by Caro Fraser
Although he had made the walk to her flat from the Tube station countless times now, his stomach still churned nervously as he mounted the steps and rang her bell. The noise of the party poured out into the night air from the half-open windows of the flat, and cars were parked all the way along the pavement to the end of the street. Lucky neighbours, thought Anthony. He should have brought a bottle, perhaps. Lizzie answered the door. She was wearing an extremely tight-fitting black dress with a halter neck and black fishnet stockings; her eyes were rimmed with kohl and she had sprayed glitter in her shaggy blonde hair. Anthony found her appearance somewhat startling.
‘Very nice,’ he said, kissing her cheek. Their acquaintance had improved, albeit on a shallow, social level, over the months.
‘Julia said you weren’t coming,’ said Lizzie, taking him into the kitchen, where most available surfaces seemed to be covered with bottles, glasses and cans. ‘Here, have a glass of whatever you want.’
‘Where’s Julia?’ Anthony poured himself a glass of what seemed to be, judging from the label, the least offensive of the white wines on offer.
‘Oh, she’s around somewhere,’ said Lizzie vaguely. ‘Listen, I have to get back. See you in a minute. Have something to eat.’
Anthony finished his wine, poured himself another glass, and ate a couple of token hors d’oeuvres that were lying on a tray on top of the cooker. He was taking his time, anticipating Julia’s pleasure and surprise when she saw him. He had never enjoyed such confidence of possession. He loved walking across a room towards her, kissing her, putting an arm round her, claiming her. He was keenly aware of the envy, never betrayed, only faintly ghosting the air, of other men as they watched him. She was beautiful, and she was his. He stood, savouring the delay, eyeing the National Portrait Gallery calendar that hung next to the fridge, as he sipped his wine. His eye ran over the date boxes for March. Lizzie had scribbled in several indecipherable things, apparently with eyeliner pencil or the end of a burnt match. Under various dates, in Julia’s small, curling fist, were written: ‘hair – 2.30’, ‘coat for alterations’ and ‘cooker man’. And then, under next Friday’s date, the 23rd, she had written: ‘Piers – drinks – 6.30’.
Anthony pondered this, not liking it. She had told him, he was sure she had told him, she was having dinner that night with her parents and friends of theirs. He reflected, then went to look for her. He couldn’t see her in the living room; big as it was, it seemed to be packed with people. He stood and talked to a few of Julia’s friends – he still did not think of them as his own friends – expecting at any moment to glimpse Julia’s blonde head. After a while, he gave up and wandered out into the hallway. He glanced into the dining room, equally crowded, the air full of UB40, then turned and looked down the long corridor. Someone was standing in the doorway of Julia’s bedroom. He began to walk down the corridor, and realised, as he drew closer, that there were two people, standing close together. They seemed to be talking. The man was wearing a yellow jacket. Silk, thought Anthony, as he approached. He tried to thrust a cold certainty to the back of his mind. They weren’t talking, but kissing. He stood and watched them, still faintly curious, without embarrassment. She was kissing this man exactly as she must have kissed him, Anthony, that first Friday night. He found it shocking, faintly exciting. They were oblivious of him, completely lost in one another.
It was Piers who first became aware that someone was standing there. He pulled away from Julia and looked around. Julia opened her eyes. They widened.
‘Anthony!’ she exclaimed. It was just like very bad acting in a film, thought Anthony. Piers smiled.
‘Well, well,’ he said easily, leaning back against the wall and fishing in his jacket pocket for some cigarettes, ‘in flagrante delicto.’ He looked imposingly tall and assured in his expensive clothes, but Anthony could see that he was nervous. Anthony looked questioningly at Julia, uncertain what to say.
‘So you didn’t think I was coming,’ he said at last, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ groaned Piers, blowing out cigarette smoke. ‘No dramatics, please.’
‘Belt up,’ said Anthony.
Piers was relieved to receive his cue to leave. ‘Such a bore,’ he murmured, leaving Julia and Anthony and walking back down the corridor.
‘I suppose you were going to take him to see your etchings as well?’ demanded Anthony. It was not what he wanted to say, but he found that he couldn’t help himself. He felt as though his stomach had fallen away; his brain was whirling with despair, seeking answers, lies. Julia leant back against the wall and closed her eyes.
‘I was only kissing him, for God’s sake, Anthony.’ He realised that she was really rather drunk.
‘That was more than kissing him! And what were you doing here, in your bedroom?’
Julia opened her eyes. ‘We’re not in my bedroom. We’re in the hall. Anyway …’ Her voice trailed off. Anthony turned as if to go. She did as he had hoped, and took his sleeve.
‘Look, look, look,’ she said tiredly, unargumentatively, ‘we were just kissing, that’s all. Poor thing, he’s been like a begging dog, and I wondered …’
‘Wondered what?’
She giggled. ‘Bit pissed,’ she explained, with her charming, sleepy smile. ‘I wondered,’ she repeated gravely, ‘what it would be like to kiss him. Don’t you wonder what other girls would be like to kiss, Anthony?’ She almost pouted at him, pleadingly. Oh, God, thought Anthony, she is drunk. But he felt the ache of misery receding.
