Four weeks slipped by in a haze, not a drug induced one, unless schooling yourself to feel as little as possible counted as a drug.
The bed was home. Books, television and the internet were abandoned. The paints were untouched. She went to work. A service sector zombie. And then she came back. Back to the crumpled sheets. If she needed a little noise she turned on the radio and listened to sports, inane chatter about Sunderland's relegation or Lewis Hamilton's dominance. She was a sliver of something barely existing.
The emotions she so resolutely repressed would blindside her when she least expected them. Anger. Or sorrow. Regret. Love. Sometimes lust. She'd grit her teeth and close her eyes and will them away.
When the text from Matthew arrived her resolve faltered. An invitation, "Middle Temple comedy night tonight? Mary's ticket's going begging. Would be great to see you! Drinks before. Meet at 8?"
"It's alive!" Thomas raised his hands in mock horror, ironic, given that he looked like Frankenstein crossed with Nosferatu. Edith rolled her eyes as she came down the steps to the factory floor.
"Ha-bloody-ha."
"You look great Ede." She'd put on some make-up and the best dress she owned. Telling herself all the while that she wanted to look nice for Matthew, as if every atom in her body wasn't screaming with reckless, wanton hope that she'd see Anthony. "He taking you to a nice restaurant?"
Where the hell was the taxi? She didn't want Thomas's questions, his accusations.
"Ede?"
"No, not a restaurant." She slid open the factory door, looking across the driveway, hoping for a waiting vehicle. No such luck.
He leant on the door next to her. She smiled weakly.
"Where are you off to then?"
"Some event thingy." She hoped her flapping hands would brush him off, but she knew him better. He wouldn't drop it, because if their roles were reversed, neither would she.
"Edith, where?"
At some point during the conversation her clutch bag had inched across her stomach, like some pathetic shield, "Middle Temple."
"You're joking?"
"No, Thomas, I am not joking."
"Middle Temple? Middle. Temple."
"Mary let Matthew down, he had a spare ticket."
"You barely leave the house for four weeks. During which time I have to bathe, clothe and feed you." He peeled off the list of her indignities, counting them down on his fingers. "Then you get an invite to Middle fucking Temple and you're out of bed in double quick time, showered and dressed up."
"I just want to get out of the house for a bit – you've been saying I should."
"Is he going?"
A nervous glance to the driveway, still no taxi. London on a Saturday night: always a nightmare, "who?"
"Who? Anthony Strallan, that's who. You remember, the married dickhead who just broke your heart? Is he going?"
"I don't know. I don't keep tabs on him Thomas. I'm only going because Matthew asked me." The lie was so pointless, he knew her too well for it to work. She shifted on the balls of her feet and played with her bag, looking at the floor. She really didn't know if Anthony would be there, but the small glimmer of possibility that he might be; it was the flame and she was the moth.
"Jesus Ede. Don't be an idiot." He banged his fist on the corrugated metal of the door. The sound reverberated through her limbs, "you're not this girl, you can't be, you're far too clever."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Is this the plan? To run around this city hoping to bump into him?" She shifted uncomfortably on the balls of her feet, "you could, you know. You could spend your time hovering around Fleet Street and the Royal Courts of Heartbreak and Wallowing, engineering accidental meetings. You could waste your whole life doing that. But it'll make no difference because he doesn't want you."
That was a jab straight to the solar plexus, several jabs, in fact, – he – doesn't – want – you - it nearly knocked her off her feet.
"Thomas! My God. Can you not? I love him, I wish I didn't, but I do, and I just want to see him again. I feel as though I'm broken inside and I'm trying to fix it somehow. I'm only human. Perhaps if I see him again –" She trailed off, unsure how that sentence ended, unsure of everything except her desire to see him.
"Perhaps what? Come on Ede, what? What's going to happen?" Accusations masquerading as questions.
"I don't know! Is that what you want to hear? I do not know. I just – I – I want to see him. I want to see the man I love again, I'm sorry, I do. We can't all be like you. I'm not some robot. I know you have a lump of stone where the rest of us have hearts, but there's no need to be so bloody brutal."
