A/N: Rated M.
xi.
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Hey, Mummy, what is fair?(…) And, where do we get air? And, Mummy, can I have that big elephant over there?
Dat Dere – Bobby Timmons
As covered by Rickie Lee Jones
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She wishes it could have been a game of chess. Pawns, queens, and kings across the board, knights moving in Ls according to rules that she could have learnt. Could have already known, perhaps, going in.
She would have liked it to be a song. It would have had rhythm, something to fill her ears when the shouts got too loud and she couldn't bring herself to speak. Sean used to fiddle with a guitar back in the day – because of course, he did – and he couldn't sing to save his life but frankly, it never mattered. Martha thinks she would have gone for Zombie, given the choice. Eerie. For the anger and the opinions, mostly.
Now, though, it's a low ambiance bar with dark, purple lighting that looks somewhere between a cocktail lounge and a strip club without strippers; the kind of place where people in suits snort coke in the bathrooms. Martha closes her eyes to the music, lets her head loll from left to right, fingers dancing over her glass.
In another universe, she might have liked that song. Liked it like she likes rock, and guitar riffs, and boys singing about girls. She might have danced, even.
Oh, you're so naïve, yet so –
Clive woke her up in the middle of the night, once; she heard a whisper, his breath tickling the skin of her stomach, let out something between a sigh and a groan. It felt like four in the morning; it wasn't the first time.
'It doesn't even have a brain, yet,' she said, rolling her eyes and turning on her side so that he couldn't reach. 'Let alone ears to hear you. Go back to sleep.'
She heard him huff a laugh as he climbed back up next to her, spooning and dropping a kiss against her hair. 'It's fine. Don't talk to her. She'll sound all posh like me.'
Clive had decided on the sex of the baby literally the minute after Martha had told him about the pregnancy, against all laws of biology and evidence. She kept repeating to him that if they were indeed having a baby, they probably wouldn't even know at the first ultrasound, let alone now when she wasn't even sure the bloody thing would make it in the first place. This information did not, however, seem to register in his brain. Favouring sleep over another nonsensical conversation of but I know, Marth, trust me, she closed her eyes and tried not to smile too large, listening to the regular sound of his breaths behind in her ear.
Yeah, Martha thinks, now, eyeing the light gradation of white in her drink. So naïve, yet so -
.
She likes that word, naïve, because it fits. For weeks on end, all she thought – all she could think about, really - was that she was going to lose it. Sounds a bit ridiculous, in hindsight (but everything always does, in hindsight, that's the whole point of hindsight) but at the time, it seemed to be the only thing that could possibly go wrong.
CW slides onto the stool next to hers, eyeing the drinks on the counter, eyeing Martha's too, as she sets her bag on a hook below.
I may say it was your fault, 'cause I know you could have done more. Oh, you're so naïve, yet so –
Martha hates that song, she decides. It's vehement and accusatory, and no, she couldn't have done more. She did everything she could, in fact, did what she thought was most important.
Maybe that's the problem, isn't it?
.
CW doesn't say anything. Or at least, not yet. They're coming, Martha knows, the questions, explanations, perhaps drunken admissions. When she got here, earlier, she ordered two gin and tonics. Two, because it seemed rude to ask someone else over on a Tuesday night and not have alcohol waiting.
'Wine?' Clive offered, innocently, one night when Martha got home after a very, very long day, forgetting –
He chuckled when she looked daggers at him, putting the glass away.
You see? Martha Costello, she's the kind of person who goes all in. She's a terrible poker player for this particular reason, because always going all in works very well until it doesn't, until your bluff is called. When she found out she was pregnant, she went all in, too (or all out, more like), quit the smoking and the drinking on the spot, because she'd already lost one, after all, wasn't going to half-arse this.
It's not that she thought one drink or one fag would kill it, per se, it's that she half-arses things like the Tony Paddick prosecution or the race for Head of Chambers: things she doesn't really want.
So, she quit the drinking as soon as she found out and yet, tonight, she finds herself in a bar with CW. The other woman reaches for her glass, brings it to her lips; Martha toys with hers, tracing the rim with the tip of her finger. The ice has melted, by now; she kept passing it between her right and left hand for far too long, watching water slowly raise the liquid line. A sip, a cough, CW sets the glass back down.
"Jesus Christ," she says, throwing Martha a look. "Is there even any tonic in this?"
Martha glances down at her hands and answers with a shrug. She asked for a double, triple maybe. 'Get me drunk,' she told the barman behind the counter.
Clive stood. Clive shouted in the middle of the her living room before the volume of his voice decreased and the brutality of his words didn't. 'I'm sorry,' she said, Clive, and he laughed in her face. Martha fights to blur out the memories, the ones she wishes she were old enough to forget. A while back, she'd thought to herself that they had yet to bloodily argue and wished she didn't have to be there when it happened. Well, she was. And, it hurt. And, she's not weak, she tells herself; he's not worth crying over. That glaze over her eyes, right now? It's just the hormones.
It's such an ugly thing, for someone so beautiful, that every time you're on his side –
Oh for fuck's sake, she thinks and: "Will you change that fucking song?" she suddenly barks at the bloke behind the bar. CW sniggers, throwing Martha a curious look – the barman rolls his eyes and hits next on Spotify.
.
It's a few minutes before CW speaks again, glancing at Martha's face, the look in her eyes, as she inspects her drink on the table. "You know there are actual medical procedures for what you're trying to do, here?" she says, laughing to herself. "1967, date mean anything to you?"
