Tug of Love

by Allie Spencer

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Love, lust and litigation - a riveting romance so addictive it should be illegal! Unsurprisingly, divorce barrister Lucy Stone is a bit of a cynic when it comes to love. And working with egotistical weasel Hugo Spade doesn't help matters. Then Mark comes along, ticking all the boxes, and Lucy can't believe her luck. But when Lucy has to choose between the man of her dreams and the career opportunity of a lifetime, it seems there really is no justice in the world. And the re-appearance of sexy-ex Jonathan is the last thing she needs. Is Lucy about to be found guilty of making the biggest mistake of her life?

Release date: December 6, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 269

Sample

‘Of course,’ I said, ignoring the bustle of the busy restaurant behind me and pouring myself another glass of San Pellegrino, ‘the thing to remember is that in a divorce, there are never any winners.’

The woman from Marie Claire who was interviewing me leant forward over the table and nodded earnestly.

‘Now that’s interesting.’

‘Unless, of course, you’re Zsa Zsa Gabor,’ I quipped.

My interviewer and the photographer both laughed gratifyingly.

‘Seriously, though,’ I pulled the interview back on track, ‘what I cannot overemphasise is that one of the primary duties of a legal team is to make sure that cases are worked out in a friendly, conciliatory atmosphere – especially when there are children involved.’

The Marie Claire lady nodded again in enthusiastic agreement.

‘I’m sure our readers out there will be pleased to know that someone as influential as you holds that view.’

I smiled modestly.

‘And what about your feelings on relationships? I mean, given the job you do, it must be easy to become a bit cynical.’

‘Well,’ I began carefully, ‘I think the thing to remember is that people change, relationships do go wrong; but that doesn’t mean we should shy away from love altogether. People need to forgive themselves and move on.’

Actually, that wasn’t strictly true, but I wasn’t going to get into a discussion with the Marie Claire lady about it. I’d always been a bit sceptical about love, commitment and that sort of thing – and with good reason. Not only did my divorced parents still fight like cat and dog, but on the one occasion that I thought I’d found the real deal, I ended up getting my fingers very badly burned. The fact that I now sorted out other people’s marital differences for a living (in itself an unbelievably bad cosmic joke) had done little to help matters.

‘Okay,’ said the photographer, ‘let’s get a few pics for the feature.’

A make-up girl leaped forward, brandishing a brush so huge that the Scottish curling team were probably out looking for it, and swiftly covered my face in some sort of expensive powder. I rearranged my features for the camera to make sure I had a serious yet caring expression.

‘Right – to me – that’s it.’ CLICK! ‘And again – super!’ CLICK! ‘Now – looking out the window – sort of dreamy – wonderful!’ CLICK! ‘How about one with the briefcase? Yup! Excellent.’ CLICK! ‘And let’s have a close-up so we can make those blue eyes really stand out against that dark hair. Lovely.’ CLICK!

How fabulous was this?

I turned back to the Marie Claire lady, who was waiting with her pen poised.

‘You see,’ I continued, ‘very often people have this idea that lawyers are just out to rack up the fees as high as they can – but when you’re dealing with people’s happiness, you can’t afford to do that.’

There was a smattering of applause from the people at the next table, who had been listening in on our conversation.

‘Hear, hear!’ said my interviewer, smiling broadly. ‘Exactly the sort of thing our readership will feel strongly about. Now, I think that’s just about all I wanted to cover. I’ll put in something about your Lawyer of the Year Award, of course – and the fact that you’ve currently got a six-month waiting list for new clients.’ She paused, before continuing thoughtfully, ‘You know, that’s longer than for the new Chanel handbag.’

‘Got some cracking shots here,’ cut in the photographer. ‘We’ll probably put you on the cover – you won’t mind, will you?’

Mind? Of course I won’t mind!

My interviewer switched off her tape recorder, then leaned in towards me and whispered: ‘Lucy, is it true you are currently advising three big-name film stars, four Premier League footballers and a member of the royal family?’

I met her eyes without a flicker of expression.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

God, I was so professional!

Still, it was all in a day’s work for me: head of my own chambers, big-name cases, masses of respect and recognition for my overwhelming achievements . . . what’s not to like? Just then, however, a phone rang.

Ka-bloo-ie!

My daydream crashed to smithereens on the perennially untidy floor of my office. I brought myself back to the real world with a shake of my head – and found myself groaning involuntarily as I picked up and a thin, weaselly voice came on the line.

It was Hugo. Yuck.