‘No, I don’t,’ he said kindly, despairingly. She snuggled at him tentatively.
‘Don’t go. I’ve said I’m sorry.’
‘No, as a matter of fact, you haven’t,’ remarked Anthony, relenting. He knew he would not go, not so long as Piers was around. Typical of Piers to take advantage of the fact that she wasn’t entirely sober.
‘Well, I am. It was nothing, really, just a sort of joke. I do, do love you.’ And she pulled him into the darkness of her bedroom, closing the door behind them. Anthony wondered fleetingly, disturbingly, whether this would have been happening with Piers, if he hadn’t turned up. He could smell Piers’ expensive cologne on her hair.
‘No,’ he said in the darkness, leaning against the door. ‘No, you’re having a party, and you’ve got guests. Come on.’ He opened the door and steered her out along the passageway to the living room. Julia went obediently, relieved to be forgiven. He decided that the matter of the calendar and next Friday night was best left until some other time.
While Anthony worked away, trying to make a favourable impression on the other members of chambers, Michael had been doing his bit for the cause, in a quiet way.
‘What do you think of Anthony?’ he asked David and William one evening in El Vino’s.
‘Very good,’ remarked David, raising his eyebrows and scratching the back of his neck. ‘Reminds me of myself at his age.’
William let out a burst of laughter. ‘That’s a joke! You did next to nothing, half the time. You certainly never asked me for work.’ David looked at William.
‘You never had any, that’s why.’
William laughed again.
‘I really think he’s remarkably good,’ said Michael. ‘He has a first-class mind. He’ll do very well, if he gets the chance.’
‘Aha! The chance! That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?’ said David, smiling, leaning over the table. ‘Someone tells me that you’ve got money riding on young Mr Cross.’
‘Very bad form, Michael.’ William shook his head reprovingly. Michael looked annoyed and embarrassed.
‘Well, the fact is, I do think he should get his chance,’ he continued, frowning. At that moment, Stephen Bishop joined them. He was a round, solid man, somewhat given to puffing as he spoke, and to wearing old-fashioned suits with pinstriped trousers.
‘Well, here’s another vote,’ remarked David, as William rose to fetch another glass.
‘What’s another vote
? What are we voting for?’ enquired Stephen, looking round at them, the light glinting on his spectacles. ‘God, this Court of Appeal hearing has me finished! And it’s still got another week to run. Thanks.’ He sipped his wine.
‘Michael’s plugging his pupil for the great Junior Tenant Stakes,’ said William. ‘We’re lining up the votes.’
‘Oh, don’t ask me. I hate all this decision business. You know me – anything for a quiet life. What does the old man want? That’s the way I get my guidance. He is my spiritual mentor,’ said Stephen loftily, smiling. ‘I do whatever he wants. That’s the easiest way out.’
‘You’re not serious!’ exclaimed Michael.
‘Of course I am!’ said Stephen in surprise. ‘What is this? Australian Chardonnay?’ He leant over to look at the label. ‘It’s really rather good. Didn’t you get a couple of cases of this, David?’ he asked, turning towards him. ‘I thought I remembered having some at your place. Not bad at all. How much a case?’ He was trying, Michael saw, to change the subject. He found this sort of thing a bore. But Michael was not to be deflected.
‘You can’t, as a matter of principle, just go along with Basil in everything,’ he pursued. Stephen looked faintly annoyed, and put down his glass.
‘Look, I don’t know Cross. He may be very good. But I gather that Basil’s nephew is perfectly competent, and I don’t see why we can’t all just go along with that. It’s hardly worth wasting good drinking time over. I don’t see why we should have a great chambers rumpus over it.’
‘There’s something in that,’ said David languidly. ‘Anyway, it’s more than just a question of how good he is. I mean, we have to get on with the man on a social level. He has to be one of us. I think Edward’s an excellent chap, very good company. He’s rather amusing, and I often think this set could do with a bit more amusement.’ He sighed.
‘You’re beginning to sound like Cameron,’ said William.
‘Ho ho,’ said David in reply. ‘Thanks for nothing. I hope I’m not an Oxbridge snob, at any rate.’
‘You can’t count on Cameron, Michael,’ remarked William. ‘There’s someone who could go either way. The fact that Edward’s a Cambridge man counts for a lot, but then he’s a great one for academic merit.’
Michael sighed, gazing into the depths of his empty glass. Should he care? he wondered.
‘You’re right,’ he said to Stephen. ‘Not worth wasting good drinking time over. Let’s have another bottle.’
As it turned out, Anthony was extremely glad that he had read the documents thoroughly over the weekend. He had managed by great effort of will, once Piers had roared safely off to Barnes, to leave Julia’s at two-thirty and go back home, so that he had been able to work through Sunday. On Monday, just before lunch, he returned the folders to Roderick, who rattled off several questions concerning the judgment at first instance. Anthony was startled, but managed to answer them.
