seen him wring concessions from other lawyers
that make our clients want to cast his image in gold and
after Nick’s finished with their exes, they can afford
to. What’s more, he knows how good he is: which is so
erotic. When he’s in full flow, tearing the opposition a
new arsehole, I almost feel scared of him myself .Certainly
in awe. A brilliant older man at the height of his power,
secure and certain of himself - yep, knicker-wetting, no
doubt about it.
Then there’s the other Nick, so frigging hopeless with
women, acting as if he wouldn’t begin to know his way
around a bedroom; blushing, even.
And of course he’s totally, but totally, off limits. Married,
kids, way older than me, and my boss to boot.
Oh, this is so not a good combination. And it so is.
I could’ve kissed that lech Fisher when he gave me this
Manchester gig, except I’d never prise him off me again.
Finally, the chance to scratch the itch that is Nick. So I
pulled out all the stops for this evening. The Donna Karan
dress set me back a month’s salary - shit, sweet Nick, no, I’m not ‘going out’ anywhere afterwards - but way worth it. I borrowed the scarlet Jimmy Choos from Amy - two
sizes too small, but this is the twenty-first century: ugly
sisters with big feet get to go to the ball too, or we’ll sue.
Between them, the dress and shoes did most of the
work - with a little help from my Wonderbra - but Nick’s
so bloody clueless, he couldn’t flirt to save his tightly
clenched arse. Which means I’ve had to do it all this evening:
draw him out, get him to talk about himself, guide
us back onto safe conversational territory whenever he
got nervous - and then cut the ground out from under
him with the tried-but-true crumbs-down-the-cleavage
trick. (About the only food I actually ate tonight. I’m
bloody starving: I didn’t want to eat too much and put
him off. Men hate women with an appetite.)
OK, it’s all anti-feminist crap straight from The Rules; but then let’s face it, so are men. I can impress him later with my sparkling intellect and flair for case law. The way
to a man’s heart is straight through his ego via his dick:
which is what this evening has been all about.
The question is: have I pulled it off?
Only one way to find out. Since he now seems to have
lost the power of speech altogether, I stand up, throwing
down the bedroom gauntlet with a final flourish.
Do something, Nick. I’m out on a limb here, and it’s
bloody windy-Alleluia, he stands up with me. ‘I think he says
hesitantly, ‘I think—”
The phone in his pocket rings.
Oh, shit. Not his wife, please, not now. Not when I’m this close.
‘Good evening, George - no, absolutely not, not too
late at all.’ Nick mouths Wainwright at me, and I breathe
again. Our client. It’s nearly midnight, but you can’t blame
the man for being nervous; his whole future is on the line
tomorrow. ‘How can I help? Of course, fire away—’
It’s only the usual last-minute panic-and-reassurance
Q & A; but ten minutes later, as Nick snaps shut his
phone, I suddenly realize from the rigid set of his shoulders
and the shutters screening those muddy eyes that
I’ve lost him. It’s more than the moment having passed.
He’s just had a brief encounter with the Ghost of Divorce
Future - all custody battles, maintenance cheques, bedsits
and Pot Noodles - and it’s terrified him shitless. No doubt
he sees that phone call as a Nick-of-time reminder of all he has to lose. Fuck, fuck and double fuck.
Or rather, not.
So, isn’t this lovely. A happy family Christmas with Ma
and Pa, a mixed nuts selection of uncles, aunts and
cousins, various freeloading friends and neighbours
and - I’ve stepped into Bridget Jones hell - their ‘eligible’
collective offspring; not forgetting, of course, the vicar.
Who is wearing a paisley Laura Ashley smock, a fashion
crime rendered only slightly less shocking by the
that make our clients want to cast his image in gold and
after Nick’s finished with their exes, they can afford
to. What’s more, he knows how good he is: which is so
erotic. When he’s in full flow, tearing the opposition a
new arsehole, I almost feel scared of him myself .Certainly
in awe. A brilliant older man at the height of his power,
secure and certain of himself - yep, knicker-wetting, no
doubt about it.
Then there’s the other Nick, so frigging hopeless with
women, acting as if he wouldn’t begin to know his way
around a bedroom; blushing, even.
And of course he’s totally, but totally, off limits. Married,
kids, way older than me, and my boss to boot.
Oh, this is so not a good combination. And it so is.
I could’ve kissed that lech Fisher when he gave me this
Manchester gig, except I’d never prise him off me again.
Finally, the chance to scratch the itch that is Nick. So I
pulled out all the stops for this evening. The Donna Karan
dress set me back a month’s salary - shit, sweet Nick, no, I’m not ‘going out’ anywhere afterwards - but way worth it. I borrowed the scarlet Jimmy Choos from Amy - two
sizes too small, but this is the twenty-first century: ugly
sisters with big feet get to go to the ball too, or we’ll sue.
Between them, the dress and shoes did most of the
work - with a little help from my Wonderbra - but Nick’s
so bloody clueless, he couldn’t flirt to save his tightly
clenched arse. Which means I’ve had to do it all this evening:
draw him out, get him to talk about himself, guide
us back onto safe conversational territory whenever he
got nervous - and then cut the ground out from under
him with the tried-but-true crumbs-down-the-cleavage
trick. (About the only food I actually ate tonight. I’m
bloody starving: I didn’t want to eat too much and put
him off. Men hate women with an appetite.)
OK, it’s all anti-feminist crap straight from The Rules; but then let’s face it, so are men. I can impress him later with my sparkling intellect and flair for case law. The way
to a man’s heart is straight through his ego via his dick:
which is what this evening has been all about.
The question is: have I pulled it off?
Only one way to find out. Since he now seems to have
lost the power of speech altogether, I stand up, throwing
down the bedroom gauntlet with a final flourish.
Do something, Nick. I’m out on a limb here, and it’s
bloody windy-Alleluia, he stands up with me. ‘I think he says
hesitantly, ‘I think—”
The phone in his pocket rings.
Oh, shit. Not his wife, please, not now. Not when I’m this close.
‘Good evening, George - no, absolutely not, not too
late at all.’ Nick mouths Wainwright at me, and I breathe
again. Our client. It’s nearly midnight, but you can’t blame
the man for being nervous; his whole future is on the line
tomorrow. ‘How can I help? Of course, fire away—’
It’s only the usual last-minute panic-and-reassurance
Q & A; but ten minutes later, as Nick snaps shut his
phone, I suddenly realize from the rigid set of his shoulders
and the shutters screening those muddy eyes that
I’ve lost him. It’s more than the moment having passed.
He’s just had a brief encounter with the Ghost of Divorce
Future - all custody battles, maintenance cheques, bedsits
and Pot Noodles - and it’s terrified him shitless. No doubt
he sees that phone call as a Nick-of-time reminder of all he has to lose. Fuck, fuck and double fuck.
Or rather, not.
So, isn’t this lovely. A happy family Christmas with Ma
and Pa, a mixed nuts selection of uncles, aunts and
cousins, various freeloading friends and neighbours
and - I’ve stepped into Bridget Jones hell - their ‘eligible’
collective offspring; not forgetting, of course, the vicar.
Who is wearing a paisley Laura Ashley smock, a fashion
crime rendered only slightly less shocking by the
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