Martha clenches her jaw, sighs.
CW found out a few weeks ago: different trials, same afternoon, they ran into each other in the robbing room. Martha was taking her wig and gown off; Caroline was putting hers on. An offer for a fag, a weird look thrown sideways. Martha's fingers and brain still itched for a nicotine hand-holder, back then, so it was hard to turn down. The other woman shrugged as she took one from her pack and walked over to the window, eyes set on Martha.
'So, you're keeping it,' she declared, blowing smoke out into the air. It was lashing rain, outside, that day.
'Keeping what?'
And it's funny, really, but in that moment, Martha was truthfully oblivious, still focused on her case, the somewhat candid question actually genuine. CW rolled her eyes, smiled. 'Please,' she insisted, smirking, made Martha look up at her. 'You're not drinking, not smoking and I have to tell you that those tits,' she said, generally pointing at her chest. 'Don't fit into that bra anymore, darling.'
Instinctively, Martha looked down her body and tried to pull her blazer tighter across her chest, which frankly didn't fit anymore, either. She's in this awkward phase: isn't exactly showing, yet, but feels like her body's stocked up about a stone of water overnight in really odd places.
It would have been pointless to lie so Martha held CW's gaze and nodded, once. 'Yes.' We are, she thought, thought of Clive back then and we're having a baby, and bit her lip to hide a smile.
CW herself grinned, though, something enigmatic as she threw her cigarette out the window. 'Ah,' she breathed, grabbing a binder from the bench, along with her water bottle. 'Interesting.'
Martha glances at CW, now, and sighs, hands flat against the counter. She's still wearing his ring, she notices, doesn't know if she should take it off, after what he said. Doesn't know if she'll ever be able to.
"Haven't drunk any," she admits, nodding at her drink. Martha's not stupid, isn't trying to administer an abortion to herself with enough G&Ts to go into a coma; she's just trying to decide if she wants one. She's going all in, here, so one G&T, one abortion: it's a bit of the same thing. If she drinks, she's decided, she'll book an appointment. Her fingers have been hovering over her glass for the last hour because of this.
Again, she's always been terrible at making decisions.
.
Three years ago, she remembers, after telling Billy, she kept wondering if the fateful day when he would ask who the father was would ever come. She wouldn't answer, she knew, telling herself that she was covering for Clive when, in fact, she was also probably covering for herself. CW never asked who the father was, this time around, either because she already knew or most likely because she didn't care. Martha does, though. It's funny, really, how with all the men she's had in her life, it's always been him. Well, maybe not, maybe funny isn't exactly the right word.
Without meaning to, she glances at her phone, watching the screen as it stays black, no calls coming through. She has service, though; it says there, five bars. She sighs.
Ever since Clive took up the habit of calling her every night after last June, phones have oddly turned into a thing of theirs, whenever they're apart, his voice familiar against her ear. He went to Birmingham for a trial a few weeks back and she lay in bed with her phone in her hand, closing her eyes to the sound of his voice. 'So, how was your day?' he asked, dutifully, after she'd listened to him go on about his big criminals and their big trials for quite some time.
'No court today, didn't do much,' she said with a sigh, pushing the book she'd been attempting to read aside and pulling her legs closer to her body. It was starting to get hot again, in London, her thighs and calves only covered by a sheet. She'd already started lying to him, back then, or half-lying, maybe. Martha hadn't been to court, that day, sure, but she'd worked on a lot of things and - 'Attempted to get lunch and threw everything up. Again,' she sighed. 'I'm pregnant and I'm bloody losing weight at this rate.'
The guilt, it almost killed her when she heard a sympathetic smile in Clive's voice. He apologised: 'Sorry,' in her ear, as if the vomiting was his fault. Well, she guessed, it was half his fault, admittedly, and sometimes, especially when she was retching over a toilet, she kind of thought it was entirely his goddamn fault. 'Was it this bad last time?' she heard him ask, quietly, after a beat.
'Honestly, I don't remember,' she spoke, briefly glancing out her window. 'I think we're biologically programmed to forget so that we want to make more or something.'
There was an awkward pause on his end of the line; she didn't say anything. 'Well,' Clive breathed, moving on. 'I read it'll get better in a few weeks.'
'You read?' she laughed, heard him chuckle on the other end, too. 'You, what? Googled morning sickness on my behalf?'
'Educated myself.'
Martha smiled, wishing he were on the other side of her bed, wishing she could simply push herself up to kiss his lips. 'Well, I hope you're not giving me false hope.'
'You know me,' he laughed, paused. 'I could never lie to you.'
Yeah, that. She thinks, now, looking at the bottles of alcohol lined up behind the bar in front of her. Whatever. Fuck it, she decides, fuck him.
It's impulsive, angry; she grabs her glass and lifts it up to her lips.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," CW says, though, stops her before the alcohol touches her tongue. "I think it's like the cigarettes," she breathes, shrugging. "Doesn't actually make them go away, just makes them a bit, er, special," she pauses, drinks. "Bit of a retard, you know?"
CW is entirely beside the point, here, and Martha rolls her eyes at her use of the word retard but she does set the glass down. It was a spur of the moment decision and the moment has now passed.
"What happened?" CW asks, finally catching her look. "Why are we here?"
"Do you care?"
