Some Other Shadow

By Clive Gotley

Raised by a human rights activist and a mother who grew up in an apartheid-ravaged South Africa, Jake Whitmarsh was always destined to become a lawyer.

Whilst attending a conference in Paris, Jake has a liaison with an English woman in his hotel. The strong connection between them feels as if their paths had crossed before. Jake wakes to find she has left without saying goodbye or leaving any contact details.

Back in London, he meets up with Alice, a close friend who studied law with him at Cambridge. Alice is a beautiful hippy who side-stepped her legal career by embarking upon a gap year from which she seems never to have returned. She agrees to help trace the mysterious woman but. before they can devise a plan, Jake gets called to Kensington police station to represent a new client, Marcus Goodall, the owner of a luxury department store second only to Harrods.

As he prepares for the trial, Jake finds himself slipping further into Marcus’ high-powered world and discovers a secret that creates a desire to satisfy his own ends and question his integrity.

As the tension builds, Jake has to confront an even greater challenge as the true identity of his Parisian lover is revealed and his entire existence is shattered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Gotley
• Release date: Jul 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311276407

Clive Gotley

About MeI was born in London in 1964 and live in Frome, Somerset with my partner Linda, children that have yet to fly the nest and a mad dog.‘Some Other Shadow’ is my first novel, but I am currently writing a second “Dropping the Lead” – a powerful story of separation triggered by the start of the Second World War which will be available later this year.

Book preview

Chapter 1.

Life is littered with twists and turns, moving us along avenues that lead us to extreme, unfathomable happiness and others that drop us into the deepest realms of despair. Unfortunately, fate deals us the cards face down and the best we can do is to stumble along regardless, hopping from one experience to another.

This morning, I was woken by the sound of pigeons flapping at the window and a noisy dustcart straining its gears in the street below. I crept out of bed, wrapped a towel around my waist and parted the curtains enough to allow a shaft of bright sunlight to burst into the darkness of the room. I lit a cigarette, exhaled and watched a swirling mist of smoke dance in and out of the sun's rays. Last night, despite being a very occasional smoker, I had worked my way through an entire packet of strong cigarettes and, for reasons which will become clear later, had also probably drunk more than my doctor would recommend.

I drew back the curtains fully and pushed open the doors onto my balcony. The cool morning breeze brushed against my legs and across my chest, carrying with it the distant chimes of the nearest church bells ringing seven o' clock. The morning glow glistened through the amber liquid in the cut crystal tumbler on the chest of drawers by the double doors. I picked it up and swirled it around, contemplated whether to add more whiskey, decided against it and stepped out onto the balcony and into the coolness of the morning.

The daylight hurt, forcing my face to bunch tightly into a squint. In addition to the intensity of the light, my eyes stung with a mixture of having slept in a smoke filled room and the tears that had spent most of the night running across my pillow. I dreaded to think what abomination I would find in the mirror.

If only things could be straightforward. If only life could be simple and understandable. If only what could be will be.

If only.

If only.

I gulped down the remnants of the whiskey and felt the instant burning sensation rise inside me bringing on a wave of nausea that made me retch. I took a couple of deep breaths and cast my eyes across the London skyline. The City, with the early morning sun rising behind it, resembled a watercolour painting. The nearest buildings glowed and sparkled as the sun bounced off their metal and glass structures, spectacular architecture enhanced by the soft, grey canvass of suburbia in the distance. For many, this view would have induced a positive feeling for the rest of the day. For me, as I cast my eyes down towards the harshness of the pavement many floors below and imagined the relief of plummeting towards it, this blend of God's own beauty with Man's innovation simply made me angry. If we can create a world full of such wonder and beauty, why can we not control our individual destiny?

I hate myself.

I hate the world.

I hate my life.

The tumbler slipped from my uncaring fingers, struck the surface of the balcony and shattered into a thousand crystal splinters with a dull crack like defrosting ice. I stepped forward and leant over the railing. The idea of my soft flesh and brittle bones striking the pavement and my life-blood spattering the steps at the entrance to the building seemed perfectly acceptable.

A useful end to a youthful life.

