Creeping Ivy Read Free Page A

no one else to object any longer.
    Her salvation had appeared in chambers in the form of an invitation from the managing director of a small, progressive publishing house, who wanted her to write about children and the law. At first the letter had seemed to be just one more problem she had to deal with; but after it had lain in her in-tray for a couple of weeks she had begun to see that it might offer an honourable way out. If she accepted the commission, she could at least retreat for a time.
    One of her most tormenting cases had caught the attention of the tabloids. As Trish battled in court to make the state provide appropriate care for a seriously disturbed eight-year-old who had been discovered trying to kill her six-year-old sister, she found herself more famous than most other barristers in their early thirties. She assumed that was what had interested the publisher in the first place. As far as she could see, there was no other reason for his approach and she was sure they had never met.
    Eventually, when there had been a tiny gap in her diary, she had rung him up, agreed to meet for lunch in the Oxo Tower, and discovered that he shared her passion for justice for children and detestation of the way some of them were demonised in the popular press. Before they had finished their first course, Trish had agreed to write his book and gulped at the size of the advance he offered, which made even legal-aid rates seem princely.
    She could afford to accept the commission, having earned well for the previous four years and spent comparatively little. For ages her only regular expenses had been her big mortgage, the bills, and the annual subscription to the gym she had begun to use as part of her stress-management campaign. She ate out with friends, drank in El Vino’s after court, and occasionally gave parties at the flat, but there was rarely time for anything else. She could not remember when she had last been to the theatre; films often seemed alluring until the moment came, when there was almost always more work to be done; and concerts were something she did not even contemplate.
    Back in the kitchen, she had just switched on the kettle for a fresh mug of instant coffee, which she hoped might taste better than the first, when she saw that her answering machine was winking. She pressed its buttons, assuming that Antonia must have rung back while she was in the shower, but it was a quite different voice she heard, lighter, younger and infinitely kinder.
    ‘Hi, Trish? It’s Emma. I was just wondering if you felt like meeting up for some food, or a drink or something – a walk, maybe. It’s been days since we spoke, and it would be good to see you and hear how the work’s going. I’ve got a great new case to tell you about – quite funny, too, for a change. Ring if you feel like it. But don’t bother if you’re busy. Lots of love. Bye.’
    Trish smiled as she thought of Emma Gnatche, a specialist in lie detection and the psychology of false confessions, who was one of her closest friends. If it had not been for what had happened to Charlotte, Trish would have rung her straight back and arranged to meet at once. As it was, she thought she would have to wait in case Antonia had phoned.
    With the television on again so that she could catch any news there might be, Trish sat down and tried to read the papers. She did not have long to wait.
    ‘Antonia?’ she said urgently into the receiver as soon as she had picked it up.
    ‘Trish, thank God you’re there. And thank you for your message. I should have known you’d ring. It’s … it’s … I can’t … oh, you know.’
    ‘I can imagine.’ Trish turned down the sound on the television. ‘Antonia, has there been any news?’
    ‘No. Nothing. It’s hell.’
    ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Look, I don’t want to get in your way or anything, but would it help if I came round?’
    ‘Would you?’ Antonia sounded so surprised that Trish wondered whether her