taken advantage of her, but -
She shrugs, sits back against the cushions of the couch. Martha looks at Clive, now, and: "She just wanted to keep the baby," she repeats, again, and again, loud sobs finally breaking and hurting her face; she doesn't have the strength to shake him off when he puts his arms around her and pulls her into a hug, tears falling against his shirt.
"I know," he whispers. "I know," and: "Shhh. I'm here. I promise."
.
The next morning, in bed, is oddly quiet. Her cheeks hurt from the tears she's shed and Martha doesn't know it yet, because her phone is off and she hasn't seen the headlines, but it's probably the last dull morning she'll have for a good while. Before the frenzy starts again, before the press. Clive lies next to her - she looks into his tired eyes; he brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Did you sleep?" she whispers. Can tell he's honest when he shakes his head no, shrugs, but doesn't speak. His fingers are warm, against Martha's face; she pretends that they're the only people left in the world, her face so close to his. "Talk to me," she mutters, breathes.
"Did you ever regret it?" he asks. Martha instantly hates herself, hates last night, hates – "I mean, what you said yesterday. Did you ever wake up and think you'd had too much to drink, think I shouldn't have -"
"I'm sorry," she tells him, there and then. Cuts him off before he can say more, remind her of the stupid things she threw at him last night, out of anger and grief. They're not words that come out of her mouth often but when she says them, she means them, and so she does, now, more than ever. "Listen to me," she insists when he shakes his head, tries to whisper over her. "I'm sorry. I never thought that in a million years," she breathes.
And it's true. She always felt safe, with him, always knew that she could trust him. He proved it again last night, did the right thing, and she's so, so angry at herself for being too drunk to see that straight away.
"I only ever really regretted it once," she admits, catching his gaze. Wills him to believe her. "When I was with Jérôme. Not because it happened, but because it hurt him," she breathes. "I was sober for that."
Clive kisses her, then, and all she knows is that from now on, she feels like she should, forever, be the one who apologises. Because, whatever it was, whatever ever happened between the both of them, he might have been a dick, sometimes, but never ever took advantage of her.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers again, against his lips. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
His eyes are cobalt blue again, under the rising sun. "I love you," he tells her, lets her bury her face in the crook of his shoulder.
"I want," she whispers, trails off. I want to say it back, she thinks, but she's scared, scared of what it might mean. If we fall too hard, she said herself, months ago.
"Come here," Clive whispers, holds her. "I know."
.
And the thing is, the odd thing that keeps surprising her is: while Clive is there for moral support and helps her through the trial, he also sticks around for the aftermath. It's never a question.
The impact of the Berrian case seems to go well beyond Isabelle's individual circumstances. Beyond Martha's too. Maybe it's because the parties were famous, maybe it's because Isabelle's husband was a cabinet member, or maybe, Martha muses, because it's about damn time. Her client is sentenced to five years in jail and individually, Martha feels like that's her own personal failure, but that's not what the rest of England thinks. The verdict blows through the country like dynamite and suddenly, the views on Isabelle take a one-sixty degree turn, now that the abuse has come to light. Isabelle becomes a symbol, the woman who fought back, and Martha becomes the one who defended her. Her phone rings and rings, and rings, and Martha thinks that even if she'd tried to prepare herself for this, there was no way she could have anticipated it. She turns down all the interview requests that come her way so there are crowds of journalists on her doorstep and death threats from men's rights activists in her inbox; she has to sleep at Clive's for a few weeks, until the whole thing blows over. Isabelle's blank, pristine face is on every magazine in the country, with words and words, and words about the hundreds of women who were murdered by their partners and while the gruesome nature of Martha's client's act is acknowledged, she's dubbed as the one who just had enough.
Martha doesn't even know if that's true. The conversation might be a good one to have but Isabelle hasn't uttered a single word again and Martha respects that. Keeps quiet, and lets the wave flow over her, too.