It may upset those who love me but, in the overall scheme of things, that Great Masterplan beyond our control, it would matter little. Whatever I have achieved, whatever good I have done, whatever heights I could have reached will all mean nothing. When time has dragged its feet further forwards, my experience in life and my effect on others will be ignored and bereft of meaning. The waters will, once more, be crystal clear for someone else to muddy. If control, or lack of it, is one of life's mysteries, at least this time, I could be at the helm. One final lasting moment of dignity. For me at least.

A sudden and involuntary spasm jerked my arm as the cigarette burnt down to my fingers and, instinctively, I threw my hand forwards releasing the butt into the air. I watched it tumble, swaying from side to side in the breeze, and counted the seconds until it hit the ground with a scattering of heated ashes at impact.

Seven seconds.

Not long.

Seven seconds in which I could feel the freedom of flight, the euphoria of control and the certainty of death.

I have always had a theory that everyone has a naturally correct time to die, that there comes a time when enough is enough, for whatever reason. It could be after a complete and fulfilling life or it could be simply when the feeling forces you to admit that the steam has run out. I liken it to building a wall. There is always a time when the final brick needs cementing in place and you can stand back and look up at your construction and feel, really feel, satisfied that everything is finished; life is complete. The height, width or shape of the wall doesn’t matter. The point is that some people build quicker than others. I should not feel ashamed of wanting to die.

The wrought iron table and chairs in the corner of the balcony presented me with my method. I ignored the abhorrent screeching sound of metal feet scraping across the quarry-tiled floor as I moved the chair into position. I climbed upon it with my hands shoulder width apart on the railings and took another look over the edge. Tears filled my eyes and blurred my vision. This was it. This was my moment.

I released my hands and gently straightened myself up into a standing position and as I stood there, ready to topple forwards and plunge to my death, a gentle gust of air brought the smell of freshly baked bread to my nostrils and my mind raced back to the first time that I had inhaled the warm yeasty aroma of freshly kneaded dough as a small child. This, I thought, was perhaps the start of my life flashing before me, allowing me moments of peace and readying me for the eternal darkness. But instead of imposing tranquillity to cushion my self-destruction, it twisted my mind-set. That brief vision of childhood brought me back to the reality of existence. I realized that these things unfinished, these problems currently unresolved, were all matters that I could deal with, given time.

I felt my legs weakly buckle beneath me and my right foot lost its grip on the dew-coated metal. I leapt sideways from the chair, landing hard on the crystal shards, which stung as they embedded themselves into the soles of my feet. I cried out and stumbled backwards tripping on the bottom of the doorframe and felt myself falling, my arms flailing in a futile attempt at gripping the doorframe. I landed on the carpet in my bedroom with a thud that forced the breath from my lungs and I rolled over onto my side. I brought my knees up to my chest and my ribs shuddered. An uncontrollable sobbing took over my body and an eerie wailing seeped out of my mouth, although, it did not sound like me.

Why should I feel guilty? It wasn't my fault. The world is full of transient coincidence. We all do things in life that are frowned on and, in any case, no one need know what I have done, what damage I have caused. It can remain a secret. I had always thought that jealousy was our most destructive and powerful emotion but now I realised that it was guilt. Guilt can drive us to despair or torment us with pain and anguish. God knows it had just tried to kill me.

I had done something that no one should ever do. I would never have done any of it if I had realised the truth or the sweeping consequence that would emanate from my actions. I suppose that writing this, telling you my story, is perhaps my way of relinquishing the past. I cannot change what happened but, perhaps, I can learn to set free the guilt. The vanquished must force himself to conquer, to stand and fight again.

I rolled over, so that I could look out of the windows and lit another cigarette. I dropped my head at the feel of a teardrop leaving my cheek and watched the moisture spread out in a perfect circle on the carpet.

Chapter 2.

18 months earlier.

There’s no way I could possibly remember exactly how long it took me to find this place. Let’s just say ages. It was a small café tucked away just off the banks of the Seine with an instant charm derived from the blue painted shutters, which were battened, open against the pockmarked whitewashed walls. As I neared the building, the steam from the kitchen extractor produced a strong aroma of onions and garlic, which hung heavy in the humid air. A friend had described its location to me in the way that friends do when you’re drunk in the pub in an alcoholic haze so that absolute recollection is hopeful at best. Although I had visited Paris many times, this was an unfamiliar area and so I had been down street after street and across as many bridges as I could remember until finally I stumbled across it, just as I was about to give up and return to my hotel.

