Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist

‘I suggest that we start without Mrs Joy,’ said David, looking at me for approval. I knew what he was about to ask without him saying anything.

Robert objected but District Judge Barnaby raised a hand.

‘Fine,’ he said, looking seriously unimpressed.

‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ spat Martin as we left chambers forty minutes later.

‘Her presence really wasn’t necessary,’ reassured David.

We watched Robert and his team disappear down the corridor.

Martin was still shaking his head.

‘Are you going to speak to her?’ I asked.

He gave a light snort. ‘I don’t think anything I say will have any impact on her behaviour.’

‘Behaviour?’

‘It’s just so bloody typical of her.’

David looked sympathetic. ‘It’s not the first time a client hasn’t turned up to court. Happens more often than you might think. And perhaps Robert had implied that it was just a fairly rudimentary hearing …’

I tried to catch Martin’s eye, tried to work out what he was thinking but he looked unhappy and distracted.

‘What happens now?’ He focused his entire attention on David. I felt a heavy thump of disappointment.

‘As you saw in there, we set out a timetable for events. Now we need to gather information, liaise with Robert, wait for a date for the FDR.’

‘Which should be when?’

‘Six to eight weeks, with a bit of luck. If the forensic accounting doesn’t hold us up.’

‘Let me know. I’m off to Switzerland tomorrow; it’s been booked for a while and I don’t want to cancel, but it’s only for a week.’

I knew this information already. It had been mentioned in passing at the Spitalfields loft and at the time I wondered if he had been gearing up to fob me off.

‘Will do,’ said David, shaking his hand.

Martin turned to me to repeat the gesture.

He took my palm and held it a moment longer than necessary. As his fingers curled against mine, I thought about them inside me. Where they had been on Tuesday night. Where I wanted them to be right now.

‘See you next time,’ I said finally.

He nodded, and turned to leave without another word. I watched his form retreat into the distance and I was so transfixed I didn’t even stop to wonder if David Gilbert had noticed any spark or awkwardness between me and our client.

‘One day people with money will find themselves some manners,’ said David when he was out of earshot.

‘Martin?’ I asked with panic.

‘The wife. It’s so bloody disrespectful.’

‘Maybe she’s ill. Or got the wrong day.’

‘Maybe,’ said David cynically.

‘I think we should consider a researcher,’ he added after a pause.

‘What for?’

‘I handled a divorce recently. It was pretty unremarkable from a legal point of view, but it was a soap opera of a story. That wife didn’t turn up to her First Appointment either. We thought she was just being cavalier until I found out that she’d moved to LA without telling her husband. Hooked up with some multimillionaire record producer out there, all the while trying to screw my client for fifty per cent of his business.’

‘So you don’t trust Donna Joy either.’ I was aware of the glee in my own voice.

‘I just want to know what we are dealing with at her end,’ said my instructing solicitor. ‘If we can prove she is seeing someone … a rich new someone … that might help our cause.’

‘I know just the person who can help us,’ I replied.

There was little left to say to David. His thoughts had already turned to his next meeting, another client. We said our goodbyes and I stood in the lobby wondering how to kill time before a prohibited steps application that was listed for noon. There was no point returning to chambers so I went to Starbucks for a coffee, and read through my notes.

Sitting by the window, I pulled out my iPad and used it to surf the net. Usually I checked the headlines or the weather, but today I found myself typing in Donna Joy. The first three pages of search results yielded nothing I hadn’t read before, but as I dug deeper, I found the name of the studio from which she worked, a gallery that had exhibited her work, a party she had been to the previous summer. Most revealing of all was her Instagram account – endless stills of exotic locations, glamorous friends and smiling selfies, a window into a gilded world that made my own life seem lonely and colourless.

I stuffed the tablet back in my bag, put some red lipstick on in the loo and returned to court for my prohibited steps. I fed my coat and bag through the scanners and said hello to an acquaintance from law school who had also just arrived. The instructing solicitor for my next case had already texted to say that she was running late, so I hung around the foyer and read the court list.

I first noticed her out of the corner of my eye. It was her coat that grabbed my attention – hot pink and expensive-looking, the sort of item I would not wear myself on account of its colour, but could nonetheless admire.

I looked closer, and knew it was her. She was smaller than I expected, in the same way that the only two celebrities I have ever met were pocket-sized. Her hair was darker, more a rich toffee than a dark blonde. Her bag was large and exotic-looking – a textured skin I did not recognize. Lizard, alligator? I wondered if he had bought it for her.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked.

She turned to face me and I tried to absorb every detail of her face. Thin lips, strong brows, surprisingly little make-up on her pale, creamy skin, a long swan-like neck, around which hung a delicate gold necklace with the initial ‘D’.

She muttered under her breath with undisguised annoyance. ‘Not unless you can turn back time.’

I wanted to tell her that she was one hour fifty-two minutes late. That her solicitor would now be back at his office and that the wheels were in motion for her divorce. I wanted to ask her why she was so late. Was it a blow-dry to impress her husband, I wondered, looking at the smooth waves that fell over her shoulders. Or had she simply not bothered to write down the details of that morning’s application in her undoubtedly stuffed diary?

I stood motionless for a moment, my heart beating hard, wondering if I should introduce myself. But I knew she would find it strange and coincidental that the barrister she had met at the court lists was her husband’s own lawyer.

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ I replied, gripping my leather bag tighter.

Her face softened as she smiled at me, and I knew exactly what Martin Joy had seen in her. The collar of my shirt felt tight against my neck, and I headed straight for the exit, desperate to get some fresh air.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_21b35ee6-90bd-528d-a708-641a7cf80246)

I wasn’t the one who suggested meeting in Islington. Martin texted me from Switzerland asking me to dinner and when I said yes, he had a table booked at Ottolenghi within minutes.

I took this as a good sign. Ottolenghi was not in Soho or Chelsea. It was on Upper Street, a stone’s throw away from my flat, a short stagger back and I knew I had to – wanted to – prepare for that eventuality. Years of self-imposed singledom don’t make for the highest levels of grooming, and slinky underwear had been replaced by over-washed comfort across the board: something had to give. Most Saturday mornings I’d be at the Toynbee Hall free legal advice centre in Stepney, where I’ve done volunteer work for years, but that week I decided to skip it and instead spend the morning at a little Korean beauty spa on Holloway Road so that I would at least be waxed and smooth. I then went to my favourite deli, La Fromagerie, and bought creamy brie and fragolino grapes to stock the fridge and I put fresh linen on the bed, even spraying them with lavender scent in a bid to make them smell like those starchy sheets you find in expensive hotels. I wanted to make my flat a delicious haven he would never want to leave. Which, I was starting to realize, was exactly what I wanted.