The thing is, though, of course, at work, the cases start pouring in like the reputation hit Martha took after Sean's case never happened. "Your name's on everybody's lips and yet, you're in my bed," Clive jokes in her ear, once, and while Martha is somewhat generally positive about the whole thing, it just feels a bit odd to be in the middle of it. This much praise feels suspicious and she keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to hit the side of her face by surprise. Nothing does, though, so she puts her head down and tries to feel thankful, buries herself in work and repeats over and over in her head that she's not a total fraud.
She's proud of the work they did on that case.
She just wishes she could have done just a tiny bit more.
.
And yes, of course, the whole hubbub eventually quiets down, over the next few weeks. Things gradually get back to an acceptable level of quasi-normalcy. Martha's able to move back into her apartment, work without hordes of journalists wondering what her next big case is going to be, and thankfully, finally sleep. The beginning of May rolls around and the weather gets nicer, the days longer, her smile wider. During the week, Clive and she often have lunch in the park. They hold hands. They're a thing.
She's not quite sure what that thing is. They're still operating under the terms of the agreement they had last September, and frankly, it suits them just fine. She doesn't want to put words on feelings that might break spells.
Clive smiles at her, eyes squinting in the sun. "You know, I heard something funny the other day."
She's typing an email on her phone, looks up, cocks an eyebrow at him. They're sitting on a bench, empty Costa cups next to them.
"Rumour has it you're sleeping with me."
"Rumour has always had it that I was sleeping with you, Clive," she points out, laughing behind her sunglasses. "Even when I wasn't."
"Really?"
"Yes. Have you been living under a rock?"
"Well, anyway," he says, shrugs, looking somewhat genuinely surprised. "I confirmed it."
"Did you, now?" she whispers, amused, as she removes her sunglasses. Martha kisses him, soft but long, lips dancing slowly over his. She feels the heat of the sun on her face, the smile on his. It feels like it's time, doesn't it?
"Hmmh," he hums, nods. Jokes: "Snogging me in public, now, Martha Costello, you are out of control."
She bursts out laughing again, his hand in hers.
.
That Sunday afternoon, they're at his sister's house for his nephew's birthday and with the change in temperature as well as the kids running around with bacteria all over their hands, Clive catches a bout of stomach flu.
Now, Martha's had the bloody thing before and although she remembers it to be quite frustrating and uncomfortable, she's not sure it warrants the three days Clive spends on her couch, flicking through obscure cable TV channels, whining and acting like he's on the brink of death. On the phone, Jo calls it the "man flu" and swears it's real. Martha is frankly tempted to agree.
So, of course, because they more or less live together now (they don't; he still has his apartment and she insists on finding excuses to send him home every once in a while to prove that they don't, actually, live together), it's no surprise when, a few days later, she wakes up feeling gross and nauseous, and throws up her breakfast in the toilet.
"Sorry," Clive says, an apologetic puppy look on his face. She shoots him a death glare in return, sitting on her heels wondering if she's going to puke again – she feels sick and has a headache, and her period must be coming because her tits bloody hurt, and frankly, she's not in the mood.
"This is your fault," she tells him, which doesn't help her current situation but does alleviate a bit of frustration as she sits back – still nauseous, but probably not throwing up again - and wipes her mouth.
His hand gently rubs her shoulder; she tries to hate him, really does, but she finds herself slightly leaning into his touch. "You should stay home today," he whispers as his hand travels down to rub her back a little; it's odd but it helps.
That being said, she spent too much time making fun of him last week for her ego to give in so Martha does what women do: shakes her head and gets up, reluctantly, flushing the toilet and reaching for her toothbrush by the sink. Clive just rolls his eyes and sighs.
.
