Jo's feet just about carried her back to her flat and she collapsed on her settee, her briefcase dropping heavily on the floor. Her mind was awhirl with thoughts and she felt exhausted. Normally she would settle down to a meal and, in her precise way, start organizing for the next day but she couldn't face it at that minute.
Tonight, she poured herself a generous measure of scotch straight from the bottle and knocked it back. After all, she'd had a hard day and she deserved it. The idea was also that the drink would cheer herself up, make her view of the world look slightly more optimistic about things in general but it didn't have that much reaction. She really didn't feel like making any major decisions and took it easy for half an hour, as she desperately wanted to watch some mindless soap and to hell with the consequences. Time ticked on as the TV screen flickered and life's responsibilities freely assumed by her, began to intrude on her mind for admission and ran counter to her uncharacteristic lack of application and so get by with the minimum possible work. It began to make her vaguely resent that she had to buckle down to work. She didn't want to examine the facts of the matter and deduce beyond all reasonable doubt that this strange mood just wasn't like her. Her only part resolution of this dilemma was to take a leaf out of John's book and order a takeaway meal so that she didn't have to waste much physical effort. After consulting the yellow pages, she impulsively ordered a Chinese meal from the first choice read over to her by the heavily accented voice on the other end of the phone. It would be ready in half an hour and that sounded fine.
It was really not a practical idea to settle down to her case when she would be interrupted and so she carried on watching the programme. Time seemed to pass incredibly and tediously slowly while she waited and so Jo leafed her way through a carelessly discarded magazine and topped up her glass yet again as she tried to interest herself in some fashion or lifestyle advice. The trouble was that her own spirits couldn't be inspired by these trivial pathetic articles. Everything around her felt flat and drab, as much as the soap had been. She was on her own when the potential freedom of two sons who were going their own ways in life ought to have been the answers to her dreams when she was overworked, harassed and stretching her habit of multi tasking to elastic band snapping point. This was the payoff after all those years of solid drudge. So why was she vaguely discontented and unhappy with her lot? Even the alcohol wasn't cheering her up, the way she had expected. She squinted at the level in the bottle as she realized that it had gone down more than she had thought and she supposed that she ought to call at the off licence soon and replenish it.
At last there was the ring on the bell and the packaged meal appeared before her and it surprised her. She fumbled at her purse and paid the man. When she opened the paper bags, the smell of the sweet and sour sauce made her feel distinctly queasy. It was not as she had imagined it to be and, so far from conveying images of exotic China, was just another anonymous concoction from the takeaway food industry. It surprised her that John, an unashamed snob in certain areas, could indulge in something as unappetizing and aesthetically drab and uninspiring and she popped it down on the kitchen work surface and sat back in her chair and meditated awhile.
While she was immersed in a morose and negative mood, the memories of the day suddenly came back to haunt her and the trusting expression on Barbara's eyes that she had seen so often on her visits to Larkhall came back to haunt her. Why must she be expected to be Superwoman, the one who produces miracles every time? She never felt less miraculous in her life, just a middle aged woman on whom the cracks were beginning to show in any idea of physical perfection in just the same way that surge of emotion and sheer hatred overwhelmed her in court and caused her to lash out at him. She felt humiliated that John had had to rein her in and even George's anxious voice, pulling at her sleeve, reminded her how she fell short of that self image in her mind. A pretty show she must have displayed to all and sundry, she reproached herself, her vision becoming blurred. That temper at herself suddenly wavered, poised in hesitation and drove her to cast that disgusting meal aside and tip it into the waste bin and to scramble for her papers. She really wondered if she needed reading glasses but, desperately, she tried to drive herself in a sudden burst of energy to get her preparation done in ways that occasionally, she had had to pull out her case from sheer inspiration. The only problem was that her reasoning processes were sluggish, dragging her will back and the room started to slowly spin round. One fleeting moment of clarity told her that it was late and she had let time slip unaccountably through her hands. It felt as if she had let down her own late husband in failing to care for him as she had once been in Barbara's position in looking after a terminally ill husband. The only difference was that it was beyond doubt that he had died from natural causes and that she had started her affair with John after years of being instructed by him from afar as her tutor and contemplating that magnetic righteous personality. She swore under her breath, as she reached for her bottle again at her world, which had slid, out of her control……..
By contrast, Connie was just finishing working on a long shift at St Mary's Hospital and the last of the steely hard adrenaline control enabled her nimble fingers to wield her very sharp scalpel and precisely slice out the tumour of the patient she was operating on. Will was assisting her and, at moments like this, she could ignore the pervasive feelings of resentment that radiated from him as he was compelled to don his chilly official demeanour along with his gown. This was on a different level than her relationships with Zubin and Tom. They had come to a silent agreement that, while they were to be placed on the opposite sides in the forthcoming trial, it need not cause any tensions. They would disappear from St Mary's at different times, give their evidence and that would be that.
"OK, that about finishes everything. Good team effort." Connie called out, bestowing praise impartially on all concerned. She ripped her mask off and headed to get scrubbed up and change into something more comfortable which, for Connie, meant a sleeveless top and a short skirt.
As she sat in her office, her computer screen flickering in front of her, her thoughts were drawn to the trial for the first time as a meaningful experience in which she was to play her part. Up till now, it had been confined to the paperwork of post mortems and medical reference books. She had talked to Brian Cantwell who had combed through her evidence in a somewhat lumbering pedestrian fashion that had slightly irritated her at the time. On more recent reflection, she realized that she ought to have been more understanding. With the best will in the world and their facility to trade in logic, non medicals were simply struggling with that extensive professional training that she had spent years in acquiring. When the patient was before her displaying a collection of particular symptoms, she could and did reel off the answers off the top of her head. It was beginning to dawn on her that she might need to make a real effort to translate her diagnosis into laymen terms. It was not in her nature to indulge in prolonged worrying about some new situation. She had acquired that measure of confidence that she could swiftly orientate herself as she saw the situation and her verbal fluency and quick wittedness would carry the day. She has refreshed her memory of her case and she remained not in the slightest doubt that Mrs. Mills had eased her husband out of a painful illness not only because of the judgment that she had made but because any alternative explanation was absurd or impossible or both. This was something that she was quite certain of.
All she needed to do now was to work out the logistics of her appearance in court. She clicked on her computer to search out the whereabouts of the Old Bailey, a building which belonged more to the territory of myth and old black and white films and it was easy to locate. After that, it was down to her to present herself in the foyer at the right place and time and take it from there. With a sigh of satisfaction, she laid that aside and clicked off her computer, ready to face a brand new day.