Can't... Won't?

Does my name still come up, was I marvellous?

You should’ve asked yourself,

Before you turned me down.

Your name still comes up,

You are marvellous,

I should’ve told myself before I let you down,

You were marvellous.

- Marvellous, Nine Days

 

            I spent the evening last night listening to all sorts of music, reading terrible things into all of it. Had I made a mistake? The truth of it is that Sharona didn’t come back at all yesterday.

            But the worst truth is that in the end I fell asleep, and slept well…

            …until she finally crept back in. It was in the very early hours of this morning. I stirred as she slipped back under the covers behind me. I didn’t turn around to face her. Memories of yesterday were beginning to stir the mud in my head. As consciousness took hold I became excited that she’d returned to me. But I was sick in the stomach somehow, as though standing on the edge of a precipice.

            Sharona began to cry softly behind me and so I turned to her.

            “Please don’t cry,” I said, uncomfortable with the idea that someone else in this situation had emotions.

            “I’m crying because I spent all night thinking of the moment I’d return to you, thinking of the way you’d take me in your arms and tell me how much you love me. But you’re not doing that, are you Tom?” (Can’t… Won’t?)

            “I… I don’t know Sharona. I’m so confused right now, I don’t know what I feel.”

            She lay there, not moving, barely breathing. Somehow, as I’d turned, I’d taken her hand. It lay there, cold and awkward. I couldn’t let go, but I couldn’t warm it.

            “Tom?” she said, at length, “Maybe I could…” her voice was pleading, slightly pathetic. “Perhaps I could just stick around and help you work out your confusion?”

I felt contempt for her, and I hated myself for it. Is this how Annabell saw me? Out of guilt I turned my contempt to pity. I kissed her and held her close.

I Think We're Outgrowing Her

“God does not play dice with the world.” – Albert Einstein

“Stop telling God what to do.” – Niels Bohr

 

          Sharona was still in bed as I checked my emails today. I had one from Alice and one from Annabell. Alice always writes with modesty and kindness. She gave me a brief outline of her life, in the barest terms, and then devoted much more time to asking questions about my adventures.

            Annabell, on the other went, had detailed her recent working life in the most extensive manner. Apparently she’s been having difficulty with one of the other CPS prosecutors in her office. They’ve been developing a rivalry that’s boiled over into open office warfare. Annabell is happy because she’d decided to take a case that this girl had rejected as a loser, and she’d won it. She was very proud of herself. At the end of the message she wrote the following:

 

“But never mind me, Tom. How are you? It’s been ages since we met up. I was thinking about you a lot today and wondering what were doing, where you were. Perhaps we could get together soon? I’d like that. X”

 

            She’d left a kiss! Immediately my stomach and heart surged toward one another and commenced an uneasy stand-off.

           

*

 

            “Where did you go, Tom?” Sharona asked me, when I returned to the room.

            “Nowhere,” I snapped back.

            “Okay, I was only asking.”

            “Well don’t. For God’s sake, can’t we ever just have a moment to ourselves?”

            Sharona frowned at me, hurt and slightly confused. I’m not really sure what I was doing. “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Tom.”

            “So what? Why do you always have to understand, share, be there?”

            “I’ll go,” she said, turning away from me.

            I didn’t reply.

            She put on her shoes in the awkward silence and left. I continued to sit on the bed wondering what I’d just done. I felt irritated, but I wasn’t sure where it was directed or how it happened. I didn’t move at all until Ed walked in the best part of an hour later.

            “Where is she?” he asked, straight away.

            “She went for a walk.”

            “What, you two had an argument?” he said, cutting straight through the nuances of my face.

            “No, she’s just gone for a walk.”

            “Shit, what was it about?”

            “Nothing, Ed, there was no argument.”

            “Bloody hell, I knew this would happen. Do you think you’ll get back together?”

            “We didn’t split up.”

            “Honestly mate, I beginning to think it might be better to travel without her anyway. She holds us back a bit, you know?”

            “What? You’re the one who’s always telling me to sort it out with her! You like her!” I paused. Ed had reacted to those last words; there was something funny in his expression. “Wait just a minute…” I began.

