Chapter 20 #3
Okay.
We made it to the east side of Temple. The area is a bizarre, and particularly British, phenomenon. A private world of barristers’ chambers enclosed in an ornate green space in central London. The hub of the legal world, where the ordinary public is granted access by express permission.
Simon parked the car, and we walked down – in silence – towards one of the side entrances near the river. “How do you know your way around London?”
“I lived here for four years,” he said in a low growl.
“Oh, I didn’t know you’d ever … Was it for work?”
He nodded. No more information was forthcoming. “Good chat, good chat,” I said more than a little sarcastically.
He sighed. “I worked at the MOD building and lived in north London for a year, then in west London for two years. Then I got my own place for the last year in south London. Kennington.”
“So … you moved to Lilbury after this?”
“I moved around a fair bit, did some time here and there. But yes, eventually I ended up in Lilbury.”
I ruminated on this as we came up to the entrance. “Kennington. We could have been neighbours.” I meant it as a joke and flashed a grin. Simon’s grimace told me he wouldn’t have liked it.
We came up to the gates. I didn’t recognise the security guard on duty.
Old Irish Mick must have been off today.
His equally as jovial counterpart, Moses, a Nigerian guy who called every man, woman, child, and goat, “my friend” when he spoke to them, was also nowhere to be seen.
“Bugger,” I said. “I don’t know that guard.
They won’t let us through unless we have an appointment. ”
“Leave it to me,” he said and walked to the gate. After a few minutes, he beckoned me forward, and the security guard waved us through.
“What did you say?”
He shrugged. “That we had a meeting.”
Wait, that never worked. I narrowed my eyes.
Maybe he’d used some spy jiggery-pokery.
That made me gulp. Good God, what exactly did Simon do at the MOD?
Images of Russian double agents trussed up in nowt but their Y-fronts begging for mercy flashed through my mind.
Wait, come back, was that Russian secret agent filling out those undies better than expected?
I pointed out Ollie’s chambers. “It’s over here.”
We made our way through the main square, where senior barristers were allowed to park their cars, and then off to the side to a smaller, tree-lined part of the grounds.
It still looked as it had always done – as if Hollywood had rocked up and spent millions recreating Georgian London with no detail forgotten nor expense spared.
Barristers in gowns and wigs walked past us carrying files and talking on phones.
I was keeping my distance from Simon – something that he seemed to be aware of.
I hadn’t thought he’d mind, but he kept trying to walk closer to me, and every time I veered away, he would veer too.
I gulped. My mind running wild about Russian agents again.
Maybe he was suspicious and was trying to keep tabs on me so he could stuff me in a suitcase later? Or poison me with an umbrella tip. Or …
Handyman. Spy. I wondered what the truth was.
Actually, no, I didn’t. Whatever world Simon inhabited, I wanted to be as far as fucking possible from it.
The good thing about parents born under a repressive authoritarian regime: they taught you real quick to stay away from anyone who was gonna lead you down that path.
I tried to think about anything else. It was boiling.
Even here, in this green oasis within the concrete jungle of central London, the sun beat down.
God, for the cool green fields of Lilbury.
I caught myself before I said something along the lines of Gosh, this weather, eh?
Instead, I pulled my T-shirt from my body and shook it, hoping for a breeze to ease the sweat running down my torso.
I looked over and caught Simon averting his eyes a little too slowly to prove he hadn’t been peeking.
“It’s this way,” I said, trying to hide my smug expression.
Ollie’s chambers took up a three-storied red-brick building with trees out the front and a main entrance that was up a small staircase.
A clerk came out with a box of papers, as we were preparing to knock, and let us in.
He didn’t give us a second glance, even though my shorts and a T-shirt and Simon’s jeans were hardly the normal attire of the clientele that came through here.
It looked the same; it smelled the same.
A sea of male heads filled the clerks’ room behind the tiny reception desk.
Unlike most of London’s business world, the majority of administration roles in barrister chambers were occupied by men.
Women were few and far between. Which made me glad to see one female among the blokes, especially as she gasped when she spotted me.
“Arden!” she cried from her seat and came up to the desk to gape at me.
“Hello, love,” I said and accepted the hug she offered.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in an accent of purest Essex. “We never expected to see you again. Oh, but it’s good to see you, though. You’re looking …” Her eyes took me in, and she couldn’t say ‘good’ without lying. And then she noticed Simon.