‘I need the latest Family Law Notes for court on Monday, Looby-Lou, and I think you’re hiding them in that pit you call an office.’ His voice became even oilier. ‘Oh, and I could hear you talking to yourself again. You need to be careful about that – or Guy will start thinking you’re a couple of papers short of a brief!’ He rang off, sniggering.

Damn. That was what not to like.

The fact was that, in real life, rather than schmoozing my way through a glittering existence, I spent my days in a cramped, dingy basement room with horrible Hugo Spade on the other side of a thin partition wall. Don’t get me wrong – I loved my job. I was – am – a barrister, good with my clients and hardworking. But my fantasy of legal fame and fortune was light years away from reality.

Unenthusiastically, I fished the journal he had requested off the floor (where I tended to keep most of my important documents in little piles) and sloped off next door to deliver it. I paused for a few seconds before turning the handle in order to prepare myself for the challenge that was Dealing with Hugo: he was unbelievably hard work. A couple of weeks ago, after he had spent a full two hours telling me how much money he had and how he didn’t actually need to work at all, Henrietta (‘Hez’), my best friend and flatmate, offered to hire someone to put him out of my misery. I’d told her that being sent down as an accomplice in a contract killing might not be the best way to enhance my legal career; although when I came to think about it now, bumping off Hugo might just get me into Marie Claire, so perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed it out of hand . . .

‘Well then, Looby-Lou,’ Hugo slimed as I handed over Family Law Notes, ‘got any big plans for the weekend?’

‘Don’t call me that,’ I muttered, ‘and yes, actually I do. I’m going to a party tomorrow night.’

‘Gosh, that’ll be exciting for you,’ he replied as patronisingly as possible. ‘And which one of your legions of admirers will be chosen to accompany you?’

‘The one who reminds me least of you.’ I smiled sweetly whilst suppressing the urge to deck him. How did he always know when I was dateless?

‘Well, I’d have to decline anyway. You know how it is – dinner at the Ivy, a couple of drinks with the boys before winding the evening up at Annabel’s. Unless of course that Henrietta friend of yours is free. I could always manage to squeeze her in. Or even just squeeze her.’ He snorted unpleasantly through his nose.

I chose not to tell him that Hez would rather munch her way through a kitten kebab at an animal rights meeting than spend time alone with him, and went to leave the room.

‘No, seriously, Lou, I hope you have a really good time.’

I almost tugged my ears to make sure they were still in place. Surely Hugo hadn’t managed to utter an entire sentence that was not rude or condescending in any way? Surely he wasn’t being nice?

I needn’t have worried.

‘The last thing I would want is for you to spend any time fretting over this e-mail from Guy,’ he drawled.

I froze. Guy Horatio Jennings QC was our head of chambers. To describe him as ‘well known and well liked’ would have been the understatement of the century, as he engendered the sort of acclaim that a minor deity would have been pleased to receive. He could barely move for the hordes of grateful clients swooning at his feet, and his spare time was spent parading his stunning wife and two apple-cheeked children at public events and charming the pants off the media. The one thing he didn’t do, though, was waste time on anybody who wasn’t important.

Like me.

I was right at the bottom of the chambers’ food chain, and on the one occasion he had deigned to speak to me, he’d mistaken me for the cleaner and told me to give the loos another going-over.

So, basically, an e-mail from Guy wasn’t going to be good news . . . unless it was all a hoax and Hugo was just trying to frighten me.

‘This isn’t some kind of wind-up, is it, Spade?’ I asked, putting on my scariest courtroom voice. Sadly, Hugo was not intimidated.

‘See for yourself,’ he said and, with a ‘ping’, the e-mail in question sprang on to the screen of his laptop.

To: [email protected];

[email protected]

Cc: [email protected]

Subject: Tenancy

Hi, chaps!

Just a quickie to let you know that I have arranged for a meeting to be held on the 3rd of next month to settle who gets a permanent place in chambers. I’m afraid that the provisional view of the tenancy committee is that only one of you can be taken on, although who that will be is undecided at present. I wish you both good luck – and may the best man win.

Yours,

Guy

PS If either of you happened to record my performance on Question Time last Thursday, I’d be interested in a copy. Cheers.

‘Is this for real?’ I asked.

‘Go and look on your own machine if you don’t believe me,’ replied Spade. ‘Or ask the clerks.’

Now, here’s the thing: even though Hugo and I had both qualified aeons ago, neither of us had been formally taken on by chambers. We were what are known, in elegant legal parlance, as ‘squatters’. But in five weeks’ time, that was all going to change. One of us would get the glittering prize of a tenancy at 3 Temple Buildings – name on the board outside, the works – whilst the other was going to be booted out. It felt like being a contestant on Big Brother but without the hot tub or the trendy furniture.