            “I just think we’re outgrowing her. You should never be with one girl too long, Tom, it’s a basic rule.”

            At this moment, as Ed shared his wisdom, Sharona came back into the room. She looked from one of us to the other and back again. Ed sat impassively staring at the floor, avoiding her eyes. I half looked at her, as one does at a pretty girl on the tube, ready to look away at the first sign of trouble.

            “Well?” she said.

            “I…” It was impossible. I had no idea what to think, or feel. Should I have told her that the only thing in my head was the unwelcome and unexpected, surprising thought that she just didn’t (couldn’t… wouldn’t?) fit into my life, unlike others, unlike Annabell? I looked at Ed, somehow hoping he’d help.

            “Don’t look at him for God’s sake, you’re supposed to be apologising to me! I can’t believe I came back. You know what? Fuck you!”

            She left.

            “That went well,” said Ed.

She Quivered

“Then whosoever will, let him believe, and whosoever will, let him disbelieve. Lo! We have prepared for disbelievers Fire. Its tent encloseth them. If they ask for showers, they will be showered with water like to molten lead which burneth the faces.” – Koran, 18:29

 

          We broke into the cemetery by scaling a ten foot solid stone wall along a hidden part of the Western side. We had to go through someone’s garden to get to a private section of the wall that wasn’t so well protected.

            We arrived early, at 2am, to ensure we could be ready for Felicia’s arrival.

            The meeting point was the Circle of Lebanon. You need to look this place up and see the pictures to fully appreciate the sinister magic of it. It is a semi-circle of tombs and crypts with a great cedar tree in the middle.

            We set ourselves down amongst the tombs, silent in our contemplation and respect, and waited in the darkness.

            Exactly on time, at 3am, Felicia emerged from the shadows. She was more striking than I had expected, wearing a black hooded cape over black clothes. Beneath it all, though, I saw the youth in her, the immaturity, and I worried.

            The four of us moved away from the area without a word and Sharona led us to an ornate and decorated grave. Suddenly Sharona’s voice broke the silence.

            “This is the grave of Elizabeth Siddal, the wife of nineteenth century poet and artist Dante Rossetti.” She spoke with a deep, narrative voice, as though she were back in New Orleans giving a tour. Ed leant against a gravestone and I sat on a nearby tomb. Felicia remained standing, stock still. I took out my sketch pad and began to draw the scene as Sharona continued to tell the story of Elizabeth Siddal. She had been a model to the painters of the time but had ever suffered from ill health born of consumption. “When finally she died she was buried here,” Sharona said, pointing to the grave. “Some years later Dante Rossetti was destitute and addicted to drugs, badly in need of money. He came out here, in the dead of night, with a friend, to exhume her corpse and retrieve a book of poetry he had left in her coffin. To his shock, she lay there perfectly preserved. Her golden red hair had reputedly continued to grow, filling the coffin. He retrieved his miserable book of poetry but it did him no good – it wouldn’t sell at all.

 

“Oh grieve not with thy bitter tears

The life that passes fast;

The gates of heaven will open wide

And take me in at last.

 

            “But the gates didn’t take me, they never did.”

            She fell silent, but her final words were not lost. Felicia gawped at her, stunned. A light breeze caressed us and stirred the trees around us. Ed bared his teeth in the moonlight.

            Nobody spoke.

            Felicia was caught between terror and ecstacy.

            At once, Sharona reached into her satchel and pulled out a white cotton dress.

            “Put this on,” she said, handing it to Felicia.

            Felicia took the dress and looked about her.

            “No,” said Sharona, “you’ll change right here.”

            Felicia did as she had been told. She began to strip before us, revealing her pale skin to the warm evening. Again I wondered at her age. I guessed her to be 17.

I hope she was at least that.

I felt very uncomfortable. I knew nothing of this plan at all. Nobody had mentioned making the girl take off her clothes. It seemed to me that we were into the realms of some form of sex crime. From Ed’s passive stance I could tell that they had obviously planned the whole thing.

Felicia, now completely naked, began to put on the white cotton dress. Ed snarled.

