Breath of Corruption

by Caro Fraser

  Fifteen minutes later Anthea arrived back. She’d been at a photo shoot all afternoon and was tired and hot.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked Lucy, somewhat unkindly.

  ‘Forgot my house keys. Mum’s not back till late. I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came round here.’

  ‘Well, I do mind.’ She saw Leo’s discarded drink sitting on a side table. ‘Have you been at my vodka again?’

  Lucy yawned. ‘I made a drink for one of your friends. I don’t think he liked it.’

  Anthea picked up the glass to take it to the kitchen. ‘Get your feet off the sofa. What friend?’

  ‘God, stop being so stressy – I haven’t even got shoes on. Leo something.’

  Anthea stopped in the doorway. ‘Leo Davies? He came round here?’

  Lucy made a mock-dumb face at her sister. ‘Like – yeah.’

  Anthea smiled, surprised and pleased. She went to the kitchen and rinsed the glass, put the cap back on the vodka and returned it to the fridge. Not answering his calls or his messages appeared to have had an effect. She went back through to the living room.

  ‘So, what did he say?’

  ‘Oh – we had a bit of a chat about this and that,’ said Lucy nonchalantly, ‘then he said he had to go.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Just that he’d ring later.’ Lucy caught Anthea’s pleased little smile. ‘Aren’t you pissed off that you missed him? I would be. He’s really buff.’

  Anthea shot her a glance. ‘I hope you behaved yourself.’

  Lucy smiled sweetly. ‘I was the perfect hostess.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Anthea went to a drawer. ‘Here – you can take my spare key and go home. I’ve got stuff to do.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I want it back, mind.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Lucy slipped on her pumps, picked up her things and headed for the door. She wiggled her fingers at Anthea in farewell. ‘Laters.’

  When Lucy had gone, Anthea ran a bath and lay soaking, thinking about Leo. Evidently her stalling tactic had worked. He was in hot pursuit. What would she do when he rang later? If she put him off again, she risked sending out the wrong message. Besides, she was desperate – she’d been deliberately blanking the thought of sex with him all weekend, and now she’d allowed herself to think of it, she was absolutely aching for him. She was suddenly touched with apprehension. What if he didn’t call after all?

  But Leo rang. He rang a little after nine and, cool as she tried to be, Anthea ended up inviting him round.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ said Leo when he got there. He took her in his arms and kissed her slowly. ‘I have an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘Then let’s not hang around,’ murmured Anthea, unbuttoning his shirt and kissing his neck. ‘I’m already a few steps ahead of you.’ She was wearing only a crimson silk robe. Leo loosened the sash and let it fall open, and slipped his hands inside to caress her. She gave an involuntary little shiver of pleasure. She was breaking her own rules. She should probably have held out for another week. But this – the feeling of him, his kiss, the touch of his hands – was too pleasurable. Sex with Leo was like a drug, and she couldn’t get enough of it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Leo woke, it took him a moment or two to realise where he was. The light through the blind cast a blue shadow across the room. He glanced across and saw Anthea, still asleep, her blonde hair tumbled on the pillow. He gave a faint groan and let his head fall back. His mistake had been in agreeing to stay for a drink after their first delirious bout of sex, but pleasuring Anthea was an exhausting business, and he’d needed one. Thereafter, insatiable girl that she was, she’d found innovative and delightful ways to persuade him to stay even longer, and in the end he’d been too tired to get dressed and drive home. He’d probably have been over the limit anyway.

  Telling himself he was too old for this kind of thing, Leo eased himself gently out of bed, being careful not to wake Anthea, got dressed, and let himself out of her flat. As he drove the short distance home, still yawning, he was appalled to realise that it was nearly half past nine. The last twelve hours were strewn with the wreckage of good intentions. Yesterday he’d fully intended to spend the evening reading the papers in that reinsurance case. He’d only meant to stop off at Anthea’s for half an hour or so beforehand. Even when he arranged to meet her later, he’d promised himself it wouldn’t be for long, and that he’d be up early this morning to get into chambers before eight. He edged his way impatiently through the late rush-hour traffic, telling himself he only had his own libido to blame.

