Taking another sip, I look around the bar, satisfaction seeping into my bones. There’s a guy over there I recognise from pupillage, bloated now, years of drinking after work taking its toll. I know his practice is shit, bad cases for worse solicitors. Not like me, fresh from the Court of Appeal. I catch Jonah’s eye and smile. Normally I’d temper my arrogance, exercise some caution in my self-satisfaction. Not tonight. Triumph is mine.

  ‘So, what next for the unstoppable Sylvie?’ he says. ‘Any more appeals up your sleeve? Crucial points of law?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m back in the Youth Court soon. Highbury Youth Court, to be precise.’

  He looks aghast. ‘What the fuck are you doing in there? I steer well clear these days.’

  ‘It’s a trial, a multi-hander,’ I say, smiling at his confusion. ‘And I’m the judge.’

  Comprehension dawns on his face. ‘I always forget you sit as a district judge.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s only part-time.’

  ‘Sensible move, too. Given your plan for world domination.’

  ‘Hardly world domination,’ I say, failing to hide my smirk. ‘I’ll settle for ending up on the Crown Court bench full-time.’

  Jonah laughs. ‘I bet you’re sorry there isn’t a death penalty any more. I can see you passing sentence now in your black cap, May God have mercy on your soul.’

  I laugh too, but a chill passes across me, the hairs on my arms rising in goosebumps despite the warmth of the bar. For a moment I’m miles away. Years away . . .

  ‘Sylvie,’ Jonah says, and I’m pulled back to now. ‘Sylvie, do you want to have dinner? I was thinking it might be nice to hang out.’

  There’s a question here that goes beyond food and I contemplate it, looking him up and down. It would be fun. I can picture it now, the feel of his hands on me, the roughness of his beard against the softness of my neck. My thighs.

  I shake my head. Not tonight.

  ‘I have to get back,’ I say. ‘Someone’s cooking me dinner at home.’

  ‘Ah, OK,’ he says, almost managing to hide his surprise, one eyebrow shooting up before he gets it back under control. ‘Nice.’

  I drain my glass and stand up. ‘Yes, it will be.’

  I decide to walk back to Oval. I could have left later but as soon as Jonah asked the question I knew it was time to go. It’s not the first time we’ve ended up in a bar after a case, nor the first time that it’s gone from there via dinner to bed. I can understand his surprise at my rejection. I’m telling the truth, though. There is someone cooking for me at home.

  I nurse the thought of Gareth all the way across Waterloo Bridge and down Baylis Road. I can picture him now, chopping and sautéing, his face set in concentration. I’ve never met anyone who takes food more seriously. It puts my takeaway and microwave meal habits to shame. The first time he came down to stay, he looked through my fridge with disdain, filling a carrier bag with all the out-of-date sauces he found on the top shelf. I watched with growing horror, convinced that he was going to dump me for my non-gourmet ways.

  That was six months ago, and he’s still here, still cooking. And my fridge is full of a much higher class of condiment. Not to mention wine. Friday nights in with the boyfriend might be a new departure for me, but they’re certainly not a more sober one.

  When I let myself through the front door the scent of frying onion and garlic is thick in the air. I open the door to the flat and call out but the extractor fan’s on and there’s no reply. Dumping my bag and coat, I go through to the kitchen. Gareth’s standing with his back to me, stirring something at the stove. I walk behind him and put my arms around him. He jumps in surprise, jerking the hand that’s holding a wooden spoon so that he flicks hot oil and onion onto me. I scream out and pull myself away from him, rushing to the sink to stick my arm under the tap.

  He turns the fan off and the room falls quiet, the only sound the water rushing from the tap.

  ‘You OK?’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, you gave me such a fright. I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  Gareth puts his hand out and takes mine, turning my arm this way and that to look at the damage. There isn’t much, only a small red mark. He raises it to his lips and kisses the burn.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ he says. ‘I’ve had worse.’ He waves his other hand at me, calloused from years of cooking. Asbestos hands.

