by Caro Fraser
‘There you are,’ she said, slipping them into an envelope and handing them to Oliver. ‘Come on – where’s your reading book? We’re late. Hurry!’
In the car, six-year-old Oliver took the photos from their envelope and gravely examined each in turn. The last one he gazed at longest, then remarked, ‘That’s me and Daddy.’
Slowing at a red light, Rachel glanced down at the photo. It was a close-up of Leo kissing Oliver’s soft baby cheek. It had been taken when Oliver was just eight weeks old, in the garden of the house where she and Leo had lived briefly, back in the deluded days when she’d imagined their marriage meant something. How quickly she’d learnt. No one person could ever be enough for Leo. There always had to be some third person, an illicit, faceless lover, male or female. Her glance lingered on the picture. Even now, the sight of Leo made her heart contract. She could have done without being reminded of how in love she’d once been. She was startled from her thoughts by a car horn telling her the lights had changed, and pulled away quickly.
‘So, what are you going to be doing with these pictures?’ she asked Oliver.
‘We have to write a story about ourselves, and then we cut it out and stick it onto … onto … something, and then we stick our pictures aaaall around the story,’ Oliver made a big circle with his hand, ‘and Mrs Latham puts them on the wall.’
‘That sounds nice. Can I come and see?’
‘If you like,’ replied Oliver casually. ‘I’m going to put the picture of me and Daddy right at the top.’
The next setback came when Lucy, Oliver’s childminder, told Rachel that although she’d agreed to keep Oliver till seven, because Rachel was speaking at a seminar, she was no longer able to. ‘The hospital’s brought my mother’s operation forward. She’s going in this afternoon and I need to visit her this evening.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort something out,’ said Rachel, without the least clue what she was going to do.
Rachel kissed Oliver goodbye and drove to the station car park, deciding on the way that her only option was to call Leo and ask if he could get away early. She sent him a quick text, hoping he didn’t have a con or a hearing arranged for the afternoon, and hurried to the platform to see her train pulling out. She would have to wait twenty minutes for the next one.
Once on the train, she tried to concentrate on reading documents in a new case in which she’d been instructed, but memories revived by Oliver’s baby pictures kept crowding in and distracting her. God, how she wished she could simply erase Leo from her life and mind. But nothing was that simple. She closed her laptop and stared out of the train window. A few men had come close to displacing Leo in her heart, but only ever for a short time. She wished she could have made it work with Charles – he had been the kindest, sweetest man. The trouble was, for all his infidelity and incredible selfishness, Leo was a hard act to follow. Or was it those negative qualities which made him so attractive? She’d given up trying to work it out. The fact was, she needed someone to eclipse Leo. She needed to be in love. Easier said than done. She knew she was more than averagely attractive, and still young at thirty-three – but where were all the eligible men? The City of London should be teeming with them, but all the ones she came into contact with were either middle-aged and married with families, or young, conceited and gormless, or nudging sixty and lecherous. Her work as a solicitor meant she saw the same old faces every day, and most of her non-working hours were spent with Oliver. Where were the opportunities? Something had to change. It was ridiculous still to be brooding over one’s ex after five years.
It was after 9.45 when Rachel reached the offices of Nichols & Co in Bishopsgate. Her colleague Fred Fenton accosted her as she emerged from the lift.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ Fred told her, as he walked with Rachel to her office. ‘Ann Halliday has had to pull out of the casino case. A six-week hearing she had coming up in December has been moved forward. So she’s having to bow out.’
Rachel slung her coat on a hook, and sat down with a sigh. ‘That’s all we need. I’d better see who else is free. Oh, and Fred, can we have a word at some point today with Andrew about that Drucker arbitration?’
‘Sure. Catch you later.’
It was clearly going to be one of those days, thought Rachel. Not yet ten o’clock, plenty of time for more things to go wrong. Her mobile began to buzz in her bag. She fished it out, and saw the caller was Leo.
‘Hi – did you get my text?’
