“Your…your job?” I asked with all the smoothness of a bowl of granola. “Ah. Yes. Well, I”—this time, his foot only stroked the side of mine as it jiggled under the table—“specialise in criminal defence. And you might as well get it over with.” “Get what over with?” “The question that everyone asks when you tell them you work in criminal defence.” This felt uncomfortably like failing an exam. In a blind panic, I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. “Do you have sex in the wig?” He stared at me. “No, because they’re very expensive, very uncomfortable, and I have to wear mine to
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