As soon as the words emerged from her mouth she wanted to grab them back. Edith alone knew about Thomas's struggles. He'd loved and lost and suffered accordingly. He had a heart and it wasn't made of stone, it was just buried under layers of pain and frustration. "I'm sorry, that was terrible of me. I –"
"You know what Ede? Forget it. Do what you want, go where you want, chase all the hopeless men you want. Just don't expect me to be there to pick up the pieces when it all goes tits up – which it will."
"What does that mean?"
"I'm giving up the factory and moving to Liverpool."
The floor was surely yanked from beneath her feet, all the air squeezed from her lungs and gathered at the back of her throat, "what?"
"I want to expand the business and I found a large space up there, room for three, maybe even four more presses." He raked his hand through his hair, "It's in the arts district. There's space out front for a gallery and a little café. We could exhibit our artwork, and other people's. Get someone in to sell the coffee and cakes. It's great Ede."
She whispered the word, "we?"
"We." He nodded once, visual punctuation. This was not a question. "Ede, take the £25K you received in exchange for your broken heart and come with me. Buy half the company. 'Barrow and Crawley's Blocking' or 'Crawley and Barrow's Blocking'." His hands held her shoulders, "I don't care whose name goes first. Come with me, get the hell out of this place and start something new."
"You're leaving me."
"I'm asking you to come with me Ede, I don't want to leave you."
Her hands were clammy, sweat beaded on her forehead. What would happen with Anthony if she moved to Liverpool? The voices of reason chimed up with the obvious answer: nothing, precisely what will happen if you don't go. He is married. But all the chances, the what ifs, the possibilities were louder. They crowded out the sensible thoughts. There was some hope if she stayed in London.
She squeezed her eyes shut. These were decisions she couldn't make. She wrenched herself out of Thomas's grip and shouted at him, "I don't have room for this in my head. How could you do this to me?!"
"Do what, exactly? Plan a future and factor you into it? Bloody hell, what a terrible friend I am, how on earth do you cope with me?!"
The taxi arrived, finally. The lights beamed through the half open door, she followed them like a siren's call. Thomas shouted behind her, "Ede! Edith!"
Only as she arrived at the steps of Middle Temple did Edith truly appreciate how awful an idea it had been to come. She was physically shaking as a result of Thomas's revelations and the guilt of screaming at him and running out.
The only reason she'd wanted to come in the first place, the idea that Anthony, who did not attend events like this, would be here was laughable. It could only have been created by the bruised brain of a broken-hearted, mad woman. And now she had to spend the evening with a hoard of people she didn't know, most of whom were lawyers.
She turned to flee, but a firm hand at her elbow stopped her before she even started, "Sis, thanks so much for coming."
"Matthew, I –" He had her half way up the stairs. The gaggle of suited individuals in the narrow entrance drowned out her feeble protest. Matthew's back was slapped by a rotund, bespectacled man. Edith shook his hand, she didn't get his name. Two more introductions, two more strange hands, half smiles. Jokes and laughter. She stood silent and baffled. A Porter took her coat. Then she was in the room to the side of Middle Temple Hall, packed full of arrogant laughter and too many pinstripes, and her, on the periphery, flotsam in the tide.
Alcohol. Alcohol was the solution. She yanked on Matthew's cuff, like a small toddler demanding attention. He scowled, "The bar?" He raised an eyebrow, "the one that serves alcohol, Matthew."
"In the corner. Take your ticket."
The bar turned out to be a table of spirits, mixers and two varieties of wine (red and white). It still looked like a mirage in a desert to Edith.
"Gin and tonic please? Double?"
"Sorry Madam, I'll need your ticket?" Realising the purpose of the, now crumpled, paper in her hand she tried vainly to smooth it out and handed it to the barman, "that's only good for one drink Madam, a single."
"The drinks are rationed?!" She was incredulous. This was the Bar of England and Wales, the very thought was shameful.
"Give the lady a double."