‘Yes. Not a problem. I’ll pick Oliver up.’
‘Thanks. I’ve got this wretched seminar after work, and I probably won’t get back till after seven.’
‘I’ll have him for the night if you like. I was going to work from home tomorrow morning, so I can take him into school.’
‘Really? He’d love that. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t. By the way, did you see Whiteside’s judgment?’
‘Yes, I did. What a hash he made of it! It seemed wrong from start to finish.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. A complete travesty. That’s what comes of letting any Tom, Dick or Harry sit in Admiralty cases. It makes one wonder about the calibre of people getting onto the High Court Bench these days.’
‘That’s because hardly anyone wants the job. Would you do it?’
‘I doubt if Henry would let me.’ Leo paused, then added, ‘I suppose it has its attractions.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Tell me about them when you become Mr Justice Davies. Then I’ll believe it.’
‘At least I wouldn’t be handing down ludicrous judgments like Whiteside’s and clogging up the Appeal Court lists.’
They talked about the case briefly, then Leo said, ‘I’d better go. I’ve got a con in a couple of minutes.’
‘OK. Thanks for this afternoon. I’ll ring Lucy to tell her you’ll be taking Oliver to school in the morning. Bye.’
Rachel wished that all conversations with Leo could be as amicable. It reminded her of the early days of their relationship. They’d always had so much to talk about – in bed and out of it. On paper, they were a perfectly suited couple. If only it could have been as easy as talking – or even making love. She brought her drifting thoughts to a halt. That was enough. She was going to have to do something about her situation.
Later that morning she rang her friend Sophie, the mother of Oliver’s school chum Josh, who lived just round the corner.
‘Hi, it’s Rachel. I just wondered if you were free later this evening for a glass of wine. Say around nine? My love life needs sorting out.’
‘Absolutely. I’ll be gasping for a drink after I’ve got this lot to bed.’ Rachel could hear the sound of small voices and clattering in the background. ‘Josh! Put that down! It doesn’t go in the dishwasher. Sorry, Rachel. Yes, I’ll pop round and leave Richard to do the evening shift. They’re all in bed by eight, so it doesn’t involve more than him sitting with a beer watching the Dave channel, and keeping an ear out.’
‘Great. See you later.’
That was the evening taken care of. Now to find someone to take Ann Halliday’s place in the casino case. She rang the clerks’ room at 5 Caper Court and spoke to Henry, who consulted the on-screen diaries of the various members of chambers. ‘Let’s see … Mr Vane’s no good, he’s in court that day. Mr Bishop, no … How about Mr Cross? He’s free to do the hearing, and he hasn’t got much heavy work on in the run-up.’
Rachel hesitated. She needed someone who could get their head round what was a very complex case in a short space of time, and Anthony would be ideal. The truth was, ever since their affair a couple of years ago, Rachel had avoided briefing Anthony. They’d remained good friends, but she had the feeling it might be tricky working on a case together. Still, it seemed she didn’t have much choice.
‘Mr Cross will be fine.’ They discussed fees, and Rachel said she would send the papers round within the hour.
Shortly after one, Leo went to Anthony’s room. Anthony was s
itting at his desk reading, his feet propped up on a cardboard box stuffed with documents. Unlike Leo’s room, Anthony’s was comfortably messy, with files and books everywhere.
Leo gave the box a kick. ‘Christ, man, how can you work in this squalor? Didn’t I teach you, when you were a callow and giddy youth, to keep a sense of order?’
‘Don’t kick that! It contains highly valuable evidence. Besides, everything is in perfect order. I can lay my hands on any given document in seconds, if required. It just looks disordered to the untrained eye,’ replied Anthony.
‘Oh, yes? What’s this, then?’ asked Leo, picking up a random piece of paper from a pile on the table.
Anthony squinted at it. ‘It’s a chart. Something to do with a grounding case. Put it back. You’re destroying an intricate filing system.’ He swung his feet off the box. ‘Rachel has just instructed me in a case that’s coming up for a hearing in a few weeks’ time. Rather an unusual one.’