It started to rain just as I lowered myself onto an outside bench that creaked and groaned in protest at my weight. Inside, the condensation formed swiftly on the window until a swift circular motion wiped it away to reveal the wrinkled, leathery face of an elderly Frenchman frantically gesturing at me to come in. I shook my head and smiled, pointing at the blue and white striped umbrella that was giving me shelter. The air, like the rainwater, was warm and I felt sure that this shower would be brief.

The waiter arrived and gave me a bemused half-smile from under a dark walrus moustache that covered his top lip. His tightly gripped pencil scribbled rapidly my order of black coffee on a small order pad that seemed to disappear into the palm of his oversize hand. He stared skywards, wiped the splashes of rainwater from his shoulders and disappeared inside muttering under his breath. Through the window, shoulders shrugged and heads shook as I stared ahead pretending not to notice.

The river was beautiful. Translucent, reflective pavements and harsh wrought iron barriers bordered the rippling water. In places, the sky held its brightness and rays of broken sunlight produced intermittent arcs of colour across the water. I stared down at the ground and watched the raindrops rebound into the air as if the flagstones were made of rubber. The waiter returned with a sodden newspaper on his head and handed me my coffee, this time with no smile.

I put the cup on the table and cracked a couple of sugar lumps into it, crumbling and grinding the granules to powder between my fingertips. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a packet of unfiltered Gauloises. I suppose I would categorise myself as a non-smoking smoker. I only smoke on those very rare occasions when I am certain that no one who knows me will ever find out. In reality this means, when I am away from home and on my own. It is probably no more than three or four packets a year and it is a foregone conclusion that, if I am in France, I can’t help it. I discovered long ago that something in this country stimulates my senses. It makes no difference whether it is the food, the coffee or the cigarettes, it’s all about aroma and, in my mind, however disgusting the habit, I love the aromatic, heady inhalation of a French cigarette.

A rainbow settled over the bridge across the river bringing with it the atmospheric presence of nature’s incessant calmness. We forge ahead through our lives looking for perfection when nature has already found it. We place ourselves in compromising, stressful situations to produce happiness when nature just allows itself to evolve its own natural elegance. Sunlight passing through a raindrop suspended on a leaf, the breath-taking view of a mountain range or footprints in freshly fallen snow, it’s all inspiring. And that’s why the sight of a rainbow over a bridge in a city created by the genius of man is a paradox. We struggle to create perfection in concrete and then nature comes along and enhances it with absolutely no effort at all.

I should have been somewhere else. Inside a conference centre in a hotel, listening to some guy wearing his heart on his sleeve going on about how wonderfully well he was doing in saving the world. I was here, this time, for a conference on human rights. This was the nineties. We had dismantled both the Berlin Wall in 1989 and apartheid a few years later with Nelson regaining his liberty. Free speech, democratic process and fair judicial systems, better rights for women and help for child soldiers and a massive drive against genocide and ethnic cleansing in Rwanda and Serbia. Despite my youth, I had freely contributed as much of my spare time as possible to various charitable organisations supporting many worthy causes.

This conference had been fine for the first few days but towards the end it had started to revolve around a farcical display of ego-massaging. Guest speakers competed with one another, glorifying their achievements in pursuit of some mystical unattainable prize. I began to feel that this conference had descended into a phalanx of trumpet blowing lawyers and that the rest of us were expected to applaud and pat them on the back and say how pleased we were with their efforts. To be honest, I came here to learn something, not to be recognised for the small amount of work I manage to do for those who need my help and certainly not to witness the contradictory behaviour of these lawyers. So, for the final afternoon, I had decided to go for a walk and seek out this café.