Or the on-screen snogging, thank goodness.

I shot a look at Hugo. He had pressed a couple of keys on his computer and pulled up some sort of game that seemed to consist entirely of drive-by shootings. This was vintage Spade. He was tall, fair-haired and actually rather bright; but even though I heard rumours in chambers that he was good with his clients, he seemed to spend a disproportionate amount of his time playing on his laptop, reading Loaded and chatting to his mates on the phone. So much so that it niggled me that there had to be any sort of competition for the stupid tenancy – under all normal rules of the universe, I should have walked it. However, in addition to a trust fund the size of Jupiter, Hugo’s father was a judge in the Court of Appeal, and no doubt every conceivable string was being pulled vigorously on his behalf.

Still, there was a month to go before eviction day, and anything could happen in a month. Maybe I’d get some amazing case and become the toast of legal London; maybe I’d win the lottery and never need to work again; or maybe Spade would trip over his own ego and fall under a tube train.

Hope, as they say, springs eternal.

‘Thanks for letting me know, Hugo,’ I called over my shoulder as I left. ‘And whatever you get up to this weekend, make sure you have a horrible time.’

‘And you,’ he replied cheerfully.

I stomped back into my own room, filed on the floor the brief I’d spent the afternoon reading and shoved my laptop in its bag prior to heading off home for the weekend. A memo sheet slithered off my desk and on to the chair; one of the clerks must have dropped it in whilst I was closeted with Hugo.

Was it good news? Was it a big-name case with a wealthy client? My ticket to gainful employment at the family law Bar? I snatched it up and pulled a face. Sadly, none of the above: my dad had rung. Tell your mother, the note said, that if she doesn’t agree to a reduction in her maintenance payments I’ll take the whole thing back to court. I dropped it in the bin and made a mental note not to mention anything of the sort to my mother. I was sick of this. Whenever they fell out (which was pretty much all the time) they would try to rope me in to take sides, and it drove me nuts. Why couldn’t they just keep their disagreements to themselves?

As I put my coat on, I did a quick inventory of Things Not Going My Way. It was quite impressive: my mum and dad were gearing up for another bout of fisticuffs; I was facing a fight to the death over my job; and to cap it all, it sounded as if Hugo, a.k.a. the Weasel in Armani, had a better social life than me.

But life, as always, had a few little surprises up its sleeve . . . like the fact that Mark was about to turn up.

Or, to be accurate, Mark was about to turn up and Jonathan was about to reappear.

Or, to be even more accurate, Mark was about to turn up, Jonathan was about to reappear and the Prime Minister was going to get divorced.

And it all started at the party I’d mentioned to Hugo.



The party was at my friend Jo’s. Unlike Hez, who had been my bosom buddy since university, I’d met Jo at Bar school; and in the ensuing three and a bit years she had been the only one of us who had managed to get herself a proper life. She now owned the first two floors of a lovingly restored Victorian house in Vauxhall, had built up an enviable practice doing clever things with inheritance tax and reeled in a sweetie of a husband in the form of Devoted Dave. However, despite this extreme provocation, Hez and I still loved her to bits.

The party in question was a sort of massed return invite for Dave’s banking colleagues. I arrived chez Williams at about eight thirty, just as things were getting going. Jo was dashing about with a bottle of cava, topping up people’s glasses, but as soon as she saw me, she wasted no time in elbowing her way through the throng to give me a hug and thrust a glass of fizz into my hand.

‘Lou,’ she beamed, ‘brilliant to see you! I’ll just make sure everyone’s got a drink, and then we can catch up properly. Pippa’s here,’ she nodded towards a red-headed girl over in the corner, ‘and Nancy and Rob are about somewhere; but I’m afraid most of them are from Dave’s work.’ She pulled a face. ‘Still, grab yourself a canapé or three and I’ll come and find you in a mo.’

I helped myself to a cunning little thing that looked like a mini crispy duck pancake and scoured the room for Pippa. I couldn’t see her, but I did notice Dave making a beeline for me through the crowd.

