It had been a long time since Edith bought 'an outfit'. A gown with shoes, jewelry and clutch for some forgotten May Ball was probably the last occasion. She'd purchased plenty of clothes since, but only stuff to wear, mere things to keep her warm and dry. They didn't seek to titillate, or entice or amaze.

On Sunday Anthony was taking her to a Michelin starred restaurant. They did soufflé and fois gras and an optional cheese plate which contained such rare specimens that it was an extra twenty quid on top of an already extortionately priced tasting menu. This was a very nice place and she needed to look appropriate, well put together. She couldn't just wear a collection of things she already owned.

And, although she'd barely admit it in the dim recesses of her mind, she wanted it to be special, because, for the first time in the months they'd been doing whatever it was they'd been doing, this felt like a date. It had a time and a place and a plan.

Anthony said that he wanted to do something different before he started to sum up the trial. Seven days or so of the Judge being centre stage, summarising all the months of evidence, all the barristers' best points for their clients and reminding the Jury of the bad ones. They couldn't continue as they had been whilst he was summing up. He needed his evenings to work and he needed his sleep to recuperate. But that was only seven days; she didn't really believe it was the sole reason for this expensive trip. Perhaps at this meal he'd make some declarations, some promises. Perhaps a plan to have dinner would become a plan to build a life.

She smoothed the front of the peach dress. The fabric was cinched at the middle and flared out slightly, giving the erroneous impression she actually had a waist, rather than being straight up and down. The cuffs, collar and hem appeared to have a white lace trim. A closer look revealed the reality; it was a pattern on the fabric itself, a series of cat silhouettes standing back to back. A little silly, but pretty all the same. The collar parted to reveal a hint of shoulder blade and the freckle which sat just above her left breast. Anthony liked that freckle. It would tease him throughout dinner because he was fully aware of the rounded flesh starting just below it, only the two of them would know what it indicated. Making sure that freckle was exposed was Edith's equivalent of wearing a deep v-neck and a push up bra; as close to titillation as she was ever going to get.

"Excuse me, Sir!" A shrill voice echoed into Edith's booth, "this is the ladies changing room, you cannot go in there! Excuse me!"

Thomas was already pulling back the curtain to her room as he answered, "it's fine! I'm gay! There's nothing in here which is even remotely interesting to me, except the clothes, obviously!" He put on his best version of camp, almost guaranteed to placate even the most uptight of clothing attendants.

The fabric rippled back into position and Thomas turned to face her with a dramatic sigh, "you've been in here a hundred and twenty years, what the hell are you doing?" He flopped down on the seat in the corner.

"I'm losing all perspective. What do you think of this?"

"The dress?"

"No the chances of peace in Syria. Of course the dress!"

"I –"

They both looked down at her ringing phone. Thomas picked it up and held it out to her as though it was contaminated, "evil sister."

No good could come of answering it; she was too excited, too happy to risk an interaction with Mary. Silence descended as it went to voicemail. A text message followed almost immediately: 'CALL ME'. Edith threw the phone into her handbag.

"What does she want?"

"She's trying to organise brunch – just the two of us."

"Man alive, why? I thought she was a complete bitch the last time you saw her?"

"She was, but then she tried to make amends and said that we should do more together as sisters because it's what Sybil would want." Edith went back to considering her reflection, "Sybil would want that, but, I need to work up to it. I've been avoiding setting a date."

"But she's such a warm and fun person to be around!"

"I know, my reluctance is baffling! Anyway, I don't want to talk about Mary."

"The dress."

"Yes. What do you think?"

"Is it for The Judge?" Anthony was never 'Anthony' to Thomas. Instead he'd become an enigma, a mysterious, distant stranger with a profession rather than a name.

"No, it's for me."

"To wear for The Judge?"

"On a date, yes."

"A date?" He scowled, "you've been shagging for three months, aren't you a bit past dating?"

"I'm not sure."

"Ede?"

"I'm not sure what we're past and what we aren't."

"Don't you think –"

"Thomas, I don't want a debate about my relationship –" The word didn't feel right rolling off her tongue, she wasn't sure she could classify it that highly, "I know we've done things a bit backwards, too quickly and yet too slowly. I'm trying to fix it. I think we'll work through it but I really don't want to discuss it at this minute."

The lines in his forehead became even more prominent, he looked at her and then away. The silence dragged. It was a battle for him not to comment, to analyse, to say all the things Edith had already thought: how could something have gone on for so long, and at such intensity, without her establishing what it was and where it was heading?

He stood up and for a horrible moment she thought he might storm out, annoyed at her refusal to discuss their personal lives, as they always did. Instead he kissed her on the forehead, "You look great Ede. If he doesn't love it, he's an idiot."

Presumably Anthony's reaction would have saved him from Thomas's condemnation. He was absolutely silent for several moments as Edith stood outside the factory's imposing doors. Much to her surprise he kissed her on the cheek before he made his thoughts known, "you look very, very beautiful sweet one." He drew the cuff between his fingers, holding her wrist with the other hand, brushing his thumb back and forth over the snaking blue veins, "are those cats?!"