"Not really. But sitting here in silence while you decide whether or not to keep that baby of yours isn't very entertaining."
Martha scoffs, closes her eyes. "Yeah," she breathes, looking down at her glass. "Well."
CW can fuck off, as far as she's concerned, because really, she can't say, now, can she? Martha definitely can sit here and talk about the weather, or Harriet, but she can't speak of what happened. It would mean opening her coat to the enemy and showing him exactly where her wounds are. She needs to be strong, collected, for the battlefield to come, needs to win this, now more than ever.
.
Because yes, that's another case that fell into her lap, one afternoon. She'd just gotten back from court – nauseous, having hardly slept the night before and feeling like all she wanted to do was to go home to a shower and her bed, and possibly a massage, if Clive was so inclined (he had better be). She walked into Chambers just intending to pick up a few files before heading home when Charlotte caught her in the corridor to her room. 'Oh, hi, Miss,' she said, blocking her way out. 'Your con is here.'
'What con?' she frowned.
'It's a good case, Miss. I'm sure it'll interest you.'
A hand on her hip, she caught Charlotte's gaze but God, was that girl hard to read. 'What's the case, Charlotte?'
The other woman took a moment to respond, under the pretence of sipping her coffee. In hindsight, again, Martha thinks she should have guessed something was wrong right then and there, and walked out but yeah, it's always in hindsight, isn't it? 'It's an appeal, Miss. Execution murder. Client says he's innocent.'
Martha rolled her eyes, sighed. 'God, do I look like I enjoy defending gang members, Charlotte? Why is this coming in as an appeal anyway, who was the barrister?'
Charlotte smiled, then, but didn't say anything for a bit. 'With all due respect, Miss, you should listen to the solicitor. Do it for me,' she just added, with a wink, before moving out of Martha's way.
.
Billy used to lie a lot. He lied to her, lied to Clive, to Alan, Harriet, of course. Martha doesn't think anyone ever took it personally. It was just Billy being Billy, and them scrapping the surface of his smiles and: "come on, you know you want to, Miss." Maybe Clive did take it personally, though, maybe that was the source of everything that ever went wrong, wasn't it?
Charlotte doesn't lie, not really, except that one time, she guesses. By omission, maybe, because Martha walked into the meeting room and met Lara, shook her hand before sitting down and pulling out her legal pad, setting it on the table between them.
'I just want to state out right I'm not making any promises,' she told the solicitor, absentmindedly swirling her pen between her fingers. 'But tell me about your client.'
Lara didn't look like she understood the question. In fact, she frowned, seeming lost and unsure what to say. Her eyes narrowed on Martha for a second before she sighed, heavily, looking down. She spoke like educated people do in Manchester, her accent tame and upper class. 'Your clerk didn't tell you, did she?'
'Tell me what?'
Lara stayed silent for a bit, looking for the right way to put this. Clue: if you're looking for the right way to put something, Martha muses, it's because there is none. If there was, actually, maybe she would have told Clive right away, and none of this would have happened.
For the record, she'd like to state that she didn't say yes back then. She actually walked out, at first, when Lara said: 'I represent Sean McBride.'
She said: 'No,' simply, politely and went on to find Charlotte in the corridor, stood in front of her with her arm extended to the opposite wall, blocking her way. Not so politely. 'Don't you ever dare ambushing me like that again –'
'Miss, listen to her, I think you need to –'
'Oh, don't tell me what I need to do, I –' she started, stopped.
Lara walked out of the meeting room, just then, throwing the both of them an aggravated look. She was beautiful, Martha noted, tall, brunette, determined; Martha caught herself wondering where Sean had found her. 'Look,' she insisted, catching Martha's gaze. 'The appeal's in eight weeks, he antagonised his last three briefs to the point of madness, and then fired them all. You know the case back to back, I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't a life or death situation.'
Martha scoffed, rolled her eyes. 'It's always a bloody life or death situation with him.'
'Then come and tell him in person,' Lara said, her arms crossed over her chest. 'I know you've been to visit him once already. Please. If he hears you say it, maybe I can find someone else we can work with.'
.
Martha didn't sleep, that night. Lay in bed with her eyes wide open for hours staring at the ceiling, trying not to toss and turn too much so as not to wake Clive. She had already told Sean. Last June, when she came by and asked him to live but said that she was done. He'd been sad, she remembers. Maybe her speech just didn't sink in. He'd kept writing to her and she'd kept ignoring him so there was no reason why it would sink in this time, was there? It was about 4 a.m. when she felt Clive turn on his side, eyeing the side of her face in the dark. 'Marth, what's going on?' he asked, his voice groggy and full of sleep, eyes half-closed.
That's when she should have told him. In hindsight, again, it seems obvious, because everything else after that became an omission, then an outright lie, when the questions became more pressing. If she had told him then, he would have been annoyed, maybe, would have told her to forget about it, and she would have been able to explain that it wasn't that easy. That she felt guilty. That potentially, she could win this. That she was terrified. That a part of her wanted to forget all about this, too, and let Sean sort out his bloody mess on his own. She'd told Clive about him, already, and about having him by her side when her father got sick.
They would have worked it out, she thinks.
'Just something at work,' she said, though, turning around to face him. At the time, she thought she wasn't even sure she'd go, tomorrow, so there was no reason for them to fight over something that might not even happen. Her right hand was under the pillow, face close enough to his that she could feel his breath on her skin. 'Nothing important,' she lied.
