Amelia has given in and accepted my final offer.

I don’t blame her.  She’s walked away with a cool £50,000, a glowing reference and a flash new job.   What more could she have wanted?

Aside from the public flogging of Philip Carlton, perhaps?

If she doesn’t want it, I certainly do.   Far from being contrite and apologetic for the mess he’s caused, the slippery old snake is celebrating the “triumph of wisdom over immaturity” . 

“So much for the moral high ground,” he snorts, “In the end, she took the filthy lucre, just like the rest of them….”

How many have there been?

“Everyone has their price,” agrees The Boss. 

His being a plunging neckline and a winsome smile.

“I think a celebratory lunch is in order,” Carlton declares.

“Great idea,” he agrees, “Especially if you’re paying!”

They laugh, like two overstuffed hippos.   I glance at my watch and wish I was upstairs, drafting witness statements.

“Care to join us, Helen?”

No.  Not in a million years.  “That’s very kind of you, but I am very busy at the moment.”

“Oh, nonsense,  I’m sure Alistair can give you an afternoon off to entertain a client.”

Entertain a client?  He makes it sound like Vaudeville.  Or Burlesque….

“I’m sure he could,” I smile, ”but, powerful as he is, even he cannot change court deadlines.”

“Court deadlines,” he exclaims, “Who cares about those?!”

“Courts do.”

“Pah!  As I think my case has just demonstrated, the courts have very little to do with the administration of justice in this country.”

“Nevertheless, I have three witness statements to serve by Friday.”

“Which case is that for?” asks The Boss, demonstrating his astonishingly tight grasp of departmental business.

“Carter.”

“That’s Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you get someone else to help you?”

“The only other person involved with the case is you.”

“Oh, well then, I’ll help you!  There, that’s sorted.   You can come to lunch with us.”

Waving aside my objections with a twitch of his arm, he ushers me out of his office and into the lift.   Carlton’s aftershave threatens to overpower the very confined space.

“Everything all right,” he asks,  as I begin to sneeze.

“Allergy,” I sniffle.

“To what?”

To  my clients.  “I don’t know.”

“Poor thing,” he touches my arm ,”it must be dreadful not knowing what has set you off.”

Indeed.

We fall out of the building and across the road to the brasserie where The Boss knows all the waitresses by name (and cup size, says Jane). 

 We are seating in his special table and  Carlton orders a bottle of Champagne, whilst telling the sommelier that he has just won a, “landmark victory for employers”.    Then, rather embarrassingly, he proposes a toast to me for “thwarting Amelia,” and not allowing  my, “assistant-solicitor-prejudices to influence my conduct of the case.”

Little does he know.

“To Helen!” cries The Boss, and (not to be outdone), “and her incredible supervisor!”

“To Helen!”

“I have been extremely impressed with the way you have handled yourself,” Carlton leans forward and squeezes my hand. I want to snatch it away and scream “Pervert!” at the top of my voice.  But  I don’t.  I smile sweetly and tell him that I was, “just doing my job”

“But doing it beautifully,” he winks.

The Boss is too busy salivating at the menu to notice.

“The Specials look good today,” he advises. “I can’t decide between the Duck and the Venison.”

“Go for the bird,” Carlton quips.  “I always do.”

This is just a taster or what is to come; as lunch turns out to be peppered with funny little ”jokes” like that.  “That’s a firm piece of thigh…. I haven’t seen a breast that succulent in a long while…….”  

The Boss seems oblivious to the fact that he could be facing an impending employment claim himself and merrily joins in. “I’m partial to a bit of sauce myself..”

I feel like I’m sitting in the middle of a Benny Hill sketch.  Any minute they might start chasing me round the table.  

Exasperated I excuse myself and tiptoe to the ladies, to call Jane.

“Where the hell are you?” she demands.

“Chez Gerome’s, with Carlton and The Boss.”

“What have you done to deserve that?”

“Paid Amelia off.”

“Oh.  How much did she get?”

“Fifty grand.”

Not bad.”

“It would have been at trial, I think.  But she’s saved herself the indignity of facing Carlton across the witness box.”

“He must be pleased not to have to face her.”

“He is over the moon.  It means he’s free to proposition the rest of his team…. not to mention instructed solicitors.”

“He’s not trying it on with you is he?”

“Of course he is.  I am female.  I have a pulse.”

“I’m minded to march over there and give him a piece of my mind!”

“As much as I would like you to do that, there’s really no need.  I shall excuse myself as soon as lunch is over.”

