‘I had to go and interview him in Capri, on this yacht . . .’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Cath. ‘Rewind. You’ve seen his six-pack? On a yacht? In Capri? I knew I should have studied law.’
Anna sipped her Sauvignon, trying to keep cool.
‘Come on. Here we are, three successful, intelligent women, and we’re talking about six-packs.’
Cath snorted. ‘You’ve been hanging out with the world’s most famous philanderer, Sam Charles. What do you expect us to talk about? Tolstoy? Come on, how gorgeous is he?’
‘He’s very attractive.’
‘You fancy him.’ Suzanne grinned.
‘I do not,’ she lied. ‘He’s a client.’
‘Why did he shag that hooker?’
‘What part of client confidentiality don’t you understand?’
Suzanne topped up Anna’s glass.
‘Let’s come back to this later when we’ve plied her with booze, eh?’
Anna was glad her friends had come over. Cath was right: she did work too hard, always making excuses whenever they asked her out for a drink, and she had missed the banter and the cameraderie, especially after the isolation of the past week. In fact, she had been so stressed and grumpy, she had almost cancelled their gossipy night in. She was glad she hadn’t.
‘So, other than the Sam Charles case, what else have you been up to? Is the new firm better than the last place?’
Anna dug her fork into her noodles.
‘Well, both the senior partners hate me. Which I suppose you could see as progress; only my direct supervisor hated me at Davidson’s.’
‘Balls to the boss,’ said Suzanne. She had always been a lightweight; she’d only had two glasses of wine and already her can-do doctor façade was melting away.
‘What else?’ said Cath. ‘And you’re not allowed to talk about work.’
‘Well, Sophie’s getting married,’ said Anna. The casualness with which she dropped it into the conversation surprised even herself.
Cath and Suzanne put their glasses down at the same time, instantly seeming to sober up. ‘Oh no,’ said Suzanne. ‘Why didn’t you tell us? How? When?’
Anna puffed out her cheeks, then shrugged.
‘My parents told me a couple of weeks ago. The wedding’s next month in Italy.’
‘Not at that amazing villa?’
‘The very same.’ She nodded.
She tried to think about it in a detached way, like a news item or a piece of gossip about some remote acquaintance, but it was still difficult to actually say out loud. It must be the wine, she thought.
‘Are you going to go?’ asked Cath.
‘No. I’ve told them I’m too busy at work, even though most of my work has actually dried up since the Sam Charles balls-up.’
‘I think you should,’ said Suzanne decisively.
‘Yes, I agree,’ said Cath. ‘Don’t give her the bloody satisfaction.’
‘You two sound like my parents.’