Sara Foster: Come Back to Me

‘So, Doctor Fielding, you’re telling us you are certain that on two occasions, at five o’clock on the afternoon of the 29th January, and at one o’clock on the 31st January, Doctor Hazeltoft was with you in the Water’s Edge restaurant?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Mark sighed as he listened to the barrister questioning this idiotic witness and resisted the urge to check his watch. It wasn’t long until lunch and he hoped that this blithering liar would be dealt with before then. He had no problem with the Old Boys’ Network, but when they covered up major fraud it was going a bit far. Mark watched the barrister work the room like he was in the Crown Court of the Old Bailey. Every time Mark took a trip to court he wondered if he really should have gone to the bar instead of opting for private practice.

The witness, dressed in a dapper suit and yellow silk tie, a matching pocket handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket, stared back at the barrister.

‘Are you completely sure about that, Doctor Fielding?’

‘I am,’ the old gentleman nodded, but his hand strayed up towards his breast pocket as though about to take the handkerchief out of there and mop his brow.

In the silence that ensued, Mark looked at his notes on the table, knowing exactly what was coming next. He never lost the satisfaction of watching a barrister seizing just the right moment to execute a perfect ballestra, usually leaving their naïve opponent fatally exposed.

‘Well, although your own practice records show no mention of any surgeries, Doctor Fielding, when we finally located the operating theatre records at the hospital they have you performing an emergency heart surgery from eleven o’clock on the 31st January. Here you are -’ the barrister strode across the room and placed a document before the witness – ‘So I put it to you now, is it likely that you have your dates muddled?’

The witness hesitated, then glanced at his friend, who stared intently back at him.

Mark quelled the smile that threatened to rise as he watched this apparent capitulation. Just as the witness seemed to be drawing breath to speak, the barrister nodded smartly at the judge and said, ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’ His eyes moved with Mark’s to the defence, who looked ready to object on the grounds their client had had no chance to answer. Mark watched as David Lockhart, opposing counsel, studied the downturned head of the witness, and then the bewigged man bent his own head back to his notes. He had obviously decided to cut his losses for now.

Mark waited, praying the judge was about to call lunch, and flicked a covert glance at the seats behind him while fiddling with the papers in his briefcase. He saw no faces he recognised, but the habit of looking had become a nervous tic that he couldn’t control. Early on in his career, he had cast his eyes behind him and happened to notice a figure sitting there quietly. While his heart had begun to race, his father showed no outward sign of acknowledgement, but the message was as clear as if Henry Jameson had stood up and yelled it at him. Even though Mark was now qualified in the law, and a lifetime of diligent work had realised Henry’s ultimate dream of a son following him into the profession, it seemed that the highly respected retired solicitor had no intention of loosening the reins on his protégé. Mark’s career was to be closely monitored.

Mark knew, just as Henry would know, that this one appearance had the desired effect. Mark never got lazy, never slackened, as there could always be someone watching, the one person whose praise and respect it was almost impossible to earn.

So it disturbed him that he felt so uninterested today. Maybe he did need his father watching over him like a hawk, because although Henry Jameson liked to drop in to his old firm regularly to keep up with the latest cases, he had been noticeably absent for the past week or so, coinciding nicely with Mark’s apathy.

The judge had indeed called the lunch recess. Mark gave a sigh of relief, closed his briefcase and made his way from the room and along the hallway, nodding as Sheree, the legal assistant, reminded him of the order of the afternoon. He strode out of the front doors into a blustering breeze, heading back to the office a couple of streets away where he could look over his notes undisturbed. But it was no good, because now he could vividly picture Julia sitting opposite him, on the night she’d walked into his life out of the blue.

It had been late on Monday evening. Most people had gone home – he’d seen Chloe race out just after ‘official hours’ ended – her cheeks glowing, her face full of anticipation at seeing her boring hippy of a husband. The secretaries had begun chattering inanely about whatever pathetic reality TV programme they would be gawping at over their TV dinners, while they logged off their computers and collected their belongings. David and Neil had done their nightly prowl of the corridors on their way out an hour or so later – both of them raising a hand in greeting beyond the glass partition that separated the solicitors’ offices from the corridors and central open-plan area, but not interrupting Mark, whose desk was littered with papers and case files.

Mark loved working in the office when everyone else had gone. He felt more at home in the empty surroundings – evidence of people was to him a more comforting thing than negotiating their presence. He sometimes had a disconcerting feeling that people in the office were laughing at him. The secretaries were the worst. They worked for him, yet only the temps seemed intimidated by him. Even if he raised his voice with displeasure when an important document was handed to him with incorrect details, or a crucial legal date was missed, they just stood in his doorway looking mildly irritated or faintly bored, waited patiently until his diatribe was over and then sorted out the muddle, usually relatively efficiently. It was infuriating.

So there was solace in bending over case files with only the hum of the heating unit invading his hearing, his desk light illuminating the papers in an otherwise shadowy room. That night he had been searching for a precedent for a case that was worrying him, when he’d glanced up and seen a gloomy face peering at his through the glass divide. His heart had ricocheted wildly in his chest. For one insane moment he thought it was a ghost, and his stomach contracted as the figure immediately disappeared. Then the door handle turned and the door creaked slowly open.

The head that appeared first was substantially beautiful, and while he quickly dismissed all notions of visiting spirits, there was still something ethereal about her face. She was almost as pale as alabaster, but with perfectly proportioned, delicate features, large, mournful dark eyes, and beautiful silky brown hair. She wore jeans on her thin frame, along with a crumpled lightweight jacket and a pink scarf, and a satchel across one shoulder.

Mark was momentarily lost for words.

‘Are you a lawyer?’ she asked, in a hesitant, husky hot-chocolate voice.

‘Yes,’ he spluttered. ‘Can I help you? It’s after hours…’

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘I took a chance. I saw the light, and I’m a bit desperate. I need some papers signed. Your receptionist is still here and she said you might help.’

‘Oh, did she,’ Mark replied, inwardly cursing the new receptionist and making a mental note to have a word. His voice was tainted with disappointment at the mundanity of her request. ‘Well, it’s not something I’d…’

‘Please?’ she interrupted softly. ‘I just need a witness for my tenancy agreement. I really need it tonight or I won’t get the place.’

Exasperated now, Mark raised his hand impatiently and gestured for her to hand him the papers. He took a quick glance at the tenancy agreement – a pretty standard affair from what he could see – flicked to the back, picked up his fountain pen and impatiently scrawled his signature. ‘You know, anyone can sign this,’ he told her rudely. ‘It doesn’t have to be a lawyer.’