They were the only two left in the pupils’ room. Everyone was either in court or already in the pub.
“You can even take my last fag. Consider it part of the trousseau.”
Natalie put her arms in her coat, while Polly worked the lighter, but they were not quick enough to avoid a clerk, Ian Cross, appearing at the bottom of the stairs carrying a brief.
“Oi: put that out. Concentrate. Who wants this?”
“What is it?”
Ian turned the brief over in his hands: “Junkies. Robbery. Bit of mild arson. That’s young Mr. Hampton-Rowe’s notes on the back of it — over at Bridgestone. He got a higher calling last minute. That Reverend Marsden fuck-up. High profile.”
Natalie watched Polly blush and reach out for the brief with an imitation of mild interest: “Reverend who?”
“You’re joking, aren’t you? Vicar cut up a prozzie and dumped her in Camden Lock. Been wall to wall. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Not those sort of papers.”
“You should join the 21st century, love. There’s only one kind of paper these days.” As he smiled, the port wine stain around his left eye crinkled horribly. Another of Polly’s clever phrases: “a whole personality constructed round a stain.”
“Give it here. She can’t. Nat’s getting married Sunday.”
“Salutations. Everyone should do it. No man is an island, I always say.”
“Oh, that was you, was it? I was wondering who that was. Nat, darling, flee from here. Save yourself. Have a drink on me.”
110. Personality Parenthesis
(Sometimes, when enjoying Pol’s capsule descriptions of the personalities of others, Natalie feared that in her own — Natalie’s — absence, her own — Natalie’s — personality was also being encapsulated by Pol, although she could not bring herself to truly fear this possibility because at base she could not believe that she — Natalie — could ever be spoken about in the way she — Natalie — spoke about others and heard others spoken about. But for the sake of a thought experiment: what was Natalie Blake’s personality constructed around?)
111. Work drinks
Natalie Blake hurried up the steps and past the clerks’ room to avoid any other briefs. She stepped out into the slipstream of Middle Temple Lane. Everyone flowing in the same direction, toward Chancery Lane, and she fell in step, found two friends, and then two more. By the time they reached The Seven Stars they were too large a party for an inside table. The only other woman — Ameeta — offered to get the drinks and Natalie offered to help her. “Vodka shots or beer?” They had forgotten to ask. Ameeta, another working-class girl, but from Lancashire, was anxious to get it right — as working-class female pupils they were often anxious to get it right. Natalie Blake counseled for both. A few minutes later they emerged in their sensible skirt suits holding two wobbly trays sloppy with foam. The men were lined up by the railings of the Royal Courts, smoking. It was a lovely late-summer evening in London. The men whistled. The women approached.
112. Sir Thomas More, Lincoln’s Inn, 1496
“Someone give this girl the bumps! She’s getting married. Ah, the good die young. What’s his name again? Francesco. An eye-tie? I move for a mistrial. Half-Trini, actually. IT’S POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAD. Seriously, though, Nat. Best of luck. We all wish you the best of luck. I don’t believe in luck. Where’s my invite? Yeah, where’s my invite? Watch that glass! No one’s invited, not even family. We want to be alone. Ooh, exclusive! Someone lift her up. Pol says he’s loaded, too. Durham and Macaulay. Quickie in Islington town hall. Honeymoon in Positano. Business class. Oh, we know all about it. Oh yes, we know. Blake’s no fool. Ouch! No hitting. Point is, you’re joining the other side. Enemy camp. We will be forced to continue the hunt for love in your absence. This Francesco fellow: he approve of sex after marriage? Italians tend to. Catholic, we presume. Oh, yes, we presume. Frank. Everyone just calls him Frank. He’s only half-Italian. Jake, get her right leg. Ezra, get the left. Ameeta get the arse. Put me down! You’re on arse duty, Ameeta, love. Objection! How come Ameeta gets the best bit? Because I do. Objection overruled. Why can’t a gentleman refer to the posterior of a lady anymore these days? I TELL YOU IT’S POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE — oh, fuck it. One two three LIFT.”
The trainee barristers carried Natalie Blake across the road, whooping. Her nose came level with the arch of 16th-century doorways. So far from home!
“SHE’S GETTING MARRIED IN THE MORNING.”
“Morning after. Who’s that statue, up there?”
“My Latin’s rusty — I have no fucking clue… Which way we heading? North? West! Which line do you need, Nat? The Jubilee?”
113. Miele di Luna (two weeks)
Sun.
Prosecco.
Sky, bleached.
Swallows. Arc. Dip.
Pebbles blue.
Pebbles red.
Elevator to the beach.
Empty beach. Sun rise. Sun set.
“You know how rare this is, in Italy? This is what you pay for — the silence!”
Oh.
He swims. Every day.
“The water is perfect!”
Wave.
English newspapers. Two beers. Arancini.
“Is it all right if we put it on this card? We’re in room 512. I have my passport.”
“Of course, Madam, you are the newlywed suite. You mind I ask something? Where you from?”
Wave.
The waiters wear white gloves. Obituaries. Reviews. Cover to cover.
Rum and coke. Cheesecake.
“Can I put it straight on the room? The other guy said it was OK. 512.”
“For sure, Madam. How do you call this, in English?”
“Binoculars. My husband likes birds. Weird saying that word.”
“Binoculars?”
“Husband.”
The public beach is at the tip of the peninsula. Four miles hence. Whoops. Screams. Laughter. Music from loud speakers. More bodies than sand.
Wish you were here?
Empty.
Exclusive.
“This is really like paradise!”
oh
wave
Lone family. Red umbrella. Mother, father, son. Louis.
LOOO-weee! Pink shorts. WAVE
Nowhere and nothing.
LOOO-WEEE!
Vodka cocktail.
“Have you got a pen? Do you know where they’re from?”
“Paris, signora. She is American model. He is computer. French.”
Louis stung by a jellyfish.
Dramatic event!
Rum Cocktail. Prawns. Chocolate cake.
“512, please.”
“Madam, I promise you this is not possible. There are no jellyfish here. We are a luxury resort. You don’t swim because of this?”
“I don’t swim because I can’t swim.”
Linguine con vongole, gin and tonic, rum cocktail.
“Signora, where you from? American?”
“512.”
“This is your boyfriend swimming?”
“Husband.”
“He speak very good Italian.”
“He is Italian.”
“And you, signora? Dove sei?”
114. L’isola che non c’è
“You should at least stand in the water one time,” said Frank De Angelis, and Natalie Blake looked up at her husband’s beautiful brown torso dripping with saltwater and returned to her reading. “You’ve been dragging those papers around since the plane.” He looked over her shoulder. “What’s so interesting?” She showed him the wrinkled, water-damaged page of personal advertisements. He sighed and put on his sunglasses. “‘Soulmates.’ Che schifo! I don’t know why you love reading those things. They depress me. So many lonely people.”