‘Tell me about it over lunch. How do you fancy beer and sandwiches at The Eagle?’
They left chambers and walked to the pub in Bouverie Street.
‘Just an orange juice for me,’ said Anthony, when they were at the bar. ‘I need to finish those documents. We have a con tomorrow afternoon.’
They took their drinks and sandwiches to a table. ‘So,’ said Leo, ‘fill me in. What’s the case about?’
‘A gambling debt, basically. Some rich Saudi gambling on credit at a private casino in Mayfair, paying for his chips by cheque. One night he writes a cheque for about three million, gets into an argument with one of the croupiers, and next day he stops the cheque. We’re acting for the gaming club, trying to recover the debt – some years down the line, I might add.’
‘No time bar, I take it?’
Anthony shook his head, wolfing down a sandwich.
‘Sounds straightforward enough.’
‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? The trouble is, even though he put a stop on this whacking great cheque, the gaming club – Astleigh’s – let him carry on gambling there for the next couple of years, because he was a hugely important client. The croupiers used to call him the Lion King. Something to do with the look of him, his big voice, stuff like that. Anyway, the club carried on grumbling about the debt, trying to strike a deal with him to repay it out of his winnings, but of course that never happened. In the end they lost patience, and now they’re suing for their three million. And here’s the interesting bit. The Lion King is arguing that by allowing him to carry on gambling after his cheque was dishonoured, the club was extending him illegal credit within the meaning of the Gaming Act, so their claim against him is unenforceable. Not only that, on the same basis he’s counterclaiming all the sums he lost gambling during that period.’
‘Cheeky sod,’ chuckled Leo. ‘Who’s on the other side?’
‘Linklaters. They’ve instructed George Freeman.’
‘Sounds like one of his typically ingenious lines of argument. It’ll never wash.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Anthony took a reflective sip of his orange juice. ‘I don’t understand the attraction of gambling. Surely you know the minute you walk into a casino that the odds are stacked against you.’
‘Of course. That’s not the point. I take it you’ve never gambled?’
Anthony shook his head. ‘Not even as a student. There were always plenty of games of three-card brag or stud poker around, but I never played. I was on such a tight budget I couldn’t afford to lose a penny.’ Anthony was visited by a sudden memory from his student days, of sitting in his bedroom with all the loose change he’d collected from every pocket, cranny and chair-back set out in pathetic little stacks on the table in front of him, trying to work out if it would last the week. ‘The Lion King gambled over fifty million in the space of five years. Fifty million! He could lose a couple of million in a single night and think nothing of it. If you ask me, that’s not just stupid, it’s downright immoral.’
‘You’re right, of course – in theory. But people don’t only gamble for money. They do it for the buzz, the tantalising possibility that just this once, they might get lucky. Of course everyone loses in the long run, but they win often enough to keep them hoping. It’s like any other high. And then there’s the atmosphere. There’s something supercharged about a private gaming club. High stakes, serious money, beautiful people.’
‘All very James Bond, no doubt. But when you come down to it, what’s the difference between a game of roulette and a game of bingo?’
‘A whole world, believe me.’ Leo was suddenly visited by a memory of his own, one of Anthony when he’d just arrived in chambers as a raw and inexperienced pupil, resplendent in a new Marks & Spencer suit, startlingly handsome and intelligent, touchingly naive, perfect to be moulded and educated in the ways of the world. Leo had taken it upon himself to act as a mentor, introducing him to all kinds of entirely straightforward pleasures, which young Anthony had thought the height of sophistication – West End restaurants, decent wine, art galleries, plays, concerts of classical music. It had been a delight to educate him, and to observe his intense enjoyment of things which Leo had long taken for granted. Anthony had represented his own forgotten self, a lower-middle-class grammar school boy of exceptional talents, determined to achieve success and to find acceptance in a class-ridden profession through his own brilliance and professional excellence.
