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their mug shot though.’

      ‘You do. Have you met him yet?’

      ‘No, Monday morning, board meeting. 9:00 a.m. We’re all being introduced. You know, usual informal, formal thing. We’ll be working on a case together. The Bensons. Not particularly straightforward. Lots of emotion there. And money.’

      ‘So no difference then really.’

      ‘No. Joe Ryan comes well recommended.’

      ‘Wonder if he’s fit?’

      ‘Business and pleasure don’t mix, Fran. And I want to get away from dating lawyers and barristers. All we end up talking about is cases, past ones of course. It’s a bit limiting. And takes the innocent romance out of the evening a bit.’

      ‘I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. You dated that banker last year.’

      ‘Oh yes, him. The guy I met at someone’s birthday party, invited me to lunch and then proceeded to tell me he has a girlfriend, a five-month-old baby and a very big sex drive and wasn’t being satisfied. So would I be so kind as to relieve his tension.’

      ‘Yes, think you told him to pay for a hooker.’

      ‘In a nice way, yes, I think I did. Disturbing thing is, Fran, that this happened to me twice last year. I’d meet someone, talk to them, and they’d think that I’d be game for sex without the relationship bit.’

      ‘Your problem, Hazel, and it’s always been your problem, is that you’re sexy.’

      ‘A lot of women are sexy.’

       ‘Yes, I know that. Let me finish. You’re sexy and bright and come across as independent. You can look after yourself.’

      ‘I do look after myself.’

      ‘Yes, let me finish. So you’re sexy and independent. Along comes a guy, unhappy with his sex life, but happy with the status quo of his relationship, meets you, thinks you won’t get all emotional on him, because of the way you come across, and goes for it. Problem is, Hazel, you may do a tough woman’s job, wear the blue suit, stand in court and be as cold as they come, but you’re a big softy. And men may see you as ideal mistress fodder, but you’re not a mistress. You’re a wife, my darling. And they’re very different animals. You’re number one, not number two.’

      ‘So what am I supposed to be, all submissive then? Play the little woman when I’m not the little woman.’

      ‘No, be yourself. Always be yourself. Then you’ll meet someone who’ll like you for yourself. Because, Hazel, and don’t take this the wrong way, you’re not what you initially seem. You come across as feisty and confident and together, and you are. You are in many ways, but as your friend I’ve always felt when you’re in a relationship, it brings out the softer side in you. By soft I don’t mean vulnerable. You’re not vulnerable like you were when you were married to David. You don’t attract control freaks quite like you used to. But, and I know you’ll hate me for saying this, because it goes totally against your “I don’t need a man in my life anymore” philosophy, you’re a romantic.’

       ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘No perhaps about it. When you’re out of work clothes, you wear printed floaty skirts. Short ones. Your house is dramatic and contemporary, but it’s feminine. Despite the cynical job you do every day, your glass is always half-full. And that’s why you’re fun to be around. And I’m afraid, an optimist against all the odds makes you a romantic.’

      ‘An optimist perhaps. I don’t see through rose-tinted glasses.’

      ‘I know you don’t. How can you, doing what you do for a living. I think you see more clearly now than you ever have before, that’s why it’s rather wonderful that you still have this faith. Just be yourself, Hazel. The right man will find this charming and find it, you, utterly irresistible. Mark my words.’

      Two more teas arrive. We watch the high-powered aerobics class emerge from the 1 1/2 hour session of stretching, kicking, jumping. They look red and hot and smell of sweaty underwear. Most of them are smiling, high on the adrenaline and the knowledge they won’t have to do it for another seven days. Neither Fran nor I feel guilty.

      ‘And you never know, Hazel, you may meet someone at my wedding. That’s where a lot of people meet their future husbands, so I’m told.’

      ‘I do know. My next client met his future wife at one. Only he was married at the time. That’s the problem.’

      Chapter Three

      Calming Mr Benson

      Mr Francis Benson is screaming at me. Occasionally it pitches to a screech. Monday morning. Eight o’clock in the office. Mr Benson, my next client, is on the phone. As he pauses to draw breath, I interrupt.

      ‘No, Mr Benson, you will not be able to get away with keeping all your money. You were married to your wife for seven years. This is not a long marriage, but it is also not a short one. It is somewhere in between and following the case of Jones vs Jones earlier this year, it is highly likely that you will have to hand over forty-five percent of your assets and a sizeable proportion of your income each month. Do you understand?’

      Mr Benson, thirty-eight, equity trader, third marriage, two houses, one mistress, eight rented properties in London (none of which his wife knew about but will soon), one ulcer, does not understand. I sense he is about to spontaneously combust. He sounds as though he has been pacing, or is pacing. I expect he looks like Sarah when she first emerged from my body. All red and squished and incredulous and cross-looking.

      Benson spits bile.

      ‘I hate the fucking bitch. The fucking witch. She did fuck all in the marriage. She had affairs, you know. One while we were engaged and another while we were married. I found out by reading her e-mails and text messages. The slut.’

      I don’t interrupt. As a woman and as a divorce lawyer I know there are always two stories to be told. People have affairs because they are unhappy. Because they are restless and bored and selfish. She may have been any one or all of these things. It’s that simple. But I say nothing. It is not my place or my remit to speak. Mrs Benson’s counsel will do that for her in court if it gets that far. I let Mr Benson vent his fury. Better out than in. Better here than in court.

      ‘I sent her on loads of cookery courses and she couldn’t cook a fucking thing. She brought fuck all to the marriage. Fucking bitch. Ugly fucking bitch. I fucking hate her. I don’t want to give her a single fucking penny.’

      I smile because all my male clients mention their wives’ lack of culinary skills when they start to rant, as though they expect me to mention it in court.

      ‘And please can I raise, m’lord, to your attention, the fact that Mrs Benson failed to cook spotted dick for my client on the days he required. Failed consistently to prepare pasta in the correct way, with the right sauce. And made, in the words of my client “a lousy cup of tea.”

      As though it’s a big deal. It obviously is to them. The way to a man’s heart may not be through his stomach, but it certainly miffs him if his wife doesn’t cook. My male clients consistently talk as if it’s right up there with drug problems and emotional cruelty. Suppose it is to them.

      ‘Yes, I realise that, Mr Benson. Unfortunately, or fortunately I should say, you have two children from your marriage, and you have to support these children and your wife, whether your wife was a good cook or not. She did, in the eyes of the law, support you, and you did, according to my notes, make most of your income and acquire most of your assets—in fact you acquired all of your assets—during the seven-year marriage. So she has supported you during this time as far as the law is concerned, and brought up your children and helped you to become as successful as you are.’

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