Martha leaned forward and kissed Clive, then, stayed like this for a while, unmoving, her forehead against his. She tried to close her eyes but every time she did, thoughts came back to haunt her, so she decided to change tactics, in the end, hooked her thigh over his hip and put her hand on his shoulder, trying to push him to lie down on his back. Clive smiled. 'You need to sleep, Marth.'
She chuckled slightly, her mouth millimetres away from his. 'Are you serious?'
'Isn't that what the doctor said?' he asked but still, she felt his hand travel up her side as he gave in, lying back, pulling her above him. 'Rest and no stress?'
Yeah, right, that was what the doctor had indeed said, a few weeks back when she'd gone in to confirm the pregnancy and Martha really doesn't know why she decided to disclose this information to Clive upon her return, an information which he had immediately stored in his brain and decided to use every time he thought she was either working too much, stressing over something pointless or sleeping too little.
'Clive,' Martha laughed, her mouth tracing the line of his jaw, body pressed against his. 'Are you actually turning down sex?'
He pulled her face up to meet his, hands against her cheeks and rose to kiss her, open-mouthed, stubble grazing her lips; she felt him harden against her thigh. 'That is not what I said,' he countered and she laughed, the sound dying against his mouth.
.
It was 8 a.m. sharp the next morning when she knocked on the door of Nick's room, standing awkwardly at the threshold when he told her to come in, not really sure what to do with herself. He was standing behind his desk, gaze averted down, shuffling papers that were spread in a disorganised mess, lifting files and binders until finally, he seemed to have found what he was looking for. Slipping the sheet into his briefcase, he finally looked up at her. They were alone, that morning, the other barrister who shared his room having gone to court already.
'I have a favour to ask,' Martha said, biting her lip. Nick smiled, sat down in his chair.
'I love it when you have favours to ask me.'
Martha attempted a tight smile, her gaze unfocused, look dancing around the room, wondering how she was going to put this. 'I need you to do a con with me,' she breathed, catching his gaze. 'It's an appeal. Pretty high profile. If I take it, I'm probably going to need a junior.'
It was the bait, she knew, but they worked well together. She liked having him by her side.
'Who's the client?'
She held his gaze, let it slip past her lips. 'Sean McBride.'
There was a moment of silence, an uncertainty in Nick's look. They'd never spoken about it before, the case that made her stop wanting to practice for six months, and Nick had never asked, until now. Martha's not stupid, though, knew he had to have heard about it through the grapevine - the rumours had gone wild. 'Are you going to take it?' he asked, catching her gaze.
'I don't know.'
'And you want me in the room because …' he began and let the rest of his sentence hang, looking at her like he knew that someday, a bomb was going to go off.
She sighed. 'Because I know you'll tell me if I'm making a mistake.'
.
So, a few hours later, she sat at a table in front of him, Nick by her side. Sean hadn't changed much, haircut just a tad more askew, his eyes tired when he glanced up at her. It was May, late afternoon, the light coming through the bars at the windows, drawing shadows on their faces. Instinctively, Martha crossed her arms, then purposefully uncrossed them when she remembered that once, someone had told her it made her look defensive.
Sean glanced at her, then at Nick.
'Who's he?'
'My junior'
'Do you trust him?'
Martha rolled her eyes, sat back in her chair. Crossed her arms again. 'He's bound by confident -'
Sean moved quickly, his palm pounding, once, on the table, a rattle of metal against metal following the movement. Ever since his assault on Clive, they weren't taking his cuffs off in the presence of anybody. She jumped a bit, tried to hide it behind a sigh. 'No, you don't get it, it's life or death for me in here, Mar, I –'
She closed her eyes for millisecond and thought: fuck that. 'Don't,' she said, leaning forward and setting both her hands on the table. He backed away. 'You lied to me, and then you lied again, and again, and then you ended up here. Cut the act. Or I'm out.'
Sean caught her glare and held it for what felt like forever while her heart hammered in her chest. He smiled, eventually, a sad smile like the one he used to give her when they were sixteen and she said no, I can't come, tonight. 'Did you read my letters?' he asked, quiet, looking down at his hands.
'No.'
He smiled, again, glance catching hers, huffed. 'You should have,' he said. 'They were good.'
And all the while she sat there looking at him, she kept expecting him to ask why she was even here in the first place, even after she'd told him she was done, a year ago. But that was her question, she guesses, not his. Her question about her own weaknesses and inability to let people go. He needed her help; she thought she owed it to him.
'You remember that shop down the street at my Mum's,' he recounted, suddenly, that same sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips; he looked like he did when she knew him. 'We used to get chips and cans of coke, and you'd skip school and we'd eat in bed. Watch films on VHS and, well, the rest is probably not suitable for this guy's ears,' Sean added, pointing at Nick and – 'no offense, mate –' he laughed as Martha threw him a glare, tensed in her seat.
'What's your poin–'
'I was so fucking in love with you, Martha Costello' he breathed, shook his head. 'Prittiest girl in our year.' He bit his bottom lip; she noticed it was redder in that particular spot, guessed he probably did it a lot, that and biting his nails raw. 'I should have told you sooner,' Sean added, trying to catch her glance. 'I should have gone to Manchester with you, I shouldn't have lied to you –'
Martha shook her head. 'Sean -'
'I'm still so fucking in love with you, you know?'
