Chapter 9
9
And so, for that glorious, heavenly summer, I was doing the best job in the world, the only one I’d ever wanted to do, while utterly suffused with love for this sublime man who appeared to want to be with me as much as I with him. I threw all caution to the wind, ignoring the fact that our backgrounds and heritage were so vastly different, that I’d already encountered what his family’s reaction might be to their son having a relationship with me. And that Fabian was unaware of my own family history, which I was unwilling to share with him at this early stage in our relationship. What was the point when Fabian might tire of me within a few months and move on? Would it have made any difference if I’d come clean from the start? I honestly don’t know.
How we managed a relationship when he was working from 6a.m. until late, while I was fully engrossed in being Arabella Plumpton-Jones in Dance On , I’ll never know. Maybe it was because we were both so full on with our respective careers that, when we did meet up, often tired out and irritable or, more often, wired after consuming surfeits of caffeine to keep us going, the relaxing, the love making, the late-night strolls through the London streets and along the banks of the Thames were heady.
Of course, it wasn’t all sweetness and light. What relationship is? My general messiness drove Fabian mad, while his pernickety attention to detail (did we really need linen napkins when a piece torn off a kitchen roll was more than sufficient as I hoovered up the delicious meals he created?) had me rolling my eyes in frustration.
I couldn’t comprehend his defence of murderers and rapists when he must often have known they were guilty, and it was this that led to our first argument. We were both shattered after a particularly long day, but Fabian had messaged to say he was back at the apartment and had made food. To be honest, much as I was longing to be with him, I’d twisted my knee slightly as I’d leapt across the stage and into the arms of my stage lover and needed to get back to my flat to ice it. But I couldn’t resist Fabian’s persuasive words so I hobbled into an Uber (oh, the bliss of earning enough to have an Uber account) and made my way to his apartment in St James’s place.
He was standing at his precious navy Rangemaster stove, fully engrossed, moving from a recipe on his iPad to the ingredients, and didn’t realise I was there until I was standing right behind him.
‘Jesus, you made me jump.’ He actually started like a nervous deer and I laughed as the intent scowl on his beautiful face softened and he reached out the one arm not stirring the pan, drawing me into him.
‘You were away with the fairies.’ I smiled.
‘Would that they were.’
‘Who?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘And were what?’ I accepted the glass of wine he poured and pushed towards me. ‘You’re not making sense, Fabian.’
‘Fairies: you know, good guys.’
‘Ah,’ I said, understanding his mind was still on work. ‘Comes with the territory, I guess? You know, dealing daily with the bad boys.’
‘And girls. Don’t think, just because they’re female, they’re less lethal than men.’
‘Are you defending a woman at the moment, then?’ Fabian rarely told me what he was working on.
He sighed. ‘No. Just one very – allegedly – brutal and sadistic killer.’
I stood back, put down my glass and stared. ‘ How can you? How can you be on the side of someone like that? How can you defend him, knowing he’s guilty?’
‘Who said I know he’s guilty?’
‘You must know. I don’t get it.’
‘Robyn, there’s a huge difference between actually knowing someone is guilty and suspecting they are. We work within the law and strict guidelines: if someone who wants me to defend them tells me he’s guilty, then I can’t get him to give evidence to the contrary. Doing that, I’d be a party to his perjury. I can’t stand there, in court, in front of a judge and jury, and knowingly mislead them.’
‘Oh, come off it, Fabian.’ I was cross. ‘Your job must surely be to mislead the judge or the jury? To get them onto your side.’
‘That’s a very simplistic view you have of the judicial system, Robyn.’ Fabian spoke as calmly as when I’d watched him addressing the court.
‘Don’t patronise me,’ I snapped. My sore knee was throbbing, I was tired and I didn’t like what Fabian was saying one little bit. ‘How can you defend a… a murderer… a child abuser… yes, how can you defend someone who’s hurt a child, taken a child? Killed a child?’
‘My job before going into that courtroom is to advise a client…’
‘A client ?’ I tutted. ‘They’re murderers, rapists…’
‘…is to advise a client,’ Fabian repeated calmly, turning back to the stove, ‘on the strengths of the case against him, take instructions and then give honest advice as to whether they’re likely to be believed. It’s not up to me to make a judgement on guilt or innocence. That’s why we have juries chosen from all walks of life.’
I heard myself snort disparagingly. ‘Oh, yes? All walks of life? My dad’s never once been called for jury service, my sister Jess has never been called and I certainly have never been.’
‘Hey, hey, Robyn.’ Fabian put up both hands in supplication. ‘Don’t take your argument with society out on me.’ Unfortunately, he still had the wooden spoon he’d been using for stirring the pan in one of them and tomato and herbs – oregano, I think – dripped onto his white T-shirt, which broke the tension.
‘That’ll have to come off,’ I said, as though addressing a naughty child who’d been playing in the mud. ‘Come on, arms up, off with it.’ I reached for his leather belt, unbuckling it slowly while Fabian immediately and gratifyingly hardened at my touch.
We finally ate at one in the morning.
One morning at the beginning of September, as we were both about to leave his apartment, Fabian said, ‘Robyn, my parents are holding their annual charity do in the garden on Saturday. Come with me?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I laughed. Actually, jeered is probably, to my shame, nearer the truth.
‘Please come. I’m a patron of one of the charities and Mum’s wanting me to make a speech. I’d really like it if you were there with me.’
‘Sorry, Fabian. It’s just not my thing. You know that.’
‘I don’t know anything of the sort. It’s a charity do in aid of…’ He broke off.
‘In aid of?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve no idea, have you? So, which particular aspect of society are they feeling guilty about this week? Disaffected youth? A bit of nimbyism: no bypass anywhere near the Home Counties? Fallen gentlewomen? Or are they being totally radical and going for Gay Pride? Rainbow banners across the tennis courts of Bucks?’
