Court Out - By Elle Wynne Page 0,28

get a pair.”

“Thanks. After that, what about that drink then?”

I considered this for all of a split second.

“Promise you’re not going to talk about feet the whole time?”

“I’ll try. My therapist says I’m making progress.”

“Ok, but any mention of toes and I’m out.”

He laughed and signaled to a hovering assistant who rushed over, eager to help such a handsome man. I left the shoes in the end, caught up in the unexpected turn of events my afternoon had presented.

We spent a long sunny afternoon at a canal-side bar, idly picking at bar snacks and drinking cold beer. I learned that he had just moved to Farrington from London having set up his own firm in the city centre. As we chatted, I marveled how much we had in common: our love of the Soprano’s, skiing (I know, for someone with no balance, it really shouldn’t work, but by some inverse law of physics, I’m actually quite good) and decent food. We parted with him promising to call me later that week. Whilst the pessimist in me tried to convince myself that he would never make contact, deep down I always knew he would.

When I got into Chambers on the following Monday, our receptionist Carole came bounding up to me with the sort of energy level one normally associates with Labrador puppies.

“You’ve got some parcels!” she’d exclaimed.

“Ok...” At the time there was nothing unusual about that, as I had normally got everything that I order off the Internet posted to Chambers.

“I’ve put them on your desk! Make sure you come show me later”

“Erm, thanks”

I’d travelled the lift to the top floor and watched as the ground sunk quickly below me. As I swiped my pass card into our floor, I let my mind wander to the work that was waiting for me. On approaching my desk, the source of Carole’s enthusiasm became clear because instead of the Amazon packaging, or the usual department store wrapped box, sat there was two very familiar shoe boxes. I squealed and ran over, not really needing to open them to know their contents. Sure enough, in one box the nude Chloe heels, the other the black Alexander McQueen pair. A card lay in the base of the second box. In elegant script the message read ‘I hope to catch you every time you fall, S.’

He looks at me now and I reply. “No, Not more crazy wedding ideas. Well not today anyway. I wouldn’t put it past her to have rearranged the whole ceremony to fit in with some new-fangled idea she’s seen on Wedding TV by tomorrow though.”

“Poor Ewan, she’s driving him round the bend, not to mention to bankruptcy.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?” I ask, worried that Serena is way in above her head.

“Yeah, but you know how proud he is; he’d never say that he couldn’t afford every whim she’s been demanding.”

Sebastian and Ewan have become friends over the past few years through being dragged out with Serena and I. Whilst they come from completely different backgrounds, they’ve bonded through the stress of dating women who spend half of their lives working and the majority of the remainder either drunk or asleep. Ewan has told Sebastian on a number of occasions of his wish that Serena will one day pack it all in and stay at home to become a mother. Whilst it’s a nice idea in theory, I doubt very much that she’d ever give up the career she’s worked so hard to forge.

“Lets not talk about them now,” I say. “We have much more important things to discuss.” With this I straighten up in my chair, clear my throat and look at him expectantly.

Sebastian pales visibly, his eyes flicking from side to side in panic.

“No escape from this I’m afraid darling. It has to be done. I mean, neither of us are getting any younger and we really have to seize the moment.”

He licks his lips and drums his fingers on the table. There’s a long pause that I struggle not to fill.

“Lauren, what are you talking about?”

I deliberate making him worry a little longer but a rumbling noise makes me cut the torture short.

“Dessert. I don’t know about you, but that chocolate sponge pudding with custard has my name on it.”

He throws a lone sachet of tomato ketchup at me, not appreciating that I opened it earlier. I shriek as the sauce splatters across my face and launch a crouton from my plate in his direction.

“Now, now!”