My cup was almost empty. I held it out into the rain, swirled the remnants around and downed it, the gravelly sediment of the coffee grounds tickling the sides of my throat making me splutter. As I passed through the door of the café, the difference in temperature made my cheeks tingle and I flinched, startled by the sharp sound of dominoes being slapped hard onto a tabletop followed by exuberant exclamations that were beyond my understanding. A handful of bills were thrown onto the table and eagerly scooped up with laughter.

L’addition s’il vous plait, I said and was immediately presented with a small silver ashtray containing my bill pressed down by a dark chocolate square. I popped it into my mouth and tasted mint. After glancing at the amount, I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out a few francs and dropped them in place of the chocolate mint. The waiter seemed surprised with the generosity of my tip and changed the melancholic sneer on his face to half a smile.

Au revoir, merci monsieur he said as I stepped back outside. The rain had increased in its intensity from a light drizzle into a shower so I pulled up the collar on my jacket and set off towards the embankment whilst a misty haze descended upon the river.

I managed to find my way back to the vicinity of my hotel with relative ease, although, probably more by luck than judgement. In the distance, along the embankment, I had spotted the stalls set up by Parisian artists hoping to dash off a portrait. Earlier in the day, they had jostled their easels against one another and gesticulated with raised voices trying to get the best pitch. Now, they had hastily covered up their stalls with large plastic sheets to protect their wares from the downpour and they sat with glum faces, the occasional puff of smoke from sodden roll-ups drifting through pursed lips. I approached with less caution than before, knowing that I was unlikely to be hassled to buy a picture in these conditions. As I got closer, I noticed that the chalk street paintings I had admired earlier were no longer recognisable. They had disintegrated into spiralling pools of colour, which mingled together and floated across the pavement towards the gutter.

By the time I mounted the steps outside the hotel, my light cotton suit was a few shades darker and hung on my frame pressing cold against my skin. Rainwater ran down my legs and my sodden hair was flattened and stuck to my forehead and cheeks. I was far wetter than I had realised. The doorman raised a hand to the peak of his hat in salute and I intermittently caught sight of my reflection in the revolving doors. As each glass panel rotated, my advance towards it flickered back my rain-sodden reflection as if I was in a silent film, enlarging in each frame as I got closer. Grimacing with embarrassment, I stepped inside and pulled my hair back across my head, shaking the excess water off my hand onto the carpet. A trickle of water broke away from the nape of my neck and wriggled its way down my spine making me shudder.

I heard laughter. It was high-pitched but not uncomfortably so. More than a chuckle or a giggle but not quite stretching to full-blown hilarity. It ceased abruptly as my eyes fell on its source. A woman standing by the reception bar. She held her hand to her mouth as if to hide the origin of the sound and looked at me with an expression full of apology.

She was beautiful. Tall, elegant, olive-skinned and although she had yet to utter a word, she radiated a distinct confidence. As I left moist footprints and dripped on the expensive carpet all the way to reception, she let her hand drop to her side and her face broke into a smile. Her eyes were deep green, penetrating yet full of softness and warmth. Despite her smooth complexion, a series of small creases spread from the edges of her eyes as she smiled and she was undoubtedly, several years my senior. I held her gaze and smiled back hoping that I was concealing my captivated interest in her. I wanted to say something interesting. Something fun. Something that would make her believe I was both.

It’s raining was what came out. Neither, fun nor interesting, I guess. Rather more like stating the obvious. She laughed again but this somehow felt scant compensation for the fact that I felt uncomfortable and idiotic. The receptionist handed me my key and said with surprisingly uncharacteristic sarcasm, It’s through the double door on the left if you wish to use it, Monsieur.

I looked blankly at both of them. I think she’s offering you the swimming pool.

Very funny, I replied with a grin.

I walked to the lift, hoping that I was managing to retain some dignity in my gait, although the discomfort I felt with each stride almost certainly made me walk like a child who has just wet himself. I turned in the lift and caught sight of her looking at me, holding her stomach and shaking, trying to control her laughter which seemed to hiccup out of her, slightly louder than before. The lift doors closed and I was carried skywards. It was too dimly lit inside to see in the mirror if my face had gone red.