‘Stop it, Robyn.’ Fabian wasn’t amused. ‘Sneery sarcasm doesn’t become you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I was. I didn’t know why I was being so petulant. Fabian’s parents, as far as I knew, could be lovely, hospitable people who wanted to share what they had with others. ‘Do they know you’ve been seeing me?’
Fabian grinned wolfishly. ‘A bit more than seeing , I would advise, Your Honour.’ He reached forwards, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt I’d just fastened, and I batted away his hand. ‘Yes, I’ve mentioned you.’
‘And do they know of my… my heritage ?’
‘Robyn, stop it . This is London, for fuck’s sake—’ he added in exasperation ‘—50 per cent of people living in London are non-white. In Newham it’s 70 per cent, if you want some statistics. In my chambers we have barristers, clerks, pupils who are many different heritages.’
‘Employees, yes, and welcomed to show you’ve filled your quota of diversity?—’
‘Stop it, Robyn.’
But I went on, repeating myself like an out-of-control runaway train. ‘Taking me along to a charity do in Marlow would be introducing someone quite different into your family.’
‘And? And how?’ Fabian was really angry now. ‘Different? Why are you so different ? You’ve two arms, two legs, a good brain…’
‘You know exactly what I’m saying.’
‘No, I don’t, actually. I can’t believe that a strong, independent, intelligent and beautiful girl like you in today’s society could have such hang-ups… Look at Meghan Markle.’
‘Exactly,’ I snapped. ‘Look at her. What she went through.’
‘My parents are not the bloody royal family,’ he snapped back, throwing up his hands in despair. ‘For all your right-on thinking, Robyn, you might be the most prejudiced person I’ve ever met. I really have had enough of this. Grow up, will you? I’m going to work; I’m late as it is.’ And with that he walked calmly but determinedly away from me, not looking back once as he did so.
Hell, I missed him.
For the next two days I threw myself into my work as much as I could but, with my knee still not 100 per cent, and what now appeared to be a small bursitis on the outer joint, I was advised by my doctor to take a couple of days off. Carl Farmer, the director, wasn’t at all happy and was actually quite off hand with me, promoting one of the other chorus members – a rather shy girl called Yo Ming – to my part. Desperate for my knee to be back to normal, I did as the doctor told me, sitting on the tiny fire escape overlooking the bustling Soho street below, a bag of frozen peas on my elevated leg.
I’d been set on rereading some Hardy novels but in the warm sunshine my concentration soon wavered and I found myself nodding off, coming to with a dribbling but dry mouth and my whole body aching from having my leg raised at a strange angle.
When I wasn’t reading, sleeping or worrying that Yo Ming’s interpretation of Arabella Plumpton-Jones might be superior to my own, I was kicking myself (with my one good leg) for the way I’d behaved with Fabian. What on earth was the matter with me? I’d been given an invitation to the family home of this wonderful man and I was making cheap jibes at their expense. Fabian was right: I was pigeonholing his parents, family and friends and so was guilty as charged of holding prejudiced, working-class-hero views.
I checked my phone constantly, but there was nothing. God, I missed him. I longed for him to draw up in his fancy car outside the apartment and (still in Pretty Woman mode) climb up the fire escape to rescue me before bearing me off to Buckinghamshire into the bosom of its posh people.
Having soon realised that Fabian was as proud as he was gorgeous, I knew I was going to have to eat a bit of humble pie and, on the day before the Saturday charity do, I picked up my phone with sweaty hands and texted:
I’m so sorry for my utter pig-headedness, Fabian. If the invitation still stands, and you forgive me, I’d love to come with you tomorrow. xx
His response was immediate and to the point:
Sorry, taking someone else. You had your chance…
I gasped in horror as I read the text, knocking over my half-full cup of coffee with my good leg as I stood. Another text followed on a moment later:
But, on second thoughts, I’d much rather take you. It’s a lunchtime do. Pick you up at eleven tomorrow…
He looked sublime. Wearing faded Levi’s and the ubiquitous white T-shirt, but this time topped with a beautifully cut navy Luca Faloni jacket. I was very tempted to pull him from the car and manhandle him back upstairs to my room. Sod Marlow, my need for his hands on me, and mine on him, was almost overwhelming.
But I was on my best well-mannered behaviour, so I slid demurely into the car seat beside him.
‘You look stunning,’ was all he said and then he hesitated, hands on the wheel but not driving off. ‘I think I’m going to have to take you right back upstairs where you came from.’ He reached a hand to my bare arm, stroking it with intent.
‘I think not, young sir,’ I said primly. ‘Unhand me at once and take me to Marlow.’ I glanced across at him. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I behaved like a moron.’
‘You did.’ He still didn’t drive off, but instead, leaned across once more, kissing my cheek slowly. ‘I missed you, Robyn.’ He sat back, appraising me. ‘I love the dress.’
‘Thank you.’ I’d spent the remaining hours of the previous afternoon testing out my knee by walking over to Cheval Place in Knightsbridge, blowing money I couldn’t afford in Pandora, the upmarket dress agency there. I’d come out with the perfect little Roland Mouret cream shift and known I had to buy the Jimmy Choo sandals to go with it. What was the point of a bloody expensive dress without the accompanying footwear?
We chatted easily all the way there, or rather I talked and Fabian listened. He’d rarely discussed his caseload, but there was a new hesitancy now, which I put down to my previous questioning about how he could bring himself to defend criminals. Once we hit Marlow, and I knew there was only another few minutes’ drive until we turned along the private road, I felt nerves begin to kick in. Fabian took my hand, squeezing it lightly as he pulled up in front of the beautiful house.
‘Come on,’ Fabian said, smiling in my direction. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’