“Simon, this is Natalie, one of the receptionists. Natalie, this is my … neighbour, Simon. We’re here to see Ollie.”
She smiled. “’Course.” She checked the computer for a second and then frowned. “There’s no meeting booked …”
I winked. “It’s a personal matter, Natalie.”
She grinned. “I’ll give him a ring.” She picked up the phone and punched his extension in and frowned again. “No answer,” she said, hanging up and then checking the computer. “He’s not scheduled anything.”
Huh. I’d been so sure he’d be here; I hadn’t even bothered to text him to make sure. Then out of the corner of my eye, I caught a familiar shape. One of the secretaries from upstairs. She saw me as I saw her.
“Arden,” she said politely. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Hello, Janet,” I said equally politely.
“Arden’s looking for Oll— Mr Ross,” said Natalie.
Janet smiled serenely. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, I’m afraid he’s indisposed this afternoon.”
“Really? Do you know when he’ll be available?” I asked.
“I’m afraid, I don’t.” Another smile.
“You’re his secretary. You know exactly where he is all the time.” I smiled as firmly.
Natalie looked at her screen, her eyes not moving.
“Is he at a meeting? With a client? At … Court?” Simon interrupted. “We need to find him. It’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” both Janet and Natalie said in unison.
“Aye,” Simon said in full Scottish. I widened my eyes. “I’m his cousin, from Dumfries. Am afraid there’s a family emergency.”
Janet faltered. She smiled again. “Well, if it’s an emergency. He’s working from home this afternoon.”
Really? Working from home means ‘unavailable’? I glared at her, and I hope she could feel it.
“Brilliant,” Simon said, grinning. “Come on, Arden, if we hurry, he can probably speak to Great Aunt Minerva before they switch off the machine. Ladies, thank you.” He grabbed my arm, and we left quickly.
He didn’t let go until we made our way back out of the grounds and neared the car park. He gave me a look. “What did you do to piss off his secretary?” he asked eventually.
“Nothing,” I snapped.
We got in the car. I was putting on my seatbelt when a thought occurred to me. “How did you know Ollie was from Dumfries?”
“Mm,” he said, looking at the satnav, ignoring my question. “What’s his postcode?”
“How did you know, though?”
He shrugged. “You must’ve mentioned it. Yeah, I remember now, you mentioned it ages ago.”
I was sure I hadn’t. He stared at me. “Postcode?”
I typed it in, and we made off. It should have only been a fifteen-minute drive to our – his – flat in Southwark, but it was late afternoon in summer, so the road was packed with taxis, buses, and a million office workers who’d clocked off early and were spilling into the streets as the pubs were already chock-a-block.
This time, Simon did let me give directions – even a shortcut that contradicted his satnav.
We arrived about half an hour later, after I directed him to a place he could park.
I was glad, for once, that Ollie had always had a car, even if I’d rolled my eyes when he used to talk about his parking woes.
You’d be amazed at the number of people in London who, when asked about parking, looked like you’d demanded they translate the Dead Sea scrolls.
I’d been one of them before I’d met Ollie.
We made our way along Borough High Street, and then into the courtyard where you could enter our – his – block of flats.
Our luck was in, because once again, someone was coming out as we were going in. This time, we were acknowledged.
“Arden?” said a voice I recognised. I looked to see a thirty-something woman holding the hand of a toddler and staring at me like I was a ghost.
“Hello, Kasia!” I said in Polish.
“Oh my God, it’s been so long. What on earth are you doing here?” she said and grabbed me for a hug. “It’s good to see you! I wish I had time to stop and chat, but I have to get this one to the babysitter before my shift starts.”
She kissed me on the cheek, gave Simon a quizzical look, and then stopped as she was about to head off – “Are you and Oliver getting back together?”
“Um, it’s complicated,” I said, glad we were still speaking Polish. Simon was following our conversation but, thankfully, couldn’t understand.
She raised an eyebrow and then leaned back in. “He’s been a wreck. I made him soup. He never ate it. But I think you did the right thing. Or maybe not … maybe you should come back.” She shrugged.
“Thanks, Kasia. Edifying as ever.” I rolled my eyes. She grinned.
She gave me a wave and then hurried off, dragging poor wee … I wanna say … Philip behind her? No, Marcin. Kamil?
“Friend?” Simon asked.
“My downstairs – my old downstairs neighbour. Kasia.”