But, try as I might, I’m unable to do so.   Carlton will simply not let me go.  And The Boss is too tipsy to resist him.

Having worked their way through two bottles of wine, four liqueur coffees and an aperitif they decide to move to the bar next door.  I seize my coat and make a run for it, but Carlton is too quick and blocks my exit.

“Ms Bailey!” he leers. “We’ve only just started to enjoy ourselves.  Why end it now?”

“I have a lot of work to do.”  I look to The Boss for support but he is struggling to get his arms into his coat sleeves.

“But you don’t want to upset set me, surely?” Carlton persists.

In fact, nothing would give me greater pleasure.  “Of course not, ” I lie, “But I don’t want to upset my other clients either.”

He lets out a derisive snort. “Sod them!  I’m the most important client you have.”

“Yes!” The Boss agrees, absently, “You can spare a couple more hours.”

I can’t.

“We’re only going for a drink,” Carlton smiles. “There’s nothing to be scared of.   Let your hair down for once. ”

Oh yes, he’d like that.  

“Helen will do as she’s told,” The Boss finally gets his arms into his coat, “She is my assistant, after all. ”

And, before I can protest, I am bundled through the door and down the stairs into the dingy, banquette-lined wine bar.

“A bottle of your finest, good man!” Carlton orders the barman.

“Finest what?!”

“Champagne of course.  I have just won an important court case!”

“They let you off did they?”

“What?  No!  I was not on trial.  Well, not in so many words; I was accused of making an error with redundancy procedures.”

“Oh, is that all?” he seems disappointed. “I thought you were a famous murderer or something.”

“Do I look like a murderer?!” Carlton exclaims.

“Did Peter Sutcliffe?” he shrugs.

“Yes!”

“Then why did it take them five years to catch him?”

That stumps him.  He sits down in huff.

“Have you had any criminal cases?” he asks me.

“No,”  Though I’ve dealt with plenty of crooks in my time…..

“I’ve had a couple of fraud claims,” The Boss chimes in.  “And a few insider trading investigations. They’re dreadful things.  Full of spreadsheets and figures and accountants……”  He shakes his head.

The barman approaches on the table.

“One bottle of our finest champagne,” he declares, setting it down.

“It’s pink!” Carlton exclaims.

“Yes.”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who orders pink champagne?”

“You didn’t specify colour.”

“I didn’t have to.  Isn’t it obvious that I am a fully fledged heterosexual?”

“No.”   There is a small glint of amusement in his eye. 

Carlton is red with fury.  “Take it away and get me something more masculine.”

The barman shrugs and shuffles off to find something more fitting for our testosterone-fuelled table.  Lighter fluid or meths, perhaps.

The Boss can barely contain his amusement. “You should have asked for a sparkler,” he laughs. “And one of those little cocktail umbrellas.”

Carlton snorts. “And perhaps you could do the dance of the seven veils!”

They laugh so hard that Carlton almost topples off the stool he is sitting on.    The barman casts me a sympathetic look as I search my mind for ways to escape.   

“What’s the matter?” Carlton sees my troubled expression. “Are you upset that I sent the pink bottle away?!”

“Er, no, not at all.  I don’t care what we drink.”

“Of course you do!  Silly me. Waiter!  Bring the Barbie bottle back for Ms Bailey.”

I shake my head.  “Really, I’m quite happy to drink whatever you  are having.”   Although not in the same quantities.

“Nonsense!  You shall have your girly bottle and we shall have a manly bottle of brut!”

An hour passes, as I sip my girly champagne as they drain their “manly” bottle of brut.   Then Carlton gets hiccups and The Boss falls over on his way to the toilets.   

Such virility.

The Boss is on his third trip to the gents when Carlton chooses this moment to make his move.

“You’re a very pretty girl, Helen,” he whispers.

“Thank you.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Would you like one?”

Not one old enough to be my father.  “Not especially.”

“How about a casual fling?” 

A casual fling!?  I want to laugh but then he flashes me a look laden with meaning and places his hand on my thigh. 

Arrggh!   I quell my natural reaction to knee him in the groin and pray for help.

The barman saves me, “Call for you,” he informs me, “One of your colleagues needs to speak to you.  Mobiles don’t work down here.”

“Thanks!” I spring up like a shot.

It’s Jane.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re still there,” she says.  “It took me ages to find the number.  Are you all right?”

“No!  I think The Boss may have collapsed in the toilets and Carlton has just propositioned me.”

“Did you punch him?”

“No!   I didn’t know what to do.  But your phone call has saved me.”

