by Caro Fraser
CHAPTER TEN
That evening, Sir Vivian was hosting his celebrated champagne and hotpot supper party at his spacious apartment in Westminster. Sir Vivian was a person of some eminence in the legal world. He had lately been Recorder of London, was a Bencher of the Inner Temple and a Judicial Appointments Commissioner, and had interests which extended beyond the law and into the arts. Besides being an accomplished cellist and chairman of the Trustees of Glyndebourne Arts Trust, he had also written a well-received history of the Dutch Republic, and a biography of the painter Duncan Grant. Sarah was his only child, the product of a late marriage. Sarah’s mother had died when Sarah was just fifteen, and he had never remarried – partly because he had loved his wife too deeply to wish to replace her, and partly because he found the rewards of middle-aged bachelorhood too varied and enjoyable to want to tie himself down again. Although now in his early seventies, he remained suavely good-looking, and was one of the most popular ‘spare’ single men of a certain age among London hostesses.
Tonight’s party was one he held every autumn, and to which he invited prominent people from the world of the law and the arts to eat lamb hotpot and quaff champagne. (It was well known that the arriviste Jeffrey Archer had appropriated this idea, as he had so many other things, after being taken in the early seventies to one of Sir Vivian’s parties by the young David Mellor, then a pupil in Sir Vivian’s chambers). There was always much demand for invitations among the great and the good, and every year Jonathan Kittering and his wife Caroline, though merely a retired couple from Woking with no standing in either the world of law or the arts, were sure to receive theirs. Jonathan Kittering and Sir Vivian had been close friends for many years, ever since their schooldays, and one incident in particular had had a lasting effect upon Sir Vivian and had shaped certain of his attitudes.
In his teenage years Vivian Colman had been slender, golden-haired, and a precociously gifted cricketer, good enough to be chosen at the age of sixteen to play for the First XI against Uppingham. Daunting though it was for a year-eleven boy to be batting and bowling in the company of the gods of the upper sixth against the school’s fiercest rivals, he had acquitted himself exceptionally well. On that sunny afternoon in early June 1956, he had taken four wickets and achieved his first half-century, and been named man of the match. Young Vivian’s quiet pleasure in the day was, however, sadly spoilt when, later in the pavilion, after the others had gone to tea, Edwin Challoner, the captain of the First XI, tried to seduce him. Vivian was deeply upset and horrified, and it was by the merest good fortune that Jonathan Kittering had come into the pavilion at that moment and interrupted the incident. Challoner left swiftly, leaving Kittering to calm and reassure his schoolfellow.
Throughout the long years of friendship which followed, neither of them ever referred to the incident again, but its legacy to Sir Vivian was a lasting gratitude to his friend, and a profound distaste for the unnatural tendencies displayed by the captain of the First XI. He had never been able to reconcile himself to the increasing tolerance towards homosexuals, and what he regarded as their ghastly practices.
When Sarah had announced her engagement a few months ago to the son of his oldest friend, Sir Vivian had been not only delighted, but relieved. Dearly as he loved his daughter, theirs had always been a somewhat awkward relationship, particularly after the death of Sarah’s mother. Without his wife to bridge the communication gap, Sir Vivian approached sole parental care of his extremely attractive and sexually precocious daughter with bafflement and anxiety, feeling the best he could do was to give her a generous allowance and hope she’d be bright enough not to make any disastrous mistakes. When Sarah left her boarding school to go to Oxford to study law, he had naturally been pleased, but wasn’t convinced that she had the necessary drive and tenacity to make much of a career of it. In his view, the best any girl could do was to find some decent man with a fair amount of money, and settle down. That Sarah had chosen to do this with the son of his best friend was more than Sir Vivian could have hoped for.
On the eve of his party, fifteen minutes before the guests were due to arrive, Sir Vivian wandered through the reception rooms, surveying the array of glasses and bottles of champagne cooling in their baths of ice. He had toyed with the idea of cancelling the party a few weeks ago, fearing that, with a recession impending, it might look overly extravagant. But he was glad that he hadn’t. Besides, the simplicity of hotpot hinted at austerity. This year’s gathering would be more than a mere social event – it would also be a special celebration of the fact that his only daughter was to marry the son of his oldest friend. Smiling with satisfaction, he went through to the kitchen to see how the caterers were getting along.
While her father was inspecting trays of hotpot, Sarah was still in the office, trying to catch up with the last of her work. She’d already received more than one frosty reproof from her boss, Hugo, about sloppiness and bad timekeeping. Two weeks ago she couldn’t have cared less, confident that as soon as she was married she was going to dump the job. But Toby’s redundancy had changed everything. Until he found something else, they badly needed Sarah’s money. Only an hour ago, Hugo had dropped an urgent new matter on her desk, barking, ‘I need it tied up by the end of the day, so make sure you get it done tonight.’
She was leafing through the file when her mobile buzzed. It was Toby.
