by Caro Fraser
Rachel laughed. ‘No, I couldn’t. That’s kind of you, Charles, but I couldn’t. I mean, Christmas was one thing, but—’
‘I’m serious,’ interrupted Charles. ‘It’s the perfect solution. You could commute to work from Salisbury, station’s a car’s throw away, and the village is teeming with apple-cheeked girls who would love to nanny for you for a bit. That would give you a base, a bit of security, and you could take your time about looking for somewhere for you and Oliver. You may think that you could handle living with your husband for a while longer, but I can assure you, now that you’ve made your mind up to go, the sooner you go, the better.’ Her gaze met his, and he gave a warm, reassuring smile and added, ‘There is no hidden agenda, I assure you. This is just an offer of help to a friend in need.’
Rachel believed him. She looked at those calm grey eyes, and that nice, relaxed face and believed him. The idea was very tempting. There was an atmosphere at home so poisoned that even now she shrank from the idea of going back there. Her recollection of Charles’s house was that of a haven, a warm and friendly sanctuary. But then she recalled the conversation they had had before she went to Australia. Was it a sensible idea to go and live with a man who had professed to be in love with you? Her mind wrestled with this for a moment. But he had said there was no hidden agenda, and she was fond enough of Charles to believe that, knowing how wretched she was, he wouldn’t try to take advantage of the situation. ‘All right,’ she said, and smiled. ‘If you really mean it. I’ll trespass on your hospitality a second time. But I promise that it won’t be for long. Really. I don’t want to interfere with your work.’
An amazing glow of lustful pleasure filled Charles. She had said yes. It had to happen. She couldn’t be under his roof for – oh, a fortnight at the outside, without … The thought was too much. He struggled for some commonplace expression of satisfaction. ‘Excellent. It’s by far the best thing to do, to make a break as soon as you can. And you won’t interfere with anything, I promise you. I don’t work in the evenings, so it will be a pleasant change to have company. The evenings can be a bit lonely, sometimes,’ lied Charles, who spent most of them boozing in the village pub, for want of better things to do.
The rest of the meal was spent planning the practicalities of moving Rachel in, and which rooms she and Oliver should occupy, and this naturally made for an intimate atmosphere of collusion. So much so, that when the bill had been paid and they were outside on the cold street searching for a taxi, it was all that Charles could do, when Rachel turned her face up towards him to ask something, to stop himself from making a passionate grab for her there and then. But he restrained himself, only too well aware that a premature move like that could easily ruin everything. Besides, he thought, glancing warily at the baby’s unnervingly steady blue gaze, Oliver would have got in the way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
On the way home in the taxi after dinner with Charles, Rachel had decided that she might as well tell Leo as soon as possible that she and Oliver were leaving. So she delivered the news the next morning, while she was spooning cereal into Oliver’s mouth and Leo, in the now customary silence which characterised breakfast, was drinking coffee and scanning the newspaper. When she had spoken, Leo stared unseeingly at the paper for a few seconds, then looked up at her.
‘Where will you be going?’
Rachel had already thought hard about what she would say in reply to this inevitable question. The fact that Charles was a Name on the Capstall syndicate, and one of Leo’s clients, put them all in a difficult position. She had been at pains to conceal Leo’s identity from Charles, and it seemed to her that it would only further muddy already murky waters to tell Leo that she was going to be staying with Charles Beecham. Beyond the issue of the barrister-client relationship, Rachel knew that Leo would assume that she and Charles were having an affair. And she didn’t feel like putting herself in the defensive position of trying to persuade him otherwise. So, instead, she had decided to leave Charles out of it. There was really no need for his name to be mentioned, after all. The arrangement was purely a temporary one, and in two or three weeks she would, with luck, have found somewhere to live.
‘To stay with friends. I’ll give you the address and phone number, though I can’t think of any reason why you should have to get in touch. I’ll probably only be there for a few weeks, anyway, while I try to find us somewhere permanent.’
