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

‘That’s a scary idea. They’re going to make us all redundant, aren’t they.’

‘Some jobs are more future-proof than others.’

‘Like divorce lawyers?’

‘Machines are logical. Love and relationships are anything but. I’d say you’ll be all right for the foreseeable future.’

‘Glad to hear it, with a new roof to pay for.’

There was a long silence. We had eaten our food and run out of conversation.

‘I should get on with some work.’

Scooping up the leftovers, I took the plates into the kitchen. When I turned round, Pete was in the doorway. He took a step towards me and cupped his hand on my jaw. Gasping in surprise, I didn’t have time to think whether he had misinterpreted this as a sign of my desire, because his lips were already on mine. I could taste the ginger and yellow bean on his breath. His saliva smeared across my cheek.

‘Pete, you’re my friend. And you’re drunk,’ I replied, pulling away.

‘Sometimes you need to get drunk,’ he said.

I took a step away from him. I couldn’t say his approach had been a complete surprise. The way he had loitered outside with the takeaway should have alerted me.

‘It’s the age difference, isn’t it?’ I registered the pique in his voice. Men and their self-confidence. ‘If I was a thirty-seven-year-old man and you were my age, no one would even bat an eyelid.’

I felt guilty, cruel. I don’t suppose he had any reason to think I would turn him down. After all, I had invited him up to my flat, for dinner, on my birthday.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I know I’m a miserable old spinster, but I like it this way.’

‘Do you?’ he said, challenging me.

‘I work eleven hours a day, Pete, I come home, and I work some more. There’s no room for anything else.’

‘Stop blaming your job.’

There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared that Pete was not my type, when we’d have ended up in the bedroom, but tonight, I just wanted him to go.

‘I should leave,’ he said flatly.

I nodded and he exited the flat without another word. And as I closed the door behind him, I leant forward, pressed my head against the door and puffed out my cheeks.

‘Happy birthday’, I whispered, desperate for the day to be over.

There was no getting away from the fact that I needed a new bag. Over the past week, the rip in the seam of my trusty Samsonite case had been getting longer and longer. Work had never been busier, with new instructions and cases springing to life after weeks of dormancy, and the numerous files that needed transporting between court, home and chambers, meant that my bag was one vigorous pull of the zip away from fatal damage.

I was brought up to be thrifty and part of me thought that I just needed to fix it. But I had no idea who repaired bags these days – cobblers? Tailors? In our consumerist society it seemed our only option was to buy a new one.

Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was not yet seven o’clock. Burgess Court was well placed for pubs but less convenient for retail therapy. But I calculated that if I took a taxi, I could be on Oxford Street by quarter past, out of there by seven thirty, and home in time for a ScandiCrime drama that was starting that week on cable.

‘You off home?’

Paul was standing at the door to my office with a bundle of files.

‘In a minute,’ I replied, fishing around in my desk drawer.

‘I’ve got something for you tomorrow, if you fancy it.’

I knew I should have turned it down but saying no to work had never been one of my strong points.

‘What is it?’

‘Freezing application tomorrow. Listed for nine thirty.’

I hesitated; the only reason I had earmarked a night in front of the TV was because my workload for the following day was relatively quiet.

‘I can get it biked round to Marie or Tim,’ he offered.

‘Give it here,’ I sighed. ‘It’ll save you hanging around for the courier.’

Paul looked at me, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You know, it’s fine to have the night off sometimes.’

‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ I replied. Not finding what I was searching for in my desk drawer, I glanced up at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare carrier bag? My case is fit to burst and I’m worried it’s not going to make it home.’

‘I’m sure we can do better than a carrier bag for a sophisticate like yourself,’ he laughed, disappearing downstairs. He returned a couple of minutes later with a cloth tote bag branded with the Burgess Court insignia.

‘What’s this?’

‘Marketing. By the way, I popped the QC application forms in there for you.’

‘A master of subtlety, as usual.’

I left the office and hurried across Middle Temple, past our grand Elizabethan hall and the fountain firing a silver flume of water into the night sky. It was eerie after sunset, when the gas lamps had flickered on; the cloisters threw shadows around the square and the sound of your shoes against the cobbles tricked you into thinking you were not alone. Increasing my pace, I threaded my way down the thin, dark alley of Devereux Court, one of the artery routes on to the Strand, just as the rain began to fall. A cab responded to my outstretched hand and I jumped in before it really began to pour. The driver asked me where I wanted to go and I said the first department store name that came into my head: Selfridges.

I am not a great shopper. That gene escaped me and I don’t think it’s because I was once on free school dinners. I remember one client, a Russian model, who in one breath told me how she used to pick up rotten fruit from the markets to take home to feed her family, and in the next breath told me that she needed at least a million pounds in maintenance per anum from the property magnate husband she was divorcing. Growing up poor sent you one way or the other.

The taxi dropped me off on Cumberland Street. The rain was pelting down now and the pavements looked black and oily. Cursing the weather, I ran into the store.

I knew within minutes that I was in the wrong place. I hardly ever came to Selfridges and I had forgotten how expensive it was. Boutiques lined the outer perimeter wall: Chanel, Gucci, Dior, each one like a jewellery box, glitzy and polished. I preferred the shops in the City, where everything seemed more ordered and less dazzling for time-pressed people like me. But in the West End, in Knightsbridge, shops were caves of temptation for tourists and trophy wives, retail labyrinths designed to make you get lost and spend, whereas I just wanted to find a bag and go home.

Taking a breath, I told myself that it wouldn’t hurt to look, that my bag, my image, was my calling card. I browsed the central handbag area and a beautiful bag displayed on a plinth caught my eye. It was smaller than the pilot bag I had been carrying around the past five years, its black leather soft and buttery to the touch. It was a QC’s bag, I realized, as I picked it up and hunted around for the price tag.

‘I thought it was you,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned round and for a second I didn’t recognize him. His hair was damp from the rain, and he was wearing glasses with smart, tortoiseshell frames.

‘Mr Joy.’

‘Martin,’ he smiled.

‘Sorry, Martin,’ I replied.

‘Retail therapy?’

I started to laugh. ‘You make it sound pleasurable. I’m actually on a mercy mission to replace my briefcase.’

‘A woman who doesn’t like shopping,’ he said, his eyes playing with mine.

‘There are some of us.’

‘Nice bag.’ He nodded towards my hands and I shrugged.

‘Well, I can’t find the price tag, which is never a good sign. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it and all that,’ I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious to be talking about money with a client.