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away. So what do you think? How bad does it look?”
     
    “Well,” I delay, “at the moment it’s your word against his, but the police are appealing for eyewitnesses to come forward. We’ll also need to check out any CCTV cameras on that stretch of the road. Perhaps there’ll be something there that can help.”
     
    “What are you saying here?”
     
    His tone is politely impatient. He wants answers. 
     
    “Well, if the judgment goes against you I think, considering you’ve got a clean record and considering Rupert’s injuries aren’t disastrously bad, that the most likely scenario is a year’s disqualification or points on your licence plus a substantial fine. I suppose a suspended sentence isn’t impossible, but we’ve got to be more positive than that. I reckon we’ve an 80% chance of winning, but I’m trusting you to tell me EVERYTHING.”
     
    “Do you think this will ruin my career?”
     
    “I’m no expert in your field, but I think we should be positive about this too Mr Richardso- sorry, Scott.” I force a twinkle to my eye. I’m overreacting. How scary can a pretty boy TV Presenter be?  “Perhaps this might MAKE your career!” Bill Clinton and Monica, Brad Pitt and Angelina – it didn’t seem to do their long-term reputations any harm.
     
    He pulls a suave, knowing smile, clearly pleased with the answer.  
     
    ***
     
    I’d been looking forward to an evening in with Adam, but Kayla called just as I was leaving chambers, said she really wanted to see me, could she come round later. And when your identical twin says she really needs to see you, you say yes, even if part of you wants to say no. It’s instinctive. We’re always there for each other, at a moment’s notice. I would expect the same in return. Occasionally I think it pisses Adam off. He loves her, don’t get me wrong, but she’s a touch airy-fairy for him. He agrees that whilst in looks we’re two peas in a pod, in certain aspects of our personalities we’re like chalk and cheese.  
     
    “I wonder where she’s got to?” I glance at our huge wall-mounted clock in the lounge. It’s a huge flat blue circle with a silver frame and roman numerals. Adam bought it from Heal’s and then we spotted it as a prop in some quirky BBC4 drama about a load of lawyers living together. Serendipity! It’s a quarter to nine and she was meant to be here at eight. I sit down on the chaise longue, start plumping up the burgundy silk cushions impatiently. Upholstered in beige, with a dark wood Louis XIV frame and fancy, ornate legs, it’s my most glorious antique extravagance. 
     
    There are two sharp knocks at the door. When I open up, I’m taken aback. Kayla’s eyes are blood-shot and carrying heavy black bags.
     
    “I’m sorry I’m late,” she says.
     
    “It’s not a problem,” I reply.
     
    “No, really,” she repeats. “I’m sorry. I’m late.”
     
    ***
     
    We knocked the kitchen through into the dining room when we bought the house, creating a nice, big living space. The wooden floor, the original in-built dressers painted a pale blue and its French windows looking onto the small back garden with an American style veranda decked with hammock and chimes make this room a firm favourite with almost everyone. The work area, displaying no sign of the earlier spaghetti with rocket and basil carnage, is what I would call ‘rustic chic’, farmhouse style. Kayla follows me. She loves this room, how she always feels a sudden sense of calm when she enters, but she doesn’t look so good now as I turn to face her. 
     
    “What’s up?” I ask.
     
    “I’m sorry. I’m late,” she says yet again.
     
       I’ve an instant gut feeling what she’s saying, by her emphasis, but hope I’m wrong.
     
    “Are you ok?”
     
    Silence.
     
    “Speak to me Kayla.”
     
    Long silence.
     
    “I’m pregnant.”
     
    Just as I thought.
     
    “Are you sure?”
     
    My tone is even, although I’m shell-shocked.