The thing is: three days later, she's still sick. Clive felt significantly better on day four so she holds high hopes when she goes to bed, until she wakes up in the morning and feels like bloody death again. She's in the kitchen attempting to swallow a piece of biscotti when she has to hold onto the counter, her knees almost giving out, vision suddenly blurring before her eyes. Clive catches her right before she faints, arm around her shoulders as he walks her back to her bedroom, helps her sit on the bed. He places his hand behind her head until she's fully lying down; she'd be tempted to fight him, if only she had the energy to do so.
"Jesus, you're white as a sheet, Marth," he says. She tries to shift away from him. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" Clive laughs, holding her in place.
Martha sighs, tries to move again. "Look, I can't stay in, alright? I've got this bail –"
"Marth, you're not going to work for a fucking bail hearing, that's what juniors are for."
She shoots him a glare.
"You're sick, exhausted, you almost fainted," he argues, softly caressing her cheek. "You're not going to work today; I'll tie you to this bed myself if I have to."
She raises an eyebrow at him and a glaring contest ensues, which he wins by a large margin. "Fine," she sighs, extends her hand. "Give me my phone, I need to call Charlotte."
.
It's past eleven when she wakes up again. Her stomach seems to have settled a bit, the dizziness as well; she takes her things and heads for the couch, scrolling through the news on her phone.
It's been almost a year since Billy was wheeled into an ambulance, she realises, her look falling on her calendar app. She doesn't know what he'd think of them all. Remembers standing outside the hospital smoking cigarettes and telling Clive to fuck off, the look on his face, the memories swirling in her brain. She still thinks about it, sometimes, the way she felt, back then – she's not very good at forgiveness – but at least they're trying, she guesses.
Wait.
She doesn't know how the thought gets into her head. The verb to try, maybe, or the days and months scrolling up and down in front of her eyes.
The last time, okay, she breathes, the last time was the Berrian trial. That was the end of March, because it was close to Clive's birthday and they couldn't properly celebrate until a couple weeks later, when the trial was over.
Then, she guesses, looking at the calendar, the next time should have been, well, almost three weeks ago.
Shit.
She didn't get her period, three weeks ago, because she was in Birmingham for a trial and would remember if she had.
Shit. Shit, shit.
For the first time in days, she runs to the bathroom without the intent to puke. Throws the door of the bathroom cabinet open, swears she has an old one somewhere from when she thought there might have been pregnant, sometime back in November, and –
.
She tries to call him but stops herself. He's in court.
Paces around the apartment, heart racing in her chest, doesn't know what to do with herself. Grabs her car keys and runs out.
.
The village is different in the spring. Last summer, there were big blossoms and green trees, and heat that tainted the back of her neck. Now, the plants and branches have little buds hanging from them like the long-lost children of Christmas decorations, colours brought on by the light of the passing sun. The wind hits the back of her jacket; Martha pulls it tighter around her shoulders.
It feels a bit odd, being here. She drove instinctively, passing trucks and people going away for the weekend, and now, she doesn't know what to say. She's never been good at that kind of thing.
There's an old lady a few tombs to her left, doing some cleaning. She takes the dry flowers and dead pots away, nicely setting down some new ones. Well, Martha doesn't have any new flowers, she guesses, but at least she can clean, too.
There's no bin bag so she sets out to tidy up a bit by placing all the rotten plants at her feet, tells herself she'll take everything to the bigger bins outside when she leaves. She works for a good ten minutes, in silence, kind of likes the result. A pot of geraniums seems to have survived through winter so she keeps those, untangles the ribbon she left last year from a few dead plants and puts its back where it belongs: it looks better, now.
It looks better, and ten minutes have passed, and she still hasn't figured out what to do with herself.
She guesses she doesn't have to say anything, but then what was the point in coming here? It just felt like this imperative, this place where she needed to be, this one person that she needed to tell. It's stupid, she knows: she doesn't think he can hear her.
William Charles Lamb, she reads, again, like she did last year. Clive was there, she remembers, he took her in his arms and cried on her shoulder. She closes her eyes.
