IN THE PAST IMPERFECT

Isabelle Solal
To all the different kinds of lovers, the good,
the bad, the savvy, the clueless, the brazen and
the meek. And to Jane, for inspiration.
“We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it,
than any other person can be.”

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

ii
 PROLOGUE

Does the girl really need to be taking this much time pouring the tea? I’m not

royalty, for heaven’s sake, there’s no need to make such a show of it. But I say nothing

and smile at her politely. You get to a certain age when making a fuss in public

becomes unseemly.

Once she is finished, I place my hands carefully on the neat stack of black

leather-bound notebooks. This is it, I think. The sum total of my life. My thoughts.

My struggles. My achievements and my failures. Hundreds of cases won and lost. It

doesn’t seem like much, sitting on the table like that, all bound up prim and proper.

There’s more life in these hands of mine. The skin thinned, pale blue veins and

chestnut flecks marking a territory of happiness and heartache. No rings, no clutter, but

a slight trembling where once there was a strong, resolute grip.

“Would you like anything else while you’re waiting, Madam?” The girl’s voice

startles me out of my reverie.

“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.”

She gives me a little nod and a corner smile before shuffling off across the thick,

burgundy carpet of the tea room. What a place. Mouldings on the green walls,

reproductions of nineteenth century portraits, marble tabletops. I feel like I’m in a

museum. In fact, I feel like I may be part of the collection. ‘Old Woman with

Notebooks.’ The thought amuses me and I chuckle quietly behind my tea cup.

Finally the woman I’ve been waiting for arrives. Fashionably late, of course.

She makes all the necessary apologies as she lands like a whirlwind at my table and

simultaneously discards hat, scarf and coat. Underneath she is wearing a smart, tailored

royal blue suit with shiny black buttons, skirt a bit short for my liking but revealing the

sort of legs men turn around for. I recognize her. Not her, specifically, but her type. I

know her type very well indeed.

After another five minutes of bustling about searching for her recording device,

handing me her card and making unnecessary small talk (so tedious, the platitudes that

pass for politeness) without pausing to catch her breath, she has at last settled down and

turned her face to me.

“Ms. Crane,” she says, matter-of-fact. Finding it necessary, perhaps, to confirm

my identity. Or to remind me of it. I take another sip of tea, and wish I hadn’t agreed

to come. But my nephew had made a convincing case when he asked if I would meet

with his journalist friend, who was writing a piece on women of ‘my generation.’ And

to be honest, deep down somewhere a spark of the old fire sputtered again, excited to be

once more noticed, to matter to somebody, to be of consequence. That’s a side effect of

aging they never warn you about: becoming inconsequential, as if the world has already

prepared itself for your departure from it. So I took the call, made the appointment, and

now here I am, face to face with this eager young thing who doesn’t quite know what to

make of me. Or me of her.

“These are the notebooks, then?” she prompts.

“That’s right. I thought they might be helpful to you.”

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 “Yes. Absolutely. I really look forward to reading them.” She speaks as if

constantly out of breath. I find it rather grating. Her entire demeanour, in fact, and that

ingratiating plastered smile, are beginning to get on my nerves.

“Do you mind if I just ask you a few questions to start off with, so we can get to

know each other?” she asks. I nod my agreement.

And so our meeting begins. Where was I born? Where did I grow up? What

were my parents like? Did I have siblings? Did I have a happy childhood? When I was

young, what where my ambitions? My hopes and dreams? My female role models? It

is all extremely tiresome. At my age, one is no longer used to talking at such length

about oneself, and my throat is becoming parched. I look around to try to gesture to the

waitress for another cup of tea.

“Do you believe in true love?”

“Excuse me?” I snap my attention back to her.

“Do you believe in true love?” she repeats.

Do I believe in true love? What sort of a question is that? That wasn’t what we

were here to discuss. Why in heavens would her readers care to know if a lonely old

woman believes in true love? I look at her face, expectant, and down at her smooth,

thin hands. She isn’t wearing a ring. I wonder what answer she would prefer. That true

love exists, so that she might continue to believe and wake up hopeful every morning as

she carefully applies that smoky grey eye shadow and soft pink lipstick? Or on the

contrary, that there is no such thing, that she can happily dismiss the notion as a terrible

hoax played on us all by writers of fairytales and purveyors of feel-good cinema scripts?

I close my eyes and take a moment before replying.