A ticket changed hands and she turned to face its owner, "Mr Gregson, what a surprise!" The familiar face was a comfort, a link back to the life she'd had in those few months; the time she'd been the lover of the Judge running the fraud trial. It rushed back to her all at once. Painful, but a relief too because here was proof positive she couldn't have imagined it. Snaresbrook had been real; the evidence was in Mr Gregson trying, yet again, to charm her.
"Right back at you Muzz Crawley - this is my turf. They don't open the proper bar until intermission. A lesson learned from bitter experience."
"Yes, because everyone in this room seems absolutely in control of their faculties."
He laughed, "most people get tanked before they arrive."
"I think they might be the wise ones."
"What happened to you? One day you were at the trial, the next you were gone."
The lie didn't come easy to her. Her attempt at faking casual indifference somehow had her shaking her head furiously, shrugging and biting her lip all at the same time, "I – its – well – I – I finished my painting."
He arched an eyebrow, "makes sense."
"What happened with the case?"
"My client got potted."
"Potted?"
"Convicted."
"Ah, sorry."
"One of those things." He shrugged, but his lips thinned, and his hand curled into a fist, apparently Michael Gregson was just as bad as her at the faking game. "Second and third Defendants were convicted during day eleven of deliberations. At the start of week three, when they were still deliberating on Defendants four through six, the Jury got a majority verdict and convicted them two days ago."
"A prosecution triumph then."
"Shall I take my shirt off so you can rub that salt directly into my wounds?"
To her surprise the chuckle which emerged from the back of her throat wasn't a fake one. Small, but real. She raised her hands, "sorry."
"I could take it off anyway, you only need ask." He squeezed her elbow with a smile.
"Here in the middle of the party?"
He leaned too close, "anywhere you like."
She raised her gin and tonic into the space between them and sipped, "I'll bear that in mind." The flirtation jarred, she was managing to conduct a conversation without dissolving into a puddle, but anything more was altogether a step, a giant leap, too far.
"Please do."
"Don't you need to –" She gestured flippantly at the heaving throngs of legal London, "what do they call it? Network, or some such?"
"Not tonight. We're out for our post-trial piss-up actually."
"Which means?"
"All the lawyers in long trials go out after the verdicts have been returned for a meal and lots and lots of alcohol. Batesy's here, a couple of the solicitors, the other barristers, Mrs Hughes came to the meal, but left before we commenced the proper drinking. Even Strallan's around here somewhere -"
She stared at him as though he'd announced there was a unicorn in the room, wide eyed, gawping. She whispered, "Anthony?"
Gregson's lips quirked, he jabbed a finger towards the space behind her. She spun on the spot as if her life depended on it, lifting up onto tiptoes to see over the heads of the crowd, her eyes darting franticly from face to face. Then they found him.
She smiled, broadly, all teeth and joy. It was a moment of complete happiness. He was here. Anthony, her Anthony. Blonde hair falling gently across his forehead, the skin crinkling softly around his blue eyes. He smiled at one of his companions; it didn't go beyond the edge of his lips. It wasn't her smile, entirely straight, nothing crooked. God, she missed that, she missed him.
Apparently she'd looked too long, too hard. He must have sensed it, perhaps he even felt the precision of her gaze because all at once he was looking straight at her.
She took a deep breath and broke away. Rocking on her feet she looked down intently at her half empty drink. There was a hand on her arm. Michael Gregson's eyes were narrowed, as if she was a witness in the box.
His smile was a rueful one, "I'm an idiot."
"Pardon?"
"I'm just at this moment getting it. I prided myself on being quicker than that."
"I don't understand?" She did.
"You know he's married?"
Oh yes. That. Married. Not her Anthony. Never hers. She was a complete fool. The cat that had caught its tail; the success could only hurt. The triumph of seeing him, of getting precisely what she wanted, wasn't a triumph at all. It was disaster.
"I – I –"
Gregson took his hand off her arm and shook his head, "Take care of yourself Edith."
A porter announced that the show was about to start. The hum of bodies flowed towards the imposing double doors to the hall. Edith risked a glance back to Anthony. He remained precisely where she'd seen him, blue eyes fixed on her position.
