You Had Me At Hello. Mhairi McFarlane

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      ‘You can tell that bird-faced bitch that I’m after her, right? Press on press is not on,’ he splutters.

      I wasn’t aware Gretton operated by any code of honour. This is a retroactive one because he’s lost out on a story, no doubt.

      ‘Who …?’

      ‘Your little sidekick!’

      ‘You mean Zoe? What’s the matter?’

      I try to get him to lower his voice by speaking more quietly and hoping he’ll match my volume. A few people are glancing over at us.

      ‘She DELIBERATELY …’

      Tactic failing, I clutch his elbow and steer him alongside me as I walk away. ‘Shhh, not here. Follow me.’

      Being taken seriously seems to calm Gretton slightly, and he just about keeps a lid on his simmering rage until we’re in the street.

      ‘She tampered with my court list.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘I was missing pages on 2 and 3, and when I go and get a replacement, I find those pages have today’s best stories on them.’

      ‘How do you know it was Zoe? Couldn’t the pages have slipped out? Loose staple?’

      Loose screw, possibly. We’re each given our computer printouts with lists of the daily hearings in sealed envelopes every morning by the front desk staff, so I don’t see how this trick is meant to have been played.

      ‘That happen to have her cases listed on them? I’m not fucking stupid.’

      At this moment, Zoe sails past. ‘Alright, Pete?’ she asks, cool as the cucumber she doesn’t eat.

      ‘I’m on to you, you conniving little cow,’ Gretton barks.

      ‘Stop talking to her like that,’ I say.

      ‘What’s the problem?’ Zoe asks, girlish eyes wide.

      ‘Ripping pages out of my lists. If you want to play dirty, we’ll play dirty. You’ve been warned. And you –’ he wheels round to jab a finger at me ‘– better watch out too.’

      ‘Why? What have I done?’

      He stalks off, smoothing his rusty flyaway hair with one hand, the other jammed in his pocket, seeking out his fags.

      Zoe adjusts her bag on her shoulder. I hadn’t noticed how appealingly shabby and insufficiently smart it is – a student-market-looking thing in sludgy colours, covered in little mirrors and tassels. It reminds me how new she is to all of this. She’ll probably get her first briefcase from her parents this Christmas. She’s smiling, a little too contentedly.

      ‘How’d you do it?’

      ‘I pulled the pages out of mine and swapped our lists over when he was busy looking at that leggy barrister who got her robe caught on a door handle.’

      We look at each other and start laughing.

      ‘The fight back starts here,’ Zoe says.

      I’ve always put up with Gretton as an unfortunate fact of life, but Zoe’s showing significantly more resourcefulness. Perhaps if I’d had this kind of energy ten years ago, I’d be in a very different place right now.

      I put my hand out and she shakes it. ‘You should be very proud of your first week.’

      ‘Drink?’ Zoe asks.

      ‘Ah, no. Next time. I’ve got this meet-up with my friends.’

      ‘The female friend,’ she nods.

      For a moment, I struggle to remember my untruth, and stare blankly.

      ‘Have a nice time,’ Zoe says, though I have a feeling her smirk says she’s rumbled me.

      I walk away silently saying to myself: and you are learning Italian, and you are learning Italian.

      ‘You look nice,’ Caroline says as I pick my way to our meeting point by Piccadilly Gardens, taking in my shirtdress and my higher-than-usual heels. ‘All for my benefit, is it?’

      ‘You look nice too,’ I say, defensively.

      ‘I always look this nice for work.’

      ‘Show off.’

      I hoped to convey ‘professional and together.’ And, OK, maybe a little bit hot. So far it’s earned: ‘Ahoy hoy, soliciting under the Street Offences Act, 1959? Court 7!’ from Gretton.

      I asked Caroline to come in a fit of pre-match nerves when I realised I wanted support in facing Ben and this scary bloke. And maybe, possibly, it occurred to me that four was a better number for one-on-one conversations. I knew Caroline would relish the opportunity to do some hands-off, safe-distance admiring of Ben.

      ‘Graeme didn’t mind you coming, did he?’ I ask, as we set off, me trying to keep lock step with Caroline’s long stride. ‘Sorry you had to rearrange your evening.’

      ‘Yep, you’ve ruined our annual trip to the cinema. I rule out anything with submarines and he rules out anything with Meryl Streep and we stand in the foyer arguing until Gray buys me off with Revels.’

      ‘Sorry …’

      ‘Joking. It was cancelled anyway. He fobbed me off with some bullshit about spreadsheets so he can sit in picking his feet. Who are we meeting again? Apart from Ben?’

      ‘His friend, Simon.’

      She raises an eyebrow.

      ‘What is this, matchmaking?’

      ‘Don’t be stupid. That’s not Ben’s kind of thing.’

      ‘Errr …’

      ‘What?’ I ask, nervily.

      ‘You haven’t seen Ben for ten years, his thing could’ve changed completely.’

       18

      Ben nominated a fashionable bar in the city centre that I haven’t got round to visiting yet, rather giving lie to the idea that I can show him where to go out. It’s all poured, polished concrete surfaces, with dramatic under-lighting, tropical flower displays and chairs that are so low-slung you end up talking to a collection of windpipes and kneecaps.

      As we enter I see Ben at a table in the far corner, chatting to a tall, blond-haired, mid-thirties man whose expansive body language implies that all the world’s a chat show and he’s the host. The would-be Michael Parkinson СКАЧАТЬ