Chapter 4 Leila
Leila
Julian and I have agreed to put the Millman case to the back of our minds for what will probably be the last weekend in a long time, so we can enjoy our night away at Barkenfield Lodge for his birthday.
It’s a quirky place I found in Northumberland with beautiful, rustic cabins to stay in.
It looks almost Swedish, but I’m luxuriating in the atmosphere.
The timing couldn’t be better for this getaway, given we have the first hearing in the murder trial on Monday. The stress is starting to build.
We arrive on Saturday morning, as the sun breaks through the defiant dark clouds hovering in the crisp autumn sky.
As we park up on the gravel, a tall, raven-haired woman wearing a Barbour jacket and what can only be described as an “outdoorsy posh hat” with an electric-blue feather in the side comes out to greet us.
After he gets out of the car, Julian runs around to open my door for me.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kesler?” the woman asks in a voice that sounds like Joanna Lumley’s. “I’m Imogen. Follow me and I’ll take you to your cabin.”
The breeze has that September feeling about it.
Julian takes my hand as we follow Imogen past secluded huts that are tastefully and artistically placed against the stunning countryside.
The website promised “dramatic, woodland views” and it doesn’t disappoint.
Each oak cabin is designed to blend in with the surrounding environment (something about bringing the outside in), so there are log fires, sunken baths, curiously angled architecture, and entire walls of glass in each one.
Imogen speaks to Julian the whole time and hoots with laughter every time he says something. She’s been in his company less than three minutes.
“Everything you need is here,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “Please don’t hesitate to call reception if you require anything else. It can feel isolated at night, but for many of our guests, that’s the attraction.”
“We’ll be sure to make the most of it, Imogen,” Julian says, flashing her one of his dashing smiles.
This is what happens when women talk to Julian. His charm infects them like a virus. This is partly why he’s such a good jury advocate: female jurors are transfixed by him, and he knows it.
I remember feeling such a sense of elation when we first got together; I was the one he had chosen.
There were many before me. Julian had been divorced for two years when I joined chambers, and he was well into his casual dating stage by then.
He’d tell me all about his latest disaster date over coffee, and I used to laugh at how this man was so academically intelligent but clueless when it came to the opposite sex.
His love life was a carousel of women who idolized him and were boring and clingy.
I often wondered if he’d make a move on me in that year of pupillage, but nothing ever happened.
Not even when we went for post-work drinks.
We’d end up in a champagne bar in Durham, the one with a rooftop terrace overlooking the river, and in so many moments against the violet sky and tastefully placed fairy lights, I’d be desperate for him to kiss me.
He never did.
It would have been highly frowned upon and a breach of ethical code if he had, given concerns about abuse of power, despite pupillage not being at all like a teacher–student relationship.
Once the twelve-month pupillage period is over, dating is no longer taboo, since everyone is self-employed.
But we didn’t get together for another five years; he was in and out of casual relationships and I was busy at work.
Fate threw us together at the right time, I suppose.
We always went away for weekends in the beginning.
We didn’t want to risk being seen, not because we were doing anything wrong—we were both single—but he was my former pupilmaster and the gossip would have made it feel cheap.
It would have been labeled the “pupilmaster shags his former pupil, tale as old as time” trope.
But we weren’t the first to do it and won’t be the last. It wasn’t until we knew the relationship was sustainable, after about three months, that we went public.
Julian made me feel intelligent and seen.
And it went beyond our mutual love of the law: we both enjoyed traveling, we took pleasure in the same music and hated the same films. Being around him was my favorite place to be.
We hardly ever get an opportunity to slow down and recharge.
Despite living in Durham, which is a beautiful city, it’s rare that we manage to spend quality time together; there’s always a case to prepare, an urgent document to draft, a closing speech to write.
Even the air feels fresher here, and we make the most of it by exploring the surroundings all afternoon.
After getting changed, we go to the restaurant for an early dinner.
We leave at twilight, to a dusky sky, and walk back to our cabin and light the firepit.
Wrapping the huge tartan blanket around me on the outdoor sofa, I look at my husband.
In the firelight his chiseled face could be that of a film star.