She heard the words and felt a punch in her gut. He'd said that once before, just as she'd finally found the strength to walk away. She didn't want to look at him, didn't want to look at Nick, so she stared at her hands instead, the ring on her finger. She played with it, a little, doesn't think Sean noticed.
'What do you want?' Martha asked, looking up, jaw set and eyes fixed on him. She pursed her lips, tried to breathe.
'You're the only one I trust, Mar,' he said, weakly, and that sad smile again, she couldn't forget it. 'You know I didn't do this.'
She was silent on the way out, as the guard showed them through the gates and as they made their way back to their lockers, door after door. Nick waited until they were in the car park to ask: 'Are you taking it?'
'Yes,' she said. The word rolled off Martha's tongue.
She turned around to beep her car open, heard his words spoken to her back. 'You're making a mistake.'
She heard the beep, too, sighed. 'I know.'
.
She didn't tell Clive. He was happy, that night, had won a case, so she didn't tell him. And she didn't tell him the day after that, or the day after that, or all of the days that followed. The more the weeks passed the more it felt like a ticking bomb about to go off. He'd see her working on her brief and would look over her shoulder; she'd shut the binder, say: 'Confidential. Can't tell you.'
He'd laugh, kiss her neck, her shoulder, say: 'Don't care. Come to bed.'
It lasted over a month. She convinced herself that eight weeks to the trial wouldn't be long and that by the time it would hit the news, she would already be in it, and he'd understand. She convinced herself that it was none of his business to begin with. She convinced herself of a lot of things.
Tonight, the night when she sees CW, though, Clive said he couldn't come by. Big trial the next day, something. Yet, around seven, Martha heard the jiggle of his keys in the lock of her door as she sat at her kitchen table, gaze buried in paperwork. She automatically shut the binder when he came into the room, smiled up at him.
'Hey. I thought you were working.'
'No,' he paused, crossing his arms. 'But you are.'
She doesn't know what it was, the look in his eyes that he was trying to hide or the tone of his voice but she instinctively sat up in her chair, tensed.
'What are you working on?'
'Brief.'
'Who's the client?'
Martha narrowed her gaze on him, over his face. Clive looked restless, tired, dark circles under his eyes, couldn't seem to focus. The sun was still up, she remembers, those late summer nights like the one when he took her to a gig and kissed her under a storm. With a mug in hand, she rose from her chair and walked around the table, placed it in the sink. Turned again and stood with her back to the countertop, crossed her arms as well. 'Girl called Jessica Kabacinski. Why?'
Clive let out a short laugh; it chilled her to the bone. Moved over and stood tall, her kitchen table between them – it reminded her of that morning after Billy died, that morning when she showed him the bruises on her skin. 'Don't you fucking lie to me,' he said.
She flinched. The anger that radiated from him made Martha stop in her tracks, something felt like it dropped at the pit of her stomach. She looked at Clive, his demeanour, the way he moved and the way he breathed, the tension in his limbs. 'You've been drinking,' she noted, matter-of-fact, turned her back to him. Spat it like an insult and thought: please, let's make this about you and not about me -
'Oh, don't try and fucking deflect,' he swore, loud – almost shouted – she didn't want to look at him, faced the window above the kitchen sink and closed her eyes. She could feel a lump forming in her throat, tears rising behind her lids. 'Did you really think I wouldn't find out?' he added, shook his head in what appeared to be disbelief. 'Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you -'
Martha knew where this was going. Knew full well where this was going already, doesn't even know why she just kept lying (buried, deep in her made up tales) when she turned around again and said: 'Find out what, Clive? I don't have time to –'
He shouted. The first real shout that evening. 'Sean fucking McBride, Martha!'
And in her head, then, there are two alternate endings to this story. There's the real one and there's the fantasy one, the one that she'd tell CW, if forced, or later, when the time came and the woman wasn't representing the Crown in Sean's trial anymore, when they could talk, and Martha could explain. In that version of events, the one in Martha's head, everything she said came out right, after this, and she was combative - with each punch Clive threw, another one was thrown back. In the end, they argued it out and made up in bed, like that time when he called her a hypocrite and she called him a coward and he fucked her against their office door.
This is not one of those times, though.
No, instead, here, she became the main offender rather than an accomplice, the lies she'd told hers alone to admit.
Her fingers stopped tapping their silent rhythm against the skin of her arm; they stilled as she watched Clive. Martha didn't speak, for a while, just held his gaze. 'Sean's my client,' she said, eventually, because there was no room for denial. She pleaded – the first time in her life, maybe. Clive breathed heavily, murderous glare in his eyes. 'I don't see how that's any of your business,' Martha added. 'I don't work for you.'
Because the truth was: she'd prepared for this – the moment he'd find out, the arguments that she'd give him. In her head (and in that dream, alternate reality of hers), it'd sounded convincing but in reality, everything fell flat, that night; Clive laughed in her face - she shifted. 'You've got to be joking!' he snapped, shook his head. She tried to catch his gaze; he didn't let her.
She raised her voice in annoyance, defensive (yet another mistake). 'Alright, so you're jealous,' she called out his own shortcomings, or at least thought she did. 'We're adults, Clive. Deal with it.'
And, really, it all felt like a crescendo, like a rollercoaster, inching higher and higher with every word that was said. Martha moved, walked around the table to make it to the other side of the room but he stood stock in her way, refused to budge. The volume of his voice scaled up when he spoke, she recalls. 'You can't be serious, Martha. You really think that's what it's about?'
