by Caro Fraser
He ate the last sandwich, paid the bill and decided to try and excise thoughts of Sarah by walking all the way back to chambers.
Anthony picked up his mail from the clerks’ room and was talking football with Henry when Leo arrived, looking somewhat haggard.
Leo shrugged off his overcoat, flung it over a chair, and fished a batch of letters from his pigeonhole. ‘Thanks for rearranging this morning’s con with Beddoes,’ he said to Henry. ‘My flight into Gatwick last night was delayed, and I really didn’t feel up to it.’
‘Not a problem. He’s coming in later today – four o’clock.’
‘Heavy weekend?’ Anthony asked Leo.
‘You could say that. I spent the weekend in the South of France with Jamie Urquhart. Did you know he’s getting divorced?’
‘No! Wow. That’s a surprise.’
‘Liam …’ Henry addressed a thin, fresh-faced boy of eighteen or so, seated at a desk opposite Felicity, wearing a conspicuously new suit and an alert expression. ‘Coffee time, if you would be so kind.’
The boy got up. ‘Right. Yes. I’m on it. What would everyone—?’
‘Black, one sugar,’ said Felicity, without looking up from her computer screen.
Robert swivelled round in his chair. ‘White, two sugars.’
‘White, no sugar,’ called out Carla, the office manager, from her desk at the other side of the room.
Liam began ticking them off on his fingers, looking anxious. ‘OK, two white, one no sugar, one with one sugar—’
‘Two,’ said Robert.
‘Yeah, right – white, two sugars. Black, one sugar – no, wait …’
‘I’d write it down if I were you, lad,’ said Henry, handing him a pen and a piece of paper. ‘I’m a tea, no sugar.’ Liam began to make his list. He glanced uncertainly at Leo.
‘Would you like a coffee, Mr …?’
‘Davies,’ said Leo. ‘Yes, Liam, I would most certainly like a coffee. Make it black, strong, and no sugar, please.’
‘Mr Cross?’
‘Nothing for me, thanks.’
Liam left the room, frowning at his list.
‘That, I take it, is our new fledgling clerk?’ said Leo.
‘Liam Sturgis. Very bright lad. Keen to do well. I hope to have him in shape by the time Robert leaves us in March.’
‘Let’s hope he lasts longer than – what was her name, the previous one? Seemed like she was hardly here for more than a few days.’
‘Julie.’ Henry shook his head. ‘She wasn’t really cut out for it. Not everyone is. The girls seem to have higher expectations than the boys – don’t like fetching and carrying. I have hopes for Liam. He’s my brother-in-law’s sister’s son, if you follow. His father’s one of the clerks at twenty Essex Street.’
‘Ah, so it’s in the blood,’ smiled Leo.
‘So to speak, sir. So to speak.’ Henry reached out to pick up the phone which had just begun to ring.
Leo resumed his conversation with Anthony. ‘Yes, so – as I was saying, Jamie’s getting divorced, and over a very boozy dinner on Friday night he persuaded me to accompany him to Antibes, to say farewell to his beloved yacht and help him drown his sorrows. The result was …’ Leo winced.
‘What?’
‘That I drank far too much pastis, and finished up becoming the owner of a thirty-six-foot yacht.’
‘You bought it?’ laughed Anthony. ‘Do you know anything about sailing?’
‘It’s not that kind of yacht, thank God. It’s a motor yacht.’
‘I imagine there’s still a lot to learn. Engine maintenance, handling, that kind of thing.’
‘I know, I know.’ Leo rubbed his face. ‘Jamie says I’ll have to go on some kind of course. But not yet. My new toy will be sitting in its berth for the next few months, with some chap called Philippe keeping an eye on it, till I feel like taking an interest.’ He glanced at Anthony. ‘I know what you’re thinking. More money than sense.’
‘I wasn’t thinking that at all. A boat sounds like fun.’
‘Depends how much time I manage to spend down there. But I have plans in that direction. Ah, coffee!’
Liam had returned with a large tray and several mugs. He set it down, checked his list, and began to hand them round.
‘Thank you, Liam,’ said Felicity. She opened a paper bag which had been sitting on her desk, and took out a large muffin, intercepting Anthony’s glance as she did so.
