Strictly Love

This wasn't how she'd planned things, back when she'd started law school in Cardiff, all those years ago. Then she'd been full of naïve optimism about how she was going to take on cases like her dad's (languishing at home a semi-invalid thanks to the incompetence of the firm he'd given most of his life to). She felt ashamed that she'd ended up at Mire & Innit – a small media law firm which specialised in defending the low-level famous, in cases which, in the main, were pretty indefensible. Her boss Mel had promised her the earth at her interview seven years ago.

‘This is a small firm,’ she'd purred silkily, ‘but we are going places, and for the right person the rewards are high.’

The rewards had certainly been high financially. Emily was earning far more than in her previous job, but the mortgage on the cottage was correspondingly high too. And the promised promotion to senior associate seemed as elusive as ever, while Mel continued to pile on the work. One thing she'd failed to mention at interview was that, being a small firm, they were constantly short-staffed. Great in one way, as it had given Emily opportunities she would never have had elsewhere, but not so good in terms of having any kind of decent life outside the workplace.

Emily sighed. It had all seemed so glamorous when she'd first come to London. Now it just seemed tawdry to be raking through the muck of zedlebrity lives.

Callum, too, had seemed the height of glamour when she first met him – the gorgeous public school boy with the golden tongue had bowled her over from the start, and though she'd always known he was incredibly bad for her, now he was like a bad habit she couldn't quite shake. When Callum deigned to let her, she was allowed into his world, in small bite-sized pieces. He had perfected the knack of just keeping her interested. She hated herself for giving in to him.

Take this weekend, for instance. She had resolutely ignored his calls all day Friday, cried off a party that Ffion was going to, claiming a headache, and crashed out in front of the TV with a pizza and a bottle of wine.

But come Saturday, after a desultory morning spent catching up on household chores, and a dull afternoon alone trailing round the shops in Crawley, Emily had let herself into the flat to find three messages from Callum on the answerphone. When she switched on her mobile (which she had purposely left behind), she discovered he'd inundated her with messages.

‘Come on, babe,’ the last message had urged her, ‘what else do you have to do tonight but come out clubbing with me?’

What else indeed? In the end, she'd given in and driven up to his flat in town, where they had made up over a bottle of wine, before dancing the night away at a local grungy club that Callum and his less salubrious friends liked to frequent.

‘I promise to be good,’ Callum had said as they left the flat. He'd looked so solemn and schoolboyish when he'd said it, Emily couldn't help but laugh.

‘You better had be,’ she'd said. And then he'd kissed her, and she'd forgotten why she'd been so cross with him in the dizzying intoxication she always felt when he was near.

Callum had been as good as his word, in that he hadn't taken any drugs in her presence, which wasn't to say that he hadn't taken any at all, but it was enough for her to maintain the fiction that all was right with the world.

They had got up late on Sunday, gone for a pub lunch, and though Emily had known she should really have headed back home on Sunday evening, Callum's urgent plea of, ‘Stay, babe,’ coupled with the thought of another long, lonely evening, was enough to keep her from going back. Maybe that was why she couldn't quite let Callum out of her life. She knew he was bad for her, but he was pure escapism. Maybe she needed that right now. Perhaps it was worth it to avoid the pain of thinking about Dad, though it never felt worth it when the downside was being late for work.

Emily's nerves were jangling as she walked through the door. Mel didn't tolerate slackers on her team, as she put it.

Luckily, Mel was late too this morning, which allowed Emily enough time to get herself a latte and calm down before she started work. She sat down to a pile of paperwork and opened her emails, to find there were still hundreds she hadn't responded to from last week, including one from an ex soap star whose efforts to revive her career by applying for the next series of Love Shack looked doomed since she'd got into a racism row with another would-be contestant. Emily groaned loudly. She could feel another late one coming on. It was too bad they were so short-staffed and the secretary she had shared with her colleague had left, but at least working long hours kept her from thinking too much about everything. It was another form of escapism, she supposed, but not quite as satisfactory as shagging an unsuitable boyfriend.

‘So that tooth we root-treated last time is still giving you gyp?’ Mark asked once Jasmine was ensconced on his dental chair. Her crop top was hitched halfway over her stomach and her hipster jeans sagged below it. She had less of a muffin top and more of a meringue mountain … God, it amazed him that someone so foul-mouthed, foully dressed and generally appalling as Jasmine could be deemed worthy of being in the public eye. Once upon a time people actually did something worthwhile to be famous. Not any more.

‘Too right it is,’ whined Jasmine. ‘It's bloody painful all the time. Those antibiotics were useless.’

‘You do realise that if I can't sort it out this time, I shall have to take the tooth out,’ Mark said.