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 “True love,” I murmur. “I suppose I should have the answer, at my age. And

yet – I still don’t really know if I believe in true love.” She seems disappointed. I’m

feeling generous and so I give her a small smile of encouragement. “It’s just that things

are hardly ever that simple. They rarely turn out like they say in the novels: boy meets

girl, they fall in love and live happily ever after and so on.” I wonder vaguely whether

I’m coming off as overly patronizing. Never mind. My eyes’ focus has drifted away

from her face now to somewhere beyond her left ear. I curve my lips into a smile at the

familiar faces of friends I see there, so young still. “Things are always a little more

complicated than that. Fortunately.”

4
CHAPTER 1

In retrospect, she felt there should have been something, anything, to mark that

day out as different from the hundreds of others that preceded it. A crow at the

windowsill. A tingling in her arm. Nothing extravagant, nothing too obvious, just a

simple sign that today was the day everything would change. Instead there was only the

loud, insistent bleating of the clock radio.

Alina screwed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the noise. In vain. She

didn’t bother nudging Bruno to have him turn off the alarm, knowing he would have left

hours ago. Instead she stretched her arm across the breadth of the bed, gave the infernal

machine a hard slap, and groaned as her feet touched down on the cold, Italian ceramic

tiles. How many hours of sleep had it been this time? Four? Five? Blurry pages of her

current brief were still swimming before her eyes as the shower hammered her back.

Thirty minutes later she was pushing her way through the throngs of commuter

traffic in a new, painful pair of Jimmy Choos, Starbucks double tall skinny latte in hand.

It drove Bruno crazy that Alina drank Starbucks coffee. Brown water for the

uneducated masses, he called it. Maybe. But mostly it was caffeine, it was quick, it

was on her way to the office and it meant an extra five minutes of sleep instead of

standing in front of the percolator, waiting for it to boil. Despite her many years spent

5
on the Continent, Alina didn’t understand coffee snobbery. Still, she made sure they

always had Bruno’s favourite Italian roast at home, the one she had to travel across

town for, to that one pokey deli in Islington that carried it.

Bruno and Alina had been together for five years. Two years ago, Alina had

moved in. The lawyer and the banker. They were the perfect golden power couple.

Everyone said so. Alina’s petite frame, matte skin and long, dark hair complemented

Bruno’s tall, blue-eyed figure perfectly. They both looked effortlessly attractive and

worked hard at keeping it that way (for Alina, these days, that involved an increasingly

liberal application of makeup to cover those expanding shadows under her eyes). They

had excellent, expensive taste in clothes. They had both been educated at the finest

institutions and had the salaries to prove it. Their apartment was filled with

uncomfortable designer furniture that guests never failed to admire. They were both

unapologetically part of the West London Eurotrash set. Alina’s father had been a

diplomat and she had one of those accents that made people squint, tilt their head to the

left and struggle to place her. Bruno had been schooled in Britain but spent his

summers in Italy, where his mother was from, so he didn’t mind when Alina’s nomadic,

mid-Atlantic twang faltered between continents.

That was mostly enough to satisfy Alina. That, and the way Bruno looked in a

dark charcoal suit which still took Alina’s breath away when she wasn’t too tired to

notice. He showered her with expensive gifts she could show off to her friends

afterward. He didn’t complain that she called her little sister on the phone every other

day. And although sex was somewhat perfunctory, they still made time for it most

Sundays before brunch.

Really, there was no denying they were a good match.

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 Pushing past a portly ginger-haired man in an ill-fitting pinstripe to toss her

coffee cup in the trash, and tucking a stray strand of hair back into her ponytail, Alina

sprinted the last few steps to the offices of Baird & Morris.

“Paul!” she called as soon as she stepped off the elevator. The paralegal scurried

to attention. Despite being at least a foot taller than Alina, he looked as though he

might be at risk of getting trampled into the carpet by her stilettos. “Make sure you

print out the most recent version of the brief from late last night and check all the

citations. Carefully.” She raised an eyebrow as she emphasized the last word. “And

don’t forget to leave that memo on profit sharing agreements on my desk, I’ll need it for

after the meeting.”

“Well, you see, the thing is, Alina –” stammered Paul, “I haven’t quite finished

the memo.”

“What do you mean? I gave you that assignment last week.”

“Right. Well, it’s just that I didn’t quite understand what you wanted… I’ve

been struggling a bit…” Paul looked down as his words trailed off into a semi-whisper.

Tensing his shoulders, he braced himself for what was coming.