  I smile, move forwards and hug him again, but this time front to front. He puts his arms around me and we stand for a moment like that. I think about boyfriends before, how I wouldn’t even let them stay the night, let alone give them the key and the run of my kitchen. I start to laugh, my face muffled in his shoulder, and he lets go of me immediately.

  ‘You OK?’ he says again, his voice filled with concern. I look at him blankly for a moment before I realise.

  ‘I’m not crying,’ I say, ‘I’m laughing.’

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because I’m happy,’ I say. ‘It’s so nice to see you.’

  I change out of my suit while he finishes off dinner, shutting myself in the bathroom to redo my face. I’m relaxed with him; more than relaxed. Enough for tracksuit bottoms and a vest top. Not quite enough for a make-up-free look, though I’ve got better from the early days, when I used to slide out of bed before he woke to slap concealer under my eyes. Compared to most, though, he’s seeing the real me, as I emerge blinking into the light of a proper relationship.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he says when I come out, handing me a large glass of red. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Very good,’ I say. ‘I won the appeal.’

  ‘Wow, that’s great.’

  ‘It really is. Just what I needed for my judge’s application. I’ll be able to talk all about it.’

  He raises his glass. ‘Congratulations. Here’s to the future Lady Munro.’

  ‘I won’t be a lady unless I make it to the High Court bench,’ I say.

  ‘You will. I have no doubt that you can achieve anything you want.’

  Gareth drinks and I drink too, looking him straight in the eye. He’s not who I expected I’d end up with, not some greying Lothario with an eye to a second wife. He’s younger, fitter than me, lithe and bright-eyed with all his own hair. Good with his hands, too . . .

  ‘I don’t know how I got so lucky with you,’ I say. ‘Still can’t believe I ended up with my own private chef.’

  ‘No more than you deserve,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe I found you, either. The person I’ve been looking for all my life.’

  I smile at him and he smiles back, the pulse between us warm and steady. I lift my fork and eat, relishing each mouthful. It’s a chicken tagine, rich with spices – cumin, cinnamon, saffron – the bite of preserved lemon sharp against the sweetness of dried apricot, the tang of the green olives he’s taken the time to pit, each one cut in half and half again.

  ‘No one’s ever cooked for me before,’ I say. ‘Not like this, at least. Normally it’s a bacon roll if I’m lucky.’

  ‘I’ve got some bacon,’ he says. ‘I was hoping you might rise to the occasion and make me a sandwich in the morning.’

  ‘If you’re sure you want to risk it,’ I say. I scrape the rest of the sauce up onto my fork before putting down my cutlery and running my finger round the plate, collecting up every last bit. Gareth laughs at me but I shrug, defiant.

  ‘That was delicious,’ I say. ‘What’s for dessert?’

  In reply, he stands, moves over to me. He pulls me up to my feet and kisses me before biting my shoulder.

  ‘You,’ he says, and takes off my top.

  2

  I wake before Gareth, watching the light grow round the edges of the blinds, grey to bright. He’s snoring gently, flat on his front, one arm thrown across me. I’d have run a mile by now, normally, slipping out from under the embrace, hoping to God the man of the moment didn’t wake to find me making my escape.

  Gareth’s different, though. Ever since it began it’s felt right. We first met at a law conference I attended in Edinburgh six months ago, Sentencing across the Jurisdictions. We were all wearing name badges, milling round the lunch buffet. He was wearing chef’s whites, a tall hat, when he came over with a plate of mozzarella to top up the display. ‘Sylvie,’ he said, ‘that’s a nice name,’ and as the delegates ebbed and flowed around us, we talked for a while, long enough to pique my interest and hand over my number. It made such a change, to have interest from a man in his late thirties, hair and waistline still intact.

  I put back my return to London and we had dinner the next night; the food good, the wine better. He kept my glass brimming over, my heart rate ticking over the edge. There was a buzz of intensity in his gaze, his eyes rarely leaving mine as I told him the bones of my life, the career at the Bar, my growing disillusionment with my corporate clients, how I switched to criminal law, became a deputy district judge. My dreams of becoming a circuit judge, one day.