At this, both of them glanced towards Oliver, who had taken the spoon from Rachel and was gnawing at it with such teeth as he had. Leo felt a pang of uncertain emotion as he looked at his son, and thought of how silent and cold the house would feel without him. This was what he had wished to prevent, though he saw now that the departure would have come about eventually. He had married Rachel under false pretences, and events had shown her that. It should not have surprised him that she was leaving – he had already told himself that it was likely – but he had not expected the news to affect him quite as it did. Outwardly, he accepted it calmly enough, but in fact he was shocked, and his mind was racing with a tumult of illusory regrets and wild notions of reparation. But, as he sat looking at Oliver, he let them die away. There was no future for himself and Rachel. The affection which he felt for her was deadened by their life together, though it might return once there was distance between them. It would never amount to more than that. But Oliver … For a mad, fleeting instant it occurred to him that he might try to gain custody of his son, but even as he thought it, he knew that such an effort would be damaging for everyone, and that, anyway, he would not wish to take Oliver from his mother, even if he could.
There was a long silence between them, as each thought their separate thoughts, Rachel pretending to be absorbed in the business of retrieving the spoon from Oliver and wiping his mouth with his bib. Now that she had told Leo she was leaving him, she suddenly felt horribly vulnerable, as though she might cry. Depending on what Leo said next, there was a real danger that she would. It was the last thing she wanted. She got up and took Oliver’s dish and spoon to the sink, intent on getting out of the house as fast as possible. Hoping that by changing the subject, by saying something irrelevant, she might deflect any further exchanges between them, she began to say, ‘I have to drop Oliver off at Trudy’s, so—’
But Leo cut in. ‘I want to see Oliver, you know. I’ll want to see him at weekends, and I want to be able to spend time with him in the holidays, when he’s older. I want—’ He stopped, not knowing what it was he wanted next. Rachel looked at him, reading in his eyes the boyish anxiety and desperation of someone whose own father had dropped from his life without a word, all those years ago. She had never before seen such vulnerability in his expression, and suddenly felt unbearably sorry for them both, for Leo and for Oliver. But it was not up to her. It was up to Leo, and he had accepted without question the fact of their departure. He had not asked her to stay, so Oliver must go, too. Fighting the urge to allow her tears to rise to the surface, she looked away.
‘Of course. I wouldn’t deny either of you that, you know that. It’s something we’ll have to sort out with the divorce.’ The word hung in the air, unspoken before now. There was a short silence, and then Rachel sighed, wondering if Leo might, at this, say that he did not want to contemplate anything so final. But he said nothing. ‘But not this weekend, I’m afraid. I’ll be too busy packing and moving things out.’ Again there was another pause. ‘Now, I’d better get going.’ She moved towards the high chair, but Leo was there first, unstrapping the baby and plucking him from the seat. He held him for a moment, the soft, slight weight, and then handed him to Rachel.
During the two weeks which followed, in the run-up to the hearing, Leo was able to immerse himself in work, staying late in chambers, going back to the house in Hampstead only to sleep and bath and change his clothes. Only once did he go into Oliver’s empty bedroom and stare about him; after that he did not open the door again. So far as he was able to give the matter any thought, he decided to put the house on the
market as soon as the hearing was over. It had become hateful to him now – too big, and too desolate. He would find somewhere smaller and more central, like his old mews house, but with room enough for Oliver when he came to stay. He would have to provide somewhere for Rachel and Oliver to live, of course, but it was up to her to find the place she wanted. The practicalities would have to be dealt with later, when he had more time to spare.
While Leo prepared himself for the hearing, and tried to put his personal problems to one side, the little whisper of rumour which Sarah had put about that night weeks ago in the wine bar had grown into a low murmur. Richard Crouch’s penchant for idle gossip had ensured that it was soon currency amongst certain solicitors that Leo Davies, leading counsel for the Names in the Capstall case, was conducting an affair with Anthony Cross, one of his juniors and a fellow member of chambers. It was just the kind of scandal which delighted a close community such as the Bar, and as the day of the hearing approached, the word was gleefully spread amongst the massed ranks of the barristers who were acting on behalf of the underwriters and the various agents.
The first that Anthony heard of it was when Walter Lumley came to 5 Caper Court to go over some statements with him. When they had finished the morning’s work, Walter remarked, as he gathered up his papers, ‘I think you and Leo might make an attempt to stop the rumours that are going around, you know. There’s a possibility that they could damage our case.’
