Chapter 37 Leila
Leila
I never enjoyed Christmas as a kid. I was always so jealous hearing about all the nice things my friends got up to with their families.
My parents would spend the majority of the day not speaking to each other, sitting in separate rooms of the house, so I’d watch films to distract myself from thinking about how much of a magical time everyone else was having.
The first Christmas Eve I spent without either of them was the best one I’d ever had.
I went for a long walk on my own that lasted hours.
I felt free. I moseyed into a church I’d never even been to before and attended a mass.
As the carols bounced around the magnificent building, I thought about my parents and whether they would have enjoyed it.
I concluded that they wouldn’t. They never found joy in anything.
Every year, Julian and I go out for Christmas Eve lunch and spend the rest of the day cozied up drinking champagne and eating expensive, overpriced food from posh delis.
We got together shortly before Christmas, so our first one was spent in a loved-up state together doing just this, and the tradition continued thereafter.
We haven’t booked anywhere this year. The official line is it’s down to us being too busy to sort anything out, but the real reason is we haven’t been feeling connected lately.
And when I say that, I mean I can’t remember the last time we had a proper conversation about anything other than the case.
I didn’t tell him about Sienna—it would have been just another thing for him to complain about.
We’re working such erratic hours, we’ve even started sleeping separately.
I like to work on my laptop in bed late at night; he wants to go straight to sleep.
It makes sense that he sleeps in the spare room.
But I can’t ignore the siren going off, alerting me that this feels irreversible.
Audrey has gone to stay with her sister “down south” for the week, so this morning I went to check on her house.
Knowing Audrey, she’s likely left the heating on full-blast for the entire duration.
On the journey there, driving through the dull, foggy weather, I was constantly checking in the mirror to see if she was following me.
What is she planning? I know she’s planning something.
It’ll be well timed, whatever it is. Designed to cause maximum damage. That’s how she works.
I considered, for a second, whether I should speak to her father. If she’s spiraling, he could potentially get through to her. That really would blow everything up, though, and no matter what has happened between us, it would be a step too far, bringing him into it.
But I can’t risk her getting to Julian. Or sabotaging this case. There’s too much at stake.
When I arrive back home, Julian is dressed in a way that suggests he’s off somewhere.
Despite the fact it’s late morning, all the lamps are on in the house because it’s dark outside.
The tree lights are lacking the twinkle seen in previous years.
Light rain begins to patter at the windows; even the weather gods aren’t feeling festive.
“Are you going out?” I ask him, confused. “On Christmas Eve?”
“A few lawyers are meeting for a drink in town. Want to come?”
His tone suggests he’s asking out of obligation rather than a genuine desire for me to join.
He stands next to the table in the hallway, ready to shoot out of the door.
I’m wearing joggers and a hoodie. He knows it would take me far too long to get ready.
But I recognize what he’s doing, ostracizing me professionally.
“Who meets up for drinks on Christmas Eve?” I inquire, part comedically, part pissed off.
“Well, the people I’m meeting, obviously.”
“People who are either single or divorced?”
He sighs, looking in the mirror and fingering his hair. He ignores my targeted attempt to provoke him.
“Are you coming or not?”
“Why have you arranged to do this today?” I ask, folding my arms. “We always do something together.”
“Well, we haven’t booked anything and, to be honest, it didn’t feel as if you wanted to do anything this year,” he observes correctly, though it feels cutting to hear it said out loud.
“Why do you think that?” I ask him defensively.
Usually, we spend the Christmas break going for walks and pub lunches.
I don’t think that will be happening this year.
It’s only Christmas Eve and we’re already leaving the house separately just to escape the unspoken, unbroken tension. It can’t go on much longer.
“You haven’t seemed yourself,” he remarks slowly, dramatically, in a way that suggests I’m a hysterical woman from the Victorian era and require a priest to bring me back to sanity. Of course I’m to blame for this.
“Suppose I’ll see you later, then. Have fun.” I spit the words at him in the most sarcastic way possible.
He looks directly at me, saying nothing. Without responding, he walks toward the door, opens it, and leaves. There’s something about the sound of a door slamming in a quiet house that is so devastating.
Tears surge and spill out uncontrollably. The feeling of being isolated in this way cuts through me like a knife. Is this part of his strategy? How is he happy to leave me on my own on Christmas Eve?
Well, I refuse to spend the rest of the day dragging myself around the house, so I get wrapped up and go for a long walk on my own in the rain, like something out of a nineties music video.
Couples and families are everywhere, delighting in the magic of Christmas, while I slowly fall apart walking among them, my hands clasped pathetically around a paper cup of hot chocolate.
This case has changed my life in more ways than one.
How naive of me to think life would carry on as usual.
A year ago, I would have killed for this kind of opportunity, to prove myself in this professional capacity.
Right now, all I want is to give the case to someone else.
But then I wonder what Jack’s Christmas Eve looks like in prison.
And I know some things are more important.
I head back at twilight. I’m drenched from the rain, so I jump in a hot shower and use all of my expensive creams in an attempt to cheer myself up.
Julian returns just past 7 p.m. and I can smell the drink on him as soon as he stumbles into the living room, where I’ve been eating all the nice food I bought for both of us.
I’ve opened the champagne and started watching Die Hard (yes, it is a Christmas film).
His presence irritates me, and I just want him to go away.
“This looks nice!” he has the audacity to say, clumsily attempting to grab the smoked salmon blinis from M&S.
“Didn’t you eat while you were out?”
“No, I didn’t want to ruin our classic Christmas Eve feast.”
“Bit late for that.”
He winces. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Leila, what on earth is the matter with you?” he snaps. “You’ve been a nightmare for days.”
“Oh! Have I?”