‘Well, at least you’ve read that much,’ Roderick remarked dryly, returning the folders to the shelf and hauling out the larger bundle of documents. ‘I won’t ask you about the Court of Appeal judgment, because it makes me furious even to discuss it. A complete travesty. But, of course, that fool Greenwood shouldn’t even be in the Court of Appeal, certainly not sitting on shipping cases.’ He pushed the bundle towards Anthony. ‘They’re far too heavy for you to carry, and anyway, I don’t want you losing any, so you can work over there.’ He indicated a small table in the corner of the room. ‘I’ve told Michael, so you won’t need to trail around after him and Mr Khan.’
This was a disappointment. Mr Khan was a litigious Indian merchant who had become enmeshed in a rather fascinating way with some Syrians over a cargo of steel piping. This unsuccessful venture was presently the subject of an extremely complex fraud case, whose machinations Anthony had been looking forward to following. Better still, Mr Khan was a generous man who liked to live well, and who insisted on hosting excellent lunches for his counsel and instructing solicitors while the case was in progress. Now Anthony was to be denied these pleasures, toiling away instead over unspeakably tedious documents in Roderick’s gloomy room. Perhaps if he worked fast enough, he reflected, he’d be able to join Michael’s case again by Friday.
But Roderick worked Anthony at a grinding pace. By Thursday evening Anthony had ploughed his way through the documents and felt that he was able to give Roderick a pretty concise exposition of all the salient points and the relative strengths and weaknesses of their case.
‘Excellent,’ said Roderick. ‘But since all the evidential questions were disposed of at first instance and in the Court of Appeal, you may find that it’s of little practical value next week. Still, it’s always useful to have the fullest possible background to a case, wouldn’t you say? What the House of Lords will be dealing with are the points of law upon which we base our appeal. There are four of these. Two of them utterly useless, as everybody involved is aware, but this is a belt and braces job.’
Roderick then gave Anthony more points to research and lists of cases upon which to make notes. By the time Friday evening came, Anthony was grateful to be excused by Roderick, and went back to Michael’s room.
‘Had a good week?’ asked Michael with a grin, as Anthony dropped into his chair.
‘Don’t talk about it,’ replied Anthony, groaning. ‘That man never stops working! And he expects everyone else to keep up with him.’
‘That’s why he’s as good as he is.’
‘Well, yes – but he’s a bit—’ Anthony hesitated.
‘Arrogant? You could say. You may have noticed that there are certain members of the judiciary for whom he hasn’t a great deal of time. He’s usually right. But he does run a case for all it’s worth.’
‘Well, I’m just glad it’s the weekend.’ He sighed, rose, bade Michael goodnight, and went out. On his way downstairs, he put his head round the door of Jeremy Vane’s room. He found Edward still there. Jeremy was in the City, and Edward was taking the opportunity to arrange his social life and do a bit of serious telephoning.
‘Fancy a drink?’ asked Anthony. ‘I’ve just had the most appalling week with Roderick.’
‘Yes, I heard you’d been putting it about a bit,’ retorted Edward, a trifle coldly. Anthony felt a slight pang; he supposed his tactics must be glaringly obvious. He was somewhat at a loss.
‘Yes, well, you know how it is,’ he said. ‘How about that drink?’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid. Piers Hunt-Thompson is having a drinks party. It’s at his father’s house in Upper Brook Street, the swank. Aren’t you coming?’
‘I haven’t been invited,’ replied Anthony, somewhat discomfited. Then he remembered Julia’s entry on her calendar. He’d forgotten to ask her about it, but here was the answer.
‘Well, look, I’ve got to dash,’ said Edward, gathering his things together. ‘Have a good weekend, Tony.’
‘Thanks. Oh, if you see Julia, tell her to give me a ring later.’ Anthony went home disconsolately.
CHAPTER NINE
When Julia failed to ring that evening, Anthony called her the following morning and went over to see her. She had been rather short on the telephone, and Anthony was suppressing a faint dread as he sat morosely on the Piccadilly Line on the way to her flat.
It was midday when he arrived and she was alone in the flat, still wearing one of the large, crumpled men’s shirts that she slept in, and that always seemed to Anthony to make her appear tiny and vulnerable. She looked cross and had mascara smudges under her eyes.
‘Want a coffee?’ she asked, as he followed her into the kitchen.
‘Thanks.’ He wondered what to say next, how to broach the subject of the previous night. ‘You seem a bit the worse for wear,’ he remarked, as she handed him his coffee.
‘Do I? Thanks,’ she said shortly, taking her coffee off to the living room.
Anthony’s sense of impotence grew and, without wanting to, he said, ‘Have a good time with Piers last night?’
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br /> She gave him a cold glance and sat down at the far end of the sofa, tucking her legs up beneath her and pulling the shirt tail down over her bare thighs.
‘Don’t start that again. You were bad enough last week.’
‘Was I? Well, perhaps I had some cause to be.’ He decided against pursuing the subject of the party. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you were going to Piers’ drinks party?’ Anthony was still standing in the middle of the room, his coffee untasted. Julia raised her eyebrows and took a sip of hers.
‘Why should I? Anyway, I did, didn’t I?’
‘If you recall, you said you wouldn’t be seeing me last night because you were having dinner with your parents.’