‘What rumours?’ asked Anthony in astonishment.
Walter gave a sly smile. ‘Oh, I’m sure neither of you thought it would get about. But it has. Everybody knows that Leo’s wife has left him, and everyone’s pretty sure why.’
Naturally, though without any obvious source, the news had percolated through chambers that Rachel had left Leo. Anthony had been saddened, but not surprised, and had given it little further thought. It was no business of his, until Leo chose to make it so, and so far Leo had said nothing to him. Now Walter’s smirking reference to it puzzled and annoyed him.
‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ he said. ‘If you’re trying to tell me something, for God’s sake why can’t you just come out with it? What rumours are you talking about?’
Walter stood up, tidying his papers into his briefcase. ‘That you and Leo are having a – shall we say, relationship?’ He met Anthony’s astonished gaze. ‘You know – an affair. It’s none of my business, of course. What you and Leo do in your private life is up to you, but I do happen to be involved in this case and I don’t think that having this kind of scandal going about is very helpful.’
Anthony took a deep breath, and laughed. ‘Oh, come on – don’t tell me you believe such a load of rubbish!’ He was unnerved by what Walter had told him, but determined to treat the matter casually. Yet as he spoke he couldn’t help glancing in a guarded fashion at Walter, who responded by pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. This mildly cynical intimation of disbelief irritated Anthony even more, and he said scathingly, ‘For God’s sake, you should know better than to go around believing second-hand hearsay. I’ve got a girlfriend, Walter. I’m not sleeping with Leo.’ The very words brought an image to mind which made Anthony’s pulse quicken, suddenly reminding him of feelings which he knew – had always known – lay dormant only through his own endeavours. He thrust the thought aside, and added, ‘It’s just a piece of mischief-making, something to throw us before the hearing. Ignore it. I certainly intend to.’
‘As you like,’ said Walter, shrugging. ‘But I thought it was something of which … you and Leo should be made aware.’ There was a wealth of implication in the pause which Walter dropped into this remark. ‘I’ll see you later.’ As the door closed, Anthony found himself wanting, as he had so often wanted in the past, to punch Walter Lumley’s obnoxious face. He sat down at his desk, sighing, and wondered whether he should bother Leo with the fact of these rumours. Then there floated into his mind a memory of being kissed by Leo, a dim recollection of the all-consuming love he had once felt. Suddenly it did not seem so long ago or far away. It was with an effort of will that he pushed the image from his mind.
That afternoon at tea, he managed to get Leo on his own and tell him what Walter had said. Leo frowned, then gave a shrug. ‘Just someone stirring things up. Facile in the extreme. I wouldn’t let it worry you.’
Anthony added, on impulse, ‘He said that it was why you and Rachel had split up.’
At this Leo gave a sharp laugh. ‘Moved you in with me, have they? Well, well.’ He sipped his tea thoughtfully, then gave Anthony a long, musing look. ‘Those times have long gone, though, haven’t they? If they were ever there.’
Anthony felt uncomfortable, conscious that the intimacy of this conversation stirred within him feelings which he had suppressed years ago. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t worry me. It’s just a pain, at a time like this.’
Leo passed a hand over his silver hair, a faraway look in his blue eyes. ‘It doesn’t help, certainly. We must just ignore it. What else can we do, after all?’ And he turned to look at Anthony, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, and his chin on his hand. Leo’s blue eyes met Anthony’s in a gaze of such intensity that after a few seconds Anthony was forced to look away.
Initially, things did not go quite as Charles had planned. During the weekend in which Rachel and Oliver moved in, he received a phone call from his agent telling him that he and a film crew were to fly out on Monday to a remote province in eastern China, somewhere north of the Yellow River, to reshoot some documentary footage which the producer had decided was unsatisfactory. Marvelling at the amount of money people were prepared to spend just to have him standing around in a landscape that might as well be somewhere in Spain, mouthing about Zhang Qian introducing alfalfa to China, Charles also cursed the fate which would prevent him from spending cosy evenings with Rachel and embarking upon his seduction.