I knew I should act, stop it all. I continued to draw and watch.

Felicia was dressed. Sharona motioned to a flat tomb next to Elizabeth Siddal’s. Felicia lay down upon it and, as though herself a part of the plan, turned her head, exposing her neck.

She quivered.

Ed approached and the wind picked up, blowing Felicia’s dress and hair all about her. Ed leant down to her and touched his teeth to her neck. I could see the texture of her skin as his ivory fang pressed gently into it. Ed exhaled, allowing his breath to tempt and warn her. She gasped, and though I’m ashamed to admit it now, I felt an erotic thrill, right then.

Ed may have felt it too, he seemed to suddenly sink down his teeth into her flesh. A thin trickle of blood rolled down the side of her neck as she gazed up, paralysed. Ed ran his tongue along her jaw and through the line of blood. To my horror, he licked the blood over his lips, coating them. I watched him pause then, momentarily, before taking Felicia’s face in his hands and kissing her, full on the lips, mingling blood and saliva.

After a moment he stood back and looked across at Sharona. She nodded and the two of them beckoned to me, before stepping back into the shadows, leaving the girl alone, wide eyed and catatonic. I quickly followed them, not wanting to be left alone there to figure anything out.

My mind reeled.

 

*

 

            We arrived home in the early morning. The sun was beginning to tint the sky pink and blue and its light was a relief to me. Once back inside we all sat on the sofa of Ed’s living room. Our bodies may have been tired by our minds were wired.

            Ed and Sharona started giggling wordlessly at each other. I frowned slightly and shook my head, unsure what to do or say. Ed pulled out a small plastic bag from under the sofa cushions and opened it up. He scattered the contents onto a plate on the coffee table. He had drugs!

            “Smoke?” he made the offer to both of us, as he began to roll up some cannabis.

            “What the fuck is that?” I asked.

            “After all that, don’t be a pussy now, Evans.”

            “I’ll have some,” said Sharona, taking the joint from Ed’s hands and lighting it up. She took a long, hard drag on it and gave it back to him. She sighed as Ed took his turn. Five minutes later they were both giggling and recounting details of poor Felicia’s gullible astonishment.

            Sharona took another drag and this time offered the joint to me. “Come on, Tom, it won’t bite you!”

            “And neither will I!” said Ed, causing hysterical laughter from both of them.

            “No thanks.”

            “Suit yourself,” she said, laughing, “but don’t look at me that way. I dance to my own tune.”

            I raised an eyebrow.

            “Oh come on, modest, careful, Tom. You’re no better than us. I saw you watching Ed with that girl. I saw you watching her chest, rising and falling. I saw into your head and I saw the lust.”

            The memory came back to me. She was right.

            Sharona suddenly knelt up on the sofa we shared and straddled me. She reached down and placed her hand on my cock. “See?” she said, “You wanted to fuck that girl, right in front of me didn’t you? Maybe you should’ve done Tom. Maybe I’d’ve liked it. Maybe you should just do more of what you feel and less of what you think.”

            I looked across at Ed. He was watching with stoned, detached amusement.

            “You want a threesome after all?” asked Sharona, seeing me look at Ed, and laughing wickedly. She pulled her top off over her head and shook her hair loose.

            The lust inside me was now insurmountable. In one movement I got my feet, clutching Sharona to me by her tight, firm buttocks. She wrapped her legs around me and shrieked, pressing her breast into me and biting my upper lip. To my relief, Ed made no move, but sat there, semi-catatonic. I strode into our bedroom with Sharona still clinging to me. I threw her down onto the bed, slammed the door of the room, and then fucked her with passion, and just a little… hate. As I came I slapped her hard across the face and in the moment she came too, screaming loudly.

            In the breathless moments that followed my brain sought to reassert itself but couldn’t, instinctively knowing it wasn’t the time. Instead, I held onto Sharona tight, watching her fall slowly asleep with a smile on her face.

Why Not?

          “Come back out here and face me like a man you motherfucker!”