‘No way!’ Jasmine was horrified.

‘I'm sorry,’ said Mark, a little nonplussed. ‘I did warn you.’

‘You can't mess with my teeth,’ shrieked Jasmine. ‘I've got a contract which says my teeth are all me own.’

‘She's got a contract,’ growled Jasmine's mother from the sofa. Kayla followed Jasmine everywhere and, Rottweiler-like, was always on hand to defend her daughter's interests.

‘Well, if you want a second opinion …’ This was Mark's get-out clause for all his difficult patients. Sadly, Jasmine had never yet taken him up on the offer, and she wasn't about to now.

‘Oh go on then,’ she said sulkily.

Mark felt his way round Jasmine's mouth. Despite her brilliant white smile, her teeth were shot to pieces. The dazzling grin covered a multitude of sins to all except her dentist. The rate Jasmine was carrying on, it wouldn't be too long before he provided her with dentures. He prodded around for a while. Jasmine responded when he poked the molar two doors down, but the tooth she was moaning about didn't evince a single response. Which meant it was as dead as a doornail.

‘I'm really sorry,’ he said. ‘Your tooth's died. I'm going to have to pull it out.’

‘You can't!’ Jasmine shrieked.

‘What about her contract?’ Kayla demanded. ‘You must be able to do something.’

‘I'm touched by your faith in me,’ said Mark, knowing that sarcasm was completely wasted on these two, ‘but even I can't work miracles.’

Jasmine winced dramatically as he gave her the strongest injection he could. Her pain threshold was notoriously low, and this was a back tooth which would take a fair amount of work to get out. Mark toyed with asking Sasha for the right instruments, but as she leaned back against the sink, looking bored and playing with her nails in between taking text messages (even though he had asked her hundreds of times not to), he figured that in the time it would take to explain what he needed, he could have got it all himself. One day, God would take pity on him and send him a decent nurse.

‘I can't lose a tooth,’ Jasmine wailed. She was clearly not going to take this lying down. ‘What about my contract?’

‘I'm very sorry,’ he said. ‘But the tooth has got to come out. I'll make you a bridging unit, which I'll attach to the adjacent teeth. No one will ever know the difference.’

‘Are you sure?’ Jasmine eyed him suspiciously. ‘What if someone finds out?’

‘No one will find out,’ said Mark. ‘Your records are completely confidential.’

‘You sure about that?’ the Rottweiler jumped in, looking uncertain.

‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘Now, I have to do something about this tooth. I can't leave it like this.’

Eventually, Jasmine agreed. Luckily, the tooth came out relatively easily, and Mark took some impressions for her crown.

‘What if someone sees the gap?’ Jasmine demanded as she got down from the chair.

‘It's pretty unlikely,’ said Mark, ‘it's a back tooth, no one is likely to be looking. You could always try not to get photographed for a bit.’

Which was as unlikely as him getting back with Sam, he realised. Jasmine was always splashed over one tabloid or another.

‘You'd better be right,’ Jasmine said, ‘or there will be trouble.’

‘I'll bear it in mind,’ Mark replied, before showing Jasmine and Kayla out to the desk, where Kerry was chatting animatedly to Tony, Jasmine's third-division footballer boyfriend. Jasmine shot Kerry a dirty look, clicked her fingers at Tony, and swept out imperiously, leaving Kayla to pay. Mark made a mental note to remind Kerry that it wasn't done to flirt with the clientele, before calling his next patient.

Great. It was Mrs O'Leary, or Granny O'Leary as the girls had christened her: an ancient crone and toothless wonder who steadfastly clung to the ill-fitting dentures that her original butcher of a dentist had given her eons ago.

Mark reflected that he must have done something really bad in a previous life to deserve Jasmine and Granny O'Leary on the same day. But he couldn't for the life of him think what.

Chapter Three (#ulink_0c71a33a-30bf-5971-b7b6-9457d60a1cb4)

‘You're late,’ Katie said as Charlie came through the door. She didn't mean to sound accusing, but she was worn down by a hard day coping with the kids. The boys had been really naughty at bedtime and Molly had only just gone to sleep. The kitchen was still in chaos from tea, and she hadn't even managed to get into the lounge yet to tidy up. She could feel all her good intentions to rekindle their spark leaching out of her. Her plan to cook a candlelit dinner had gone completely to pot.

‘What's for tea?’ Charlie asked, ignoring her. She hated it when he did that.

‘Beans on toast.’ Katie felt wrong-footed.

‘You used to love cooking. You'd always have dinner ready for me,’ said Charlie.

‘Well, that was before we had Molly,’ snapped Katie.