I started to feel better the moment that I lowered my body into the steaming bath, reinforcing that I hadn’t noticed how cold and wet I had been. How stupid I must have appeared, turning up in reception dowsed in city rain and shivering. I kept cringing inside every time I thought of the impression I must have created. I had padded naked around my room with a glass of scotch from the mini-bar, shivering with the embarrassment. How ridiculous I must have seemed. And then I thought how ridiculous it was that I was worried about it at all. Why should I be concerned that I had looked stupid in front of someone I didn’t know and would probably never meet again, a complete stranger? I put it down to the fact that being single and alone in a foreign city had let my mind stray into fantasyland. A place where reality suffers and dies amid the thoughtfulness of unexpected pleasures. I was behaving like a teenage virgin caught up in the flush of first time lust. This yearning was not the romantic, grown-up stuff that films are made of. She was not the Lauren Bacall to my Humphrey Bogart. I felt more like a drunken 18-30s club holidaymaker looking for a swift holiday romance and I felt plainly disgusted with myself.

Later that evening, I sat at a small table in the restaurant scanning the menu. I was having enough difficulty deciding between starters, main courses and desserts but the wine list threw me into a lengthy bout of indecision which I found surprising given that I had been here for three days. I was running my index finger down the list when I got that feeling that someone was reading over my shoulder.

The Chateauneuf Du Pape is perfect. Smooth and velvety.

I turned myself around as I shuffled my seat backwards and stood up, extending my hand. She took it with a gentle squeeze.

Jake Whitmarsh, I said. Are you alone? This evening, I mean, for dinner?

I am, she replied. You?

Yes I am. Would you like to join me? I hoped it sounded more like a question than an order.

I’d be delighted, she uttered and a waiter who had been surreptitiously hovering in the shadows glided forwards and slid out a chair.

A trace of a smile flickered across her face as she elegantly floated into the chair without a sound. Her hair had been brought up on top of her head, several thin strands had broken away and were dangling down onto her left cheek. The chandeliers danced in her eyes, drawing me into an hypnotic trance and making me feel entirely unsure of myself. My inherent confidence seemed to evaporate and was replaced with a nervous apprehension.

The waiter made some suggestions to help us order and scuttled off, striding efficiently in the direction of the kitchen.

You look much better all warm and dry, she said, peering over the top of a tumbler containing gin and tonic. The ice chinked against the sides of the glass as she brought it back down from her lips.

A hot bath and a helpful mini-bar make all the difference.

Despite the abundance of soft furnishings, her laughter seemed to cause an echo.

So where had you been that got you so drenched?

I had been to a human rights conference.

Her eyebrows raised. Wow, I’m impressed. Do you work for a charity?

Well, yes, several really, on and off. I have a proper day job but I also offer my services part-time whenever I can as a sort of free lawyer.

Gosh, I’m even more impressed. A lawyer with a conscience. Good for you. She raised her glass.

Yeah, well don’t be too impressed, I left early because it all got a bit egocentric.

The waiter arrived, flamboyantly pulling the cork with a force that made it pop, before pouring a taster into the balloon shaped glass. I swirled it. It ran warm across my tongue with a deep earthiness and a pleasing smoothness as it slipped down my throat.

You were right about the wine. That’s gorgeous. I nodded at the waiter and he swirled the contents of the bottle into each glass.

So what about you? What brings you to Paris?

I’m here for fashion week. I’m a buyer for a store in London, I seek out new designs, fabrics, couture, anything interesting enough to grab the attention.

And has it been a successful trip?

Most of it has been watching unhealthily skinny girls swaying up and down catwalks. Some of it’s been pretty cool though, so I wouldn’t say it has been a wasted trip. The problem with couture is most of it is designed to shock, like a concept that is out of reach to most people. So it’s been good but I wouldn’t want to wear any of it myself.

Our time in the restaurant and, afterwards the bar, slipped into a relaxed and effortless conversation as if we were old friends. All I can feel, when I look back, is the warmth and sensitivity generated by her gentle voice and her laughter that stirred within me a feeling of complete innocence and security. I held her gaze, waiting for every word, drinking in every movement of her hands, every tilt of her head, enjoying every sound that slipped from her lips. Staring into her eyes was like looking back in time. There was a connection like I could see myself there. I don’t mean my reflection; it was far deeper than that more like a glimpse of something intangible and profound. If I had believed in it, I would have said it felt spiritual and, I know it sounds weird but, it looked like a part of me staring back.

