Betrayal

          “These people don’t know they’re born,” said Ed, at the top of Le Brevent, the mountain opposite Mont Blanc, across the valley of Chamonix. It was incredible to see so many people everywhere and so many unnatural buildings clustered together.

            We agreed to spend the night in Chamonix as a reward for completing the first of six stages of the walk.

            “How many miles is that section?” asked Ed. He never has any idea of mileages or directions, he lets me handle all of that and simply walks alongside, oblivious.

            “About 50.”

            “Fuck, we’re barely anywhere!”

            “This was your idea. Anyway, what are you going to do for the Return to Sender adventure?”

            “Well, that’s up to you, but I’m sticking to the no more adventures from French people rule. From now on let’s take our cue from books, since we’ve got plenty of those with us now, and no music to speak of it.”

            “Okay. Return to Sender can be a future challenge. In fact, when you return to England to have to ‘return’ to whomsoever is the ‘sender’ of the very next email you receive.”

            We went, therefore, to check our emails.

            “Here we are!” said Ed, a little triumphantly. “It’s Alice!”

            I looked and to my distinct disappointment it was true. She was emailing him. I restrained myself from reading the contents, I didn’t want to know. It seemed like… a betrayal. A betrayal of herself, that is.

            “Fine,” I muttered, and went to check my own messages. I had yet another friendly email from Annabell wishing me luck along the route and telling me how impressed she was with my resolve! I couldn’t believe. In a moment of madness, with Alice somehow in the back of my mind, though to what effect I couldn’t say, I decided to email Annabell back and ask her straight out where she stood with me, whether we could try again.

            As soon as I clicked send I choked, and I’ve been holding my breath ever since…

PunchDrunk

          Ed had a fantastic time last night. Just how fantastic I can’t say, but he certainly met those two girls, and he certainly didn’t come home with us. I have to add that they really were stunning last night, wearing short gold dresses (standard fare for the club named ‘Golden Dream’), and sporting long straight sun-blonde hair.

Ed welcomed them over as soon as he spotted them and immediately began joking and chatting away with them as though they were just anyone, and not the two most spectacular women in the place. They appeared to admire him in equal measures; it was, as I’ve already said, difficult to tell them apart. Ed may have been a very lucky man, but to be honest I haven’t asked him. There’s only so much untainted happiness anyone can have for their friends.

Sharona and I sat together and alone towards the end of the evening, lethargic and weighed down. We listened to the last song, I Would Walk 500 Miles, with total apathy and then set off back to the hotel. We went to bed and fell asleep straight away, back to back.

 

*

 

            Sharona woke early this morning and retreated into the city to do some shopping. While she was out Ed came in to see me.

            “It’s time to cut loose Tom” he said. He hadn’t even said good morning.

            “Eh?”

            “There’s never been a better time for it than now, just as we’re about to set off on our next adventure: the GR5!”

            “The what?”

            Ed explained it to me. The GR5, or Grande Randoneé Cinq, is a long distance walk from Holland to Nice in Southern France. It is thousands of miles long. Ed was suggesting we just do the most common part of the route, from Lac Lemon to Nice, a mere 440 miles, and therefore close enough to the song we’d heard the night before. At first I was horrified: more time away from work, hundreds of miles of walking, total disregard for my life at home and… the women.

            It would mean the end of Sharona, for now at least, since Ed insisted she couldn’t come, and I could not bring myself to protest strongly enough. Equally, though, it would mean several weeks until I could follow up on Annabell’s unexpected revival of interest. What if she were to turn cold again before I returned?

            Nonetheless, it represented something new and different: something that was neither uncertain or undecided, neither Annabell nor Sharona. It was an escape route, and so what? I know everyone disapproves of running away from problems but I don’t give a fuck right now. I think sometimes things need time, sometimes problems cannot be fixed immediately.

            So I decided to go.

            “Of course you will,” said Ed. “I never doubted it. Now we just have to tell Sharona.”

           

*

 

            “It’s not the end, Sharona, honestly,” I said, when we’d explained it to her. I could see her face twisting up with rage. The pitiful little girl was gone, this was the fiery creature I’d met. It almost made me sorry for my choice.

            “Who are you to tell me when it’s the end or not?” she shouted.

            “Listen, darling,” said Ed, “he’s right. This is just an adventure Tom and I need to do on our own. It’s a man thing.”

            Sharona looked apoplectic.

            “Look, here’s a sign of good faith,” he said, “have the keys to my flat, stay there while we do this.” He threw the keys through the air to her. She caught them angrily and stared at us. “Don’t take it so personally, Sharona. You always knew what you were getting with us. But we’ll be back, you’ll see.”

            But she was ignoring him; her gaze was fixed upon me. “God you’re fucked up Tom. This is all about Annabell isn’t it? Don’t look so surprised, I’m not an idiot. What’s the matter with you? You’d choose the girl who feels nothing but contempt for you over the girl who loves you?”