            “Hello Jane.” I said, approaching her from behind. I’d just arrived home from work to find her on Ed’s front door step. I’d heard her from down the road, screaming and shouting like a woman possessed. She was practically clawing at the door.

            “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me! You can’t just fuck off out of our lives without taking the slightest hint of responsibility! Come out here!”

            “Jane!” I shouted. She turned around to face me, as though seeing me for the first time.

            “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.” She looked up at me with a plain, unmade face. She’d gained a little weight and softened around the edges since I’d last seen her.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “What do you think? He’s shacked up with some American bird in there while I’m left out here, in the real world, to fend for myself and look after his mess!”

            “What mess? What American bird?”

            “He called her Sharona.”

            “Ah,” I said, “she’s not with Ed, she’s with me.”

            She paused for thought. “That’s not what Ed said just now, and they were sitting awfully close on the sofa when I walked in.” She narrowed her eyes and studied me. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

            So saying she stormed off.

            I opened the door and walked towards the lounge.

            “Oh God!” I heard Ed say. “I think she’s found a way back in. Quickly, help me out here and get rid of her!”

            I strode quickly in. “It’s not Jane,” I said, “it’s me.”

            The two of them looked at one another, not exactly as relieved as one might imagine.

            “What’s going on?” I asked.

            “Nothing,” they both said, simultaneously.

            “I’m going to make dinner,” Ed said, and walked out into the kitchen.

            “What happened Sharona?” I asked her, once he was gone.

            “I don’t really know. That woman, Jane, just barged past Ed at the door ranting and raving incoherently. I didn’t really get the meaning of any of it. Sorry.”

 

*

 

            Later this evening I found myself alone in the lounge with Ed. Sharona had gone to bed to read.

            “Ed?” I started, uncertainly.

            “S’up dude?” he replied, ever unable to be sensible.

            “I’m not sure… that is, perhaps… maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time with Sharona. Alone, I mean.”

            Ed looked at me in apparent disbelief. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you love her?” he asked.

            “Er… yeah, why not?” I was taken aback by his directness.

            “Why not? Yeah, great answer Tom. Why not? She’s without doubt the most remarkable girl either of us have ever had the honour of sharing time with. Neither of us have been with a girl who had a better body, and hell, what matters more than that? I even include that girl, Wilmena, in that! She’s certainly smarter than Annabell, and a hell of a lot more open minded. She’s even as sweet as young Alice.

            “She has more confidence than any of them at all but none of the aggression borne of insecurity that Jane has. Yet even in her confidence she sometimes shows that delicate, female vulnerability that I remember you describing when you were with Cathy, all those years ago, but without the need for constant care and support.

            “She’s got rare talent – the talent that isn’t just claimed or theorised but the kind that actually speaks for itself. Her ability is irresistible and undeniable and yet modest, enchanting and delightfully surprising.

            “Yes, she’s beautiful, through and though. So why not, Tom, why not?”

            I frowned.

            “For fuck’s sake, Tom, get over it. She’s your girl, though heaven only knows why.”

Unrequited

          For a barrister I really dislike personal conflict.

            Don’t you sometimes just wish everyone could get along? I was forced to do a divorce case today. I hate these. I’ve actually told my clerks to refuse them for me but after recent behaviour I think they’ve decided to punish me.

            My client is a man in his late forties. His wife had been unfaithful to him in the final throes of a malingering vacuous twenty year marriage. He had been devastated but had begged her to stay with him anyway.

            He is a businessman and she is a housewife. They have a son, now just 20. It seems plain that she hates him, though it is unclear why. He, on the other hand, still loves her.

            She had instructed lawyers to file for divorce and was claiming a spectacularly large amount of money from him as well as a yearly ‘pension’ for her ‘services’. Her claims were outrageous, especially given her conduct.

            “I can’t believe it’s come to this,” he said to me, outside court. “I know she’s fallen out of love with me but do we have to keep twisting the knife?”

            “It’s important for you to stand up for yourself,” I replied, “she can’t be allowed to take advantage of you.”

            “But who cares? I loved her and slept by her side for twenty years. That’s as deeply ingrained in my heart as ever it was. None of this matters. What’s mine… is hers.”