“What? You must be joking. You didn’t understand what I wanted?” As her

frustration mounted, Alina’s voice took on that borderline shrill tone that even she

couldn’t stand. She had to make a conscious effort to remember to breathe. “If you

didn’t understand what I wanted why didn’t you come ask me? What have you been

doing all this time? Paul? Answer me.” But she didn’t bother leaving time for an

answer. “This is completely unprofessional. I can’t believe you. Seriously. Fix it.

Now. Get Sarah to help you and get me that memo.”

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 Alina chose to ignore the eye-roll that Sarah, the tall, skinny intern, shot Paul as

she stormed off towards the conference room. At the door, she took a pause to steady

her nerves before stepping inside.

All partners and associates of Baird & Morris met once a month on a Friday

morning in front of a spread of coffee and danishes to go around the table and review

the latest case developments. The office’s largest ongoing litigation for the past 6

months was being handled by Alina, and at each meeting she knew she was under the

microscope. Today would be no different. But Alina was confident. She had been

putting in 90 hour weeks on this case, the client seemed to like her, the statement of

defence was solid and almost ready for filing. Taking her place at the conference room

table she went over her talking points in her head one last time.

“Good morning everyone. Before we get started, there’s some disturbing news I

need to share with you all.” Voices hushed immediately as Oliver, the senior partner,

opened the meeting. His tone was grave and Alina’s stomach lurched.

“I received a call from Robert Norton last night.” Oliver looked at Alina.

Robert Norton was her client. Alina was not prepared for what came next. “Robert

informed me that he has chosen to instruct new counsel to handle the company’s

defence. We are to cease all work immediately and hand over our files today.”

Alina made an effort to control her features. She mostly failed. The room was

lost in a nauseating blur and her mind couldn’t focus on anything other than the horrible

realization that she had lost a client. Again. How did she not see this coming? Why

had Robert not talked to her first? What had she done wrong? Her head was spinning

and Alina clutched her hands together to keep them still, her knuckles turning white.

8
“Alina?” She looked up at Oliver. His eyes were dark. “We’re going to have to have a

discussion about this.”

That did not sound encouraging. “Yes. Of course, Oliver.”

Then Oliver moved on to the next associate. As she scanned her colleague’s

faces, trying to remain impassive, all eyes turned away. All except Rachel’s, who shot

her a discreet signal of affection and moral support with one perfectly waxed eyebrow.

And Nadya Burrows, Alina’s rival for the next partnership opening and the most

detestable woman she had ever met. The kind that delighted in another woman’s

misery, particularly if she had had the pleasure of causing it. Nadya’s eyes were so full

of smugness that for a moment Alina forgot to be mortified and instead was

overwhelmed with the urge to leap across the table and slap that sneer straight off the

woman’s sallow-cheeked face.

As soon as the meeting ended Alina practically hurled herself out of the room,

down the hall, and into her office, slamming the door shut behind her. Her lower lip

quivered ominously (an infuriatingly feminine reflex she had not yet managed to break.)

Oliver would not let her off easy this time. There would be repercussions. She had lost

the firm millions in revenue. At a minimum her promotion would be delayed. Maybe

indefinitely. Maybe – she flinched at the thought – maybe Oliver would fire her.

Pulling her ponytail free from its hair band, she sank into her chair and banged her

forehead down on her desk. Repeatedly.

“A big ugly bruise on your face is not the way to resolve this.”

Alina looked up at Rachel and her eyes welled up.

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 Each day was getting better, she thought. For example, this morning, Alina had

barely registered the fact that man next to her was wearing a sweater the exact same

shade of blue as the one he used to have. Has. And she slept better now. That cold,

clammy hand that had kept her up, night after night, the first few months, had loosened

its grip. And even though she often still woke with that flickering sense of having just

seen him, mostly her dreams were uneventful and soon forgotten. Reflecting on it at this

stage, several months later, it seemed to her that Rachel was right. A relationship was

merely a series of habits formed over time. Like any other habit, it could be gotten

over. Like quitting smoking. Or giving up chocolate (although, Alina had never

managed to give up chocolate, not even for Lent, not even that time she had made a

wager with her secretary). It was sad, in a way. She tried not to think what her life

would have been now, had she stayed, had things – had things not happened the way

they did.

Work was a blessing. Every day as she strode through those giant oak doors,

walked across the gleaming marble floor towards the lifts and flashed her badge at Mr.

