all over my chest and under my collar.
Anthony had listened to my description of the meeting with Scott with a still and intense gaze. “So, that’s pretty much it,” I say, stifling a yawn, looking round my windowless, Neeta-less, claustrophobic workspace. “Ooh, I hate spending so much time in here. The library’s much nicer. No phones, no computers, just heavenly peace.”
“You like the library?”
“Not as much as home.”
I stand up to leave, link my fingers and stretch my hands to the ceiling.
Anthony jangles a bunch of keys to his head.
“Let me show you something.”
***
We are alone, Anthony and I, in the law library, out of hours. I turn 360 degrees, drinking it all in. The wooden panelled walls, the shelves upon shelves weighted with books, the fancy gilt-framed oil paintings, the beamed ceiling and above all, the quiet, which is almost ghostly in its presence. It’s a weird, strange thrill to be here without another soul. I feel how a naughty toddler must, when he knows he’s somewhere out of bounds, but looks mighty damn proud of it all the same.
“This is mad!” I whisper.
“It’s ok. You can speak normally.”
Anthony speaks quietly himself and I giggle at the sound that even his soft, deep baritone voice makes, echoing slightly in the emptiness.
My senior counsel and the concierge, it would appear, are good friends, which is why Anthony has a duplicate set of keys, although I’ve been sworn to secrecy for knowing as much. Unfortunately, the concierge hasn’t shown Anthony how to operate all the lights, so we’re relying on one set of dim tubes that line the walls.
“Have you come here much, when it’s closed I mean?”
“A couple of times. What do you reckon?”
“It’s magic.”
I pretend to carry on looking round, but really I’m trying to capture his princely image with each turn, catching snapshot glimpses of him standing there, almost a silhouette, tall, in his designer three-piece dark blue suit, the reds and golds in his patterned tie the only real colour. He’s a sexy contradiction of poise versus cool, of funk versus elegance, of brains versus brawn. A distraction’s in order.
“Hey, let me show YOU something. Wait there.”
As I head for the area behind the librarian’s desk, the click of my heels on the wooden floor reverberates in the silence, hangs in the air. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus in the low light, but eventually I recognise the shelf I’m after by the colour of its books and run a finger down the line of red leather spines until I hit the right volume. I pull out The Public Order Act 1861, walk it over to where Anthony’s standing and lay it down on the nearest table.
“Now, that’s a bestseller,” he jokes. “Hope you’re not expecting to find anything there to help you with Scott Richardson?”
“Very funny.”
I sit myself to one side of the book on the table and Anthony hops up on the other. I open the book halfway, under my colleague’s watchful gaze, then flick carefully to page 4005. When I reach it, I’m relieved to find my lucky talisman, the doodle scrap of parchment, with VERITAS VOS LIBERABIT written all over it, still there, lodged inconspicuously in the deep fold of the book, where I left it at the beginning of the year. I cover it territorially with my right hand. That’s not what I want Anthony to see.
“There you go,” I point to the relevant section. “Bet you didn’t know that!”
Anthony gems up on the law that allows a man to pee in public as long it’s on the rear wheel of his car and his right hand’s on the vehicle, then looks up at me, one brow raised above a twinkling eye.
“Thank you, as ever, my learned friend, for bringing such an interesting and useful piece of legislation to my attention, but I’m afraid I can trump you.”
“Go on?” I dare.
He pulls
Anthony had listened to my description of the meeting with Scott with a still and intense gaze. “So, that’s pretty much it,” I say, stifling a yawn, looking round my windowless, Neeta-less, claustrophobic workspace. “Ooh, I hate spending so much time in here. The library’s much nicer. No phones, no computers, just heavenly peace.”
“You like the library?”
“Not as much as home.”
I stand up to leave, link my fingers and stretch my hands to the ceiling.
Anthony jangles a bunch of keys to his head.
“Let me show you something.”
***
We are alone, Anthony and I, in the law library, out of hours. I turn 360 degrees, drinking it all in. The wooden panelled walls, the shelves upon shelves weighted with books, the fancy gilt-framed oil paintings, the beamed ceiling and above all, the quiet, which is almost ghostly in its presence. It’s a weird, strange thrill to be here without another soul. I feel how a naughty toddler must, when he knows he’s somewhere out of bounds, but looks mighty damn proud of it all the same.
“This is mad!” I whisper.
“It’s ok. You can speak normally.”
Anthony speaks quietly himself and I giggle at the sound that even his soft, deep baritone voice makes, echoing slightly in the emptiness.
My senior counsel and the concierge, it would appear, are good friends, which is why Anthony has a duplicate set of keys, although I’ve been sworn to secrecy for knowing as much. Unfortunately, the concierge hasn’t shown Anthony how to operate all the lights, so we’re relying on one set of dim tubes that line the walls.
“Have you come here much, when it’s closed I mean?”
“A couple of times. What do you reckon?”
“It’s magic.”
I pretend to carry on looking round, but really I’m trying to capture his princely image with each turn, catching snapshot glimpses of him standing there, almost a silhouette, tall, in his designer three-piece dark blue suit, the reds and golds in his patterned tie the only real colour. He’s a sexy contradiction of poise versus cool, of funk versus elegance, of brains versus brawn. A distraction’s in order.
“Hey, let me show YOU something. Wait there.”
As I head for the area behind the librarian’s desk, the click of my heels on the wooden floor reverberates in the silence, hangs in the air. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus in the low light, but eventually I recognise the shelf I’m after by the colour of its books and run a finger down the line of red leather spines until I hit the right volume. I pull out The Public Order Act 1861, walk it over to where Anthony’s standing and lay it down on the nearest table.
“Now, that’s a bestseller,” he jokes. “Hope you’re not expecting to find anything there to help you with Scott Richardson?”
“Very funny.”
I sit myself to one side of the book on the table and Anthony hops up on the other. I open the book halfway, under my colleague’s watchful gaze, then flick carefully to page 4005. When I reach it, I’m relieved to find my lucky talisman, the doodle scrap of parchment, with VERITAS VOS LIBERABIT written all over it, still there, lodged inconspicuously in the deep fold of the book, where I left it at the beginning of the year. I cover it territorially with my right hand. That’s not what I want Anthony to see.
“There you go,” I point to the relevant section. “Bet you didn’t know that!”
Anthony gems up on the law that allows a man to pee in public as long it’s on the rear wheel of his car and his right hand’s on the vehicle, then looks up at me, one brow raised above a twinkling eye.
“Thank you, as ever, my learned friend, for bringing such an interesting and useful piece of legislation to my attention, but I’m afraid I can trump you.”
“Go on?” I dare.
He pulls
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