"I'm pregnant," she says, pauses. "You're the first one I told last time, so I –"
She trails off. It feels stupid, talking to herself like this, in a graveyard but –
"I miss you," her voice whispers, shakes as she speaks, barely escaping her lips.
Instinctively, she feels herself sinking down to her knees, sitting on her heels to be at the grave's height, be able to see the headstone when she looks straight ahead. She touches the ground, pulls out grass, wipes her hand on her jeans.
"I," Martha starts, shakes her head. "It's Clive's," she smiles, adds: "Again," and almost laughs at the thought, at what Billy would have said if –
The sun hides behind the clouds; the ground becomes darker under her feet. She bites her lip, closing and opening her eyes.
"It's different, though, we've been –"
She doesn't know how to put it. Doesn't want to tell Billy they've actually been trying because it sounds bloody ridiculous, even to her own ears. She wonders what the hell they were thinking, last September – drinking, perhaps, – when they decided to –
She smiles, lets out a short chuckle. "He gave me this," she says, instead, and raises her right hand, turns it over to show the ring, the diamond on her finger. It almost makes her laugh and she thinks Billy would have found this funny, too. Romantic, though, and he was always a romantic at heart, wasn't he? "Said it was his grandmother's, I –"
She's going off track, here, that's not what she wanted to get at, that's not –
"I think we're going to keep it and I just –" she trails off, purses her lips. "I hope Clive knows what to do with it because I really, really don't," she says, catching herself laughing softly and feeling like she's about to crawl down and cry at the same time. She breathes, closes her eyes, smiles, tells herself it's the hormones. "Billy," she whispers, to the wind.
She stays a bit more, silent, thinking. There's a baby in her belly again and it feels weird, so, so weird to be back to that same point almost four years later, wondering what the hell she's doing with her life, exactly. She'd thought it'd be clear. She'd thought if she did get pregnant again, she'd feel happy and ecstatic and would run to tell Clive. Instead, she's here, in a graveyard, laughing and weeping at the same time, wondering what the hell came through her brain when she agreed to this. They're not ready, by any means, they're children themselves at most, and yet –
She smiles, quiet, her hand drawing circles on her stomach.
Eventually, she gets back up, a few minutes later when her tears have dried, wiping dirt off her knees.
"It helps, doesn't it?"
Martha jumps at the voice. It's female, stretches from a few metres away to her left. She turns to face it and sees the old lady from earlier, her face is tired but happy, the hood of her coat drawn to protect it from the wind.
"Talking to them, I mean," she adds, her voice oddly cheery, lines moving on her features as she speaks. She walks a couple of steps closer to Martha, a couple of steps away from the grave she was looking at. "I'm not an idiot," she smiles, again, nods. "I know they're not going to answer, but –"
Martha smiles politely, standing awkwardly with her jeans dirty at the knees, and the nausea that's threatening to come back triggered by the sudden move of her body.
"Arthur," the old woman goes on, looking back at the grave behind her for a second. "My husband, we were always fighting, bickering over every little thing so now, it's stupid but I come here and argue with him in my brain," she smiles, shaking her head. "He made me laugh," she adds, like an afterthought, trailing off.
"I'm sorry," Martha says, because suddenly she really is, but -
"Oh, no, don't be," the woman starts, smiles. "I told him the bloody cigarettes would kill him," she laughs and Martha smiles back, suddenly feeling very awkward about the pack that still sits in her pocket. "Anyway," the woman says when her laughter dies out, looking away. "Sorry, I shouldn't bother young people with my stories," she starts backing away.
Martha smiles, shaking her head, slightly tempted to correct the use of the word young to refer to herself but then the woman turns around again, her gaze trailing over her face.
"You know, no one really knows what to do with them," she says and it takes Martha a second to understand what she's referring to, not the people in the graves but – "They come out of you and you love them, and you do your best so that they don't turn into drug addicts or murderers," she says, adds as an afterthought: "Most of them don't." Martha can't help but let out a short laugh, covering her mouth to repress it.
