“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well, anyway, well done. See you soon.”
He smiles at Neeta, looks at me, then leaves.
***
“He is GORGEOUS!” Neeta mouths the last word. “Who IS he?”
“He is Anthony de Klerk.”
“And what was he doing here?”
“He’s our new member of chambers.”
“No way! He doesn’t look like a Barrister.”
“That’s what I thought. But he is, and a very good one too, according to his reputation.”
I’ve since found out that he’s widely tipped to be made a QC either this year or next, one of the youngest criminal barristers ever to take silk, an honour bestowed on the best of the best. Not bad considering he’s only been in the job for twelve years.
“Had a chance to get to know him yet?”
“A bit,” I admit. “We had a drink a while back.”
Actually we’ve done lunch since that drink. Extremely casual, dining in Hall. It had been quite funny, the number of coincidences. There are two separate buffet tables, both carrying the same dishes. We’d queued at different ones, but ended up with exactly the same meal, despite the huge selection. Poached salmon, parsnip mash and asparagus with watercress sauce. We’d found out that we both lived at No. 13s, claimed not to be superstitious, but avoided ladders like the plague. We learned that we both used to cycle to work until accidents involving us independently breaking bones (his shoulder, my wrist) drove us onto public transport. And when I told him I was an identical twin, he admitted to an absurd curiosity in pop duo Jedward, such fascinating creatures, so outrageously bad they’re almost cool.
Her phone rings. She moves to pick it up when I notice a huge rock on her finger. It’s definitely new.
“What’s with the ring?”
Zaf, her long-standing, hugely wealthy, city financier boyfriend, must have gone and done the decent thing. Good on him! I’m really happy for her.
“He finally proposed,” she says, flashing her fourth digit theatrically under my nose, before picking up the phone. I mouth ‘congratulations’ and hug her again.
***
Stuff happening to your friends forces personal comparisons. About where you’re at in your life, whether you’re in the same place and if not, whether you want to be. I’ve been with Adam since I was 18 and it’s no surprise that he hasn’t popped the question. He comes from a family of messy divorces, so he’s decided we’ve got more chance of sticking together if we don’t get that piece of paper. He’s often said that maybe, when we have children, he’ll feel differently and up till now I’ve not been bothered. But part of me has always fancied the romance of it all, the fairytale wedding. I spend so much time wearing black for my job that sometimes the thought of an over-the-top little white number is rather appealing.
As I head to the tube I’m thinking about whether I should bring up the ‘m’ word with Adam. I’d rather not. It’s hardly a topic for spontaneously dropping into conversation. And part of me is still hoping that one day he’ll be swept away by a tide of emotion and ask me to marry him, without ultimatum, without provocation.
I’m snapped out of my reverie by a bloke dishing out Evening Standard newspapers to London commuters. The headline (or what I can see of it) grabs my attention – LOOK WHO’S WALKING! FIND OUT WHAT SCOTT RICHAR-. I take a copy and manage to resist the temptation to read until I’m safely ensconced in a much sought-after rush-hour seat on the Circle Line.
***
I’ve my nose in a pocket A-Z, and miss whacking into a lamppost by a whisker. Turns out that that lamppost borders the tiny back road I’m after, St Barnard Street in Islington. This isn’t my patch. I’m here on a mercy mission. Once a month I devote an evening to an out-of-hours legal advice centre,
“Well, anyway, well done. See you soon.”
He smiles at Neeta, looks at me, then leaves.
***
“He is GORGEOUS!” Neeta mouths the last word. “Who IS he?”
“He is Anthony de Klerk.”
“And what was he doing here?”
“He’s our new member of chambers.”
“No way! He doesn’t look like a Barrister.”
“That’s what I thought. But he is, and a very good one too, according to his reputation.”
I’ve since found out that he’s widely tipped to be made a QC either this year or next, one of the youngest criminal barristers ever to take silk, an honour bestowed on the best of the best. Not bad considering he’s only been in the job for twelve years.
“Had a chance to get to know him yet?”
“A bit,” I admit. “We had a drink a while back.”
Actually we’ve done lunch since that drink. Extremely casual, dining in Hall. It had been quite funny, the number of coincidences. There are two separate buffet tables, both carrying the same dishes. We’d queued at different ones, but ended up with exactly the same meal, despite the huge selection. Poached salmon, parsnip mash and asparagus with watercress sauce. We’d found out that we both lived at No. 13s, claimed not to be superstitious, but avoided ladders like the plague. We learned that we both used to cycle to work until accidents involving us independently breaking bones (his shoulder, my wrist) drove us onto public transport. And when I told him I was an identical twin, he admitted to an absurd curiosity in pop duo Jedward, such fascinating creatures, so outrageously bad they’re almost cool.
Her phone rings. She moves to pick it up when I notice a huge rock on her finger. It’s definitely new.
“What’s with the ring?”
Zaf, her long-standing, hugely wealthy, city financier boyfriend, must have gone and done the decent thing. Good on him! I’m really happy for her.
“He finally proposed,” she says, flashing her fourth digit theatrically under my nose, before picking up the phone. I mouth ‘congratulations’ and hug her again.
***
Stuff happening to your friends forces personal comparisons. About where you’re at in your life, whether you’re in the same place and if not, whether you want to be. I’ve been with Adam since I was 18 and it’s no surprise that he hasn’t popped the question. He comes from a family of messy divorces, so he’s decided we’ve got more chance of sticking together if we don’t get that piece of paper. He’s often said that maybe, when we have children, he’ll feel differently and up till now I’ve not been bothered. But part of me has always fancied the romance of it all, the fairytale wedding. I spend so much time wearing black for my job that sometimes the thought of an over-the-top little white number is rather appealing.
As I head to the tube I’m thinking about whether I should bring up the ‘m’ word with Adam. I’d rather not. It’s hardly a topic for spontaneously dropping into conversation. And part of me is still hoping that one day he’ll be swept away by a tide of emotion and ask me to marry him, without ultimatum, without provocation.
I’m snapped out of my reverie by a bloke dishing out Evening Standard newspapers to London commuters. The headline (or what I can see of it) grabs my attention – LOOK WHO’S WALKING! FIND OUT WHAT SCOTT RICHAR-. I take a copy and manage to resist the temptation to read until I’m safely ensconced in a much sought-after rush-hour seat on the Circle Line.
***
I’ve my nose in a pocket A-Z, and miss whacking into a lamppost by a whisker. Turns out that that lamppost borders the tiny back road I’m after, St Barnard Street in Islington. This isn’t my patch. I’m here on a mercy mission. Once a month I devote an evening to an out-of-hours legal advice centre,
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