Good Bad Woman. Elizabeth Woodcraft
I had been five minutes earlier. I wandered into the living room in my dressing gown.
The answer machine light was flashing.
‘Frankie, it’s Gavin. It’s eight thirty. Look, I’m sorry about this, but a new solicitor has just rung and needs someone to do a quick non-mol at Edmonton. You know I wouldn’t normally ask you to do an injunction, but you live so close and she needs a bit of soft soap which I know you’re good at.’
‘You taught me everything I know, Gavin,’ I said to the machine, and missed the last part of the message.
I played the tape again. ‘Client’s name is Fiona Stevens, brief at court. Don’t forget, Edmonton’s a ten o’clock start. See you tomorrow.’
I groaned, then groaned again. A non-molestation application at Edmonton County Court could take all day. The application itself would last ten minutes, the rest of the time would be spent waiting till the judge or the usher decided which of the twenty or so cases in the list could go in.
This was so depressing. I shouldn’t be doing cases like this, picking up my brief at Edmonton County Court on the morning of the hearing. I should be in the High Court, staggering under the weight of briefs which I’d received months before, for hearings which would last two or three weeks. What was the matter with my practice? Was it my solicitors? My clerks? Me?
I put on Sam and Dave singing, ‘Hold On, I’m Coming’ and thought, ‘Well, hurry up then,’ and went to bed.
Edmonton was everything I had dreaded and more. I left the house in good time, puzzling over the meaning of the sugar-free gum note and was still abstractedly worrying about it at half past nine as I climbed the narrow stairs to the tiny Ladies Robing Room in the eaves of the brick courthouse. As I shrugged off my heavy dark grey overcoat I realised I had forgotten to put on my jacket. I considered my options. I was wearing a black T-shirt, which fortunately had long sleeves, but was rather short and a little faded. I had no options. I tied my black devoré scarf round my neck and hoped it looked deliberate.
‘I’m in the case of Fiona Stevens,’ I told the new usher downstairs in the waiting area.
‘Are you being represented this morning, Miss Stevens?’ he asked me.
‘I’m the barrister,’ I hissed.
We were there all day. Fiona Stevens needed an emergency injunction, without her ex-husband knowing, to protect her and the children. He had punched her the day before as she was leaving home to collect the children from school and had threatened to come back to her house and tear it apart one night while she was out with her new partner, a woman.
Before we could appear in front of the judge we had to issue our application in the court office. But I had no papers, I couldn’t issue anything. ‘Everything is in the file,’ the solicitor told me when I rang her, ‘the outdoor clerk picked it up last night.’ I had no outdoor clerk. ‘We tell our clerks to be there half an hour before the hearing,’ the solicitor said accusingly, ‘she’ll be there somewhere,’ as if I was being stupid by failing to see her.
‘Are you ready?’ the usher asked me twice, and I said winningly, ‘Well, we haven’t issued, but yes.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I can’t send you in before the judge without issuing. He’d have my guts for garters,’ and he laughed. I laughed too, in case I needed him later. My client went downstairs for a cigarette.
The solicitor’s clerk arrived at quarter past eleven. She was late because she had washed her hair so it looked lovely and clean, but as she searched for the papers it became clear that she had been given the wrong file. She had to go back to the solicitor’s office to collect the right one.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Fiona Stevens said as we sat outside the ladies’ toilet, sipping bad coffee from beige plastic cups, waiting for the clerk to come back, ‘but he never wanted to go out with me, day or night. He used to like going out with his mates or with his girlfriend, he’d get all dressed up, but he’d say, “Who in their right mind would go out with you?” So I found someone who would, and he doesn’t like it.’
We left court at quarter past four with the injunction which would be served on Gary Stevens later that evening. When I got to my car, I was sorry I had snapped at the solicitor’s clerk as the car wouldn’t start and I had to ask her for a push. Humiliatingly, the client helped and then there was an uncomfortably quiet journey as I gave them a lift to Seven Sisters tube station.
My mental memo, which this morning had read, ‘Find Saskia,’ now read, ‘Find Saskia. Buy new car battery. Possibly buy new car.’
I drove back to my flat and rang my solicitor to tell her what had happened in court.
Gratifyingly she said, ‘The client was really pleased.’ But then she added, ‘She’s got a large ancillary relief case coming up and she’d like you to do it.’
Through gritted teeth I said, ‘Of course, I’d love to.’ I hate ancillary relief. Divorce work is bad enough with people being horrible to each other, but money matters seem to bring out the very worst in everybody. Compromise is usually the only answer because there’s not much money and the legal costs are so high, but the parties feel that compromise is giving in, like losing, so they argue over who gets the sun lounger and it goes to trial and the only winners are the lawyers. Then I thought of the car battery I needed. ‘Send me the papers,’ I said.
I rang chambers. Gavin was obviously distracted as he didn’t even apologise for sending me to Edmonton. He said, ‘I’ve got you a five-day case in the High Court, starting Monday fortnight. You’re for the First Respondent, the mother. The solicitor wants a con next Thursday. Brief’s coming down to chambers early next week.’
‘Gavin, I love you,’ I said, thinking, Perhaps I could get a new car, a green one.
‘I’m glad someone likes me,’ he said.
‘Bad day?’ I asked, thinking, I could have four doors and a sun roof.
‘Your room-mate Marcus sometimes has a very forthright way of expressing himself,’ he said, meaning Marcus had sworn at him for something which was doubtless Marcus’s own fault. ‘Do you want your messages? Hang on …’ Gavin put me on hold while he collected the messages from the message board. ‘“Lesley Page”,’ he read, ‘“please ring back.” Do you want the number?’
I made a note, asking, ‘Is that a solicitor? Did they say what it was about?’
‘I don’t think it’s a solicitor. That’s a mobile phone number isn’t it?’ Gavin said, ‘I’ve no idea what it’s about, I didn’t take the message.’
‘OK, fine. I don’t suppose there’s a message from Saskia?’
‘Nothing here.’
‘Anything from Kay?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Frankie, you’re not starting all that nonsense again, are you?’ Gavin asked. He liked Kay, but there had been two occasions when he had found me in tears in my room at the tail end of our relationship, and he had put my coat over my shoulders and taken me to the George and bought me drinks till I cheered up.
I rang the number he had given me for Lesley Page. A snooty voice told me it had not been possible to connect my call. Someone else who never switched on their mobile. I put it out of my mind. People know where to find me.
I had a shower – the luxury of my bathroom is that I have a separate shower – and put on some black jeans and a loose black jumper. I put on my black suede boots. The