‘Perhaps I should take you to Crockfords some time, or Aspinalls,’ said Leo. ‘It’s an interesting social experience, if nothing else.’
‘Rachel and I have to go to Astleigh’s tomorrow afternoon to talk to the management. Everything that happened took place before the repeal of section sixteen of the Gaming Act, and the club was operating its own credit system, which we need to get our heads around.’
‘Well, that should be instructive – though not as much fun as a night at the tables,’ said Leo.
They talked about work for a while, but Leo found himself distracted by a girl at the far end of the pub who kept glancing in their direction. She was petite, attractive, with a fine-boned face, honey-blonde hair and an intense gaze, and Leo had the feeling he’d seen her somewhere. Then he remembered where. She’d been sitting in the back of the court during the Kirkbride hearing. He remembered thinking then that she looked familiar, and supposed she was a student taking notes, though he couldn’t think why any student should bother with such a boring case. Students from the Council of Legal Education were always knocking around the Temple, and he tended to notice the attractive ones. He could only assume that her presence in the pub today was coincidence, and that Anthony, who was lounging elegantly in his chair, was the object of her attention.
‘You seem to have an admirer,’ murmured Leo. ‘Girl in the corner with the dark blonde hair.’
Anthony glanced at the girl. She was undoubtedly pretty – more than pretty. But he was pretty sure it was Leo she was staring at. He was used to Leo attracting female attention, and it invariably aroused in him some resentment which he couldn’t quite fathom. Jealousy of a kind, he supposed, but of what or whom he couldn’t quite determine. ‘You’re too modest,’ Anthony told Leo. ‘It’s you she’s looking at, not me.’
But Leo wasn’t listening. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on. I need to get back. I have to leave early to collect Oliver.’
The girl in the corner watched them leave, quickly finished her drink and then, keeping a careful distance, followed them all the way from the pub back to Caper Court.
That evening, at half past nine, Sophie was curled up on Rachel’s sofa with a glass of wine. Rachel was sitting cross-legged on the rug by the fire, head bent over a notepad, making a list. Sophie stroked the duck-egg blue silk cushions and glanced around, savouring the tranquillity. The room was lit by large table lamps, their soft glow reflected in the dark, polished wood of the floor, casting shadows on the pale walls hung with elegantly framed pictures. Long curtains of grey velvet shut out the autumn night. She loved being
here. Rachel’s house was so different from the chaos of her own home. But she was able to survey it all and feel not the slightest tinge of envy. Everything – the carefully placed porcelain bowls, the parchment-coloured sofas and chairs, the perfectly arranged pink peonies and the beautiful prints and ornaments – would drive her nuts inside a week. Not that any of it would survive that long at the hands of her offspring. She articulated the thought which had been troubling her.
‘How do you manage to bring up a six-year-old boy in a place like this?’ she asked Rachel. ‘I mean, all these beautiful things – aren’t you worried Oliver might knock something over, or get chocolate on the cushions?’
Rachel looked up, her silky black hair gleaming in the firelight. ‘Oliver knows not to bring food in here. And I’ve trained him since he was little to be careful of everything. He’s a great respecter of order. Besides, he doesn’t come in here much. He has his bedroom – that’s untidy enough. And his playroom, of course.’ She dipped her head again, and jotted something down on the notepad.
‘Right,’ murmured Sophie. Oliver’s bedroom untidy? Knowing Rachel, it was probably spotless, books on shelves, toys tidied away, dressing-gown hung up, slippers neatly together, pyjamas folded beneath the pillow. She thought of Josh and Billy’s bedroom, the chaos of Action Men and toy cars and trucks strewn across the carpet, the overstuffed plastic dustbin of soft toys, and the mess of books and clothes. She took another sip of wine.
‘So, where do we start?’
‘Well …’ Rachel gazed doubtfully at the notepad on her knee. ‘I thought if I made a list. You know, of necessary qualities. The kind of things I’m looking for in a man.’