And the thing is: even then, she knew that it wasn't. But jealousy is always easier to handle than betrayal and she's not really a nice person. Has never been one. Martha Costello is defensive and angry but to her credit, looking back in retrospect at the events that followed, he was worse, she thinks. 'I kissed him you know,' she said, faking detachment as she stood. Smirked when she saw the flicker of hurt on his face. 'After he attacked you. Not bad, actually, butterflies in my stomach and all –'
'Good. You want to fuck him? Do it. For all I care.'
And that, that did make her look up, catch his gaze. She froze. His voice had broken as he spoke, like stuck at the back of his throat. It's stupid, really, but she doesn't think she'd ever heard him speak like that before. Speak like that about them.
Later, Clive went on to say a lot of things, that night. Shouted a lot of things. Martha stood still, mostly, couldn't find words, too busy trying not to hear his. She remembers quotes, more than arguments. Things he said, things she said. For instance: he said that it wasn't about Sean. He said it was about her. 'You think you can handle losing, Marth? Want me to remind you what happened last time or are the nightmares enough? Bloody fucking success, was it?'
And, she would have cried, if she could. Would have fought back. I can't believe you'd use that – and: I almost got fucking raped, Clive - but instead, a broken sound just came out of her mouth, pleading. Please, don't, please, 'Clive –'
'You do know it's not just you anymore, now, don't you?'
Her hand fell on her stomach; she glared daggers at him. The words almost stumbled out of her mouth: oh, don't you dare use the baby against me! You pushed me out of Chambers, Sean had nothing to do with that, she should have said. Instead, though: 'Clive, please, just listen to me –'
'Oh, for God's sake, Martha, he's guilty. He's fucking guilty, one way or another, and you know it. Why don't you –'
'One way or another?!' she threw back at him. She hated the shouting, it made her look desperate. 'Is that how you people work?' she asked. 'They must all be guilty, one way or another? Sean's not guilty, Clive, I am. I left him out to dry,' she said, tried to explain. A moment of truth about how she felt, a moment short lived. 'I need to do this, that's what loyalty is. A concept which you, with your education and your parents' millions in the bank don't seem to have a fucking clue about -'
'Loyalty, Marth, really?' Clive shook his head at her. Everything that she tried to say came out wrong, so she went back to being walled up in her own silence, her own thoughts. Just let him shout at her. Maybe that was better; she certainly deserved it. 'You lied to me and you're lying again, and again, and you're lying to cover it up, Jesus Christ, Martha!' he yelled. 'You lied to me about Billy, about Sean, about Jordan Sinclair's fucking witness –'
'If this is about Billy –'
'Look, I get it, alright?!' Clive yelled again, then paused. She went quiet, tried to take a step towards him but he copied her movements with another step back. She stopped. 'I care,' he insisted, glancing up and catching her gaze.'And you don't,' he paused. 'You say you're scared but you just don't give a fuck, do you? About me,' he sighed, shaking his head at her. He was smiling, she remembers, sad and cold, framed by the lines on his face. 'Or about Billy, or about the baby –'
Her bottom lip was trembling; she bit it to hold back tears, thinks he saw that, because –
'Right,' he just said, shook his head at her. 'You want to cry? Cry. Cry like when you lost the baby last time because of a fucking client you didn't want to let go. You self-destruct. We both know that.'
Her mouth opened to say – well, she didn't know what to say, really. Just wanted to go back in time, wanted –
'If you lose the baby this time, let me tell you it'll be your own fucking fault -'
She stood, still. Tried to interject something but her words fell short of anything that could be said. 'You fucking asshole,' she just muttered, glared.
Clive got quiet, then, too, the both of them frozen in time. If she had to point to one moment, one moment in the whole evening where everything snapped, she'd say it was right there. The moment when he said something he even surprised himself with. He looked at her and spoke: 'Please, say something, Marth.' Say something, and it sounded angry but also desperate, begging. She caught his gaze and shuddered - just like it had climbed up, the rollercoaster dropped, right in front of her. The anger evaporated from his tone and his words were barely above a whisper again, sounded like he looked, like he'd just been hit by a train. 'You don't love me, do you?'
Her jaw clenched. And to this day, she doesn't know why. Doesn't know why she couldn't just say the words – 'Clive –' she whispered, but whatever she could give him would never be enough, would it? 'Clive, we agreed –'
And she guesses, that's the problem with rules, isn't it? They're meant to be broken. If this interferes with work, she knows she'd said, last year. We're done. If we fall to hard, we're done. If we lie to each other, we're –
Her breath caught in her throat, then, and she swallowed heavily when she saw the hurt look on his face, the way his smile seemed to tear it apart. And, she doesn't know why. Doesn't know why she kept quiet. Could have said anything, could have fixed whatever they were with her broken voice, full of tears, could have jumped into his arms and whispered sweet nothings in his ear - everything would have been okay.
She didn't, though, just stood there, motionless, paralysed with fear and three words that she couldn't bring herself to say. Martha doesn't know why but it ended him, ended them. All she wants to do, now, is to get drunk, put herself into a coma and not have to feel this, whatever it is, the deep, dark, hole eating at her chest.
She can't, though. She's having his baby and it's the last thing that remains of him.
Martha looks to her right at CW sitting next to her and pushes her glass aside, lets the other woman down it. And there it is, she decides. She's pregnant, still. Pregnant women don't drink.