‘Get your eyes off my muffin, Mr Cross. You’re not having any.’
‘I was just wondering how you eat stuff like that and still keep your gorgeous figure.’
‘I believe that remark may constitute sexual harassment,’ observed Leo. ‘I’ll be happy to represent you, Felicity, if you decide to sue.’
Robert guffawed as he stirred his coffee with a pencil.
‘It’s blueberry,’ said Felicity through a mouthful of muffin, ‘so it counts as part of my five-a-day.’
Leo picked up his coffee, saying to Anthony, ‘I’ve got a copy of the judgment in that inducement of breach of contract case, if you care to have a look at it.’
They left the clerks’ room and went upstairs.
‘Guess who I met today,’ said Anthony.
‘Someone amusing, I hope,’ said Leo. He unlocked his door and they went in.
‘That depends on your point of view. Sarah Colman.’
‘Well, well. There’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.’ Leo set down his coffee and letters on the desk and hung up his coat. ‘What’s she up to these days?’
‘She’s working as a broker for Portman’s, and – get this – she’s engaged. To an investment banker. Toby something. Didn’t recognise the name. She seemed pretty pleased with herself generally.’
‘Dear Sarah.’ Leo sat down at his desk. ‘God, she was trouble.’
‘I pity the poor bloke she’s going to marry.’
‘I rather envy him.’
‘You can’t possibly mean that.’
‘Possibly not the marrying part. But she’s a most …’ Leo searched for the word. ‘A most stimulating girl. Extraordinarily sexy. And very inventive.’
‘You seem to be forgetting she’s also a prize bitch.’
‘So many of the most interesting women are, Anthony.’ He gave the younger man a searching glance. ‘I take it from the look on your face that she managed to ruffle your feathers in some way. You and she had a bit of a thing once, didn’t you?’
‘I’d rather forget about that.’
‘She’s not that easy to forget. Mind you, I haven’t seen her in – what? Four years.’ Leo sighed, then opened a desk drawer and began to thumb through some documents. He produced a slim bundle and handed it to Anthony. ‘See what you make of that. Mr Justice Dawson’s idea of tortious inducement of a breach of contract doesn’t exactly accord with mine. I seriously question the intelligence of some of the judges in the commercial division. One can only hope it’ll be overturned on appeal.’
‘I’ll have a read of it. Thanks.’
As Anthony reached the door, Leo asked, ‘Did Sarah say when she’s getting married?’
‘No. Why?’
‘No reason. I was just curious. See you.’
When Anthony had gone, Leo leant back in his chair, swung his feet onto the desk, and thought back to the summer when Sarah had first come into his life, a delectable twenty-year-old with a precocious sexual appetite and a penchant for risk-taking. He’d employed her in his country house near Oxford, together with some attractive young man whose name Leo could no longer remember, to cook, look after the house, and generally service his domestic and sexual requirements. Quite a summer. It all seemed long ago and far away now. Sarah had been fun, the kind of girl whose very smile encouraged complete dereliction of all responsibility, but the attributes which had made her such a perfect playmate had in the long run turned into liabilities. Her predilection for mischief-making, combined with a tendency to serve strictly her own interests, h
ad put him in more than a few tricky spots. Still, nice to hear she was still around. She had been one of the few people to get under his skin, to get close to understanding him. Perhaps they were two of a kind – not an especially flattering thought. Dear, devious Sarah. Perhaps love and marriage would wreak some kind of miraculous change in her. Somehow he doubted it.
CHAPTER THREE
The following Sunday Sarah was sitting in the drawing room in Toby’s parents’ house in Surrey after a late lunch, listening to her prospective mother-in-law’s interminable chatter, and wondering if the dreary day would ever end.
