A/N Merry Christmas everyone! Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews. Sorry to get so angsty (and remain angsty, it's fair to say) at this festive time of year.
M for language.
When they first met he thought her plain, demure - far from attractive. It was an utter mystery to him now. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, beguiling, clever, talented, funny.
How had this happened? Perhaps it was the night in Cambridge, the pink pyjamas and the morning hard on. Or the stolen glimpse of white underwear at the top of a pair of pale thighs. Or his hands on her bare back and stomach, her skin was soft. Maybe it was just the kiss. God, the kiss.
He stuck out a hand to hail a taxi. This was madness. Twice her age. A High Court Judge elect. Married. Madness.
He wanted to kiss her again.
He wanted to peel off her clothes and feast on her. He wanted her on her back, screaming his name as she came.
He wanted her.
The futility of it was palpable, settling in his head and his heart and his groin, right alongside the frustration. There was nothing to be done or said about it. He'd pushed her away, necessarily, because nothing could happen between them, nothing like that. He was too old, and a judge and married. The whole course of his life had conspired to keep him away from her.
A taxi pulled up and it took all his strength to open the door and sit inside. He looked through the dirty window at Edith's flat for several seconds before the voice of the cabbie penetrated into his brain, "oi! Where to?"
The car dropped him off at the corner shop. Two bottles of cheap whiskey set him back the better part of thirty quid. An insipid sort of rain started on the way home, fine and gentle, the kind that doesn't warrant an umbrella but somehow leaves you soaked. Anthony tucked the two bottles under his coat.
The flat was grey, empty, soulless. He'd expected to spend the day and the evening with Edith. That was presumptuous of him because they'd made no plans and she'd been painting, maybe she would have sent him on his way after lunch. He doubted it though; once they were in each other's company he usually found a way to prolong it.
She'd made it plain she didn't want him to stay this time. Bloody kiss. Glorious, bloody kiss.
After rinsing a dirty glass in the sink, he poured himself a generous measure of his whiskey. He swilled it around, watching the flickers of gold and amber in the dying light. It was gone in one gulp. He poured another and took the glass and the bottle into the living room. The glass was a pretence of civility, a man who was intending to get stinking drunk could do it directly from the bottle.
The living room was filled with reminders of Edith. The blanket on the sofa, because she felt the cold, the piles of books, because he'd become a bibliophile under her influence, a dvd player and some new-fangled box to play Netflix and Sky, because film and television were life enriching.
Then there was her picture of Paris. The one that made him feel alive, made his fingers tingle and his heart beat faster. He looked at it now, finishing another glass of whiskey. The kiss made him feel much the same way.
He went to his bedroom instead. Fortunately, or not, depending on how he was feeling at any one time, no part of Edith was in there.
Anthony woke up, head pounding, at about 4am. He was fully clothed and sprawled on his bed. There was a twinge in his lower back. His stomach growled like a sick animal, either from a lack of food or an excess of booze, he wasn't sure. He felt about a hundred and eighty four years old.
After a cold shower and downing two quick pints of water with a dash of lemon juice (Len's Patented, Guaranteed, Surefire, Hangover Cure) he crawled into bed. His iPhone sat on the table beside his head, conspicuously silent. No text from her, no call, no email.
He'd passed hundreds of weekends in this fashion. Alone during the day, working on an article or a response to submissions or a jury summing up. Then he'd eat something left by Mrs Patmore and drink more than he should. This was the first time he'd got absolutely tanked in quite a while, but basically, this weekend was like the others.
Except now he knew Edith. So he knew what he was missing. There was a great, gaping hole where he'd been solid before.
He took two rasping breaths - in, then out. He spoke to the ceiling, "you'll see her on Monday and everything will be fine."
In, and out.
He glanced at his phone, the screen was still black. The button was up, it wasn't on silent. No text, no call, no email.
"Everything will be fine."
He didn't believe it, not really, but the delusion was sufficient to allow sleep to come.
Sunday was spent in the dining room, working furiously on the trial papers. The interviews needed to be read again and checked against the summaries. And he knew that one of the agreed facts wasn't right: it turned out to be number 157, the license plate didn't start with the letter D, but rather with the letter B. He re-wrote the opening of his summation. The phone sat on the windowsill for most of the morning. But he kept checking it. So he moved it to the living room, then the bedroom draw and then back to the dining room; walking around the flat to check it every 20 minutes was eating up valuable time. Better to have it where he could see it and, crucially, answer it.
Still no text, no call, no email.
He was at court early on Monday morning. The cleaners were finishing up and had to hoover around his feet and move his books to polish and dust. They smiled through their teeth at him, annoyed, no doubt, that he was making an already onerous task even more so.
On the tube he'd planned a speech for Edith. An apology for kissing her, which was thoroughly inappropriate behaviour for a man of his age and position. He would explain that for those reasons: age and impending High Court appointment, with all its associated scrutiny, they could not pursue any more kissing. They were friends but that was all they could be.