            “But what’s hers is not yours,” I said.

            “Is this the way it has to be?”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. Here’s how it’s going to be: you will agree to her every demand. She may never love me again, but I will always love her. There’s no future for me without her, so I may as well continue only for her, and provide for her though she looks not to me.”

            I understood him perfectly at that moment, but I couldn’t in all conscience obey him. I spoke in private with my opponent and negotiated a deal, favourable to her client but not such as to obliterate my own.

Sandstorm

          Today I was in Bicester Magistrates Court. I hear there’s a ‘village’ here where you can find every factory outlet store under the sun. I hear many things about many of the towns around the country. One day I might summon up the energy to investigate them after court, rather than just wandering back home.

            Bicester is notable for another reason. It is within the Crown Prosecution Service Thames Valley region. This is notable because it is Annabell’s area. There are many prosecutors within this region and so I was appalled to discover that fate had selected her, not just to be present at the same court, but actually to be my opponent today.

            It was a domestic violence case and I was defending the accused man. Usually these cases fail because the women involved get scared, or fooled, into thinking that they do still love the man, despite his actions, and they won’t support a case against him anymore. No such reprieve today. Both sides were adamant. She stated he’d repeatedly punched her in the head while holding her down on the sofa and he stated that she was insane and out to get him, and that she’d caused her injuries herself to get him.

            Nonetheless, I managed to persuade my client that it might be in his best interests to offer a plea to lesser charges since the court might have difficulty with his version of events. Very reasonably he asked me to discuss with the prosecutor the possibility of pleading guilty on the basis that he only hit his wife once. I went to Annabell with this.

            She laughed in my face. “Do you think I’d do you a favour like this just because you’re my ex?”

            I was taken aback. “No. Of course not. I thought it was a good offer.”

            “Sell it to me.”

            “Er… Well, I’m sure your witness doesn’t want to go through the stress of coming into court to give evidence…”

            “Actually she’d love to. She wants justice done. Look, let’s not be personal about this, okay? You know as well as I do that he’s bang to rights. He can plead guilty to everything or nothing.”

            “I wasn’t being personal. I’m trying to do my job.”

            “Whatever, Tom. Let’s just get on with it.”

            I couldn’t believe her attitude. She’d spent so long envying my skills at college and my success since then. Who did she think she was, treating me like this?

 

*

 

            My anger carried through into cross-examination. I tore into the ‘victim’, the ‘beaten’ woman, using every single piece of mud that my client could dredge up from his murky memory. I accused her of being lazy, living off my man’s means, neglecting their children, abusing her elderly frail mother, being an alcoholic and finally, being a complete whore at every opportunity.

            At one point I was interrupted by the chairman of the magistrates’ bench. “Mr Evans. I see great concern in the face of your learned friend Miss Steele. I echo it. Is all this strictly necessary? Is it relevant?”

            “It is sir. It is entirely necessary. It is important that you and your colleagues have the opportunity of considering this woman’s full character, so that you might assess the reliability of her evidence.”

            “Very well, Mr Evans, but tone it down please.”

            I made her cry.

 

*

 

            I went to lunch on my own in a local sandwich shop but was soon joined there by Annabell. She sat down by my side at the table.

            “That was so unnecessary.” She spoke with genuine anger but had a condescending edge that reminded me of her voice upon discovering that I had failed to wash up a cup properly.

            “Yes. It was wasn’t it?” I was steeled with barely concealed rage.

            “So why did you do it then?”

            “I didn’t. I made you a perfectly reasonable offer and you turned it down. This is your fault. I told you she wouldn’t enjoy being a witness.”

            “Don’t be so childish.”

            I wanted to swear at her and tell her to fuck off. I sat there in silence, conflicting emotions swirling in my mind. I had a sandstorm blowing in my head, I was seeing many colours but the only one coming through was red. It was stopping me dead. I tried to make some tracks but my feet were feeling like lead. Lunch was slow and painful.