One of the many good things about Jo and Dave was that they normally had the decency not to lure their single friends (i.e. me) over for the evening with the promise of ‘Someone I’d Like You To Meet’. In my experience, these heavily hyped assignations – ‘He’s just wonderful; you’ll love him’ – usually meant an evening of me feigning interest as the someone in question droned on about the finer points of 1960s diesel locomotives or the digestive system of the bumble bee. But, as I said, they weren’t like that, which was why – just as I was opening my mouth to say hello to Dave – I was amazed to hear that he was uttering the dreaded words: ‘Lou, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

My heart sank as he guided me over to the other side of the living room. This was the last thing I wanted. I was after an evening spent in the company of a bottle of wine and a few friends, not one where I was followed round the house by an unwanted man-limpet. I decided that I’d smile sweetly while Dave did the introductions and then immediately leg it to the drinks table muttering something about a chronic alcohol addiction.

But as the person he was about to introduce me to swung into view through the throng of bodies, I decided against it.

You know that thing that happens in cartoons when your eyes grow really huge and jump out of your face on wobbly stalks? Well, I wouldn’t swear to it, but I’m pretty sure that’s what mine did right then. My tongue was probably dragging along the floor as well, but thankfully Dave and his companion pretended not to notice. You see, standing in front of me was a tall, broad-shouldered man, fidgeting a little nervously with the stem of his wine glass. His face could probably be described as pleasant rather than rugged, and his light brown hair was cut flatteringly short to disguise, I suspected, a tendency towards waviness.

In summary, he was exactly my type; although I hadn’t had a type up until the moment I clapped eyes on him.

‘This is Lucy, one of Jo’s closest friends,’ said Dave.

‘Hi. I’m Lucy, one of Jo’s closest friends,’ I repeated moronically, hoping that the zing, zing, zing of my heartstrings wouldn’t be audible above the background chatter of the party.

‘I’m Mark,’ the Handsome One replied, smiling at me. ‘Dave and I were at school together. I’ve, um, just started a new job in London and Dave asked me along so that I could get to know a few people.’

I nodded, my voice box temporarily out of order.

‘Right. I’ll leave you to get to know each other,’ said our Host with the Most. His mission accomplished, he buzzed off to help Jo with the topping-up.

‘So—’ we said simultaneously.

‘You first.’

‘No, you.’

Actually, I was desperate for him to go first. The words ‘You’re totally gorgeous – can I snog you now, please?’ were running on a loop-tape round my brain, and I didn’t trust myself not to say them out loud.

‘How do you know Jo?’ he asked.

‘Bar school. We used to sit next to each other in lectures writing notes and eating Maltesers.’

As soon as the words left my lips, I could have kicked myself. The man was probably some sort of high-flying über-achiever with a million degrees. The announcement that my education had been spent skiving and scoffing chocolate was not going to go down well.

‘Sounds like me and Dave,’ he grinned, ‘except it was St Peter’s Grammar School and we ate Fruit Pastilles. They make less of a mess in your pocket.’

Phew! I risked a grin as well.

‘Do you know many people here?’ I asked.

He glanced round the room. ‘Not a soul – apart from Dave and Jo, of course. I’m an engineer, so all this finance stuff Dave does is a bit beyond me.’

Ah. An engineer. Maybe my luck wasn’t in after all and he’d soon be steering the conversation on to the boiling point of helicopters or the world record for setting concrete. But – no!

‘And you?’ he continued. ‘What do you do?’

KER-CHING! Had I hit the jackpot?

‘I’m a barrister, like Jo.’

‘What type of law?’

‘Divorce mainly,’ I said, a little sheepishly.

It’s awkward having to say that. It seems to make people feel uncomfortable; especially when you introduce yourself at weddings.

‘Drink?’ I asked, saving him the trouble of changing the subject, as a tray of liquid refreshment wafted past us attached to Jo.

‘Yes, please,’ he said.

Helping myself to two, I passed one to him. As he took it, his hand grazed mine.

Oh. My. Life! It was as if I’d just licked my fingers and plugged myself into the mains. What was happening? I downed my wine in one to help me think more clearly. It didn’t, of course, but it did make me feel a bit more confident, and I risked a full-on ogle.

Yup, he was still gorgeous, and (my tummy did a pleasing little wobble) blessed with the most amazing blue eyes. I luxuriated in the view for a couple of seconds, until he began to stare back; then I quickly pulled my gaze away and focused hard for a moment on a pot plant in the corner. The last thing I wanted was for him to decide I was a total looper and make a break for the door.

‘Between you and me,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘I’m here mainly because Jo said she needed some moral support.’

‘Same here,’ he replied, leaning in towards me. ‘Dave said if there wasn’t at least one real human being present, he’d go mad. Do you think,’ he went on, almost whispering as he indicated a few of Dave’s colleagues, ‘this is the result of some genetic breeding programme to clone people with no chins?’

‘And hideous laughs?’ I added as a resounding ‘Hwah-hwah-hwah!’ echoed round the room.