            She’d said too much. She put her hand over her mouth, grabbed her back and ran out.

            “Wow,” said Ed, “I didn’t see that one coming. Well… at least she’d gone now eh mate?”

           

            I punched him.

 

            Square in the eye. He went straight down, he didn’t even try to block it.

            “I’m sorry, Tom,” he said, unfazed, from the ground. “I hope you feel better now. You can do that again if you like. No? I’ll even hit you back if it’ll help. Come on, let’s go get drunk.”

Something Like Nervous Infidelity

          Sharona was gone when I first woke this morning. Yesterday we’d pretended to have an ordinary day. Nothing much happened, we relaxed around the hotel in a haze of awkward levity. When I saw her side of the bed empty this morning I felt mixed horror and relief.

            In fact, she was only in the bathroom. As she walked back in she smiled at me wholesomely, as though we were eternally bonded by warm, patient love. I dealt with it and got up.

           

*

 

            “‘Meme-si’,” said Ed, “that’s, like, ‘as if’, isn’t it?”

            We looked the song up online and read the lyrics.

 

You’re not in love this time,

But it’s alright.

 

            Great, a song all about love that doesn’t quite work out.

            “Er… maybe we should consider something else?” Ed suggested, and it quite took me aback. He’d never suggested giving a challenge up. I looked at him. He appeared to have genuine compassion for us. He could see the awkwardness between us as we read the lyrics and tried to act as though they were written about strangers.

            “There’s swimming in it, right?” I said, perpetuating the pretence. “Sinking, admittedly, but swimming too. We’ll go swimming.”

            And so we did.

 

*

 

            Down at the lakefront we dried off and relaxed after a quick dip into the admittedly freezing waters of Lac Lemon.

            Two girls, bronzed and bikini’d as though we were in Nice, walked past and Ed stopped them to ask the time. Luckily for him they spoke English and this time Ed’s charm was as magic. His request of them was a mere device and very soon they were giggling and flicking their hair about like the best of them. Sharona and I watched him quietly, with deep seated envy. We wanted his ease of mind and poise. We wanted his carefree life, without ties and pain.

            “What’s your favourite song?” he asked them, at length.

            “Why don’t you find out? Come to Le Reve d’Or tomorrow night and we’ll make sure it’s played!” said one of them. I’d identify which but it’d be difficult. They both had long blonde hair and lithe, flawless figures.

            “You’re on!” said Ed, and they walked away.

 

*

 

            I’m ashamed. I just emailed Annabell back. It’s bad enough that I don’t know where I am out here with Sharona, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to keep it casual, but it felt anything but. It was something like infidelity, something like nervous hope, or a terrible premonition.

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.

Disapproval and Disrepute

          “What next?” asked Ed, as soon as I walked in from work tonight.

            “Nothing,” I replied, “I’ve got work to do.” It’s true, I did have, and I still do. I’ve been neglecting my job for months now. With all the weirdness in the last few days it’s actually a bit of a relief just to get down to some nice, straightforward road traffic accidents.

            Sharona walked in from the bedroom. “Hi Tom! Good day?”

            “Don’t bother, Sharona,” said Ed. “He’s not worth it.” He stared at me with unexpected distaste.

            “Ed?” I said.

            “What, Evans? Can’t take a little disapproval?”

            “Of course, but… maybe I’m not explaining myself well…”

            “Don’t patronise me. Just do what I say.”

            I screwed up my face quizzically and looked at him. I couldn’t believe he was talking to me this way right in front of Sharona. How could he just stand there and order me about like that? I ought to have put him straight. I ought to have fucking knocked him out. I looked at Sharona… I guess I thought it wasn’t the done thing to do it in front of her.

            But what of her? She didn’t seem too offended on my behalf. I couldn’t read her at all in fact. She spends all day with Ed, every day at the moment. If he’s such great fucking company why doesn’t she just get together with him? They’re both as screwed up as each other, and I should be with Annabell anyway: someone normal, who won’t bring me into disrepute; someone who I can present to society with confidence.

            “I don’t need this,” I said, and went to my room to work. I’ve been there since, and now I’m going to bed, alone. Sharona can come when she pleases, as usual.

On Sunday You Shall Lie

          “Can I get you some breakfast?” I asked Sharona, upon waking this morning. I felt bad. She’d come home last night enthusiastic and full of life. Worst, she’d come home excited to see me. I’d more or less turned over in bed and gone to sleep, not wanting to face her.

            She closed her eyes and turned away from me.

            “Er… some toast maybe?” I suggested.

            She turned back around and sat up in bed. “Tom, it’s right that you feel bad about the way you behaved last night. It wasn’t good enough and I won’t be treated that way.” She looked me in the eye. “As long as you understand that it’s okay. Now go bring me some breakfast. And it’d better be something more impressive than toast.”