"I," she pauses, smiles. "Thanks, I guess."
"Congratulations."
.
Martha tries to call Clive again when she gets home, but she needs to tell him face to face so she makes it to the pub at quarter past six. Clive's leaning against the bar to place his order; she snakes her way past the crowd to stand next to him, touches his arm to signal her presence.
"Hey," he says, smiling. Her arm brushes against his. "Feeling better? You definitely look like you're feeling better," he says, trying to get Pat – the barman –'s attention. Pat nods at the both of them and raises a couple of fingers, mouths: two minutes.
Clive nods, glances at Martha. God, she forgot: he still thinks she's sick. "Yeah, much better," she says. "Clive –"
"Hey there!" Pat interrupts, reaching over to them. "What can I get you-s?"
"Lager for me," Clive says, turning to her. "G&T again?"
And Martha nods, automatically. Over the last few weeks, it's oddly become her drink of choice after years of red wine, and –
Shit, she thinks. Is she the only idiot who craves fucking gin and tonics? Is that why -
Plus: shit, again; she can't drink. It occurs to Martha that she needs to pull Clive aside so when Pat quickly sets his beer on the counter, she opens her mouth and grabs Clive's forearm. Before she can say anything, though, his phone starts ringing and he rolls his eyes, pulls away. "Sorry, I've got to take this, do you mind?" he tells her, sliding his wallet over to her as he grabs his beer, stepping away and disappearing into the crowd.
Pat smiles at her, about to grab a glass. They know each other quite well, the both of them, ever since Pat took over the George about five years ago. The man, as far as Martha's seen, knows pretty much everything there is to know about every barrister in London. He knows about her and Clive, as a matter of fact, since about three months ago when he caught them in a rather uncomfortable position late one night in the corridor that leads to the ladies. 'Get a feckin' room,' he said in his characteristic Irish twang but still laughed on his way out.
"Wait," Martha says, now, before she can really think. Pat stops mid-movement, throws her a questioning look. "Just tonic, please," she adds, running a hand over her face, wondering how the hell she's going to tell Clive, now.
Pat nods, putting back the bottle of gin and handing her a small Sprite. "Work tomorrow?" he asks.
"No," Martha says, automatically, because no, she doesn't have work tomorrow, tomorrow's Saturday and even though she is in court on Monday, she could have a drink but –
"Then, what's the –" she hears him say and abruptly stop, mid-thought, suddenly staring her up and down. It last for a short moment, she tries to hold his gaze but can't, bites her lip, glances down, avoids his look, hands him Clive's card.
It's too late, though, and maybe it's just written on her face, she thinks, because Pat knows. "Well, shit," he laughs, taking the card from her hand. He slides the machine to her, she types in Clive's pin, automatically, hands it back, looking up. "Yous don't waste any time, do yeh?" he laughs and leaves her smiling awkwardly, pocketing the card and receipt back.
Martha's pretty tempted to argue that it kind of took them over fifteen years to get here so time is, indeed, a thing that they're pretty good at wasting but holds her tongue. Instead, she looks up and says: "Well, he doesn't know," pointing at the direction in which Clive left. "So, don't tell him, okay?"
Pat laughs. "Hey, what kind of barman do you think I am?"
.
Over the next thirty minutes or so, she gets caught up talking to Nick (who ended up taking this morning's bail hearing – she thanks him, profusely) as well as Bethany and Jake (who lament that they don't see her enough, these days), so it's a while before it occurs to her that she really needs to get her hands on Clive again. She can't see him anywhere so she decides to step out for a smoke and call him, see if he's already gone home. She's got his wallet, she thinks, so he can't have gone that far.
She leans against the wall outside the pub and fishes for her pack of cigarettes, pulls it out and: "Fuck," she says, closing her eyes.
They're not cigarettes. They're nicotine gums. She threw her pack in the bin when she left the cemetery and got the gums at Boots before coming here. God, she hates being pregnant already.
