Chapter 28 Oh, is there?
“Babe, where did you put the box of teabags?” Ben shouts. His deep voice echoes through the house to reach me in the bedroom.
I’m still lying in our shared bed, trying to absorb as much of Ben’s smell as I can before I have to get up.
Snuggling beneath the duvet, on Ben’s side of the bed, I shout back, “End press, above the microwave.”
The next sound I hear is a rattling noise; it’s likely Ben rooting around in the kitchen presses.
Then, I hear a long exhale from Ben, indicating that he’s found his desired item.
With the kettle boiling in the kitchen, I grudgingly roll out of bed and hop into the shower.
I spend longer than I usually do under the hot water.
I scrub every part of my body that I can reach until it’s as clean as I can get it.
Despite the fact that I’ve been living with Ben for the past five months, I’m still conscious of smelling as clean and looking as presentable as possible for him.
Once I’m satisfactorily washed and dried, I slide into a grey three-piece suit.
I’m happy to be living in Dublin once again.
Because I’m living with Ben in Carrickmines, I have more than enough time to snooze my alarm, shower, and eat breakfast before I have to head into the office in the mornings.
While I do miss Brendan at times, I certainly don’t miss the long commute from Gorey to Dublin.
Ben steps into the bedroom just as I’m about to leave it. We meet in the doorway. Cheekily, he places both of his hands on either side of it, blocking my exit. He smirks. “Time to pay the toll.”
I try to feign enragement, but my lips betray me. Within seconds, my lips meet his, paying said toll.
“Happy?” I ask as I pull away.
Ben shakes his head. “There’s a service charge too.”
“Oh, is there?”
Ben shrugs. “Yep. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
I plant another kiss on his lips to pay the service charge. I step back and eyeball him from head to toe. Like me, he’s dressed for work. His suit is as dark as a moonless sky, while his shirt is as white as snow.
Both of us are due in the Criminal Courts of Justice today.
It’s for Bethany’s case. After four months in the Central Mental Hospital, Bethany was deemed fit to stand trial by their expert psychiatrists.
From there, a new trial was scheduled by the Central Criminal Court.
The trial commenced two weeks ago and came to a close at the end of last week.
During this trial, Ben and I made sure to present as much evidence as possible attesting to Bethany’s mental illness, especially at the time of the crime.
We examined all of the expert witnesses that we corresponded with during the appeal process, and we tried to explain the defence of insanity as clearly and comprehensively as possible.
Today, we will find out if the jury believed this evidence.
Their verdict is due to be read aloud at 11:00 a.m.
Ben and I walk into the kitchen together, like we do most mornings.
I remorsefully avert my eyes when I pass by a stack of papers that Ben had asked me to review.
I planned to go through them last night but got side-tracked by the latest Netflix original.
Melissa and Brendan had both recommended it to me, so Ben and I decided to sit down and binge all six episodes.
Understandably, I was in no condition to review legal submissions afterwards.
“Shit, I forgot about those papers. Sorry,” I guiltily admit.
“Just give them a quick skim now, sure,” Ben suggests. He takes bowls from the press and starts to set the table for our breakfast. “I’m sure everything is right.” He winks, and a confident, smug smirk fills his face.
Taking a seat on one of the benches beneath the table, I grab the stack. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Ben busies himself with breakfast, and I bury my head in his legal submissions.
The submissions concern the appeal of a conviction for burglary.
I breeze through the paragraphs of information on the statutes and case law that govern the offence of burglary, the reasons an application for an appeal should be granted, and a summary of all the additional evidence that must be taken into account.
I’m searching for something to nitpick or critique – a missing case name, an incorrect footnote, a spelling mistake, anything.
However, I cannot find one mistake. The old me would’ve hated to tell Ben this, but the new me is so excited to praise him, my being fills with happy butterflies.
“Perfect,” I tell him.
He turns around, almost dropping the cardboard box of cereal he holds. “Really?” he asks, eyes wide.
“Really.”
I glance around the kitchen. It’s a bright day, so all of the appliances and countertops shine.
Ben and I have really made this house into our home.
The fridge is covered in polaroid pictures – like the one we took at Melissa’s Agatha Christie- themed party, or the candid photo I took of Ben when he was standing shirtless, only wearing a pair of work pants.