 

*

 

            I don’t have much work on at the moment so I decided to stay home this morning. We remembered the vampire adventure and decided to check our messages. Felicia had left us a barrage of concerned messages inquiring into our disappearance.

 

            ‘Dear Dark Felicia,’ wrote Ed, ‘so long has been my absence from light that I am no longer at ease with the passing seconds of the day. Time is eternal for me and days pass unnoticed. The coming and going of the years is to me no more than the flies are to the ravens who pick at corpses.

            ‘So do not wonder when I am not present. Instead dream of me in my nocturnal thirst, prowling and hunting in the shadows.’

 

            “Yes, yes,” I said, “but we really need to move this thing along now, set a date. She’s ready and willing!”

            “Fine. Fine!”

 

‘Be prepared, my fallen angel, the time is nigh.

Be ready, my lady of luck, for on Sunday you shall lie.’

Darker and Colder

          The door slammed on her way out and woke me. No good morning, no good bye.

            I got out of bed to make myself some toast and get ready for my day. It happened that I was in Oxford County Court anyway today so I wasn’t in any hurry.

As I entered the kitchen I saw something I’d missed in my investigations of yesterday: a sticky note attached to the fridge. It read:

 

“Alex – 07765883122”

 

*

 

In court I represented a guy who wanted to repossess his flat from his ex girlfriend who still lived there while he paid the mortgage. She was the mother of his child and had nowhere else to go.

“Should’ve thought of that before you turned into a whorish cunt then eh?” suggested my client from the back of court. The judge was catatonic with rage and gibbered trying to find the appropriate response. I narrowly intervened to apologise and promise it wouldn’t happen again.

I finished early enough and went to a local sandwich shop in the centre of the town. I wondered what to do. I wanted to ask about Alex. I wanted to know who, or what, he was. I texted Annabell to ask.

I waited.

I sat in the café for a full hour watching my phone. Nothing.

I wondered what to do.

I felt compelled to see her again.

I went back to the flat, but I didn’t go in. I concealed myself around a corner and waited. It was nearly time for her to return. Eventually she parked alongside the flat and went inside. I crept nearer the windows and looked inside. I saw her take her phone from her handbag and look at it. She pressed a few buttons and then tossed it idly aside. Didn’t she think she owed me more than that? I couldn’t take it. What was she doing with this Alex? Was she sleeping with him? The thoughts made me physically sick.

I walked away from the flat to the end of the road. There’s a church there. It was getting dark and I decided to sit in the graveyard for a while. It got darker and colder. My head was clear but stuck, like a record. I could only think, over and over again, of what I’d like to say to her, and how she might respond. I covered all possible scenarios and then replayed them all, over and over. Ed sent me a text:

“You still alive? Maybe dead? It’s all good, thought you might want some pasta? Or maybe an apple?” Ed was always trying to make clever references. Apples are the food of the dead in many cultures. It seemed appropriate, given my surroundings. I didn’t answer. I wondered if I shouldn’t go back to London. I thought perhaps I could stay with Annabell, but how could I explain to her why I was still there? I resolved to try anyway, it was getting too late and I was too miserable to get on a train all on my own.

I knocked on her door softly, and then harder a moment later. After some time she opened the door.

“What are doing here?” she asked icily.

“I… er… I was working here today, I wondered if I could stay again.”

“Go away Tom. Leave me alone.” She slammed the door in my face.

“This is my flat too you know!” I shouted after her. But I didn’t use my key.

I walked to the nearest off licence, spinning esprit de l’escalier, and bought two bottles of Stones Green Ginger Wine.

I’ve drunk half of one of them and now I’m sitting in an internet café writing this.

At least it’s warm in here.

Unwanted Affection and Mixed Abhorrence

          All morning I sat at my desk frantic with anticipation. I finally sent a reply to Annabell last night, carefully crafted to create a perfect blend of capricious curiosity as to her current condition.

            She had not replied.

            I was supposed to be working but could not. Perhaps the wording had been wrong. Perhaps she had wanted more… affection. Maybe I needed to demonstrate my continuing commitment.

            I still had keys to our flat… I thought… and knew I shouldn’t. But I did.

 

*

 

            I slipped quietly in just before six this evening, a little in advance of her return. A few of my things were still about providing the perfect alibi. I was glad to note no sign of others. No new tenant; no new... other. The photos that we’d displayed about the flat were all gone or turned face down. No doubt she didn’t want the reminders of what we’d had.

            She returned a little before seven. She was a little surprised to see me sitting in the living room but no alarmed. She responded to me coolly. I had hoped perhaps for a hug or… something. She established the purpose of my return and accepted it unemotionally.

            “Perhaps we could go for a drink before I leave?” I suggested.