"Edie, you coming?"
"No. I don't feel like it."
"Come on Ede, it'll be fun."
The room was nearly empty now, a few stragglers making their way out, grabbing last minute glasses of wine and, in one case, a whole bottle, smuggled, obviously, under a suit jacket.
Anthony remained, still and stoic in the corner, "no, Matthew. I'm just going to –" Enjoy a moment of temporary insanity. "- stay here."
A tall man looped an arm around Matthew's neck and cackled some joke into his ear. Matthew pushed him away with a smiling scowl, "you're sure?" He was halfway to the door, dragged by his friend.
"Absolutely."
Edith watched him go, followed by the last of the drunken hoards. The heavy wooden door shut and she was alone, with the rapid beat of her heart and Anthony.
Briefly, she considered bolting, flying out of the room and down the corridor, taking the steps two at a time until she was at Embankment staring down at the muddy water. But she didn't.
She turned and looked straight at him and she was both glad and dismayed at her decision. The back of her eyes stung. She would not cry, of all things, she would not do that.
"Hello."
She'd missed his voice too.
"Hello."
"How are you?"
"I do not know how to answer that question." That was honest, much more honest than she'd intended to be, she thought she'd built some barriers, but they were nowhere to be found now.
He chuckled, lightly, shifting on his feet, "no, I can understand that."
"Mr Gregson said that you finished the trial."
He crossed his arms, a rare thing for him, bred out of his physicality by years of advocacy, "Yes. Everyone convicted, justice done and all that."
She nodded and grappled for another strand of conversation, "How is Mrs Hughes?"
"Very well. They've set a date for the wedding." He smiled, and dropped his arms, clasping them behind his back, "she didn't want anything big, but Charlie wouldn't have it, he wants her to have a day on a par with Kate Middleton."
"Because to him, Mrs Hughes is princess."
"Exactly. So they've booked a church and a marquee at a country hotel and they're having food and a free bar, dancing too."
"Dancing's nice."
"Yes. She asked me to walk her down the aisle." He shrugged, blue eyes glistening.
"How lovely!"
His cheeks pinked, "I know. She said I'm like the son she never had. It'll be embarrassing – there'll be a morning suit, tails, a top hat in all likelihood - but I'm honoured really, although I haven't told her that."
"You should."
"We're having a valedictory in a couple of weeks."
"Valedictory?"
"A formal leaving do, of sorts, at Snaresbrook, a send off by all the barristers. Charlie's going to give a speech. I'll say a few words and I'll dragoon Mrs Hughes into doing so as well. I don't really want to do it, but, again, Charlie's determined and he's my friend and I'll miss him when I go -"
It went without saying that Anthony would submit to his friend's request because he'd asked him too. And of course, he'd put on a morning suit and a silly hat to walk Mrs Hughes down the aisle. That was who he was.
She thought the lump in her throat was the tears threatening, it came bubbling up, but it wasn't a sob that emerged. Fully formed words poured out instead, quiet but firm, pleading and desperate, "oh, Anthony. Anthony. Leave Maud. Leave Maud and be with me. Be with me."
She held her hand to her chest, fisting the fingers into the soft fabric of her dress, taken completely aback at what she'd said. She'd thought those words. Over and over again. Nearly every day. But to say them. Had she really said them?
Anthony looked as shocked as she felt, he took a step back. Mouth gaping, eyes wide. His expression changed; shock morphed into horror and then she wondered if it hadn't been horror all along.
Thomas was right, she was an idiot. She hadn't come here to beg for love. She shouldn't have to do that, to humiliate herself in the vague hope that he'd acquiesce to having her. She deserved so much more than that, so much more than the absolute silence between them.
"God, oh God." She looked to her feet and shook her head, trying to wish the words away, "I have to go." She lunged for the door, it was old and heavy, but there was a chink of light from the corridor before it slammed shut. She tried the handle again.
Anthony covered her hand with his and then took it back, as if singed by the contact, "wait, please, wait. Let me talk, just – please – don't go. Let me talk."