.
At home, that night, she lies awake and cries. Hot tears that burn when they glide down her cheeks, all the way through her, it seems. She doesn't like to think about what Clive said after she failed to answer but unfortunately, it's all she can hear.
'We're done,' he almost whispered. She shook her head, please. 'No, Marth,' he said, louder, calmer, holding her gaze. 'This. You and I.' A sigh. She closed her eyes and suddenly felt him close to her, his thumb against her skin. He wiped a tear from her cheek. 'That's it. We're done.'
We're done.
So, all night, that night, she works to push the sound of his voice out of her head. The more she thinks about it, the least she can bring herself to see what comes next, in her life, doesn't want to think about what comes next, because what's the point, anyway? She's keeping a baby that's going to remind her of that night every time she looks at it, and she also can't even bring herself to get rid of it.
On top of all of this, she's going to be a terrible mother, she thinks.
.
Eyes puffy and red, the next morning. The sun rises around four, she gets up around six. Can't make the effort. Can't put the Martha Costello Q.C façade on, can't -
She tries. God knows, she tries. To a comical extent, frankly. She puts the suit on, the foundation, stops short of the lipstick. Her eyes are overflowing tears, like out of their own accord, like rain spilling from the saucer underneath a flowerpot. Martha Costello looks at herself in the mirror and for the first time in her life, including that time when her dad died, and that other time when she lost a baby, she thinks to herself: I can't.
Phones Charlotte at 8:30. "I need someone else to take the Kabacinski hearing," she just says. Her own voice sounds dead. Because yes, the irony, here, is that she was telling the truth. When Clive came in, last night, and accused her of lying, that one particular time, she wasn't. Wasn't working on Sean's case because in the afternoon, something more pressing, more urgent, came up. Something she should have worked on last night, something that she has no idea how to effectively defend. She'd be doing a disservice to the client if – "Ask to push it back, say I have pneumonia or something –"
Charlotte laughs. The sound almost physically hurts, like Martha can't bear to witness somebody else's happiness, anymore. "Why?"
"Look, I've never asked before, please, Charlotte, can you -"
"Oh, of course, I can," Charlotte continues to smile, but – "You'll have to tell me why, though."
So: it is 9:30 AM when the doorbell rings. It's not him, Martha sees, through the peephole. Her heart almost leapt, there; there is an apologetic look on Charlotte's face.
"Sorry," the woman says. "It's just me." Martha's gaze hovers down Charlotte's frame, sees the boxes in her arms. "I would have brought wine but with your condition," Charlotte adds, shrugs. Suddenly, Martha can't remember telling her about the baby but maybe she did, maybe her recollections also don't matter, today. "I thought our friend Ben and Jerry will have to do –"
.
They're silent, sit on the couch. It's a while later when Martha finishes the pint of ice cream Charlotte's strategically placed in front of her – a spoon stands inside the empty carton. "I think I've just put on a stone," Martha says, sees Charlotte shrug, nod.
"Possible." The other woman sets her own carton down, looks to the side. "Are you going to throw up?"
Martha pouts. She feels slightly nauseous, but always feels nauseous, these days. "Don't think so," she says, shrugs.
They stay quiet for a bit, the minutes ticking in the background. Martha's head hurts, it feels a little bit like a hangover, to tell the truth.
"He said we were done," she quotes, finally, because in the end, what's the point? She kept that secret, last night, didn't want to tell CW about the fight, didn't want to tell herself about how it ended. But that's how it ended, isn't it? He looked at her and settled the dispute there and then, and nothing else mattered. "I begged him not to go," Martha adds, now, tone almost disbelieving, catches Charlotte's gaze. "I, Martha Costello Q.C, I begged a man not to go. And I cried," she breathes; it's all a blur, in her head, now. A lonely, heartbroken blur. "And I said I was sorry – fucking pathetic when you think about it," she shakes her head, shrugs. "He just left anyway."
And the strange thing about her memory is: she remembers odd things like noises and feelings. After he spoke, she felt like her body was just standing there, unmoving, her mind miles away. A noise brought her back to reality: the rattle of his keys as he set them on the counter. She said nothing. Couldn't talk, couldn't breathe. She didn't want to be there and somehow, she almost wasn't.
'Marth, please, don't cry,' he whispered. She couldn't believe it, couldn't –
I'm pregnant, she thought to herself, her hand finding her stomach. You're breaking up with a pregnant woman and how dare you ask me not to cry, and: 'Fuck you,' Martha did say, then. It didn't even feel like anger, more like desperation, a need to throw insults at him and make him react, fight, maybe stay. The words echoed like gunshots in her head.
He nodded, agreed, again. 'Yeah, you did,' he said. 'Didn't you?'
She doesn't know how or when he left. She remembers looking up and suddenly he wasn't there, anymore, the door had slammed shut on his way out. Martha sat on the table, her dark tracksuits contrasting with the white of the wood and thought that was what dying must feel like.
Now that she thinks about it, it's probably unprofessional to have Charlotte on her sofa, today. They're not friends, not really, but even then, what's the point, anyway? Work, everything but Clive, nothing else matters, anymore. "You know what?" Martha asks Charlotte, later, thinks to herself as she speaks. "I'm thirty-nine years old," she pauses, sits back against the cushions of her couch. "I'm thirty-nine years old and I've never felt like this before," she points to herself, loosely. To the mess that she is, today. "Like nothing else really matters, like he yanked my heart out of my own body and fucking ran away with it." A pause. Charlotte nods, smiles. "That fucking asshole," she settles.