"Yes."

"How wonderfully whimsical. Car's this way." He put his hand in the small of her back and guided her across the road.

"You scrub up well too."

"You think so? I agonised over the suit. Spent the morning driving the good people at Charles Tyrwhitt up the wall. Every suit I own is black or dark grey – court dress. I wanted something more snappy."

She couldn't help but laugh at that, "snappy?"

"You don't think it's snappy?" He held out his arms as they reached the car door, It was a beautiful suit, navy, but a light shade, certainly not court dress. It went with his eyes, although she doubted that had factored into his decision.

"No, it's certainly snappy, I just don't think anyone's used that word since about 1938."

He shrugged and handed her into the car as though it was a carriage, "Then I'm bringing it back"

The meal was eight courses of wonder. Edith didn't like the fois gras, Anthony wasn't certain anyone truly did, he wondered if it wasn't a myth perpetrated by those stupid enough to spend their money on the stuff. The chef paired duck liver pate with granola. It should not have worked, but it was an absolute revelation. Liquid nitrogen was poured on rose petals in the middle of the table, white clouds rolled out of the bowl and towards them, carrying the smell of an English country garden. It accompanied wood pigeon and root vegetables.

Then, there was the soufflé. Anthony allowed himself a solitary glass of sweet wine as an accompaniment and toasted to 'all the sweet things in his life.'

As meals went, it was the absolute best Edith had ever experienced. Until it wasn't.

As he went for his first bite of the fluffy desert Anthony's eyes strayed to the door of the restaurant and, for the first time, Edith truly understood what it meant to watch the colour drain from someone's face, "Anthony?"

His spoon hovered in the air in front of his mouth, a slight quiver to the light mass of soufflé waiting to be consumed.

His eyes darted to hers and he let the spoon clatter to the plate. He looked afraid, horrified, "Edith – I – God - I'm so sorry."

A lump rose in her throat. She had a foreboding sense of impending knowledge; that the bliss of ignorance was soon to be lost. A happy moment was to be wrenched into a terrible one - an illness was terminal and not cured, a character was a villain and not a hero, the beginning was actually the end. She felt like crying, standing on the precipice of a deep black hole she hadn't noticed before.

Her voice quivered, "sorry for what?"

He stood up and a clipped, deep, female voice sounded from behind Edith's shoulder, "well, fancy seeing you here."

Edith craned her neck around and upwards. The woman had put her hand on Anthony's shoulder and leaned, kissing his cheek. She was tall, almost as tall as him. Her suit was funeral black, as were her heeled shoes. The hair was poker straight, dark brown and tied in a neat clip at the base of her head. Large gold knots, covered the lobe of each ear. She wore no other jewellery – no rings, necklace or bracelets – it was odd to have such gaudy earrings but be so bare in other respects. Her eyes were almost black, the appearance exaggerated by meticulously applied pale foundation and long lashes. The face was characterful – thin nose with a slight hook, pointed chin, a too prominent forehead.

She put Edith in mind of a hawk, which was appropriate because the woman turned to look down at her, and suddenly, Edith was prey. The dark eyes made a quick but thorough appraisal, drawing over torso, face, hair, pausing briefly at the collar of the dress. The cat pattern was suddenly the worst sartorial choice in the history of fashion, if not the history of all clothing. It was juvenile, a toddler would choose it, not a person purporting to be fully grown.

The edges of the rouged lips quirked slightly, an eyebrow raised. This woman was not beautiful by any conventional standards but it didn't matter because she exuded a confidence unlike any Edith had experienced. Mary thought she had this persona, but she was an amateur in comparison.

Her eyes narrowed and her gaze returned to Anthony, "aren't you going to introduce me?" He was ashen and silent. She huffed and held out a hand, "Maud-"

"Taverner." Anthony interrupted, clearing his throat and finding his voice, "Edith Crawley, Maud Taverner." He flapped a hand between the two of them.

Maud turned back to Anthony and her lips thinned. She returned to the introduction and shook Edith's hand, her grip was firm but fleeting, a perfunctory gesture at best.

"Maud and I were at the Bar together. She's a barrister."

Her eyes flashed at him, "At the Bar together." She clicked her tongue, "come on Anthony, we were rather more than that. We are rather more than that."

Edith was aware of a pulse in her throat and sweat on her palms. The meal had been wonderful, but she thought there was a genuine chance she might cast it up all over the white tablecloth. She didn't want to know what they were to one another because it was so very obvious that they weren't mere acquaintances. She decided not to lie to herself, not to make it less than she knew it was – this was an ex-girlfriend. An ex-girlfriend who reminded her of Mary. How could a man go from dating Mary to dating her? Were they even dating? What were they doing? Was she a girlfriend? Or were they friends having sex? Were they even friends? A spiral of despair twisted around her limbs, her heart raced. She tried to catch his eye but Anthony wasn't looking at her, he was looking at his feet, and at his plate of food, then to the door of the restaurant and then back to Maud. Resolute, apparently, only in not looking at Edith.