‘The trouble with a July wedding, or August come to that, is that so many people go away on holiday, don’t they? It seems everyone tends to book well ahead these days.’ Caroline Kittering poured coffee from the cafetière into tiny bone china coffee cups. ‘Toby, be a dear and pass that to Sarah.’ She looked enquiringly at her husband. ‘Jon-Jon?’ Dr Kittering roused himself from his reverie and took his coffee, and Caroline went on, ‘A summer wedding is by far the nicest, I always think, because there’s less chance of the weather letting one down. Though nothing’s guaranteed, is it? You remember your cousin Camilla’s wedding last June, don’t you, Toby? The weather was perfect all week, then on the day it absolutely bucketed down, and everyone had to huddle in the marquee instead of having drinks on the lawn as planned, and all the guests who had parked in the paddock were stuck in the mud, and Mervyn had to get duckboards, or whatever they call them, to get people out. They even had to use the local farmer’s tractor …’
Sarah wound a strand of blonde hair round one finger, indulging in a fantasy which involved kicking Caroline’s chair over and stuffing a napkin into her busy mouth as she lay flapping on the Axminster. Dear God, would the woman never shut up? Letting Toby’s parents get involved in the wedding plans had been a huge mistake, but there was no going back now. Jonathan Kittering was her father’s oldest friend, and the Kitterings had been over the moon when she and Toby had announced their engagement. It had been Caroline Kittering’s idea to help with the wedding arrangements, since Sarah’s mother was dead, and Sarah’s father had agreed to it before Sarah could say anything. So here they were, spending the weekend at the Kittering’s house near Egham, and talking about absolutely nothing but the bloody wedding.
She glanced sideways at Toby, and he slipped her a wink. She felt a small surge of affection, but it ebbed quickly away. Looking ahead to her married life, she saw a pageant of ritual visits stretching ahead. Sunday lunches. Christmases, dreary hours spent listening to Caroline Kittering – Wittering, more like – trying to animate her existence with endless talk about people and events, while Toby’s father, the retired paediatric consultant, sat in a postprandial glaze of boredom and inertia, and the late afternoon light faded over the Surrey countryside, and the years passed by. She felt overwhelmed by a sense of claustrophobia. She couldn’t wait to be out of here and heading up the M25 in Toby’s Porsche towards London and real life.
‘So perhaps June is the best month. Or maybe even May? What do you two think?’
Sarah realised that Caroline was asking her a direct question, and roused herself. ‘Well, Toby and I haven’t really discussed it yet.’ She turned to look at Toby.
‘No,’ agreed Toby. ‘We’ll have to give it some thought. Though those are probably the best months.’
Caroline sipped her coffee. She was a small woman, with a very downy face, bright, questing eyes, and a dumpy, pear-shaped figure. Sarah, who found it hard to believe that such a short woman could have such an enormous arse, couldn’t help worrying about the genes. What if she had a child with a backside that big? A tiny baby with an outsize bottom, straining its nappy the way Caroline Kittering’s buttocks strained the fabric of her Country Casuals skirt. She’d just have to hope that any children they had took after Toby and his father, who were both tall and more or less conventionally shaped.
‘Well, you’ll have to get your skates on,’ said Caroline. ‘Not long till November, and next year will be on us before we know it. Lots to do! If we’re going to have the wedding here we’ll have to start thinking about a marquee, and booking the church.’ She turned to Toby’s father. ‘Jon-Jon, it might be an idea if you had a word with the vicar. St Luke’s gets very booked up.’
Christ, thought Sarah, a six-month run-up, and it could only get worse as the detail kicked in. To say nothing of post-wedding fallout. Camcorder footage, photo albums, fond reminiscence. She hadn’t realised how oppressive being drawn into the bosom of Toby’s loving family would be. Her own experience of family life, as an only child, had been quite different, everyone casually and fleetingly affectionate, but operating largely in their own separate spheres. Even before her mother had died when Sarah was fifteen, family intimacy had never been on this intense, need-to-know-and-interfere basis. How did Toby stand it? Perhaps with two sisters and a brother the effect was diluted.
Then again, maybe there were worse things than marrying into a boring family. The in-laws of a recently married friend of Sarah’s had turned out to be as mad as a box of frogs. The wedding had been hilariously awful, with family rows and drunken, spiteful speeches. At least Caroline and Jon-Jon were safe and reliable. Perhaps she would come to find something reassuring in their dreary conventionality, their nice house, their nice neighbours, and their fearful self-satisfaction. The countrified middle classes hanging on by their fingertips to a disappearing way of life in the face of collapsing banks, terrorist threats, the disappearance of rural post offices, socially engineered universities, imploding property prices and The Third Runway.