With hindsight, it was inevitable that we would end up in bed, but it wasn’t the sordid desperation I had imagined earlier of two lonely travellers taking comfort in each other. That night we clung to each other as if we were inseparable, entwined bodies rolling together in the softness of a billowing mist. Gentle yet intense passion was revisited at intervals throughout the night in a way that felt like we had been lovers for years. Nothing was hidden, nothing was awkward, nothing felt anything other than completely natural. Every caress of mine was echoed by the deft touch of her soft hands, every gentle movement of my hips mirrored by hers moving up to meet me.

Once she had fallen asleep, I held her close and kissed the back of her neck. She had rolled over so that her back was pressing against me and I wrapped myself around her. The curtains were slightly parted and the street lamp shone on her body, giving her skin a warm glow. I ran my hand slowly up her legs and over the curve of her waist, feeling the breeze from the open window brush across her skin causing tiny goose bumps. My eyelids became heavier and my muscles relaxed until my breathing slowed, slipping into rhythm with hers and I drifted into unconsciousness.

It was late morning when I awoke. The curtains were still open and the warmth from the sun made my skin prickle. I rolled onto my back and let out a long slow breath before reaching out to feel her next to me. The bed-sheet felt cold. I rolled fully over and propped myself up on one elbow, staring in confusion at the empty flatness of the bed. I ran the palm of my hand slowly over it. It was as if she’d ironed it before departure.

And then I heard the door click shut and footsteps clatter on the marble floor in the corridor outside the room. I leapt off the bed and ran around grabbing clothes. In my haste, getting dressed turned out to be an un-tucked shirt and a pair of jeans. No underwear, no socks. Another embarrassing journey in the lift was a small price to pay for the chance to ask her why? Why? Why would she just up and leave without anything to say? Surely, I couldn’t have read her so wrong to think that she hadn’t felt anything at all? I jabbed angrily at the lift button with my finger and cursed myself. Why hadn’t I woken earlier?

The doors seemed to take an age to open before I could pack myself into the lift, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other passengers. It was as if they had never seen a man with no shoes before. I stared blankly ahead until the doors started to slide apart, widening my vision with each passing second. And there she was, the porter handing her a casual soft bag and umbrella, before she elegantly descended the outside stairs straight into the open door of a waiting taxi. I leapt from the lift, probably with a little too much elbowing, and ran towards the revolving doors. The doorman saw me coming and set the doors in motion, breaking into a large smile at my bare feet. I bounced outside and leapt down the stairs at least two at a time. A strange noise jumped from my mouth towards the back of the taxi. It would have been good, really good, if the taxi had stopped right there and she had jumped out, thrown her arms around my neck and given me a long scintillating kiss. But it didn’t. This wasn’t a movie. It took absolutely no notice and glided away leaving nothing but a hint of diesel hanging in the air. There didn’t seem much point waving my arms and so I just stood with sagging shoulders, watching her draw further away. As the taxi reached the trees a short distance along the road, she turned her head and caught my eye. She didn’t wave or move in any way. To this day, I still can’t work out if it was my wishful thinking but I like to believe that, as the reflection of the trees slid across the rear-window of the taxi, I could just make out that her eyes were full of tears.

It was also at that moment, I realised that I didn’t even know her name.

Chapter 3.

Back in my office in London, things were dreary. Dreary because the broken heating was on so high it made my nose run; dreary because the rain spattering outside made the windows steam up; dreary because there were so many files on my desk that it looked like I was trying to build a scale model of Manhattan island; dreary because I was in London not Paris and dreary because I had no idea of where to start searching for her.

I had been back for three days and had buried myself under a mountain of work. I was kidding myself about escapism. If I stuck my nose in enough files, perhaps I would forget my night in Paris and settle back into normal working existence. What easier way to forget than to immerse myself in illegal immigrants and the colourful lives of wealthy career criminals. Yet however many Criminal Prosecution Service witness statements I read, digested and mentally ripped to shreds with the cross-examination department of my mind and however many telephone calls I waffled and bargained my way through, always nagging away was a feeling that something was missing. A piece of the jigsaw that I needed to find and slot firmly into place with superglue so that I could never lose it again.

