The Adultery Club Read Free Page B

horoscopes or tarot cards; but I’m only too aware how rare it is these days to attain your fifth wedding anniversary, never mind your tenth.
    Reminds me. Ours is sometime around Christmas—the eighteenth or nineteenth, I think. I must remember to find her something particularly special this year. She’ll kill me if I forget again.
    I spend the next hour or so absorbed in paperwork. When Emma knocks on my door, it is with some surprise that I note that it is almost seven.
    “Mr. Lyon, everyone’s going over to Milagro’s now for Mr. Fisher’s party,” she says. “Are you coming with us, or did you want to wait for Mrs. Lyon?”
    “I believe she said she’d get a taxi straight to the restaurant from the station. But I need to finish this Consent Order tonight. You go on ahead. I’ll be with you as soon as I’m done.”
    Emma nods and withdraws.
    Quietly I work on the draft order, enjoying the rare peace that has descended on the empty office. Without the distraction of the telephone or interruptions from my colleagues, it takes me a fraction of the time it would normally do, and I finish in less than forty minutes. Perfect timing; Mal should be arriving at the restaurant at any moment.
    I loosen my suspenders a little as I push back from my desk, reflecting wryly as I put on my jacket and raincoat that being married to a celebrity cook is not entirely good news. I rather fear my venerable dinner jacket, which has seen me through a dozen annual Law Society dinners, will not accommodate my burgeoning waistline for much longer.
    Bidding the cleaner good evening as I pass through reception, in a moment of good resolution I opt to take the stairs rather than the lift down the four floors to street level.
    As I come into the hallway, I find a young woman in a pale green suit hovering uncertainly by the lifts, clearly lost.She jumps when she sees me and I pause, switching my briefcase to the other hand as I push the chrome bar on the fire door to the stairwell.
    “Can I help you?”
    “I’m looking for Fisher Raymond Lyon. Am I on the right floor?”
    “Yes, but I’m afraid the office is closed for the night. Did you want to make an appointment?”
    “Oh, I’m not a client,” she says quickly. “I’m a solicitor. My name’s Sara Kaplan—I’m starting work here next Monday.”
    “Ah, yes, of course.” I let the fire door swing shut and extend my hand. “Nicholas Lyon, one of the partners. I’m afraid I was detained on a difficult case in Leeds when my colleagues interviewed you; I do apologize. I understand you come highly recommended from your previous firm.”
    “Thank you. I’m very much looking forward to working here.”
    “Good, good. Well, welcome to the firm. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Monday.”
    I hesitate as she makes no move to leave.
    “Miss Kaplan, did you just want to drop off some paperwork, or was there something else?”
    She fiddles nervously with her earring. The uncertain gesture suggests she’s younger than I had at first thought, perhaps twenty-five, twenty-six. “Um. Well, it’s just that Mr. Fisher invited me to his leaving party, and I thought it might be nice to meet everyone before Monday—”
    “Oh, I see. Yes, of course. It’s not here, though, it’s at the Italian restaurant across the road. I’m just going over there myself.”
    Eschewing the stairs for the sake of courtesy, I summon the lift and we stand awkwardly next to each other,studiously avoiding eye contact, as it grinds its way up four floors. She’s tall for a woman, probably five ten or so. Short strawberry blond hair, wide swimmer’s shoulders, skin honeyed by the sun, and generous curves that will run to fat after she’s had children if she’s not careful. Her nose is a little large, but surprisingly it doesn’t ruin her appearance—quite the contrary. Its quirky route down her face leavens otherwise predictable, glossy good looks. I suspect a fearsome intellect and formidable will