Our landlord intends to sell the property in the coming months.
Ben and I are hoping to purchase it from him.
Here and there, we’ve been saving as much as we can.
A few days ago, we submitted our final documents to the bank as part of our mortgage application.
Fingers crossed that we’ll hear back soon.
And fingers crossed that we do indeed receive the mortgage approval that we require.
“Did you put sugar on this?” I’m just about to shove a spoonful of soggy cereal into my mouth.
Chewing his own breakfast, Ben nods. “Of course,” he mumbles, covering his mouth. “It’s treat day Thursday.”
I smile, almost moaning as I taste the sweetness. “You know me too well.”
A thought strikes me and I suddenly remember. “Don’t forget Brendan is coming over tonight to watch the match.”
Ben chuckles. “How could I forget? You’ve been talking about it all week.”
Once we’ve loaded the dishwasher and brushed our teeth side by side, Ben and I follow each other out the door. I lock it behind me while Ben does a quick scope around to make sure all the windows are shut. Sunshine beats down upon us; Dublin is being hit with another unexpected heatwave.
As I steal a glance at Ben’s bum while he walks over to the driver’s side of his pickup, he shouts, “When are you going to change that car?” He’s looking at my little red hatchback.
“That car is never leaving us,” I say defensively.
Ben examines the car with narrowed eyes, shielding his vision from the sun with a cupped hand. “I’d say she only has one NCT left in her – if you’re lucky.”
I shrug. “We’ll see.”
Ben looks at his watch. His eyes widen. “C’mon, Nick. We better get going.”
I give my little red hatchback one last sympathetic look before I hop into Ben’s too-big-for-Dublin-City pickup. Once Ben is satisfied that my seat belt is fastened, he reverses out of the driveway and drives us into Dublin City.
Ben drops me off at O’Leary and Adams’s Dublin office.
It’s a few minutes before 9:00. Because the announcing of the verdict in Bethany’s case isn’t scheduled until 11:00 a.m., I’m required to attend the office beforehand.
It’s for the best, I suppose. There are a few submissions that need to be filed with various courts as soon as possible.
I sit down at my desk, open my laptop, and get to work.
Melissa strolls in a few minutes after 9:00. As predicted, she’s carrying so many tote bags that their weight has caused her shoulders to sag.
“Good morning,” she says, exasperated. Her face is red and there’s a bead of sweat resting above her eyebrow.
I swivel around in my chair to face her. Playfully, I grimace at my watch. “Looks like you’re three minutes late, Melissa.”
Melissa pantomimes an offended expression and scoffs. “Uh. Well, I guess I’ll have to eat this Dairy Milk all by myself, then.” She drops her bags to the ground. She roots around in one of them – the one reserved for chocolate. After a few seconds, she reveals a giant, shiny purple wrapper.
Judging it with hungry eyes, I immediately correct myself. “Never mind. You weren’t late at all.”
Melissa laughs. “That’s what I thought.”
We get to work after that. I sneakily take bites of the Dairy Milk in between finalising submissions; Melissa does the same until she has to leave for court.
She’s appearing before Judge Kearney today, and she isn’t one bit happy about it.
But at least the barrister she’s attending upon is Jane Keely.
I file my final submission just after 10:00. Startlingly, when I pivot around, I notice that an unwelcome visitor has come to my desk. It’s James Adams.
After our quarrel almost a year ago, James moved to a different O’Leary and Adams office. I’d heard that the move was voluntary on his part, that it made his commute to work shorter. Nonetheless, I suspected the real reason for the move was me.
Recently, I’d started to hear rumours that he’d returned to this office. Now I can confirm that these rumours are true.
Cautiously, he says, “Hi, Nick. I need your help.”
James Adams’s once-balding head is now fully bald; his beer belly remains the same size.
Where once his small eyes were filled with disgust and distain for me, they are now more open, like he’s desperate.
Even after everything that’s happened, I feel sympathy for him.
The fact that his mother is Ursula Adams helps his case.
“Of course.” I invite him to take Melissa’s seat. “What can I help you with, James?”
“Before I say anything, I just want to say that I’m sorry, Nick. I shouldn’t have treated you the way I treated you, and I hate myself whenever I think about it.” James stops to clear his throat. “I’m so sorry. Please accept my apology.”