Page 9 of A Class Act

‘Right, OK,’ he said, standing up before moving to the sink to wash his hands. (I do like a man who washes his hands before touching food and, believe me, a hell of a lot of men don’t.) ‘Just give me a moment to sort the picnic. Red or white?’

‘Oh, erm, white, please.’ I wandered over to the huge window, taking in the acres of kitchen garden, greenhouses, a summer house and, thepièce de résistance, a large outdoor swimming pool, ornamented by expensive-looking, artistically arranged sunbeds, tables and chairs. This certainly beat my mum’s two splintered deckchairs she’d bought years ago at B&Q.

‘Right, would you mind awfully taking Boris while I bring the picnic? It’s a fifteen-minute walk down to the river, if that’s OK with you?’

‘Of course.’

Concentrating all my efforts on reining in the exuberant puppy, who was intent on making a bid for freedom, I didn’t speak much as we walked along country lanes awash with the new season’s gifts of nature. Frothy cow parsley dominated as far as the eye could see, its delicate creamy lace umbellifers creating a sea of doylies through which we walked, Boris having me hanging onto his lead like a cartoon character. The last of the spring bluebells coordinated a veritable Union Jack with the addition of red campion, while acres of meadowland on either side of us were ablaze with glossy buttercups the colour of workmen’s high-vis jackets.

‘That looks terribly heavy,’ I ventured, glancing across at Fabian’s right hand gripping the basket handles. ‘What on earth have you got in there?’ A picnic, to me, was a cheese sandwich, a bag of crisps and a bottle of pop with, if you were lucky, a roll of Jaffa Cakes or Jammy Dodgers to finish.

‘Nearly there.’ Fabian smiled, cutting through a copse of trees and taking us down onto the banks of the Thames. ‘Best place on the riverbank,’ he said, taking Boris from me. ‘Is this OK for you?’

‘OK?’ I glanced across at him. Surely someone as certain, so self-assured as the man I’d seen in action at the Central Criminal Court couldn’t be feeling unsure about the place to have a picnic?

‘Bit of a family secret, this spot.’ Fabian smiled, retrieving a blanket from the basket. ‘It’s a tradition that we meet here on Boxing Day.’

‘Boxing Day?’ I stared. ‘Isn’t it cold, wet and miserable?’

‘Well, yes, it can be, but lovely if it’s been snowing. We bring pies and bacon sandwiches as well as warm glühwein and meet up with my horde of cousins and their offspring. A bit of a rite of passage to be allowed the glühwein instead of warm Ribena when you’re sixteen. Irrelevant that you’ve probably been knocking vodka back at school in the dorm since you were twelve…’

‘Right.’ Fabian, I could see, inhabited a society – a world – vastly different from my own.

‘You OK?’ Fabian asked.

‘You keep asking me that,’ I said, trying to smile through my unease. ‘I’m fine, really.’

‘Well, why don’t we have a drink first and you can spill the beans?’ Fabian brought out a bottle of expensive-looking white wine, poured us both a glass – actual glass not plastic – and handed me one.

‘The beans?’ I took a sip of the deliciously cold and crisp wine and realised Fabian was gazing at me intently.

‘OK.’ He smiled. ‘You are an incredibly beautiful girl. Where are you from?’

‘Beddingfield, a large and pretty village on the outskirts of what was the industrial textile area of West Yorkshire.’

‘Well, yes, it’s fairly obvious you’re from the north.’

‘Is it? And does that bother you?’

‘Why on earth should it bother me? But I’m curious. You’re obviously not a rosy-cheeked Yorkshire lass with Anglo-Saxon roots.’

‘Is that how you southerners see anyone hailing from north of Watford Gap?’

‘Not at all.’ Fabian drank deeply from his own glass, but he wasn’t in the least embarrassed at probing. Years of experience in court, I supposed. ‘So?’

‘So?’ I repeated.

‘What’s your heritage?’

Nicely put, Fabian.

I took another sip from my glass, relenting slightly. ‘So, both my parents are dual heritage: my father’s mother was English, but his father was originally from Jamaica.’

‘Was?’ Fabian asked.

‘I never knew my paternal grandmother: she died when my dad was just a baby. Or my grandfather…’ I trailed off, not wanting to explain further.

Fabian nodded, but said nothing.

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