‘I’ve just had a shower, and I’ll be leaving the gym in ten minutes. Do you want me to pick you up?’
‘I’m still at the office. Probably going to be here for another half-hour at least. Bloody Hugo dropped something on me at the last minute. One of our major clients wants reinsurance cover for a tanker going to Yemen. You go on without me. I’ll see you there.’
‘OK. Don’t work too hard.’
She clicked the phone off. That was a laugh. At least she had a job. All very well for people with time to spend in the gym. Why wasn’t he out there trying to find something? So far as she could tell, he’d done nothing all week. She turned back to the file. She’d got cover for seventy per cent of the risk, with the last thirty per cent still to get. In theory, she could go straight to her father’s bash from the office, but she really wanted to go home and have a shower and change, and not turn up in her office scruffs. So she needed to wrap this up in the next fifteen minutes, if possible. She pondered for a moment, then picked up the phone, deciding to give Gerald Last at Haddow Syndicate a shot. With any luck she’d catch him before he headed off to the wine bar for his Friday night drinking session. Gerald was a smooth operator, one of the old-school, long-lunching brigade who gave the lie to the notion that the City was no longer a sexist institution. He largely despised City women, but he liked Sarah because she was attractive, had decent legs and nice tits, and was a good sport. As a result he and Sarah had done a fair amount of business over the past year or so. Sarah, with robust cynicism, knew exactly how Gerald’s mind worked and was prepared to flirt and massage his ego to get the job done.
She found Gerald still in his office and, after some preliminary banter, explained what she needed.
‘Who else is on the slip?’ asked Gerald.
Sarah gave him the names of the other underwriters.
‘Fine,’ said Gerald. ‘Don’t see a problem.’
‘Great. Can I bring the documents over now for you to sign?’
‘Darling, I was just on my way out. Let it wait till Monday. You can take it you’re covered.’
Sarah hesitated. Strictly speaking she should get Gerald to initial the slip, but clearly he’d rather be heading off to Corney & Barrow than waiting around at the office for her. Besides, she was in a hurry, too. ‘OK. We’ll do it first thing on Monday. Thanks for that. Maybe see you for a drink soon?’
‘Charming idea,’ said Gerald. ‘Enjoy the weekend.’
Sarah put the phone down. Job done. She logged all the information on the computer, saved it, and hurried back to the flat in Docklands to shower and change.
By
the time Sarah arrived at her father’s house, the party was well underway, the rooms ringing with well-bred chatter and laughter. It had taken Sarah longer to get ready than she’d anticipated. For some reason she felt the need to dress bravely, and had opted for a stunning little black Marc Jacobs number with the sheerest black stockings, which made the most of her legs, plus a pair of new Manolos with four-inch heels. Even without the dress and the heels, she knew she was the youngest and sexiest woman there. One glance round the room told her it was the usual crowd of Daddy’s moulting old birds and buffers. She gazed round at the crowd of lawyers and artists and writers, and reckoned the average age must be sixty.
Sir Vivian greeted his daughter with a kiss, dwelling on her appearance with a mixture of pride and anxiety, and reflecting that, like her mother, she was too extravagantly pretty. He introduced her to a brace of elderly Benchers, one tall and crumpled, the other short, round and bald. They beamed with pleasure at the sight of a pretty girl and, forgetting their years and imagining themselves thirty again, they battled with one another to occupy the small talk high ground while pretending not to eye her cleavage. Sarah made a show of listening as she scanned the crowd for familiar faces. After a few minutes she saw Caroline Kittering heading straight for her, bright-eyed and clutching her champagne glass. Her face was pink, possibly from the effects of champagne, possibly because she was kitted out in full Country Casuals rig, wearing a woollen skirt, boots, and a quilted navy gilet over a cashmere jumper.
Sarah excused herself from the Benchers and greeted Caroline, stooping a little, because of the heels, to kiss the air either side of Caroline’s downy cheeks.
Caroline scarcely bothered to return the kiss, but launched straight in. ‘Toby told us the other night about losing his job. It’s simply ghastly. You poor children. Of course, I blame this wretched government.’ She glanced around. ‘Where is Toby? I’ve been looking for him everywhere since we arrived.’ She took a gulp of her champagne. ‘What was he thinking of, letting a whole week go by before telling us?’
‘He probably didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Of course, it means you’ll have to put the wedding back—’
But whatever else Caroline had to say, Sarah wasn’t listening. She had just caught sight of Leo on the far side of the room. He was leaning against a doorway, glass in hand, deep in conversation. The sight of him was a jolt to her senses – the handsome, well-defined features as youthful as ever, his intelligent gaze and the flash of his disarming smile as familiar to her as though she’d last seen him yesterday, rather than four years ago.
She tore her gaze away and tried to pay attention to Caroline.
‘Because,’ Caroline was saying earnestly, ‘who knows how long this recession will last? Toby doesn’t seem to realise that things have changed. He has commitments now.’
