Page 25 of A Class Act

Of course, it wasn’t all sweetness and light. What relationship is? My general messiness drove Fabian mad, while his pernickety attention to detail (did we really need linen napkins when a piece torn off a kitchen roll was more than sufficient as I hoovered up the delicious meals he created?) had me rolling my eyes in frustration.

I couldn’t comprehend his defence of murderers and rapists when he must often have known they were guilty, and it was this that led to our first argument. We were both shattered after a particularly long day, but Fabian had messaged to say he was back at the apartment and had made food. To be honest, much as I was longing to be with him, I’d twisted my knee slightly as I’d leapt across the stage and into the arms of my stage lover and needed to get back to my flat to ice it. But I couldn’t resist Fabian’s persuasive words so I hobbled into an Uber (oh, the bliss of earning enough to have an Uber account) and made my way to his apartment in St James’s place.

He was standing at his precious navy Rangemaster stove, fully engrossed, moving from a recipe on his iPad to the ingredients, and didn’t realise I was there until I was standing right behind him.

‘Jesus, you made me jump.’ He actually started like a nervous deer and I laughed as the intent scowl on his beautiful face softened and he reached out the one arm not stirring the pan, drawing me into him.

‘You were away with the fairies.’ I smiled.

‘Would that they were.’

‘Who?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘And were what?’ I accepted the glass of wine he poured and pushed towards me. ‘You’re not making sense, Fabian.’

‘Fairies: you know, good guys.’

‘Ah,’ I said, understanding his mind was still on work. ‘Comes with the territory, I guess? You know, dealing daily with the bad boys.’

‘And girls. Don’t think, just because they’re female, they’re less lethal than men.’

‘Are you defending a woman at the moment, then?’ Fabian rarely told me what he was working on.

He sighed. ‘No. Just one very – allegedly – brutal and sadistic killer.’

I stood back, put down my glass and stared. ‘Howcan you?How can you be on the side of someone like that? How can you defend him, knowing he’s guilty?’

‘Who said I know he’s guilty?’

‘You must know. I don’tgetit.’

‘Robyn, there’s a huge difference between actually knowing someone is guilty and suspecting they are. We work within the law and strict guidelines: if someone who wants me to defend themtellsme he’s guilty, then I can’t get him to give evidence to the contrary. Doing that, I’d be a party to his perjury. I can’t stand there, in court, in front of a judge and jury, and knowingly mislead them.’

‘Oh, come off it, Fabian.’ I was cross. ‘Your jobmustsurely be to mislead the judge or the jury? To get them onto your side.’

‘That’s a very simplistic view you have of the judicial system, Robyn.’ Fabian spoke as calmly as when I’d watched him addressing the court.

‘Don’t patronise me,’ I snapped. My sore knee was throbbing, I was tired and I didn’t like what Fabian was saying one little bit. ‘How can you defend a… a murderer… a child abuser… yes, how can you defend someone who’s hurt a child, taken a child? Killed a child?’

‘My job before going into that courtroom is to advise a client…’

‘Aclient?’ I tutted. ‘They’re murderers, rapists…’

‘…is to advise a client,’ Fabian repeated calmly, turning back to the stove, ‘on the strengths of the case against him, take instructions and then give honest advice as to whether they’re likely to be believed. It’s not up to me to make a judgement on guilt or innocence. That’s why we have juries chosen from all walks of life.’

I heard myself snort disparagingly. ‘Oh, yes? All walks of life? My dad’s never once been called for jury service, my sister Jess has never been called and I certainly have never been.’

‘Hey, hey, Robyn.’ Fabian put up both hands in supplication. ‘Don’t take your argument with society out on me.’ Unfortunately, he still had the wooden spoon he’d been using for stirring the pan in one of them and tomato and herbs – oregano, I think – dripped onto his white T-shirt, which broke the tension.

‘That’ll have to come off,’ I said, as though addressing a naughty child who’d been playing in the mud. ‘Come on, arms up, off with it.’ I reached for his leather belt, unbuckling it slowly while Fabian immediately and gratifyingly hardened at my touch.

We finally ate at one in the morning.

One morning at the beginning of September, as we were both about to leave his apartment, Fabian said, ‘Robyn, my parents are holding their annual charity do in the garden on Saturday. Come with me?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I laughed. Actually, jeered is probably, to my shame, nearer the truth.

‘Please come. I’m a patron of one of the charities and Mum’s wanting me to make a speech. I’d really like it if you were there with me.’

‘Sorry, Fabian. It’s just not my thing. You know that.’

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