 

*

 

            After lunch my client took the stand. Annabell cross-examined him with all the cool precision of stainless steel carving knife through a pink, tender fillet of salmon. She set trap after trap for him, complimenting him into agreement with her before using his agreement against him. Each ensnarement was as predictable as an episode of Neighbours and yet he fell for each and every one of them. She acted like his friend, sympathising over his wife’s many alleged faults, gently encouraging him to express his anger at her. She made it near on impossible for him to deny striking her; he barely held firm.

            At one stage he came up with a version of events new to even me. Annabell leapt on it; it was at odds with my cross-examination of the wife. “Surely,” she said, “surely you don’t expect us to believe that your barrister was lying to the court this morning, when he put the opposite story to your wife? You don’t expect everyone here to blame him for all this do you? No. He was only repeating what you had told him earlier and deny now. Right? Or do you say he did not put forward your case? Do we blame him, or you?”

            My client paused. This was a horrific attack by Annabell, inviting my client to take a stand against me. She wanted to humiliate me. My client tried to explain the situation without blaming either of us. He made a hash of it.

            At the end of his evidence I had to stand up and close the case. At first it seemed hopeless, but as I began speaking points started to materialise in my head and by the time I sat down I had almost convinced myself of his innocence. I looked around at my client and he put his thumbs up eagerly.  He was pleased. I looked over and glared at Annabell. She smiled back ‘sweetly’. The magistrates retired to consider their verdict.

 

*

 

            Guilty.

            Annabell stood up and calmly sought costs against my client, which were immediately awarded. She didn’t smile or even look at me, but rather acted as though the entire matter mattered not.

            I made my plea in mitigation and my client was told to attend probation for reports to be prepared. The job for the day was over. The magistrates left and Annabell immediately walked out without any flicker in my direction.

            My client left. I packed my things and slowly made to leave court. The day was over everywhere and the building was all but abandoned. Outside, in the corridor, Annabell had been talking to a colleague. The conversation ended and her colleague went through a door, leaving us all alone. She saw me and came over.

            “It got a little heated in there didn’t it?” She said, as though comforting a puppy.

            I wanted to get at her, somehow: violently. Passionately? Hatefully.

            Lustfully.

            Annabell watched my emotions. “You know, whatever I thought of it all, I must admit I enjoyed your speech. You were wonderfully eloquent.” She had spoke genuinely. There was a hint of her old admiration and affection. I gazed at her wonderingly. The moment broke my internal damns and emotions rushed out in freedom. Caught in the maelstrom I leant in towards her, needing to express my feelings.

            She started back suddenly and frowned. She shook her head slightly, looking at me, and then walked off, away from me. Again.

 

*

 

            Back home this evening I told Ed everything. He nodded appropriately and expressed outrage at all the right moments. He’s not as bad as some say he is. He’s there when you need him. I was grateful to him and suddenly I decided that I should stick by him and see where else his ideas would take me. He’d saved me from the mire of Annabell related depressions before, perhaps he could again.

            “Alright,” I said, “I’ll do it.” Ed knew immediately that I was referring to the adventures. He was delighted. “What’s next on this list then?” I asked.

            “I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’ve already got it all planned out. Mostly. But for now let’s just go get lashed.”

            It sounded a good plan, in all the circumstances.

Pity's Child

          I was doing so well.

            Sometimes you can cruise along in life restraining all your darker thoughts to the deeper recesses of your mind, crushing them the instant they raise their heads above the seas of subconsciousness. This can go on for some time until one day, out of the blue, a giant whale of a dark thought will intrude and no amount of mental effort will stave it off.

            I was told to go to the Oxford Magistrates Court today for some minor case or other. On the way in I saw a girl that Annabell works with called Maniza.

            “Did you see the front cover of the paper today?” She asked.

            “Er… there was a Metro lying around on the train.”

            “Not the national papers, the local Oxford paper.”

            “No. Why?”

            She handed me a copy and my eyes bulged. Annabell was on the front cover smiling away with a cold self satisfied pride. I guess to all the rest of the world it looked like a beautiful girl who’d got lucky and done something clever. They couldn’t see the details of her expression and the meaning within the curves of her eyes.