He should tell her about Maud, but there was no point. The age and the appointment were sufficient reasons. Edith would understand them. If he told her about Maud, she might be angry, as if he'd drawn her into some illicit liaison. On paper, he supposed he'd done exactly that. But he and Maud were separated, at Maud's instigation, and he doubted that she would care if he was kissing some other woman. If he told Edith about Maud she might not want to paint the picture, she might never want to see him again. That thought made his chest tighten and caused his breaths to run quickly together.
The hours finally meandered their way past nine o'clock. Mrs Hughes knocked and waltzed in with her usual proprietary air. She was happier since Carson had declared himself, her scolds were rarer and gentler.
"Good morning Your Honour."
"Mrs Hughes."
"Good weekend?"
"Yes." He lied.
"They're in all manner of problems in the trial." She stacked his books neatly, tidied papers and replaced his milk jug, enumerating all the difficulties as she went, "Mr Gregson isn't happy with the interviews, Mr Bates has to find the original tapes and check them, the fourth Defendant's wife is in labour and he wants a day off and two of the jurors are stuck in that smash on the M11. Oh, and Mr Bates wants to play the CCTV but the DVD player has packed in, the caretaker is trying to beat it into submission as we speak."
"But other than that, everything is going swimmingly?"
She handed him a coffee, "indeed."
"So, more delays?"
She nodded, "it seems that way Your Honour, yes."
"Oh well, that's the way of these things. Edith will be here in a bit, we can play a game of scrabble or something."
Mrs Hughes was nearly out of the door. She turned back, brow furrowed, "she didn't call you?"
An imperceptible tremble went through his hands, he only knew because of the wave of movement on top of his coffee.
Mrs Hughes continued, "she left a message on the machine. She can't come today because she has to work."
His breaths quickened and his chest tightened.
The interminable delays didn't help. For the rest of the day he was in and out of court for minutes at a time, getting an explanation for why they couldn't start, telling the Jury and then sending everyone away again. He'd go back to his office and be struck anew at how empty it seemed without Edith sitting in her usual seat in the corner, asking him all sorts of questions about the case and sketching some part or other of his person. It was an entirely different place.
He skipped breakfast and lunch because he feared he couldn't keep anything down.
Nothing was done and he released the Jury and went home. He drunk himself to sleep again, trying all the while to convince himself that Edith would be at Court on Tuesday and everything would be alright.
She wasn't and it wasn't.
He barked at Mrs Hughes and Bates and, particularly, at Mr Gregson. He demanded that the listing office find something to keep him occupied whilst the trial advocates dealt with their numerous issues. He sent three people to prison, all for too long, and confiscated another man's assets. Various junior barristers bore the brunt of his vile mood, their submissions weren't precisely perfect and he made sure they knew it.
By Wednesday he felt as though he was carrying lead around in his stomach, his teeth were permanently clenched. A bomb had gone off in the middle of his life and he was surrounded by rubble.
The clock in his office ticked over the hour mark, past 10am, either Edith was late or she wasn't coming, again. He knew it was the latter. He eyed the paperweight on his desk. It would shatter into a thousand pieces if he threw it against the wall.
He stood up with a start as his office door opened, smoothing the front of his robes with his hands, his heart raced with anticipation.
Thundering, blistering disappointment shot through him, "oh - Mrs Hughes. Everyone ready?"
"No. Quite the opposite actually. Mr Bates is having some disclosure issues and needs time with the police officers and Mr Gregson –"
"For God's sake!" He shouted.
"They just need a little time – until 11, 12 at the latest. I've conveyed to them your displeasure."
"Oh, have you?" He bit the words out.
Her lips thinned, "yes."
If Edith had come, as she was supposed to, he'd have someone to talk to, more than that, he'd have her to talk to and he'd be positively grateful that the trial was delayed. Instead he was standing in his office, fully robed with nowhere to go and nothing to do but think, constantly think. The blasted barristers were again keeping him from the one distraction he had from his thoughts of her and her soft lips.
The blasted barristers, and Mrs Hughes, unable to get them all to court on time, "It's not good enough, Mrs Hughes. You're the clerk, you need to keep them in line. I cannot come in every five minutes and give them warnings about time. We've got a Jury waiting, do you have any idea how important that is?" Of course she did, and he knew it, but he was feeling better for the rant and so he continued. He pointed at her and patronised, "you're the teacher, I'm the head master. I have to be able to rely on you and it seems that I cannot." He banged the desk with his hand, "it is not bloody good enough."
"Strallan!" Carson was at his door, red-faced, "how dare you talk to her that way!"
"Charlie, this is none of your business. Mrs Hughes is my clerk, not yours, which is a good thing because you are, apparently, completely unable to maintain any professional distance from her." That was a cruel comment; he'd been absolutely professional until Anthony had told him to declare his feelings.