At eleven-thirty I received the first phone call of the day to make me smile. It was Alice. An old college friend from my law degree. Simple and direct, as always, she merely mentioned the prospect of lunch in Covent Garden and an hour later I found myself descending the stairs into the flag-stoned courtyard of the Punch and Judy amidst the musical rumbling of various over-talented buskers and the backbeat of lunchtime traffic.

Alice is beautiful which, of course, always makes her exceptionally easy to find. Look for a table surrounded by eager young city suits on mobiles and somewhere in the middle of the scrum you will find Alice. I decided on the table in the corner and made my way through the crowd, gently moving people out of the way trying to be polite. A pinstriped young man in red braces turned and slopped lager on my shoes.

What’s the hurry mate? he said staring at me as if I was taking away his favourite toy.

I have a lunch appointment with one of my patients, I said loud enough for most of London to hear, I’m a gynaecologist.

The wave of suits parted with respect to reveal Alice giggling uncontrollably. The group dispersed and I felt a hand pat me on the back. Alice wiped her eyes with the back of her hands.

Oh Jake, trust you to come up with something so stupid as that, she said and got to her feet to kiss my cheek and wrap her arms around in a gentle squeeze. I sat down and grabbed a menu. The Punch and Judy is known for its rich assortment of exotic cocktails and before me was the opportunity to dull the senses and sink myself into the haze of alcohol before I went mad.

Oh, it’s one of those days is it? she said through her startlingly blue eyes. What are you having?

I thought I’d start with some Fiddly Foreplay, a little Sex on the Beach and see if I can work my way up to a Screaming Orgasm.

Mmm, nothing like fully satisfying yourself over lunch.

Quite true but as always, I settled for what I always settle for. A good, old-fashioned Manhattan, vermouth, bourbon, angostura bitters and a cherry if you’re lucky. An exceedingly boring drink when the choice is so huge but it has the consolation of being a maximum strength, two shots of pure alcohol kind of drink for those bordering on despair.

So what’s wrong? she said, straight out of the gate. Alice and I don’t deal in small talk. We’ve known each other too long and too well to bother tiptoeing around situations, delicate or otherwise. Back at college, we were forced together by not quite fitting in. Neither of our respective schools had managed to prepare or sculpt us into the perfect Oxbridge role models and so we had ended up, slightly outcast, sharing a damp flat in a two up two down Victorian semi in Trumpington Street where we settled into three years of relative seclusion, drinking, smoking dope, punting down the river, attending the odd lecture and somehow passing our exams.

We lived in the same cramped space for three years forming an incredibly perfect, platonic relationship untainted by any primal urges. Nobody ever believed it of course. We had both suffered jealous disbelief from partners. Girlfriends never quite got the platonic thing and strangled any chance of a relationship with me through their possessiveness whenever Alice was around. Boys are generally more aggressive and I often found myself on the wrong end of male jealousy particularly when trying to protect her from impending and entirely inappropriate gropings. I suppose the reason our friendship worked was that neither of us felt threatened by the other, which is exactly how relationships should be but rarely are. My lasting memory of Alice at college will always be the regular meetings at midnight after weekend nights out. These were the days before mobile phones and so we would always rendezvous under the lamp in the centre of Parker’s Piece, the hard metal of the lamp post digging uncomfortably into our backs whilst we discussed our respective evenings, our Glenmorangie fuelled laughter floating up towards the star-filled sky.

It’s a woman, I said.

Ah, she said and with rather too much sarcasm for my taste, added, like we’ve never had this conversation before.

That’s hardly fair. You’re supposed to help me in my hour of need. That’s what friends are for.

Granted.

My Manhattan arrived along with a horrible looking yellow creamy thing in a glass the size of a small swimming pool, covered in umbrellas. More fruit than I thought existed dangled above it from every conceivable angle on a wooden skewer and two sparklers fizzed away somewhere just off-centre. It made my Manhattan, straight-up in its tumbler no cherry but a twist of lemon peel, look decidedly inadequate. Alice smiled and slurped a double straw mouthful and gave an appreciative noise that was surprisingly loud through her lips, which were firmly pressed together. A light coating of the liquid stuck to her lower lip as she pulled away.