Before Martha can reach for her phone to try and call him, though, Clive pushes the door of the pub open, materialises in front of her eyes. He looks happy, there's a smile on his face and she wants to kiss him, Martha realises, so she does: a long, sweet kiss – he tastes like the beer he's just had, she lingers against his lips. "Sorry, was in the toilet," he says when she pulls away, takes his wallet back as she hands it to him. "Pat said you were looking for me?"
And, Martha almost laughs. Barman's honour, my arse, she thinks, rolling her eyes. Clive is looking at her, slightly amused; she bites her lip, asks: "What?" curious.
"I don't know," he says, grins. "You look like you had a good day."
"I did," she smiles, although, granted, that's a matter of opinion, but –
His hand easily finds her hip, the small of her back, keeping her close. "Do you want to go home and celebrate that?" he teases, obviously oblivious to the thoughts that swirl in her head and –
"Clive," she says, catches his gaze. "I'm pregnant."
And, with that, he freezes. Gapes. For what feels like an eternity, Clive doesn't say anything. Just stares at her until slowly, she sees him bring his hand to his mouth, then drop it again. "What?" he asks, looking up.
"I'm pregnant," she repeats, holding his gaze.
And, it's funny: he reminds her of herself, this morning, the way he can't seem to formulate coherent thoughts. This isn't the first time they've had this conversation, should have gotten better at it, somehow, and yet - "Are you sure?" he pauses, expressionless, motionless.
She smirks. "As sure as three tests from three different brands can be, Clive."
And suddenly, it clicks, seems to down on him, somehow: Clive smiles. Beams, in fact, a sort of stunned, speechless, disbelieving look on his face – a stark contrast with last time, Martha guesses. His hands rise in front of his mouth again, then run over his face, the back of his head – he just keeps smiling, shaking his head at her. There's something he's trying to contain, though, she sees it in his eyes. Like he's not sure, doesn't want to –
"Do you want to keep it?" he asks, a similar question but a completely different intent from last time, she can tell. "Cause if you don't, that's fine, I know what we said but if you've changed your mind, I don't want to force you into –"
She laughs. He's really trying; it's almost cute. "Yes, of course, we're keeping it, Clive, but we're not out of the –"
-woods is what she meant to say. He's not listening, though. Clive doesn't seem to care about anything else that actually makes any logical sense, right this minute. When he speaks, Martha swears she can see stars in his eyes. "We're having a baby."
She wants to rolls her eyes but can't help but smile, bites her lip. Martha tries to moderate his enthusiasm; she's miscarried before, after all, and what if – "Clive –"
It doesn't register. Everything kind of happens very quickly but she feels his hands by her sides and her feet being lifted the ground as she half laughs/half screams her lungs out. "We're having a baby!" he shouts, loud in the street to whoever is willing to hear, kisses her neck, her mouth, every inch of her skin he can reach – they're in fucking public, for God's sake, outside the pub, no less, and yet she can't help but laugh –
"Put me down!" she screams, laughing, but he doesn't seem like he's going to do that anytime soon, instead swirls around with her in his arms, his hands under her thighs. "Clive you're forty years old with a bad knee, put me –"
"I love you," he smiles, kisses her lips. Gently lowers her down on the ground and holds her so close she feels his limbs everywhere around hers. "I fucking love you, Martha Costello."
She's always liked smiling kisses, the way she can feel his lips curve up against hers, like nothing could ever get in their way. Clive leans in again, his hand traveling under her shirt, against her skin, covering her midriff.
"We're having a baby, Marth," she hears him say in her ear and she knows she should be more careful but nods, again, against her better judgment and beams up at him, too.
"Yes, Clive, we're having a baby," she breathes.
.
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[1] Riptide by Vance Joy
[2] The quote that Isabelle recites is from House M.D, written by David Shore.
[3] The Pugilist by Keaton Henson