B, the security guard on morning shift, Alina felt comforted. Purposeful. Safe.

Today was no exception.

“Morning, Mr. B,” she trilled, as her footsteps echoed across the lobby.

“Good morning, Miss Marin.” Mr. B was always very proper, like he belonged

in a BBC period drama rather than in a security guard’s uniform in the lobby of one of

the City’s most ruthless American law firms. He leant an old-school charm to the place

that pleased Alina.

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 The lift carried Alina to the sixth floor and the familiar musty smell of her office.

Printer toner, dusty case book bindings, stale coffee and an underlying whiff of lavender

from when she dropped that lotion into the carpet. Her eyes ignored the empty picture

frame that lay discarded on one of the bookshelves, leaning against her college copy of

Anson’s Law of Contracts. And she pretended to forget that the black and white shot

the frame used to house was still tucked somewhere between ‘consideration’ and

‘promissory estoppel.’

Interrupting her thoughts, Rachel pushed the office door open with one hip, both

of her hands full of large take-away coffee cups.

“One double tall skinny latte for Miss Marin,” she announced.

Alina smiled, happy to share this daily ritual with her best friend, and hopped up

on the corner of her desk before grabbing the cup. Rachel sank into the black leather

swivel chair opposite.

“So, how are we doing today?”

“Good,” Alina reassured her friend. “Really good.”

“Happy to hear it. So, I was thinking, how do margaritas sound for tonight?

Maybe we could even catch a film at the Electric first? What do you say?”

Alina looked down at her legs, swinging off the edge of the desk. Her smile

faltered and something in her eyes switched off. “I don’t know, Rachel,” she mumbled.

“With work, and everything…” She didn’t need to lift her head to know her friend was

giving her that look, the one where traces of pity barely softened the harsh brushstrokes

of frustration.

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 “Alina, you’ve been here past midnight every night this week. And last. You

need to go out. Let off some steam. Maybe even shake that little booty of yours on the

dance floor and pick up a hottie for the weekend.”

Rachel ignored Alina’s wince and continued. “I’m telling you, a nice warm

body is just the ticket, sweetie,” Rachel crooned encouragingly. “Get you right back in

the saddle.”

“Just because you can’t seem to keep your pants on, Rachel, doesn’t mean sex is

the answer to everything,” Alina snapped.

Rachel smiled, but said nothing. She wasn’t one to get easily offended.

“Sorry,” sighed Alina. “Fine. Margaritas sound good.”

Before Rachel had a chance to gloat in victory, Oliver barged in on the two

girls.

“Ladies.” He gave a nod in Rachel’s direction, before turning to Alina. “Some

bad news, I’m afraid, Alina.”

Alina’s muscles tensed. She really wasn’t certain she was capable of handling

bad news quite yet.

“Do you know Elliott Jensen? From Farnhill & Joyce?” Alina squinted,

searching her memory. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to it.

Probably one of those carbon copy eager young lawyers she had run into at a

conference somewhere. Oliver pressed on. “He met with Richard Leevey last night.

Dinner at the Fat Duck, I’m told. Anyway, long story short, Leevey called this morning

and told me he’s turning the case over to Jensen.”

Alina stared at Oliver blankly. She’d lost her client. Her case. Her distraction.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Rachel looking at her, her face a mixture of

12
shock, concern and discomfort. Surely losing this many things in a row was evidence of

more than just bad luck – it was downright disorganized.

“Well, there you are. These things happen to every good lawyer, you know.

Once. I need you to pull your files together and courier them over to Jensen. Then you

should go ahead and take the rest of the day off. We’ll find something else for you on

Monday.” And with that, Oliver walked out.

Alina barely registered the rest of the day, as she sat on the floor sorting

through files with her secretary, Lisa. As promised, Rachel came to drag her off as

darkness fell. They skipped the cinema and headed straight to the back alleys of Soho.

Before she knew it, Alina was on her third margarita, protesting loudly about ‘Elliott

Fuckin’ Jensen’ to anyone close enough to hear. Rachel stayed by her side, one hand

beneath her elbow to keep her upright and the other trying to force a glass of water

down her throat.

“That Jensen sounds like a bit of an arse,” whispered a deep, conspiratorial

voice on Alina’s left. She looked over in surprise, not actually expecting anyone to have

been listening to her rant. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to focus on the clean-shaven,

square-jawed face hovering above her.

“Bruno,” the voice said, extending a hand. Perfect, thought Alina. A new

distraction.

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