  His stint in the corporate world had been even shorter. He’d lasted a few years at an insurance company in Edinburgh before his sister’s death sent him over the edge and he jacked it all in to become a caterer.

  ‘Life’s too short to do a job you hate,’ he said, sitting back in his chair and swilling down some wine.

  ‘Couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘And it’s going well. I’ve got my own business now. As you saw. We get a lot of conferences in. Weddings, funerals. The usual. Most of my work’s in Edinburgh but I’m looking to expand south.’ He paused. ‘I’d be able to visit regularly.’

  I didn’t reply immediately, letting his words sink in. Prodding them to see how the idea of it felt.

  It felt good.

  ‘Enough about me. Deputy district judge? What does that involve? Doesn’t sound all that,’ he says.

  ‘More fun than you’d think. I get trials, every now and again. Mostly Youth Court.’

  He made a face. ‘Fun. Robberies, I bet. Knives. Bit of county lines?’

  ‘There’s a bit of that, yes. Don’t forget the cars, too.’

  He laughed. ‘Glamorous. Do you get to send any of them to jail? That would be my only motivation.’

  ‘Not sure that’s quite the right attitude,’ I said. ‘Though to be fair, sometimes it’s tempting. Anyway, yes, I can pass a maximum custodial sentence of two years.’

  I drained my wine, bored of work talk. I pushed my hair back from my face and smiled. ‘Anyway, this is dull stuff. That’s not why we’re here. We both know that.’

  We stared at each other across the table, but my eyes were the first to drop. I was flustered, on edge, a fizzing under my skin that could be the wine or could be something else entirely.

  ‘We both know, do we? Go on, then. Tell me, why are we here?’ he said, but he didn’t wait for an answer, reaching over the table and taking hold of my hand, his thumbnail driving hard into my palm. I looked up in surprise, ready to protest, but he was smiling at me, a challenge presented. I leaned into the pain, smiling back. Bring it on.

  Six months ago. I wouldn’t have anticipated it lasting, but he’s got under my skin. I roll over towards him, tucking my face under his shoulder, before going back to sleep.

  Later, I watch him dress, his back, the muscles moving smoothly under the skin as he pulls his shirt over his head. I stretch myself out in bed.

  He bends down to kiss me. ‘That was fun,’ he says. ‘Are you free tonight?’

  ‘I thought you were going up north today?’

  ‘I was meaning to, but I can actually stay another night,’ he says. ‘If that’s OK with you?’

  ‘Of course it’s all right. I’d love it. Shall we go out?’

  ‘Why don’t you cook for me? You could ask some friends round. It’s about time I met your friends, don’t you think?’

  I sit up in protest. ‘I can’t cook for you. You’re a bloody chef.’ I ignore the second part of his question.

  ‘Yes, and I do all my own cooking. I want the night off.’

  I mutter, not convinced.

  ‘It’s not an asking, it’s a telling,’ he says with such a huge smirk that I throw the pillow at him. In response he grabs my arm, pulls me out of bed and slaps me on the arse before pushing me back down and straddling me. ‘Maybe you don’t need to get up just yet.’

  Despite the hold-up, I’m in court on time, tripping into the robing room at Southwark Crown Court with a spring in my step, grateful for the eleven o’clock mention that’s all I have to cover. There wasn’t time for me to cook the bacon at home, so breakfast is a Coke and a cheese and ham croissant from Pret, and I wipe the crumbs off my lips with relish. The day moves fast, busy with emails and conferences once I’m back in chambers, and before I can stop to draw breath it’s time to leave. As I walk out to get the tube home, my phone pings. Expecting it to be Gareth, I take it from my bag.

  It’s not. It’s Tess. I think about Gareth’s question to me earlier, about inviting my friends to meet him. She’s the obvious candidate, my oldest friend from school. I come to a stop on the pavement, shifting sideways to get out of the way of the other pedestrians. Should I ask her? I’ve dodged questions from her for months about whether I’m going out with someone, reluctant to open it up to her scrutiny. To be fair, she and her husband Marcus have been going through a trial separation, and I haven’t wanted to rub my happiness in her face. I don’t think that sensitivity is the only reason, though. Am I scared to jinx it? Maybe I think she’ll judge. She’s had the husband and the nice house for years, even if right now they are on a break. Tess would be happy if I’m happy, though, I know it. Even if it’s late notice, she’ll come over the moment I ask.