  Henry barely raised an eyebrow when Leo came crashing into the clerks’ room an hour later.

  ‘Morning Mr Davies. You’re due in court in ten minutes.’

  ‘I bloody well know that, Henry! Have you seen my copy of Schofield anywhere? It’s disappeared from my room.’

  ‘Afraid not, sir. Maybe one of the pupils has it.’ Maurice Faber, standing in his shirtsleeves by the photocopier, glanced up.

  ‘Sorry, old man – it’s in my room. I borrowed it last night.’

  Maurice, a swarthy, keen-eyed man in his early forties, smiled apologetically but without particular sincerity. It was only a year ago that he, together with a rebellious rump of fellow barristers from another set of chambers, had joined 5 Caper Court. A QC of considerable reputation, Maurice at the time had harboured confident ambitions of becoming head of 5 Caper Court, having been responsible for much modernisation and progressive thinking in relation to promoting the image of chambers. Leo, however, had won the chambers’ vote by a narrow majority, and although Maurice had accepted his defeat graciously, a certain tension remained between the two men.

  At that moment Henry reappeared bearing a copy of the necessary textbook. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing it to Leo with the air of an efficient footman. ‘Mr Fry had a copy in his room.’

  ‘God bless you, Henry,’ said Leo, rifling through the volume to mark the relevant pages. Then he picked up his robing bag and the remainder of his papers, and hurried off to court.

  Maurice Faber finished his photocopying and left the clerks’ room a few moments later. Felicity followed his departure with thoughtful eyes. Returning to her computer screen, she brought up the latest billing figures and scrutinised them.

  ‘Don’t know how Mr Faber stays so cheerful,’ she remarked to Henry. ‘His August receipts are well down.’

  ‘That’s the third month in a row.’

  ‘You’d’ve thought he’d look a bit more bothered, but he seems happy as Larry. I wonder why his work’s slowing down. What d’you think?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Who can say? Ours not to reason why, Fliss.’

  Felicity wasn’t sure she agreed with this – not so long as she was on a percentage of Maurice Faber’s earnings.

  Around three that afternoon, Leo wandered over to Inner Temple Common Room for the relaxing ritual of taking tea with fellow members of chambers and other barristers. Leo had helped himself to a cup of tea and some biscuits, and was making his way across the common room to join Michael Gibbon and Roger Fry, when Maurice accosted him, evidently somewhat irate.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Linklaters, Leo. You do realise you’ve been giving entirely inappropriate advice?’

  ‘Sorry, Maurice – what are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about that anti-suit injunction I obtained last spring. I gather you’ve been giving your Australian clients advice as to how they can avoid the effects of it.’

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have sought an injunction in such wide terms,’ replied Leo. ‘Notoriously tricky, these jurisdiction points, aren’t they? Sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced.’

  Leo began to move away, but Maurice grabbed his sleeve, causing tea to splash out of Leo’s cup. ‘Mind the suit, Maurice,’ murmured Leo, setting his teacup down on the table and wiping his sleeve.

  ‘Inconvenienced? It’s more than that – what you’ve done amou
nts to contempt.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. When I gave that advice, I had no idea of the background.’

  ‘You do realise I could take proceedings against you? That might make you less flippant!’

  ‘Careful – he knows a good lawyer!’ observed Michael. Roger laughed, but Maurice strode off in high dudgeon.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Roger, as Leo sat down.

  ‘He’s got a case where he managed to obtain an injunction in respect of a UK jurisdiction clause. Some Australians came to me recently for advice as to how to get round it, and I gave it. Possibly I went further than I should have done. I wasn’t aware of the injunction, to be honest. In hindsight perhaps I should have asked, but I do think these anti-suit injunctions are ridiculous, anyway.’ Leo took a sip of his tea. ‘I suppose, technically, he could have me done for contempt, though it would hardly make for friendly relations in chambers.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ said Roger. ‘He’s such an arrogant sod. It was bad enough when I was his pupil, but lately—’ Roger broke off in exasperation. He was a bespectacled, clever young man with a rumpled aspect, inclined to put matters of the intellect before those of the person. Leo liked him because of his sharp mind and affable disposition, and was surprised by this sudden burst of hostility.