Rachel was dismayed by the suddenness of Charles’s enforced departure. She had been looking to him for company, for cheerful conversation to distract her from her unhappiness. When he had gone she found the evenings, once Oliver had been fed and put to sleep, long and lonely, with too much time spent in angry and disgusted reflection on Leo’s treatment of her. To ward off such thoughts, she took to wandering around the house, first with the natural timidity of a guest, but eventually with greater boldness and curiosity, drawing books from shelves, staring at paintings, fingering the knick-knacks and possessions which Charles had accumulated over the years. One evening she ventured into a room which served partly as a guest bedroom and partly as a depository for the excess of books which Charles had acquired. She pulled a book from one of the upper shelves of the bookcase to examine it, and as she did so, grimy drifts of dust floated down onto her clothing and hair. She stepped back in disgust. She had already noticed downstairs that Charles’s cleaning lady, Mrs Dobey, seemed to get away with as little as possible, but here was evidence of wilful neglect. Glancing around, she noticed, too, that an antique mirror on the wall opposite was lightly filmed with grime. Moving from one piece of furniture to another, she could see that only cursory attempts had been made to take proper care of anything. No doubt Charles was too preoccupied to pay much attention to rooms which were rarely used, but to Rachel’s fastidious mind such laxity was unbearable. When she had lived alone, she had been meticulous in looking after her flat, polishing and cleaning regularly, taking particular pleasure in seeing that everything was pristine and neat. Disorder and dirt upset her. She couldn’t possibly leave the room in this state.
She went downstairs and through to the kitchen to search for dusters and polish, her energies fired by the prospect of attending to chores which gave her so much mindless pleasure, but which had been denied her in the house in Hampstead. That evening, and on most evenings thereafter, she set about making good the deficiencies of Mrs Dobey, partly for the sheer enjoyment of it, and partly in an earnest desire to repay Charles in some small way for his kindness. She found reassurance and comf
ort in cleaning. For Rachel, keeping things spotless had always been a kind of therapy, a way of imposing order on a chaotic and threatening world. Soon every mirror, bookcase and polishable surface was dust-free and gleaming. It had necessitated a little tidying up in the process, but Rachel liked to see things in order.
The effect of all this domestic activity was to reduce Rachel to a much calmer frame of mind. Thoughts of Leo were pushed aside by the trance-inducing business of seeking out dirt, running dusters over neglected picture rails, hoovering areas beneath pieces of furniture which had not received the attentions of a vacuum cleaner for months, possibly years. So immersed did she become, that traces of disorder round the house became something of a fixation. A couple of evenings before Charles was due to return from China, while she was cooking Oliver’s tea, she noticed that Charles had arranged his kitchen utensils in an oddly haphazard manner, putting wooden spoons with tea cloths, and table mats in various different drawers, intermingled with potato peelers, plastic bags, pieces of string and old ballpoint pens. Presumably he was always too busy to keep things neatly arranged, but it must make working in the kitchen just as tiresome for him as it did for her. How did he ever find anything? She pulled a few things out of one drawer with a view to rearranging them, then hesitated. Would he think it presumptuous of her to move things about? No – he couldn’t possibly have meant to have things in this chaotic state. It had just come about gradually, and no doubt he would be grateful to find things rather better organised. Thus reassured, she fed Oliver his baby rice and apple, and then began to sort things into more sensible locations.
While he was away, Charles began to worry that Rachel might have found somewhere to live in his absence, thus scuppering all his hopes. But when he got home two weeks later, exhausted, fed up, and popping Immodium to keep a stomach bug at bay, he was relieved to find her still there. That evening she cooked for him, duck with some sort of plum sauce, and dauphinoise potatoes, which were a particular favourite of Charles’s. His sense of well-being completely restored by the prospect of a decent meal, and his stomach griping only slightly, Charles fetched a bottle of wine from his cellar and rummaged about in the drawer for the corkscrew, enjoying the tantalising proximity of Rachel as she busied herself at the stove. Then he realised suddenly that he was looking in the wrong drawer. This one was full of table mats. He closed it and glanced at the drawer next to it. No, it wasn’t the wrong drawer. This was where he kept the corkscrew and the potato masher, all those bits and pieces, surely … Or was he going bonkers? He opened the drawer again, frowning at the contents.