J.L. Butler - Mine - The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist

‘I’m sure David has explained that no one wants to go to court,’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee.

‘Except the lawyers,’ replied Martin without missing a beat.

I knew how this worked. I had been in this situation enough times not to get offended. Family law clients tended to be angry and frustrated, even – especially – with their legal team, so first meetings were often tense and fractious. I wished he wasn’t sitting opposite me – a configuration I hated. I preferred to remind people that we were all on the same side.

‘Actually, I’m a member of an organization called Resolution. We favour a non-confrontational approach to marital dispute, avoiding courts where possible, encouraging collaborative legal solutions.’

‘Collaborative legal solutions,’ he repeated slowly. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me by using the stiff legalese. He was certainly judging me. The woman. The Northerner. The junior.

He leant forward in his chair and looked at me.

‘I don’t want this to be difficult, Miss Day. I’m not an unreasonable man; I want this process to be as fair as possible, but I can’t just sit back and let my wife take everything she wants.’

‘I’m afraid the concept of “fair” isn’t for you or Mrs Joy to decide,’ I said carefully. ‘That’s why we have courts, judges, case law …’

I shifted tack: ‘Do we know her starting position?’ I knew some detail about the case already having spent two hours of the previous evening digesting it. But it was always better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

‘My wife wants half of everything. The houses, the money, the business … Plus, a share of future earnings.’

‘What is it you do?’ I asked briskly.

‘I head up a convertible arbitrage fund.’

I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

‘We trade off anomalies in the market.’

‘So you’re a gambler?’ I asked.

‘It’s financial investment.’

‘And is it successful?’

‘Yes. Very.’

I was reminded of Vivienne McKenzie’s words. About men and their buoyant self-confidence that makes them believe they are kings of the world.

‘We have only thirty employees, but it’s a very profitable business. I set the company up with my partner, Alex Cole. I own sixty per cent of the business, he owns the rest. The bulk of my assets are my shares in the business. My wife wants the valuation of my shareholding to be as high as possible. She’d prefer liquid cash to shares.’

‘When did you start the business?’ I said, writing it all down.

‘Fifteen years ago.’

‘Before your marriage,’ I muttered. According to the file, they had been married for eleven years.

‘We should probably go through the Form E,’ said David Gilbert.

I nodded. I had seen the financial disclosure documents for both Martin and his wife. His were remarkably similar to the dozens of other declarations of wealth I had seen over the years. The properties dotted around the world, cars, art, and overseas bank accounts.

I ran my finger down the form that his wife had submitted.

Donna Joy, a thirty-four-year-old with a Chelsea address, had the typically heavy expenditure and low personal income that seemed standard for a woman in her position.

There were pages of it, although my eyes picked out the more remarkable details.

‘Annual expenditure on lunches: £24,000,’ I muttered out loud.

‘That’s a lot of sushi,’ said Martin.

I looked up and our eyes met. I’d been thinking exactly the same thing.

‘She claims she is unemployable. Mental fragility …’ I noted.

Martin gave a soft, quiet snort.

‘Has she ever worked?’

‘When we met, she was the manager of a clothes shop, but she handed her notice in once we got married. She said she wanted to educate herself, so I paid for a lot of courses. Art courses, mainly. I set her up in a studio. She works there, but she won’t call it work for divorce purposes.’

‘Does she sell her stuff?’

‘A little. Honestly, it’s more of a vanity project, but she enjoys it. Her paintings are quite good.’

His face softened and I found myself wondering what she was like. I could picture her now. Beautiful, a little bohemian … high maintenance, definitely. I felt I knew her without having met her.

‘And everything that’s listed here. That’s it?’

‘You mean, am I hiding anything?’

‘I need to know everything. Pensions, off-shore accounts, shareholdings, trusts. We don’t want any surprises. Besides, she’s asking for forensic accounting into your affairs.’

‘So what do you think?’ asked Martin finally. I noticed that his shirt was very white.

‘Your wife is young, but she enjoyed a very high standard of living during the marriage. You had what we call a mid-length marriage. Her claim would have been more concrete if you had been together over fifteen years, less so if you were married under six years.’

‘So we’re in a grey area that the law loves.’

‘Provision for the financially weaker spouse is generous in this country. The start point is generally one of equality. But we can argue that she didn’t really contribute to the accumulation of wealth, that the business is a non-matrimonial asset.’ I scanned the file, checking a detail. ‘You haven’t got children. That helps.’

I looked up at him, realizing I shouldn’t have said that. For all I knew, the relationship might have broken down because of an inability to have a family. It was one of those things I never found out as a divorce lawyer. I knew that people wanted to get divorced, and I advised them how to do it. But I never really knew why , beyond the broad strokes of infidelity or unreasonable behaviour. I never truly got to know what made two people who had once genuinely loved one another, in some cases, grow to hate each other.

‘We’re keen for a clean-break settlement,’ said David.

‘Absolutely.’ I nodded.

‘What sort of split do you think I can realistically expect?’

I didn’t like to be drawn on a number, but Martin Joy was the sort of client who expected answers.

‘We should start at a seventy–thirty split and go from there.’

I put my pen down, feeling exhausted, wrung out. I wished I hadn’t touched that wine and soda at lunchtime.

Martin shook his head, staring at the desk. I thought he might have been pleased at the suggestion that we could avoid a fifty–fifty asset split, but he looked absolutely shell-shocked.

‘What happens next?’

‘The First Directions meeting is in ten days’ time.’

‘Will any decisions be made then?’

He had seemed composed throughout the meeting, but hints of anxiety were beginning to show.

I shook my head.

‘The clue is in the name. All very preliminary stuff, I’m afraid.’

‘Fine,’ he said uncomfortably.

It was dark outside now. He stood up to leave and pulled his shirt cuffs down from under his jacket sleeves. One and then the other. Then he looked at me.

‘I’ll see you then, Miss Day. I look forward to it.’

I stretched out my hand and as he closed his fingers around mine, I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again too.

I liked getting the bus home from work, not just because I was a little claustrophobic and hated the tube system. The number 19 took me from Bloomsbury all the way home to Islington. It was not the quickest way to get to and from my place of work, but it was my favourite way to commute. I liked the head-clearing walk down Fleet Street and Kingsway to the bus stop, past the red telephone boxes outside the Old Bailey, and the church of St Clement Danes, especially when its mournful bells rang out the tune to the old nursery rhyme, ‘Oranges and Lemons’. And once I had boarded the bus, I enjoyed observing the sights and sounds of the city. When I first came to the capital, I used to spend the whole day riding the number 19 route, face pressed to the glass, watching the city drift by: Sadler’s Wells, the twinkling lights of the Ritz, the exclusive stores of Sloane Street, then down to Cheyne Walk and Battersea Bridge. It was a distilled version of the best the city had to offer, all for the price of a Travelcard. It was the London of my childhood dreams.