We cringed in unison.

‘Listen,’ Mark’s fabulous eyes looked straight into mine, ‘have you eaten?’

I decided that the Marmite sandwich I’d had before I came out didn’t count.

‘No.’

‘Shall we do a bunk? I saw a Chinese place round the corner – we could slip out and slip back again before they notice.’

‘Done,’ I said. ‘Time and sweet and sour chicken wait for no man. Or something.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he agreed.

Two hours, a set meal for two and a bottle of red wine later, things were feeling decidedly mellow.

And they would have felt even mellower if, when I dared to look across the table, my stomach hadn’t felt as if it had climbed inside a washing machine set on the fast spin cycle. Each time my eyes focused on anything other than my chopsticks, they seemed to crash straight into his. Surely this wasn’t the product of my feverish imagination? Was there a chance that he might – just – perhaps – be finding me as attractive as I found him? Sure, it was a long shot, but considering there are daily sightings of both Elvis and Lord Lucan alive, well and working in chip shops, perhaps it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility.

And it wasn’t just the smouldering glances across the crispy seaweed that put me on red alert. We had spent the last couple of hours having one of those ‘me too!’ conversations, and it was amazing how much common ground we’d discovered between us, including some really important stuff like ‘Waterloo’ being altogether a superior composition to ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’, and the fact that fizzy cola bottle sweets deserved recognition as one of the culinary masterpieces of the twentieth century.

But it wasn’t until we were waiting for the waiter to take our order for coffee that IT happened: The Point Of No Return. His knee brushed mine and there was a repeat performance of the fingers-in-the-socket moment I’d experienced at Jo and Dave’s. At the same time, our eyes met – only briefly, but enough for me to think the knee thing may have been more experimental than accidental. However, I thought it would be a good idea to check that I hadn’t imagined it; I mean, how often do you meet amazing fellas who happen to be just hanging around at your mate’s house?

Okay, how often does that happen when you are awake?

Anyway, I moved my knee so it touched his.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

He nudged his knee in between my legs.

I slid my foot round his ankle.

Quite a promising game of Under-The-Table Twister was developing when Mark raised the stakes and ran his fingers along the back of my hand.

Once, one snowy night at university, I had a heavy evening in the pub down the road. When I got home, I reckoned that the best way to thaw out my frozen fingers would be to plunge my hands into the toaster. Luckily, Hez intervened before I’d managed to work out how to switch it on. Had she not, the result would probably have been similar to what I experienced just then.

Minus the smell of singed hair, perhaps.

Mark glanced at me with a ‘Was that what you wanted me to do?’ look.

I gave him a ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ look.

His hand homed in on mine again. This time I wasn’t taking any chances and grabbed it.

He grinned at me and my heart joined my stomach in its loop-the-loop extravaganza.

I nudged my knee up the inside of his thigh as far as I could reach, which, given that he was sitting on the other side of a restaurant table, was sadly not very far. Even so, there was a sharp intake of breath and momentary closure of those blue eyes. That had to be a good sign.

‘We were only supposed to be slipping out for a quick bite to eat,’ he murmured, glancing at a clock on the restaurant wall and frowning slightly.

‘Mmmm,’ I said non-committally, repeating the knee massage and hoping this wasn’t going to be the cue for us to scarper back to the party. I wanted to keep him all to myself.

The question was – how? Could I say something? Suggest a hot beverage made from ground, roasted beans back at my flat and hope that Hez had gone out?

‘What chagonna do about it?’ yelled my brain.

I didn’t know. This sort of thing wasn’t my forte. In fact, the only time previously I had pursued a man (as opposed to simply giving in when one pursued me – my usual method of finding a boyfriend), the chap in question had been Jonathan, and look how badly that had worked out. But on the other hand, if I did nothing, the moment would pass and Mark might drift out of my life just as easily as he’d drifted into it . . .

‘Um, we haven’t ordered our coffee yet,’ I said tentatively. ‘What if we get some back at my place – coffee, I mean – some coffee – back at mine?’

I’d done it! Hoorah for me!

Mark’s expression brightened considerably.

‘Really?’ he said, signalling for the bill.

‘Yes.’ I nodded vigorously as he helped me into my coat.

‘Jo and Dave’ll kill us,’ he continued, opening the restaurant door.

‘What’s life without a few risks?’ I replied, hailing a cab. ‘Muswell Hill, please.’

‘No,’ interrupted Mark, taking my hand to help me into the taxi, ‘Kentish Town.’ He paused. ‘It’s nearer. . .