  ‘Maurice Faber’s arrogance hardly marks him out from the rest of the Bar. What’s brought this on, all of a sudden?’

  ‘You’re head of chambers – don’t you object when he doesn’t pay his rent on time?’

  ‘Mildly,’ replied Leo, ‘but he’s always good for it in the long run. I don’t see why the chambers’ budget should concern you.’

  ‘I’m just fed up with the way he treats chambers as his personal fiefdom. And you know his receipts are down, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s hardly your business,’ observed Michael.

  ‘Of course it is! It’s partly the reason why I’m so fed up with this useless set-up – no one has a proper sense of financial obligation. And the system’s utterly moribund. All these bloody committees to decide what kind of coffee we buy …’

  Leo gave Roger a thoughtful look. ‘Is this about chambers, or about Maurice? Come on, tell me.’

  ‘Both, if you must know, but Maurice mainly.’

  ‘Because he’s late with his rent?’

  ‘More than that. He and I had a row a month ago – nothing major, but since then he’s been doing every little thing he can to make my life difficult. I’m pretty sure he leant on Peter to instruct Marcus, rather than me, in that big Preston case recently. And there’s something else, to do with Melanie. You remember her?’

  Melanie had been a pupil of Maurice’s until a month or two ago. She was an attractive girl with a formidable character, and Leo’s fondest recollection was of her effectively and robustly rebuffing Maurice’s advances at the chambers’ Christmas party.

  ‘I certainly remember the incident at the Christmas party. Don’t tell me Maurice is still pestering her?’

  ‘No, it’s worse than that. She applied for a job recently – a really good one, could have been tailor-made for her. She was so sure she was going to get it. Then at the last moment, they rejected her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was because Maurice gave her a bad confidential reference. I mean, you know Melanie – she’s bright, capable, reliable. She’s got fantastic qualifications. She made it all the way to a final interview. It must have been that bastard Maurice.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure,’ observed Michael.

  ‘No, I don’t. But I’d love to be able to prove it. He could carry on doing her that kind of damage indefinitely, if he wants to. She can’t get anywhere without a reference from him.’

  ‘I think you’re possibly being paranoid. He’s not that petty,’ said Leo.

  ‘Isn’t he? I know Maurice better than you do, remember – he and I go back a long way. He bears grudges. He’s not going to let you forget about that injunction in a hurry, I promise you.’ Roger sighed and glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got a con in ten minutes. I’d better go.’

  ‘What about your other grievances? The ones to do with chambers?’

  ‘They’ll wait for another time.’ Roger drained his teacup and left the common room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Like many seventeen-year-old girls, Lucy Wavell believed that the universe, of which she was the centre, had been specially created for her. Everything in the great, big, wonderful world – every war and famine and pop song and celebrity scandal and political intrigue, each plane crash, earthquake, tsunami and hurricane – existed merely as part of the backdrop to her own unique and wonderful existence. Fulfilment for Lucy was to be found in hanging out with friends from her expensive private school, talking about boys, bitching about other girls, buying clothes, going to the pub, slagging off teachers, and doing a bit of desultory schoolwork now and then. She thought of the future mainly in terms of the next party or King’s Road shopping trip, and her chief goal in life was to own a Mulberry Roxanne bag. Although Lucy credited herself with possessing a very individual style, the truth was that she dressed, spoke, thought and acted like every other Sloaney girl in London.