"We were at Chambers together for twenty years, we shared a room. Anthony was a mentor, of sorts. When I got up to speed, I like to think I was a help to him as well, he always had trouble seeing the wood for the trees." She tilted her head towards him, "I gave you much needed clarity, I think. And support." She looked back to Edith, laughed and smiled, without genuine warmth in either, "Anthony led me in four fraud trials, one conspiracy to import firearms and two murders. We were a great success together. Then he went to the Bench and left me all on my own to defend the innocent. Now we're just – how should I define it?" Anthony's lips looked stretched across his jaw and he shook his head slightly, "Great friends."

So that was that, an entire history conveyed in a matter of moments. Maud had known him for years. Edith had only seconds, tenths of seconds, in comparison. The trickle of jealousy she'd felt on first seeing this woman had built to a raging river. It flooded over her, pumping with the blood in her veins, consuming her whole body. She squeezed a fist and tried to direct her feelings to a single point.

Maud's hand was on Anthony's arm. He looked at her before returning his gaze to the floor. As though he'd forgotten Edith was even sitting at the table.

The black eyes narrowed on her once again, "and how do you know Anthony?"

It wasn't a question. Grammatically speaking it had everything required to meet the definition, but it wasn't a question. It wasn't even a rhetorical one. This woman would have considered a rhetorical question beneath her; she'd already made the point she needed to. There were whole swathes of Anthony's past, of Anthony's life, Edith couldn't glimpse, let alone grasp. Even if she could, it would be no substitute to living them alongside him. His past was a country and she couldn't speak the language; hell, she couldn't even find it on a map. It wasn't a question because its answer was wholly irrelevant, it didn't matter how she knew Anthony, because she could never know him. It was made more frightening because Edith was beginning to think it might be true.

Anthony stepped in, which was a relief, because she wasn't sure she could have spoken, "Ms Crawley is painting my portrait."

Ms Crawley. Since when had she been Ms Crawley to him? For a while during the first meeting at Snaresbrook but he'd dropped the formality almost as soon as they met. Now it came stampeding back in, as if they didn't see each other every day and sleep together every night. It was a lie to call her that name. He felt the need to lie to this woman. Edith gulped down a slug of water.

"A portrait?"

"Yes, Maud, a portrait. Now if you wouldn't mind my soufflé is sinking." He didn't talk to her like they were great friends. He wanted her gone, that much was apparent.

"Indeed it is. My table is ready in any event." She waved and cast a brilliant smile across the room to a gaggle of suited individuals. Turning, she made one final appraising look of Edith's person. Her lips drew taut across her teeth and she wrinkled her nose, as if pitying what she saw, "lovely to meet you."

She and Anthony faced one another, eye to eye for far longer than was necessary. Maud leaned in and kissed him again, lips lingering on his cheek. She met his gaze and nodded, "Anthony."

With that she eased past him and disappeared into the melee of the restaurant. Anthony took his seat and finished the remnants of his wine in one motion. His soufflé had sunk. A sad imitation of the brilliant desert bought to their table, flaccid in the bottom of the ramekin. He pushed it away in frustration.

Finally he looked at her, lips slightly parted, Edith waited for the explanation. Frown lines marked his brow, "shall we get the bill?"

He paid, she watched, in silence. They walked the few hundred yards to the car, in silence. They drove most of the way home, in silence. There was the odd topic - the difficulty of cooking soufflé, red wine versus white, how Anthony had never been able to master the cooking of Jerusalem artichokes. But really, they said nothing, it was all silence.

Edith's brain screamed through it, keened and thrashed and begged to know the answers to all the questions she didn't even know she'd had. Everything of her life was out in the open, her flaws, her hopes, her dreams, her relationships. The whole package, unwrapped and available. Now she saw the reality, Anthony had shown her only the parts of himself he'd wanted to reveal.

She swallowed away a lump of tears as they passed Trafalgar Square. The car was small and he seemed so far away, sitting only in the next seat. She wanted to be outside, to feel the London air, the blare of horns and the artificial light of the streets. A walk amongst the noisy, confusing throngs in the vain hope that the voices of doubt in her head might be drowned out by the capital's excess of life.

"Edith? Are you alright?"

The questions churned in her stomach. They nearly came blurting out, a mass of messy, tangled insecurity. She knew which one would be first: who is Maud Taverner?

Then his hand moved off the gearstick and settled on the back of her hand, clasped resolutely with its mate in her lap, "I wish I didn't have to sum up this ridiculous trial, but it's only a week. Maybe we'll go for another fancy meal to celebrate at the end of it?"

They stopped in a line of traffic. She looked into his blue eyes and he gave her the crooked smile. The questions melted away. She'd ask them eventually because she needed to and she couldn't continue like this, but they could wait.

He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. They could wait.