"You think speaking to an employee in the manner you just did is professional? Long trials are always difficult, Counsel always needs time, it's no more the clerks fault than anyone else's and Mrs Hughes is a damned fine clerk."
It might also make him feel better to punch Charlie Carson in his red ruddy face, "A clerk who is allowing this trial to drift unacceptably, probably because she's preoccupied with making moon eyes at you."
"That's enough! Both of you, enough."
Anthony slumped in his chair and Mrs Hughes turned to Charlie, "thank you for your kind words and your help, but really, I can handle this." She ushered him through the door, paying no attention to his whispered mutterings of dissatisfaction.
Anthony felt embarrassed now. Charlie was right of course. Long trials needed time and it wasn't Mrs Hughes's fault. It certainly wasn't her fault that Edith wasn't here and that he felt utterly unsettled and had done for three days.
His clerk regarded him with narrowed eyes. She took the seat on the other side of the desk. He could count the number of times she'd sat down in his office on half a hand.
"Where is Edith?"
Canny woman. "I'm sorry about what I said."
She waved her hand dismissively through the air, "Where is Edith?"
"I know you're not to blame for the trial-"
She interrupted, "where is Edith?"
Anthony was irritated and shouting again, "what the hell does that have to do with anything?!"
Mrs Hughes remained unruffled, speaking in even tones, "I have clerked your court for nearly eight years Anthony Strallan. You have never raised your voice to me in all that time. On Monday I thought there was a genuine risk you would climb over the Judicial Bench and throttle Mr Gregson. Yesterday, I worried you were going to thump one of the poor pupil barristers who had the misfortune to be mitigating in your court. You are bad tempered and thoroughly unmanageable. The only thing I can attribute it to is Edith's absence. In short, the question of where she is, has everything to do with it."
"Working, or so she says."
"You think she's lying?"
"We rowed." That wasn't entirely accurate, but to tell her about the kiss was too intimate.
"About?"
He waved the question away. It pained him to think about it. she might be angry at him leaving. Or because he pushed her away, ending a kiss, which if he were a normal man, in normal circumstances, would have continued to a logical and thoroughly pleasurable conclusion. Or she might be sad about all of those things, which was even worse.
He picked up his Archbold and leafed absentmindedly through its thin pages, "you knew I was upset about Edith."
"As I said, her absence has coincided with your disagreeableness."
"Disagreeableness." He snorted, "I've been an ass."
"Yes."
"You didn't ever consider that it might be Maud?"
"Mrs Strallan?" Mrs Hughes tilted her head, "No. You've been split up for – what – seven months? I've never noticed a change in you because of that. And she left you before and there was no change then."
"Don't you think that's odd?"
"What?"
"That my wife –" He paused to let that word hang in the air, a disagreeable truth he shouldn't forget, " - leaves me and there was no discernable change in my behaviour, but Edith doesn't come to court for a couple of days and I'm suddenly – an ass."
Her sigh was a heavy one, "I hadn't really thought about it."
He nodded. Mrs Hughes was not his therapist, or his counsellor, she was not even his friend, not really. On this thorny topic, which he didn't fully understand himself, perhaps she was wise to be silent.
Len would have known what to say. He would have expressed a thousand opinions. All of those would probably have pointed towards one central point, a core submission: that Anthony should stop worrying about Maud and go and enjoy more of Edith's kisses. Len probably wouldn't have put it precisely that way, his language would have been more concise, and, in all likelihood, crude. Anthony could hear his rough voice after several whiskeys, "For God's sake man, just fuck her."
There was an appealing simplicity to that idea (not to mention its appeal in of itself). The kiss had been wonderful. He'd lied when he said they didn't suit. They did. It was that he didn't suit; she shouldn't tie herself to an old, married, judge. But it didn't have to be a permanent arrangement. Plenty of people had casual relationships.
Anthony realised he was racing ahead of himself. They hadn't spoken in nearly four days, she might not want to see him again, let alone sleep with him. Anyway he couldn't start something like that without being completely honest with her and if he was completely honest with her, she wouldn't want to start something like that. He was caught, catch-22.
She was painting him, they were friends. This was the only way forward.
Mrs Hughes stood and approached the door, "I'll go and see how Mr Bates is getting along with his officers."
He wound the ribbon in his book around his finger, turning the tip a yellow-white.
"I can tell you what I do think?"
"Please."
"I think that, generally, if something makes you miserable, you should go about trying to fix it. Life is only as complicated as we make it, Your Honour."
"What if by fixing my own misery I end up hurting someone else?"
This was a real possibility. He'd already hurt Edith once, she looked as though she'd been punched in the stomach when he ended their kiss. By remaining friends with her, certainly by pursuing anything more than that, he risked doing so again.
"I think if we plotted the course of our lives on the basis of 'what ifs' we'd be much the poorer for it."