  What marked Lucy out was her secret crush. No other girl she knew was secretly in love with a middle-aged man. She’d rather have died than confide in even her closest friends, so she had to pretend to have the average infatuations with various boys her age – though privately she now thought that Anthea’s lovely Leo made Angus, he of the floppy hair and drawling voice, look sad. So what if Angus’s dad had an estate in Scotland? The fact was, Angus didn’t – all Angus had, apart from his blond hair and his sexy, drawling voice, were four dodgy AS levels, a part in the school play, and an arse that looked more than averagely nice in rugby shorts. Leo, on the other hand, was a gorgeous-looking QC who drove an Aston Martin, had a house in Chelsea and another in the country, earned loads of dosh, wore handmade Kilgour suits, collected art, knew all the cool, grown-up places to hang out, and was probably much better at sex than anyone Angus’s age.

  This much she knew, or had gleaned, from Anthea. The information concerning Leo’s academic and professional background she had picked up from the 5 Caper Court website, which she frequently googled just so she could gaze at the postage-stamp-sized picture of Leo. Although she had no idea what ‘specialising in international commercial litigation, insurance and reinsurance, international sales and commodity trading’ meant, Lucy thought it sounded totally intellectual.

  Ever since she’d had a crush on Mr Bishop, her biology teacher in Year 10, Lucy was pretty sure that older men were her thing. Some days she would think of Leo with helpless yearning, convinced he was totally out of her reach, but on other, better days she would persuade herself that any man of his age would totally die to go to bed with someone as young as she was. Well, as young as he probably thought she was, after the fashion-student lie. OK, so she hadn’t actually been to bed with anyone yet, but that was sort of the point. How fantastic would it be to lose your virginity to someone like Leo? It would probably be a truly seductive, mind-blowing experience, as opposed to having some sweaty, half-drunk sixth-former fumble his way into your knickers in the dark at a party.

  Much to Anthea’s annoyance, Lucy took to going round to Anthea’s after school every day, in case Leo stopped by again.

  ‘I’m going to take your key away,’ she told Lucy, after coming home one evening to find her lying on the sofa eating a bacon sandwich and drinking brandy and lemonade.

  ‘You can’t. You know Mum wants me to have it as a back-up in case I lose the house key. Anyway, she’s out all the time. It gets boring at home. I like coming here.’

  ‘Yes, well you’re rather in the way. And I don’t like my flat stinking of fry-ups. What on earth is that you’re drinking? My God, give it here.’

  Lucy finished the last of her sandwich and licked ketchup from her thumb.

  ‘Are you g
oing out with Leo tonight?’

  ‘I am, as it happens. He’s picking me up in half an hour. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wondered.’ Anthea unpinned her hair and went through to her bedroom. Lucy followed her. ‘Ant?’

  ‘What? Look, I’m about to take a shower.’

  ‘Could I stay here this evening?’

  ‘And drink all my booze? No chance.’

  ‘Oh, please. Mum’s gone on the Eurostar to Paris for the day, and she won’t be back till really late. I hate being in that house on my own.’

  ‘I told you, I’m going out myself. What’s the difference?’

  ‘It’s just nicer here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, can I stay till you go out?’

  Anthea shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Now, let me get my shower.’

  Lucy went back to the living room and settled herself in front of the television. In just thirty minutes she would be seeing Leo. With this thought, she dived into the large, grubby bag she used to carry her books and rummaged for her Juicy Tube and a mirror. When she had slicked her mouth to pouting, glossy perfection, she mussed her hair artfully with one hand while squinting in her tiny hand mirror to examine the effect. Then she chucked the things back in her bag and lay back with a sigh of anticipation.

  Anthea was still putting on her make-up when Leo arrived. Hearing the buzzer, she called out, ‘Can you get that, Luce?’

  Lucy got up, tugging her Miss Sixty jeans a little lower on her hips, and went to let Leo in. He was dressed in tan trousers and a light blue silk shirt, and expensive-looking shoes, and she could smell the faintest whiff of some divinely subtle cologne. She was so used to thinking of him lately in terms of the black-and-white chambers website picture that it gave her a delicious, tingling shock to see him in the flesh, in living colour, with his silver hair and clean-cut features. He gave Lucy a smile. ‘Hello again.’

  ‘Hi.’ Lucy shook back her dark hair in what she hoped was a sexily casual manner. ‘Come in. Ant’s just getting ready.’