  I weigh it up in the balance, unsure still. Then I think about having to explain to her that I’ve been seeing him for six months and not mentioned it, and my heart sinks. I don’t want to do it now. I’ll sort out drinks with her soon, tell her the whole story. Then I can introduce them and it’ll all be fine.

  If he asks, I’ll tell him that she was busy. I’ll psych myself up for introducing them soon, maybe a nice dinner out with Tess, with Marcus too, when he goes back to her, stops being a dick. Not yet, though. I’ve been single too long to want to mess everything up by bringing them in too soon, exposing Gareth to a harsh glare.

  Decision made, I mute the call then go off light as a bird to buy the ingredients for a roast chicken dinner. No point trying to impress – I may as well just make something nice. It’s not what he’s stayed for anyway, let’s face it.

  Dinner is good. Gareth finishes his plate, a second helping too, licking his chops with relish.

  ‘That was great,’ he says. ‘I love it when people cook for me.’

  The question springs into my mind as to who else might have cooked for him, other nights, other towns. I put it away. There’s no need to become neurotic – it’s far too chilled for that.

  ‘Glad you liked it. Come here.’

  He pulls me over to him and starts to kiss me, his hands moving across my back. Abruptly, he lets go, moving away from me.

  ‘I brought something for you,’ he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a strip of black material.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A blindfold. I thought we could have some fun.’ Then he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a pair of handcuffs, waving them at me.

  It’s cheesy, I know. Sub-standard Fifty Shades stuff, but it’s Tuesday night and I’m bored of being serious. Gareth’s funny and filthy, not bogged down with all the tiresome baggage of my friends and my nearly middle-aged life.

  ‘That sounds interesting,’ I say, striving for a sultry tone. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  In answer he rolls his eyes, my attempt at sexy banter falling flat. He takes me through into the bedroom.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ he says as he’s about to fasten my wrists up over my head.

  ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘Sure that you want to be tied up? I could do all sorts to you and you couldn’t stop me.’

  ‘I was rather hoping you would,’ I say, holding my other hand out for him.

  ‘Seriously, though. You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Please stop talking,’ I say. ‘This is exactly what I want to be doing right now.’

  After this he doesn’t ask any more. And it’s not long before I’m beyond saying anything at all, every sense heightened as my sight is darkened and the night begins.

  3

  Gareth leaves early the next morning, to get back in time for an event in Edinburgh in the evening. I head off to work, going down to Holborn and into chambers, the clerks nodding hello at me. I’ve got two conferences and a pupillage committee call to make, before working some more on the application form for becoming a recorder. Another reason to be in touch with Marcus. He’s a successful QC and a part-time judge, and I want to ask his advice about the process as he went through it only a few years earlier. I’ve been putting it off, reluctant to look as if I’m taking sides with him in his separation from Tess, but maybe it’s time I had a chat with her, got the all-clear from her to speak to Marcus about it.

  I’m not going to keep delaying it. I send Tess a quick text suggesting a drink. Opening my laptop, I look at the Judicial Appointments Commission website with a sense of total fear before taking a deep breath and making a start. The deadline is coming up and I don’t have time to think, let alone check my phone for her reply. Every now and again I nurse the thought of Gareth to me, the way it felt the night before when he was bearing down on me. But I push it away. I can’t afford the distraction.

  By the end of the day I’m tired, my brain strung out and buzzing from the plates I’ve been spinning. I sit on the tube home with my eyes closed, looking forward to an early night. It’s been a fraught few days and I need a rest. Once I’m home I change into tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, scraping my hair back into a ponytail. I’m not expecting any visitors and Gareth is back in Edinburgh. I’m safe to be a slob.

 

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