Never worth doing anything by halves, is it? I said.

I’ve always been an exhibitionist, you know that.

Yeah, I guess, I said. How is the exotic dancing by the way?

Cool. I mean OK, you know, bad hours but the money’s fab. More than pays the bills.

Where are you at the moment?

Dazzlers. It’s great, lots of extras, I don’t really have to work hard at all.

Wow, congratulations, you’ve made the big time. I raised my glass and she chinked her jungle of fruit against it.

Alice has the ability to be enthusiastic about everything she has ever done or will ever do. No cares, no worries, no regrets. What a philosophy. The wonderful thing is that she fills anyone who cares to listen with the same energy and optimism. Her basic tenet is always to do what you feel like doing until it doesn’t feel good anymore and then move on to something else. That’s why an intelligent and beautiful law graduate from Cambridge with a top flight courtroom career ahead of her, decided to ditch it all and take up a series of seemingly never-ending gap years to every corner of the globe, a succession of non-starter jobs and, currently, exotic dancing.

Why do you do it, anyway? I said, I mean I’ve always had my theories.

It annoys you that I never joined you as a legal eagle, doesn’t it?

Yeah, of course it does. You’re wonderfully eloquent. Made mincemeat of me in the mock courtroom trials. You’d have been brilliant.

I’d have been bored, she smirked. You know I would. I only won those mock trials because the judge was that tutor that fancied all his female students. What was his name?

Pervy Purvis? I offered.

Yeah, that’s it, he was a nightmare!

I took a sip of my drink and let the smokiness of the bourbon spread across my tongue.

I’m not bored, I said.

Yeah but you’re you, aren’t you?

What’s that supposed to mean. Are you saying I’m boring? I said trying to look wounded.

Well you know . . . she hesitated as if trying to choose her words carefully and pulled one of the straws from the drink, swirled it around the creamy foam on the surface which her tongue then licked off the end of the straw. A ripple of male admiration drifted across from the suits and they were rewarded with a perfect smile.

And your point is?

Well, you’ve got the justice thing going on, she continued. Always have had and always will. We both know that in fifteen years’ time you’ll be doing the Crown Court circuit dressed in your red robes. You’re charming, eloquent, fair. You’ll be a brilliant judge. Oh and by then you’ll have gone attractively grey at the temples and all the female junior bar will want to shag your face off.

I smiled at her. You’re so refreshing, Alice.

I know. Anyway what was your theory?

Theory?

Yeah, your considered opinion on why I take my clothes off.

Oh, I don’t know. Something to do with your incredible beauty and all the men that constantly flock around you. You never let any of them that near to you but you kind of rejoice in the knowledge that they want you. Sexually, I mean. And what you’re doing is your way of sticking two fingers up at them. A kind of ‘you can look but you can’t touch’ thing.

Are you suggesting that I’m a tease? she said shifting her curves into a position that suggested she was.

Absolutely.

Wow. Well that’s a bit deep. I think your problem is you always over analyse everything. It’s probably all those years of legal training, it’s so ingrained you just can’t help it. Anyway, what makes you think I don’t do it for good old-fashioned fun? I might like taking my clothes off and prancing around on stage, sliding up and down greased poles and giving everyone in the house an erection.

Yeah, alright, Alice. Please, stop, I interrupted, hands in the air in surrender. I’m breaking out in a sweat.

She slid her hand across the table, placed it on top of mine and gently squeezed. Some of the light faded from her face.

Don’t get all women’s lib on me. I have enough problems with my mother. You know more than anyone that I know what I’m doing and at the moment I’m enjoying myself. When I don’t, I’ll stop. Simple. Anyway, we’re here to talk about your problems not create some for me.

I picked up my drink and placed the glass against my cheek. It was cool and wet and made me shiver. I don’t really know where to start.

Try the beginning. That’s usually best. A captivating smile that from anyone else would have felt patronizing.

And so I poured it all out. My trip to Paris, the conference, the meeting,