“Good.  Right.  Get yourself back to the table, tell him that there’s been a flood at your flat and you have to go home immediately.  Then scarper.”

“A flood?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling you – so you have an excuse to leave.   Your upstairs neighbour has gone through a hot water pipe.  He can’t shut it off.  Water is pouring through the ceiling. ”

“Ok, great.  That’s what I will say.”

“Call me when you’re free.  Then run like the clappers.”

“Will do.”

Taking a deep breath, I head back to the table.  The Boss is back, propped up against the wall, looking decidedly green. 

“Disaster!” I cry. “There’s a flood at my flat.  Water is pouring through the ceiling.  I have to go and see what I can salvage.”

“What a pity, ” Carlton remarks  “We were having such a lovely time….”

“I know. But the emergency plumber is on his way.  I have to be there to make sure it’s all sorted out.  Sorry chaps.”

Before they can respond I snatch up my coat and bag and make a run for the stairs.

It’s dark and drizzly outside.  But I don’t care.  I’m free!   I call Jane and tell her the good news.

The following morning I am plagued with guilt and fear.   But there is no need The Boss is in no state to be cross about my exit. 

“Ah, Helen,” he whispers.  ”I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you with those witness statements.  I’m not feeling too well.”

“Really?” I say flatly.

“Yes, I think I had a dodgy pint on the way home.”

Nothing to do with the dodgy gallons of champagne which preceded it…..

“Did you stay out for long?”

“I, er don’t think so. ”

He doesn’t know.

“My flat was a mess,” I explain.  “My living room ceiling is ruined.”

“Really…” he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Yes, well, er, I had  better be getting back to work.  Those witness statements won’t write themselves.”

“Do you happen to have any paracetamol on you?”

“I do, but it won’t cure food poisoning.  You might need Alka Seltzer for that…”

He nods weakly as I scuttle off to see what hangover cures I can find.   A quick search of our  collective desks reveals: a packet of Pro Plus, two cans of Red Bull, some liver salts, a tube of Berocca, three bottles of aspirin and some milk thistle.   I am about to deliver them to the patient when I decide to pop in to my room for the ibuprofen.  Lying on my desk, in a shiny gold wrapper, is the most enormous box of chocolates I have ever seen.   Who the hell has sent me those?

“Dear Helen,” I pick up the card. “Thank you for all your hard work on my case.  I very much enjoyed our afternoon together.  I look forward to our next encounter….. PC”

Oh my!   The card falls from my hand to the floor.

“Everything all right?” Melinda saunters through the door.

“Yes!  Fine!  I was just looking for some ibuprofen.  Do you have any?”

“Nah, I’ve only got Tamazepam.   Wow, look at those chocolates!” she pushes past me to get a better look.  “Where did you get them from?”

“From Philip Carlton.”

She shoots me a look. “That’s very generous of him…….”

“Yes,” I agree.

Another look.  More penetrating than the first.

“Oh, they’re not for me,” I say vaguely.

“Who are they for then?” 

“They are for….. The Boss.”

Genius!  I shall give them to The Boss.

“The Boss?”

“Yes!  To thank his old friend for helping him with the case.”

Kicking the card out of sight beneath my desk, I bundle the chocolates into my arms and head down the corridor.  The Boss has slumped even further into his chair.  

“Look what Philip Carlton sent us,” I deposit the chocolates on his desk.

“Chocolates,” he peers at them. “That’s kind of him.”

“Isn’t it!  The Receptionist said they were to thank you for helping him out with the Amelia case.”

“How kind.  First champagne and now chocolates.  Anyone would think he was tying to impress me.”

Wouldn’t they just?

“I shall call him and thank him.”  He picks up the phone and begins to dial.

“Carlton speaking.”

“Ah, Philip, it’s Al.   Just wanted to thank you for the chocolates.”

“The chocolates?” he squeaks.

“Yes, Helen has just handed them to me.  She says you sent them to thank me for my help. ”

“She did?!”

“Yes.  Anyway, it was a really nice gesture.   And just what I need to settle my stomach.”

“Glad to have been of service.”

“Yes, well, thanks again.   It was a great day and the next one is on me.”

“I shall hold you to that.”

“Ok, speak soon.  Bye.”

“Bye.”

He puts the receiver down and surveys the pharmaceuticals. “Thank you for all this, Helen.”

“No problem.  Melinda has Tamazepam if you get really desperate.”

He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this.

“Would you like a chocolate?” he pushes the box across his desk.

“Er…”

“Go on,” he urges. “It’s the least you deserve for all your efforts.”

“You’re right,” I agree, “It is.”