We open a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape as a birthday treat. It’s Julian’s favorite wine, which we drank at our wedding, a full-bodied, smoky, plum-colored red, but at ￡150 a bottle it’s reserved for exceptionally special occasions.
“Let’s have a toast. To you on your birthday.”
“For surviving another year because I’m so old?” He laughs.
“I don’t care about your age, you know that,” I tell him, placing my hand on his arm. “Besides, you’re the sexiest older man I know.”
He scoffs, “You may be biased. I still can’t believe you’re eleven years younger than me.” He takes a large gulp from his glass and slumps down into the sofa.
“It says a lot, then, that you’ve bagged such a hot, youthful wife.” I laugh.
“Well, if I achieve nothing else, at least I have that.” He smiles. “And on that note, a toast to your Legal 500 quote.”
I feel my face light up and I raise my glass of wine.
“Max did me a massive favor with that one,” he adds.
“Max?” I frown, confused.
“He put the quote in. Max Westwick. We went to Oxford together. He owed me a favor. I helped him out with a legal thing a few years back.”
Of course it wasn’t real. I knew it, deep down. How naive of me to think it might have been authentic. I always try to be very aware of what my face is doing—Julian taught me that a poker face is one of your greatest weapons—but sometimes, the mask drops.
“What?” he asks. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I just wondered if, you know, I might have earned that quote myself. I have been doing some great trials lately.”
He tilts his head and gazes at me in a way that makes me feel embarrassed and stupid.
“Do you know how hard it is to get into the Legal 500? Some silks don’t manage it. Took me twenty years. I’ve done you a massive favor.”
“Yes, of course. Obviously. I am grateful,” I gush, forcing a smile onto my wounded face. “I just worry that…”
“Not this again.” He sighs.
“What again?”
“Look,” he says. “You’re married to someone more senior. With that come perks. Embrace them. This profession is hard enough.”
“People already think I’m only getting the cases I am because I married you.”
“Is that true?” he shoots straight back at me, his eyebrows raised.
“No!”
“Prove it, then. Show them that’s not the case.”
“How am I supposed to do that when I’m getting all these perks? They hate me for it.”
“You’ll have to win this trial, then, won’t you?”
It’s a lighthearted comment, but the challenge is there. Julian and I are competitive at the best of times. Going against each other in this trial is going to get tough.
“Perhaps I will,” I say confidently. “I mean, if Jack Millman asked for me specifically, he obviously thinks I’m up to the job.”
“Bet he fancies you, that’s why!” Julian remarks, knocking back another large mouthful of wine.
“A bit reductive, Julian.” I sigh. “I’m not biting.”
“I can see you want to, though,” he says, smirking and poking his finger into my ribs.
“Stop winding me up!”
We both burst out laughing, which resets the mood. A twisted sense of humor is essential in this job—it’s the only way to stay sane. When the air falls silent between us, I catch him gazing at me.
“What?” I ask.
“I was just thinking about your first day with me as a pupil. Within a few hours, I knew you’d be something special.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“I did. I know talent when I see it. You were different from the other pupils we’d had previously. You had something electric about you.”
“That was impostor syndrome, Julian.”
“You know what I mean. Everyone else we had in before you was generic. The same indistinguishable, privileged minds, but with different faces. Then you burst through the doors. You had grit about you. Even then, you were fearless.”
“Well, that’s what growing up in poverty around drug dealers does for you.”
“I mean it,” he says. “You’re different from the others. It’s your strength.”
It’s not often Julian gets sentimental. He reaches his arm out toward me; I lean in and cuddle up against his warm body. I feel his hand slip into my hair.
“It’ll be OK, you know. This trial. It won’t come between us,” he says softly. “I know you’re worried about it. I understand.”
“I am. You’re the first person I’d want to ask if I had a question, but now you’re the one person I can’t talk to.”
“You can talk to me about anything, Leila. You know that. I hope you’ll continue to learn from me until the day I hang up my wig. That’s how the relationship works.”
“Exactly. How am I supposed to go up against you in court?”
“Do your best. Remember everything I taught you.”
He bends his head down to mine and kisses me. He’s trying to calm my nerves, but I feel as if I’m standing at the bottom of Mount Everest.