I’m no lip-reader but I’m pretty sure he’s used every uncomplimentary noun in the urban dictionary to describe me and my driving. I mouth ‘sorry’ before he puts his car into gear and tears off, squealing his wheels as a final gesture of anger.
A few minutes later I pull up into the car park of Carr, Tennison & Eggar, Solicitors, without any further incident and take a moment to check my make-up in the rear-view mirror. It wouldn’t do to go into work with black streaks of sodden mascara down my face.
Feeling composed, I grab my stuff and push open the door to the converted 1930s detached house that are our offices.
‘Morning, Nina,’ I say to our receptionist as I hold open the door with my hip and yank the sack trolley through.
‘Good morning, Clare,’ she replies, giving me a second look, which tells me I wasn’t successful in disguising the tears. However, she doesn’t pass comment. ‘Tom and Leonard are already in the conference room,’ Nina informs, nodding towards the frosted double doors across the hallway.
I check my watch. It’s eight-fifty. They can wait while I lug the files down to my office and repair my make-up.
Sandy, my secretary, is at her desk in a small reception area that leads to my office. ‘Morning, Sandy. Nice weekend?’
‘Morning, Clare. Yes, very nice, thanks. You?’
‘Good, thanks,’ I say avoiding eye contact, hoping she won’t notice the remains of my make-up. I have a mirror fixed to the inside of the tall filing cupboard and hastily wipe the patches of mascara with a tissue.
‘Ah, there you are.’ From the mirror, I see Leonard bustling into the office. He pauses and his astute eyes quickly assess me. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes. Well, I am now.’ I wave the mascara wand over my eye lashes.
‘Sure?’
‘Positive. Was on the receiving end of a bit of Monday-morning road rage.’
‘Your fault?’
My hesitation gives me away as I consider whether to be honest or not. Leonard pushes the door behind him and comes over to me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? I am aware of the significance of this week.’
I dip my head, feeling embarrassed at not just my lack of concentration but that my feelings are closer to the surface than I care to admit. I look back in the mirror at him with what I hope is confidence as I brush my eyelashes one final time. ‘I’m fine. Honest. But thank you,’ I smile and Leonard pats my arm in a fatherly gesture.
‘Now, come along, we’re waiting for you,’ he says reverting to his brisk businesslike manner. ‘I can’t be long. I have that blasted Mrs Freeman coming in.’
‘Mrs Freeman?’ I try to recall the name from our last Monday rumble as I shove the mascara into my jacket pocket and track Leonard out of the office.
‘Yes. Sour-faced old moo she is. Can’t believe her husband put up with her for so long. Must have been bloody good in the sack, that’s all I can say. Mind you, you’d want a bag over her head – and one over your own, just in case hers fell off.’
‘Leonard, you can’t say things like that.’ I can’t help smiling at Leonard’s comment despite my attempt at a reprimand. Leonard is terribly honest, to the point of being rude, but it has provided no end of amusing anecdotes over the years.
In the conference room, Tom is standing at the French doors that open onto the private gardens. He turns as he hears us come in.
‘Ah, excellent, you found her.’ He smiles over at me and takes his place at the table. ‘I’ve already got you a coffee,’ he says. ‘Good weekend?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say sitting down. Really I want to say no; it was pretty shit and Mum seems to be struggling more than ever as another birthday looms but I refrain. Tom knows the score. He’s been through the whole range of emotions with me over the years. I divert the conversation. ‘We missed you at the barbecue. Everything sort itself out in the end?’
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ says Tom. ‘Isabella decided that she needed Lottie back for some party or something for her gran.’
‘Isabella still playing up?’ says Leonard, taking his seat at the head of the table.
‘From time to time. Usual thing. Money. The latest is a skiing trip to New York she wants to take Lottie on. It’s going to cost a bloody fortune and I’m the one having to stump up the cash for it. What happened to a week at the seaside?’
‘That’s what you get for no prenup,’ says Leonard, opening his notebook in front of him and taking his Mont Blanc fountain pen from his inside pocket. ‘How do you think I survived three divorces?’
I exchange an empathetic smile with Tom. Leonard is always banging on about the importance of a prenuptial agreement.
‘Lesson learned,’ says Tom.
‘And you can still get a postnup agreement yourself,’ says Leonard, not looking up from his notebook but tapping his pen on the desk in front of me.
‘Well, Luke and I have done great so far. I think we’ll manage just fine,’ I say, feeling slightly prickled at his remark.
‘Hmm. Pride before a fall and all that.’
I don’t answer Leonard. It is a pointless conversation and one we will never agree on.