Good Bad Woman. Elizabeth Woodcraft

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СКАЧАТЬ and had that comedy the French laugh at – people hiding in dustbins and being loaded on to dustcarts by mistake, like Benny Hill with an accent – which I always forget about when I say I like French films. But I enjoyed myself being critical and feeling superior about the subtitles, which were too short, too vague, too late. The story of my life.

      It was a quarter to six when I came out of the cinema and the air was less cold than it had been earlier. I was humming the film’s catchy theme tune which hadn’t yet become irritating and I decided to walk to the restaurant to meet Kay.

      All I will say is, Brunswick Square to Kings Cross was easy enough, through the streets of high mansion blocks and large houses, past the turrets of St Pancras station to the concrete flatness of Kings Cross, but the hill up to the Angel reminded me that I had done a lot of walking already that day and also notified me of all the spots where my shoes rubbed. At least it wasn’t raining.

      I felt irritable and ragged when I limped into Gino’s.

      ‘Signora,’ Gino bustled towards me, his face all concern, ‘you look a little fatigué. Come, sit down, asseyez-vous, and I bring you a bottle of vino tinto red, yes?’

      The restaurant was empty and Gino guided me to a small, discreet table tucked behind a large Swiss cheese plant.

      ‘I am expecting someone,’ I said defiantly, as he put down the bottle of wine and began removing the plate and cutlery opposite me.

      ‘Of course, yes, signora,’ he said, pretending to tidy them. ‘How long you will be waiting?’

      It was ten to seven.

      ‘Fifteen minutes,’ I said. I had £15 left from the £20 Simon had lent me. That meant, if absolutely necessary, if she didn’t come, I could have the wine, a starter and just about enough for a cab home. I was worrying about the tip when Kay appeared.

      I always do a double take when I haven’t seen Kay for a while. She’s tall, about five foot nine, and carries her weight well. She has dark hair and dark eyes, but it’s her mouth that I’m drawn to. It is full and perfectly shaped and she does something which always makes her lips shine. She licks them. It works.

      She leaned on the back of the empty chair opposite me.

      ‘May I?’

      I smiled and she sat down. She was wearing a grey trouser suit, with a long draping jacket, it said Armani, it said Donna Karan, it said, successful solicitor. I realised my outfit today said Top Shop, and the jacket was too tight across the shoulders. I poured her some wine and Gino hurried forward with a menu. I ordered a mushroom risotto and Kay ordered chicken.

      I had warmed up, I was relaxed and it was good to see her.

      ‘Saskia rang me,’ she announced. I sat forward in my chair. ‘She said she was OK and thank you very much and sorry she left without saying goodbye. Oh, and she said something about a grey shirt?’ It was a question.

      ‘She went off in my shirt. But did she say where she was? Did you ask her about the bruises?’

      ‘Well, I couldn’t really ask about the bruises because I didn’t see them. And she didn’t say where she was.’ She looked at my face. ‘And, no, I didn’t ask her either. To be honest, I didn’t have the time for a chat.’ Unlike you, I read in her eyes. I make time because I care, I flashed back, silently. Oh, please! Her eyebrow twitched.

      She shook out her napkin. ‘She did say something odd. She said, “It’s the singer not the song.” I wondered if she’d been flicking through your record collection.’

      ‘Did you ask her what she meant?’

      She didn’t bother to answer. ‘Sometimes I think Saskia says things just to be mysterious. It doesn’t mean anything. What could it mean?’

      I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders.

      ‘There’s nothing more you can do,’ she said sensibly. ‘Saskia’s an adult. And she’s pretty much told us to lay off.’ She poured more wine in my glass and I tried to put my anxiety aside.

      We had a pleasant evening. I talked about chambers, she talked about her office. Once we looked at each other as we were laughing about the lifts at Wood Green Court, and the possibility of going home together hovered in the air, but the moment passed.

      In Kay’s car at the end of the evening I concentrated on what Saskia could mean by that comment, ‘the singer not the song’. It was true, she often said things for effect, she said it brought interest to people’s lives. But there was something wrong, something not Saskia in all this.

      As she dropped me off, Kay said, ‘Look, Saskia was a client, you represented her, the case is over. All you can do now is return the brief and forget about it. There’s no Legal Aid for all this worrying, and your professional insurance probably doesn’t cover you for it either. Knowing Saskia, she’ll turn up in about two years’ time, after another demo, and you’ll be representing her on an assault police charge.’

      I looked at her.

      ‘For God’s sake,’ she said, ‘go to bed.’

      I went into the flat and headed straight for the bathroom to run a bath to relax me so that I could sleep. I noticed that Saskia had carefully cleaned the bath, which is not my practice. I believe in self-cleaning baths like other people believe in fairies. My theory is self-cleaning ovens exist, so why not self-cleaning baths?

      I undressed as the bath filled. I opened the clothes basket to dispose of my underwear and noticed a blue shirt sheltering like a cuckoo in the nest of my dirty clothes.

      I looked at it, uncomprehending, for three seconds then realised it was Saskia’s.

      I lifted it out of the basket between thumb and forefinger as if it was a piece of china which might have fingerprints on it. It was a long-sleeve polo shirt with a pocket over the left breast.

      I couldn’t work out whether I felt like a detective or a thief as I considered slipping my fingers into the pocket to see what was in there. I knew that Saskia liked and trusted me so I decided I could assume the rights and even duties of a good friend. Also, if there was a tissue in there and I washed it, it would wreak havoc with my court things. I hooked the pocket open with my index finger and looked in. There was nothing but a screwed up turquoise and white wrapper, Orbit sugar-free gum. I was humming the advertising slogan as I pulled it out of the pocket and tossed it in the bin. I tried to picture Saskia chewing gum. It didn’t fit, I had never seen Saskia chewing gum, so I scrabbled among the tissues and old toilet roll to retrieve the wrapper.

      What was I expecting? Something dramatic, something helpful, a note that said, ‘I have moved and can now be reached at 0837-24391,’ perhaps. Perhaps an address. Perhaps something more sinister, a name, written in blood.

      It didn’t say anything like that. But it did say something: ‘7.30 Gino’s F.’

      What? At first I thought I must have written it. I had just come from Gino’s. How had that fact got into Saskia’s pocket? I’d been with Kay. Had Kay written it? It wasn’t Kay’s writing. I tried to remember Saskia’s handwriting.

      ‘7.30 Gino’s F.’

      What did it mean?

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