Judicial Whispers by Caro Fraser

sub-freights, time dragged interminably. The worst – but in some ways the best – hour was between six and seven. Most people had left chambers by then, so there was no impetus to work and merely time to mark. But there was also the delight of anticipation, of wondering what she would wear, what they would talk about. He had booked a table for dinner at Le Café du Jardin. He hoped she wouldn’t make some excuse after their drink at Gregory’s and just leave. There was always that possibility. They hadn’t planned anything more definite than just meeting for a drink. He wondered if his tie was all right.
    At last he left chambers at ten to seven, and hurried through the darkness up Chancery Lane. She was there when he arrived, hanging her coat up, and she smiled when she saw him.
    ‘Hi,’ he said as he came towards her. ‘Look, shall we just have a quick drink here? I’ve booked a table for dinner.’
    She looked slightly surprised. ‘Oh, fine. Yes. Yes, I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks.’
    His heart was bathed in relief as he made his way to the bar. He would have her to himself for the whole evening. He loved this feeling, loved being swept away by someone. The first evening was, in many ways, always the best. Except for the first time you took them to bed, of course. He turned to glance at Rachel as he waited for his change, and felt suddenly overwhelmed at the thought of taking her to bed, of making love to her. And then he stopped himself. Don’t be absurd, he thought. She probably doesn’t think it’s anything like that. You’re merely professional colleagues. Remember how it was last time. This is all in your own mind. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
    He took the drinks back to the table and they sat for an hour or so, talking. They talked about people they both knew, about other barristers and solicitors, about the events of the day. There was nothing remotely personal in it. In fact, Anthony got the impression that she was wary of allowing the conversation to take any sort of personal turn.
    The effort of keeping the conversation commonplace, however, could not last, and they lapsed into a long and oddly strained silence on the way to the restaurant. Once there, however, she began gradually to open up a little about herself.
    ‘No, I’m an only child,’ she said in reply to a question of Anthony’s. Then she put down her menu and rested her elbows on it, cupping her face in her hands so that her hair swung forward and the light from the candle lit her cheekbones. ‘My mother lives in Bath. She’s wonderful. She’s everything I’m not.’ She smiled.
    ‘And what’s that?’ said Anthony. He wanted to reach out and trace the line of her face with his finger, right down to her mouth.
    ‘Oh, energetic, amusing – always dashing about, seeing things and people, doing everything there is to do.’
    ‘Aren’t you like that?’
    ‘No. I’m a bit of a stay-at-home, I’m afraid. Not very good with people. Don’t have my mother’s social dynamism.’
    ‘We’ll order in a couple of minutes,’ said Anthony to the waiter hovering next to them. He turned back to Rachel.
    ‘Do you share a flat, live with friends?’ he asked.
    ‘No. No. I live alone,’ said Rachel. Wonderful, thought Anthony.
    ‘What about your father?’ He picked up a breadstick and snapped it.
    Rachel sat back away from the candlelight and shadow fell upon her face. She looked down at her lap. ‘I don’t see him. That is, he and my mother split up.’
    Anthony nodded and ate some of his breadstick. He sensed that she didn’t want to talk about this. The faint, cold reserve had returned. He could think of nothing to say until the waiter returned to take their order.
    After two glasses of wine, the chilly edge to her manner dropped away. She even laughed so much at Anthony’s description of his father and his doings that she dropped her knife on the floor.
    ‘Honestly,’ said Anthony, as the waiter brought her