Page 27 of A Class Act

‘You did.’ He still didn’t drive off, but instead, leaned across once more, kissing my cheek slowly. ‘I missed you, Robyn.’ He sat back, appraising me. ‘I love the dress.’

‘Thank you.’ I’d spent the remaining hours of the previous afternoon testing out my knee by walking over to Cheval Place in Knightsbridge, blowing money I couldn’t afford in Pandora, the upmarket dress agency there. I’d come out with the perfect littleRoland Mouret cream shift and known I had to buy the Jimmy Choo sandals to go with it. What was the point of a bloody expensive dress without the accompanying footwear?

We chatted easily all the way there, or rather I talked and Fabian listened. He’d rarely discussed his caseload, but there was a new hesitancy now, which I put down to my previous questioning about how he could bring himself to defend criminals. Once we hit Marlow, and I knew there was only another few minutes’ drive until we turned along the private road, I felt nerves begin to kick in. Fabian took my hand, squeezing it lightly as he pulled up in front of the beautiful house.

‘Come on,’ Fabian said, smiling in my direction. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

10

‘Fabian, glad you were able to make it.’ A man I guessed to be in his late sixties, and instantly recognisable from the photos I’d googled of the Lord Chief Justice, was at the top of the steps leading to the front door. He was attempting to tie a blue striped apron round his rather rotund middle while keeping one hand on Boris, who was desperate to be off into the crowd of people gathered in the sunlit garden beyond. Sir Roland Carrington shot out his free hand in my direction, the apron draped loosely from around his neck.

‘Dad, this is Robyn.’

‘Good to meet you, m’dear. Do make yourself at home, have a drink, plenty to eat…’ He gave up the unequal struggle with Boris, who shot forward towards Fabian who caught him, instantly calming him down with a firm but reassuring hand. ‘Needs some training, does that dog.’ Roland smiled. ‘Right, apparently I’m on BBQ duty again. What is it about we men that women think we like nothing better than flipping a sausage over hot charcoal every time the sun comes out?’

‘You love it, Dad.’ Fabian smiled.

‘Which charity is today in aid of?’ I asked.

‘Oh, several, I believe. You’ll have to ask Gillian, my wife; she’s in charge.’ He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of a shaded copse of trees.

‘Hello, darling.’ A dark-haired whippet-thin woman – I’d seen more flesh on a toothpick – dressed in white cut-offs and a pink floaty top was air-kissing Fabian with some enthusiasm and yet never actually making contact with any part of him. She turned to me, scrutinising every inch of my face and dress from behind ridiculously over-the-top Victoria Beckham-type shades. Hang on, it wasn’t VB herself, was it?

‘Robyn, this is my sister-in-law, Claudia.’

Ah, not Victoria, then.

‘She’s married to Julius.’

‘For my sins, darling, and not sure for how much longer: I should have realised, once we were married, his work would take precedence over me.’ She turned to me. ‘Don’t ever marry a Carrington…’ She trailed off, looking me up and down once more as if to reassure herself that that was never likely to be on the cards. ‘Right, must go and help Gillian. Julius wants a word, Fabian, at some point. Told me to grab you when I found you.’

‘I can do without getting into work talk with Julius,’ Fabian said, shaking his head as Claudia disappeared into the gathered guests. ‘Don’t let him take me off to one side, will you?’

He took my hand (which I was pleased about – he might have brought me into the cradle of his family, but could have played down any relationship we were having) and we wandered through the groups of beautifully dressed women and confident, laughing men, Fabian stopping occasionally to chat to one or the other and to introduce me. Most were friendly, but several of them widened their eyes slightly – I was, as far as I could make out, the only woman of colour there – and, as we walked away, I heard one tell her neighbour in a too loud aside: ‘According to Julius, she’s some random reggae singer’s daughter. Reggae?Can you imagine? I bet Gillian’s had something to say about that…’

How did Julius know that? Had Fabian told him about Jayden?

I turned to ask him, curious rather than resentful – I was proud of being Jayden Allen’s daughter – but we were being approached by a couple I knew I’d seen before.

‘Fabian.’ The man drew him into a bear hug and I immediately recognised him as the little chap from Graphite the night Fabian had come in for his birthday celebration.

‘He-llo. I know you from somewhere?’ Fish Face actually closed one eye as she tried to work out where she’d come across me before. ‘Harrods,’ she eventually said. ‘You served me when I bought Mummy’s birthday present last week? The quite darling little pink cashmere Max Mara cardigan? Mummy loved it… No?’

‘Nope, try again.’ I smiled as Fabian struggled to extricate himself from the other man’s embrace.

‘Oh, you’ve got me,’ Fish Face trilled.

‘Graphite?’ I smiled.

‘Oh, you were in Graphite? Were you on a table near us?’

‘I was serving you: I was your waitress that evening.’

‘You’re awaitress?Thewaitress?’

‘Hello, Araminta, how are you?’ Fabian, having made a final bid for freedom, bent to kiss the girl’s cheek.

‘Well, I’d have been a lot better had you got round to answering my calls, Fabian.’ She was obviously cross. ‘I did tell you you’d been invited to Mummy’s birthday bash. She was most put out when you didn’t turn up.’

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