“Yes, you have. Just tell me what the hell I’ve done. Look, I know you don’t like Christmas. I know you didn’t get on with your parents. But is that a good enough reason to ruin it for everyone else? For the last time, what is the matter with you?”
His voice is louder than normal.
“Nothing,” I repeat, through gritted teeth.
“There it is again. Nothing. Jesus Christ. Look, I don’t want to fight,” he says, sitting down on the sofa next to me. “What have you done today?”
The cheek of him, going out and leaving me on my own, then coming home, acting all concerned.
“What have I been doing today? Well, I’ve been working on that evidence,” I say, knowing it’s going to provoke him. “You know, the evidence you served deliberately late so I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it until January.”
“There it is!” he shouts, slamming his hands down onto his knees. “We got there in the end. That’s why you’re pissed off with me? Because of Quinn Smythe’s statement? Over some CCTV evidence? Jesus Christ!”
He leans forward, rubbing his eyes with his hands. I know this is the wrong time to bring it up, but I’m so mad right now—I can’t hold back any longer.
“Tell me, Julian, how could you fuck over your own pupil?”
Even as I’m saying it, I’m forced to recognize my own hypocrisy, knowing I’ve looked at his confidential evidence. But the difference is that he doesn’t know about that. He has deliberately and knowingly screwed me over here and, worse, has seemed to enjoy it.
“Sorry, Leila.” He smiles, suddenly smug. “This is how big, grown-up cases are won.”
Dick.
“Don’t patronize me. There was no need to do it that way. You knew it would cause unnecessary stress.”
“Well, don’t spoon-feed me valuable information that will help the prosecution, then complain when it backfires on you!” he shouts, standing up to illustrate how stupid I’ve been. “That’s what you’re annoyed about here. You didn’t realize what you’d done until it smacked you in the face.”
It’s intended to be harsh, and it is. He knows it will hurt.
“Don’t you see the damage you’re creating? It’s not just this case that’s at stake here. This is testing our marriage.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know what I’m doing—I’m seeing how far I can push it. How far I can push him. I want to know exactly what means more to him. Is it me? Or is it winning? Because, I understand now, he can’t have both.
I want him to say it.
Would he really be prepared to screw me over, his pupil, his wife, and end our marriage for a victory in court?
“Look, I’m not going to compromise my working practices for anyone. A win is a win. I’m sorry if you can’t understand that.”
Win at all costs. That’s his ethos. Even if that cost is his marriage. But there has to be a tiny part of him that thinks he might not win, and then he’ll have lost the case and his wife. I think about what Audrey said. Is all of this because, beneath everything, he feels threatened by me?
“Are you afraid you’ll lose? Is that why you’re acting like a prick?”
He smiles as if I’ve said something funny, genuinely funny. And suddenly it’s clear there is not one part of him that thinks he might lose.
“No.”
“Why not? You always used to say to me no case is 100 percent winnable.”
He sighs, loudly, in the way men do when they’re about to deliver bad news.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Lei. You’re my wife, my pupil, and of course I want the best for you, but you can’t win this. Whether I served this evidence weeks ago, now, or the day of trial—it really doesn’t matter. I’m only being honest with you. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
No shouting, no screaming. His most damaging blows are always quiet.
It dawns on me that his advice regarding Jack giving evidence—to convince him otherwise, to keep him out of the witness box—was genuine. Because he knows it will be a disaster, but also he knows he will win either way.
He turns and walks out of the room. His words float in the air and dance about my head, carefully selected to cling to my worries, my anxieties, my weaknesses.
And I start to believe him. That’s how good an advocate he is.
He’s right: the timing of that evidence doesn’t matter.
He’s still got the upper hand. Who am I to think I can win against someone with eleven years’ more experience?
King’s Counsel, for god’s sake! This man, who taught me everything.
I’m kidding myself. The power and confidence in his words, the way he delivers them—it’s terrifying, thinking how a jury will react to him.
Maybe it’s true that I will not, and do not, stand a chance.
—
As far as Christmas Days go, it’s bleak.
Julian gives me a pretty, but overpriced Tiffany bracelet, and we go for lunch at a local restaurant.
We stick to non-work chat, but it feels forced, stale.
Neither of us can forget what was said last night and the only thing to cleanse the air now is going to be the end of the trial itself.
This case hangs over our heads like a dark thundercloud, gathering electricity, waiting to unleash hell in a matter of weeks.
I’m relieved to get home and settle down in front of the TV. At about 8 p.m., our phones buzz at the same time and I momentarily panic, wondering if it’s something to do with her. But it’s not.
It’s a message in our chambers WhatsApp group from Chester.
Never thought I’d be saying this again, but guess who’s about to become a father for the third time? Demi said she’ll do all the nappies providing I fund the “Insta Nursery,” whatever the hell that is. Baby Vernon due May 2025!
Attached to the message is a scan photo of a baby. I read it and immediately look at Julian. He has no reaction whatsoever and puts his phone straight back down again.
“What do you think about this, then?” I ask, surprised.
“Good for them, I suppose.”
“You can’t honestly see Chester running around after a toddler? At his age?”
“None of our business, is it?”
And then the possibility of it hits me. I pause, while my head scrambles to work things out.
“If the baby is due in May, that means it must have been conceived around…August-ish.”
He looks at me, puzzled. “So?”
“Just something Chester said a while back, that’s all.”
“What did he say?” Julian asks, turning to look at me.
“Oh, nothing. Just…you know what he’s like.”
We continue watching TV, but my mind is running one hundred miles an hour. Chester’s message has given me an idea, but more importantly, it’s given me hope.
Julian was wrong.
If anyone’s coming out of this a winner, it’s going to be me.