Before she speaks, Charlotte looks up at Martha to confirm the diagnosis. "Yup," she says. "Heartbreak. Happens to the best of us, I swear."
Right. And, fuck, Martha thinks, is that what it is, then? Because she was fucking pathetic, last night. 'Clive, please, stay, I promise, I'll –'
But then, what? She couldn't honestly tell him she'd change, couldn't tell him she loved him, couldn't tell him she'd drop Sean's case, so: what? She catches Charlotte's gaze, now, sighs. "Seventeen years of us and I broke it. All on my own. Like a big girl."
Charlotte huffs out a chuckle. "Seventeen years?" she repeats, smiles. "See, I generally believe we should all be entitled to breakup bank holidays. One day out of work for each year the relationship lasted. But then I clearly can't keep you out of court for that long so I guess today will have to do," Charlotte laughs and in that particular moment, so does Martha. The kind of if I didn't laugh, I'd cry laugh. But a laugh nonetheless.
"Maybe, I did love him, you know?" Martha whispers, later on. Charlotte throws her a glance, almost surprised. "Maybe, I should have told him that."
Charlotte opens her mouth to counter, then, or perhaps to just say something, something that would make Martha feel better, something –
"I'll be fine," she promises Charlotte as much as herself. An almost painful, melancholic smile grazes Martha's face. "Tomorrow will be another day," she confirms. "I just need to wallow and feel like shit for a while."
Charlotte laughs at that, of course, then, but nods. Martha sees the clerk get up and walk around the room towards her record player. "Okay, you know what we need then?" Charlotte asks and fishes out an album from Martha's collection. Martha can't really see what it is from where she sits, just a dark picture from afar. And yes, Martha muses, maybe music is the answer, maybe –
She recognises the guitar riff as soon as the sound comes on. Oh, okay, Martha smiles to herself, shakes her head at Charlotte in disbelief.
"Ah, go on," Charlotte laughs. The singer's voice fills the room; the clerk sings along to it. Pretty off-key, to tell the truth - not that it matters. "Best break-up album of all time, am I right?"
Martha bursts out laughing. Maybe, it is. Maybe –
There's a fire, starting in my heart, reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out of the dark. Finally, I can see you crystal clear. Go ahead and sell me out, and I'll lay your ship bare.
And by the time the music picks up, Charlotte's body is moving to its rhythm in Martha living room; the young woman extends a hand in Martha's direction, laughs. Martha sighs, rolls her eyes. "Come on…" Charlotte smiles, hints. "You know you want to… I've been told you're quite the dancer …"
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless, I can't help feeling –
And so, yes, by the time we could have had it all rings at the top of Adele's lungs, both Charlotte and Martha are up dancing, shouting the lyrics, too.
The thing is, though, that album may be good but it also doesn't end very well. Someone like you comes along. It always does. And the silence that follows is deafening.
"Fuck him," Martha decides. Charlotte smiles from her end of the couch, nods.
"Good."
.
In truth, Martha's never liked silence, thinks that's why she likes music. After Charlotte leaves, that night, she –
The apartment is empty. It's late, the lights are on like they always are. Martha makes it to the kitchen, where all the papers she was working on last night remain untouched.
The tea she had made for herself has gone cold now, so she makes another one and works for a bit. Works until she feels the urge to grab her phone, walk into the living room as the dial rings. "Hello?"
Her mother sounds surprised when she picks up; it's late, Martha guesses, unusual. "Hi, Mum."
The voice at the other end is quick, warm; Martha closes her eyes and thinks of the roof, back home, the breeze in her hair. "How are you?" her mother asks. "Is everything okay?"
It's been a while since they last talked, Martha realises. She didn't want to tell her about the pregnancy, didn't want to make the same mistake twice, but also didn't want to lie to her. Fuck that, though, she thinks, now. Fuck caution. "Mum, I'm pregnant."
There is silence; it's frankly a bit too long to be appropriate. "Oh," her mother says, which sounds like something between surprise, approval and disapproval all at once. "Congratulations, then, darling," Martha hears, too, and after all, her mother was the one who put the idea of trying again into her brain, wasn't she, once upon a time? "How far along are you?"
"About ten weeks."
Another silence and: "Oh," again. "That's wonderful, honey; you know I've always wanted grandchildren."
Martha doesn't say anything but hears shuffling on her mother's side for a bit, the sound becoming muffled, more distant, until she hears her say: 'Yeah, Roy, I'm coming.'
She picks up the phone again. "Look, Martha, I've got to head off, okay?" her mother adds in a breath. "But thanks for telling me, it's all very exciting!" she says, clearly faking said excitement, but well, it's something, at least. Martha blinks. "Good night."
"Yeah, Mum, thanks," she sighs, shakes her head. It's not that her mother sounds like she doesn't care, per se, just like she doesn't have the time. "Good night."
The line disconnects, the tone loud and empty in her ear. Her phone drops. She drops. On her chair, pondering over tea.
There is work to be done, Martha thinks, promises herself almost. And tomorrow will be another day.
.
.
[1] Zombie by The Cranberries
[2] Naive by The Kooks
[3] Rolling in the Deep by Adele
[4] Someone Like You by Adele