            She’d apparently managed to successfully prosecute some local villain that had been abusing the legal system for years, always sneaking out of conviction by suspicious means. She was the heroine of the hour.

            Somehow it was all more than I could take. She’d spent years resenting my success and my ability to gain entry into a proper set of barristers’ chambers. She’d only managed to get some silly job prosecuting in the magistrates court for the government, albeit as a barrister, but only technically. What was she compared to me?

            The worst part of it was that I knew it to be deserved. If I’m honest I’ll admit she’s good. She’ll move on soon enough and start working in the Crown Court or as a proper barrister like me. But better… perhaps. She has all the work ethic but none of my natural ability. She doesn’t fit in to the set up so well as I.

No. I take it back. The worst part of all this is not my jealousy, it’s my loneliness. I long for her. Much as I try to get past her I still know I can’t. Maybe I never will. Today’s episode is just evidence of her worth. With her by my side I could be proud of her, instead of jealous, but as it stands she’s just a part of a world that I can feel looking down on me with some kind of pity or revulsion: pity’s child.

Dangerous Principles

            Ever fight over a horse?

            I still haven’t sorted out what’s going to happen to the flat I rent with Annabell but at least it’s only a flat. And not a horse.

            Today I represented a man who was having a massive dispute with his ex-girlfriend about a number of matters, but most importantly: who Bluebell the horse belonged to.

            Bluebell is not just any old horse, but the symbol of their early happiness. She’d been bought when the two were happy and wanted a shared hobby. Thus the woman claims Bluebell as hers because she was a poncy show jumping horse while the man claims Bluebell because, as he would have the court believe, he paid for her, and because he chose her as a noble and magnificent looking beast. As it turned out, Bluebell was a rather splendid show jumper and this woman was pretty good at handling her. The horse is now worth around £20,000, and so she matters.

            And it was a point of principle.

            Principle, incidentally, is the single most dangerous word in law.

            It was a tricky day. The woman was represented by an older female barrister I had not encountered before. She was far more senior than I and spent some time alone with me trying to persuade me that my case was hopeless. I stood my ground, feeling increasingly that the world was dividing into men and women, in separate groups.

            “Don’t you see? You’ve got no chance. At least if you settle, let us keep Bluebell, then you’ll be able to save us all our time and leave with your head held high. We’ll even give you a little cash for her.”

            “I don’t think so. She’s our horse.”

            “Come on! Your man’s just trying it on!”

            “I hardly think so. Have you asked your client about all her debts? You might want to check on that before you agree to continue. Are you sure you’ll be paid?”

            “There’s no need for that. I’m not the one with an arrogant, violent, unfaithful rat for a client!”

            “Excuse me! You can’t talk that way about him. You’ve got no idea! He did the very best he could for her and she threw it all back in his face like the bitch she is.”

            “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!”

            “I’ll call her what she is, the wench.”

            “You’re just as bad as him. In fact, no, you’re all the same, you men, bunch of fucking wankers.”

            I calmed down a little, hearing this ridiculously posh woman use this coarse language. It was even a touch funny. I kept a stern face and walked away, torn between amusement and indignation.

            The case was a true battle. The judge has reserved his judgement until a date in a couple of weeks. I’ve got my fingers crossed. I won’t lose to a woman. Not like this.

 

*

 

            At least Annabell and I aren’t in court. That would never happen. Ultimately we’re sure to get back together. Maybe we just need some time apart…

            I miss her.

A Breakfast Scene

          When I got to Ed’s last night he was out! He’d left a note in an envelope addressed to me, with a key. The note read: Had an offer I couldn’t refuse. I let myself in and went to bed. In the darkness all the colour had drained from the world. Everything was a shade of grey.

 

*

 

            Upon walking into Ed’s kitchen this morning I got quite the shock. Alice was sitting there, looking cheerful and drinking coffee at the table. Her hair was ruffled and her clothes only loosely thrown on. She has thick waved chestnut hair, large dark eyes and a wide open mouth exhibiting perfect white teeth. For just a moment I was caught in admiration of her.

            “Morning Tom.”

            “Er… Morning. Is… er… everything okay?”