Toby glanced at his watch, and Sarah’s heart rose. ‘I think,’ said Toby, setting down his coffee cup, ‘that we’d better be making a move. I need to get back to town before five.’
‘Don’t you want to stay and watch the rugby?’ asked his father. ‘Wales versus France.’
‘Not this time, Dad. Sorry.’
Not this time, thought Sarah. That implied another time. Another time when Toby and his father would settle down in front of the HD telly for an afternoon of sport, while she helped Caroline with the pots and pans, listening to Caroline talk, and watching Caroline’s monumental bum rolling around the kitchen. Maybe she should develop a fierce devotion to rugby. It couldn’t be hard. Look at the people who played and watched it. Certainly no worse than cricket. Then she could book her place on the sofa with the boys. Somehow she couldn’t see Caroline letting that happen. Traditional gender roles seemed pretty clearly defined and respected in the Kittering household.
Toby got up and stretched, fishing for his car keys. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with light-brown hair, and a face that was handsome without being remarkable, the product of solid middle-class nurturing and a public school education, with his upper 2:1 in economics from Warwick, and his job in the City. His intelligence, shaped and sustained by the narrow values of his family and social class, was of the unquestioning variety. He was able to believe in the value of the work he did each day at Graffman Spiers Investment Bank because of the calibre of the people he worked with and for. They were chaps like him, and he trusted them. He trusted everyone up the ladder. He believed in the world of finance and its value to humanity. He found the present banking crisis unnerving but exciting, regarded the dire events unfolding daily around him as a test of everyone’s mettle, and not evidence of their ineptitude, and had unshakeable belief in the ability of the banks and the markets to triumph ultimately, and to restore order. Although at dinner parties and among work colleagues Toby mouthed orthodox criticisms of the government of the day, and articulate mild contempt for certain figures in the Treasury, like so many of his kind he possessed a deep-rooted, almost childlike faith in the infallibility of the British establishment. He had grown up in a Britain where certain aspects of life seemed reassuringly enduring – the chime of Big Ben on the six o’clock news, The Archers Sunday omnibus, the Boat Race, the Post Office, the Queen’s smile, the apparent indestructibi
lity of The Rolling Stones, hold-ups on the M25 – and knew that although that world might be buffeted and rocked by squalls, by political upheavals and economic crises, these adversities were themselves part of the stoutly woven tapestry of British life, just like the Blitz, or the Chartist riots; there to be overcome. This lack of doubt gave Toby a cheerful solidity which was reassuring to others. Just looking at him made Sarah feel warm and safe. She glanced at Dr Kittering as he rose stiffly from the sofa, no longer young, energetic and broad-shouldered, but containing the ghost of the young man he had once been, and could imagine Toby morphing into his father as the years rolled by.
‘Can we help to clear up?’ asked Sarah, hoping Caroline would take this offer in the perfunctory spirit in which it was intended.
‘No, no. You two get back to London before it gets dark,’ said Caroline, extricating herself from her armchair. ‘It was lovely to see you both.’
As they emerged into the hall, Scooby, the Kittering’s West Highland terrier, came tearing from his bed in the kitchen and sprang around excitedly. Hoping the Kitterings wouldn’t notice, Sarah gave Scooby a furtive kick. She hated dogs bouncing around and snuffling at her crotch. Then she smiled and kissed her in-laws goodbye, stooping to peck the air next to Caroline’s furry cheeks, and enduring wet, leathery lip contact from Jon-Jon. Either he hadn’t learnt the art of air-kissing or he was being a bit of a lech. The latter, she suspected.
‘Tell your father I look forward to seeing him at the Beefsteak next Friday,’ Dr Kittering reminded Sarah.
‘I will. Thank you for lunch. It was such fun.’ She and Toby crunched across the gravel driveway to the car, and Sarah held her smile in place as she waved goodbye, only letting it fade when they reached the main road.
Caroline and Jonathan waved the Porsche out of sight, then went back inside.