            “Alright,” she said, and my heart skipped a beat, “but it’s not a date, Tom. You do understand that?”

            I kicked my heart back into life. “Of course,” I replied, “I know,” I added, more quietly.

           

*

 

            In the end we decided to have dinner at a local Pizza Express. She spoke exclusively of her job: office politics, successful cases, fascinating points of law. She asked me my views on them occasionally and I responded with forced interest. She did not ask me about my life.

            I tried to switch the conversation several times, in vain. I wanted something more emotional from the meeting. How could we pass from lust and love into passive dissection of a lawyer’s day?

            “Damn, Annabell!” I blurted.

            “What?” She asked, and waited silently.

            “Nothing… I suppose,” I said, after a few moments.

            She paused, sighed slightly and then addressed herself to me, setting herself straight in her chair before she began. “Tom, you’re just worried you’ll never do better than me.” She paused again though from her expression I could see this was not an invitation to reply. “You’re wrong, Tom. You will do better, I know you will.”

There was a flash of kindness in her eyes now, the emotion I so desperately sought. I paused awkwardly, caught between unwanted affection and mixed abhorrence at the presumptions.

She looked about briefly. Dinner was over, we’d paid. It was time to go home.

“You can sleep on the couch Tom.”

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.

DontDateHimGirl

          “Yes, of course I’m serious, why wouldn’t I be?”

            I would have difficulty swallowing that line from Ed, and I haven’t even dated the guy. He was on the phone to Jane, asking her out for lunch. “No, there’s no catch… No, I’m not trying to scam a free lunch. Look, if you’d rather not bother then… Good… Okay. See you later.”

 

*

 

            Ed had agreed to meet Jane at a cosy café in Camden near to the school he worked at. It was a little out of my way but fortunately I have no boss to watch my lunch hour so I was free to wander over. We both got there before Jane and ordered a cup of tea while we waited. After ten minutes she walked in and saw us straight away.

            “Tom, no offence but why are you here?” I looked blankly back at her. I suppose I might’ve been a gooseberry but these are the adventures, we both have to at least be there. “Ed, why is he here?”

            “Well this was all his idea, so it seems only right he witnesses it.”

            “‘This’ is what, exactly? I thought you wanted to see me for something important.”

            “Here we go,” muttered Ed.

            “I knew this was a waste of time,” Jane said.

            “You haven’t even sat down!”

            “I hardly need to. You can’t even think to ask me to lunch on your own and you expect me to sit down with you.” She paused. “You know, we really do have certain things we need to sit down and talk about.” She glanced at me. “Alone.” She added.

            Ed thrust out his lower lip in a display of indifference. “Maybe so,” he said, simply.

            “Oh I don’t have time for this.” She fished about in her bag and found her wallet. From this she drew out a card. Leaning low over the table and into Ed’s face she held out the card. He went to take it but she flicked it in his face. “You’re a waste of time, Donavon.” She turned and strode out.

            “Have some ham and eggs!” Ed shouted after her.

            I picked up the card. On one side, in handwriting, it read ‘Fuck You’ and on the other was a website address: www.dontdatehimgirl.com.

 

*

 

            “Jesus,” said Ed, “where the hell did she get that picture?” It’s true that it wasn’t flattering. “It’s a bad angle,” he added.

            dontdatehimgirl is a website where aggrieved women get to post information about their exes in order to warn other women off them. The whole concept seems somewhat flawed to me. It’s perfectly obvious that jilted girls are going to write terrible things about the men that have dumped them. No one in their right mind would trust this stuff. This didn’t stop Jane. Here’s an extract of her entry on Ed:

 

            Don’t date this guy girls! He presents himself as an exciting and mysterious man, a bad boy with an honest sweet stroke, but don’t believe a word! He’s rotten and sick, through and through. He’ll show you a glimpse of something else, something better, every so often. Just enough to keep you hooked, keep you thinking you can fix him, and make it better. He’ll even stand up for you when you least expect it, but when you most need him he’ll turn on you and screw you over. He can’t handle any commitment at all. He’ll lead you to believe you might just have a shot at a future but he’ll always keep a part of himself back. He’ll disappear for days without explanation. One day he wants you and the next you’re in the way.

            He can’t handle responsibility. Our lives changed forever in one moment and I’ll never forgive him for leaving me in the next.

 

            “What happened Ed?” I asked.

            “It’s all just melodramatic nonsense.” He frowned. “Can’t you do something about this? Isn’t it illegal to write things like this?”

            “Probably,” I agreed, “although, in truth, she seems only to be expressing opinion. Consciously or not she actually seems to have stayed perfectly within legal comment. She hasn’t alleged any specific fact that we could prove as false. It’s not libellous I’m afraid.” I paused. “But you’re evading my question. What’s this critical moment she’s talking about? What happened?”

            “It’s nothing,” he snapped, “leave it.”

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.”