‘Don’t you think this is something we should talk about when Toby’s around?’ said Sarah. She glanced again in Leo’s direction. She had to talk to him. He might leave at any minute. The two elderly Benchers were hovering hopefully a little way off. Sarah grabbed Caroline by the elbow and steered her towards them.
‘Caroline, may I introduce you to Mr Justice Waddell and Mr Justice Huntsby-Stevens?’
Having parked Caroline with the Benchers, she made her way quickly through the throng of people to the doorway. But he had disappeared. People were coming and going, but there was no sign of Leo. She felt an unnerving, unexpected sense of panic. Then a voice in her ear said, ‘Hello, young lady.’ She turned, and there he was.
She smiled, intent on remaining cool. ‘Leo. How lovely to see you.’
‘And you. What a long time it’s been.’ He drained his glass of champagne. ‘You look, if I may say so, as lovely as ever.’
‘Thank you.’ She was conscious that her heart was thudding.
‘You do realise, I’ve been coming to these parties of your father’s for the last three years, hoping you might show up?’
‘You’ve had other ways of getting in touch.’
‘True. But we always had a – what’s the word? – a capricious friendship. I was fairly confident that our paths would cross again. I enjoyed leaving it to fate.’
‘And letting fate decide whether the moment would be auspicious – or inauspicious?’
‘Inauspicious, it seems. I gather I’ve lost you to some lucky young man.’ He lifted her left hand, so that light glittered from her engagement ring.
The combination of his touch and the ridiculously affected nature of their conversation was too much. ‘Leo, can we stop this bullshit? I need another glass of champagne. I feel like getting rat-arsed. God knows, I’ve reason enough.’
Leo caught the eye of a passing waitress, and she refilled their glasses.
‘OK, bullshit over,’ said Leo. ‘So, tell me about your fiancé. He must be an exceptional individual to make you want to settle down. I never saw you as a one-man girl.’
‘You know how it is. The mating game gets exhausting after a while.’
‘Really? I recall you as having considerable stamina.’ Leo’s smile was just short of suggestive, but in his blue eyes she felt she could read their whole history, every sexual encounter, every bed-warmed conversation, every tetchy disagreement, every pleasurable weekend passed in the ease of one another’s company. What had happened to all that? As though reading her thoughts, he added, ‘I’ve thought about you a lot. In fact, when Anthony told me you were engaged, I felt—’
‘What?’
‘Something selfish. Proprietorial. Totally unjustified, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So tell me about him. Who is he, what does he do?’
‘His name is Toby Kittering, and he’s – that is, he was a merchant banker, until a week ago. He got canned.’
‘That’s bad luck.’
She couldn’t meet Leo’s eye, not wanting to find herself, and her disloyal thoughts reflected there. ‘Yes, well … It makes things difficult.’ She glanced around the room. Anywhere but his penetrating gaze.
‘But not difficult enough to change your plans?’
‘God, no!’ She drained her glass swiftly.
‘Pity. We had a good thing once. Friendship, with recreational sex thrown in. The ideal relationship.’
‘Look, Leo, just because we happen to have bumped into one another doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to jump into bed with you for old times’ sake.’
‘That was the last thing on my mind. I was thinking more of the friendship part. We’ve let things slip.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘I think we both bear some of the responsibility.’
Sarah saw Toby nearby with a group of people. He smiled as she caught his eye. ‘There’s Toby. I’d better go – I haven’t spoken to him since I got here.’
Leo followed the direction of her gaze. Toby was everything he’d expected. Tall, conventionally good-looking, safe, uninspiring, and if he was fresh out of a job, probably quite needy, too. Leo felt disappointed for Sarah. And in some strange way, responsible. ‘I mean what I say,’ he added, as she turned to go. ‘If you want to talk – or anything else – you know where to find me.’ He fished in his jacket for his Blackberry. ‘In fact, why don’t you give me your number?’
She hesitated. ‘If you like.’ She gave him the number, and he keyed it in. ‘Let’s stay in touch.’
He watched her go, and felt a pang of – what? Desire? She had always been desirable, and was now, being unattainable, even more so. But it was more than that. There was a certain inescapability about Sarah. And now she was marrying a man who probably wouldn’t be enough for her. As she walked away, Sarah’s emotions were a mixture of anger and bewilderment. She’d never known any encounter with Leo be so painfully superficial and strained. From the first day they met seven years ago at an Oxford garden party, from which they’d escaped together to the nearest pub, and then to Leo’s bed, their relationship had been characterised, even in
its most vitriolic moments, by a kind of callous, loving sympathy, a harmonious conflict in which they loved and detested one another. But the best they could do now, after four years, was stale banter. Yet the one thing she’d wanted to do, as soon as she’d seen him standing in the doorway, was to escape with him again. Get out of here, away from all this, and be together. But that was never going to happen now. No more escapes. She warmed her face into a smile as she approached Toby.
Toby kissed her. ‘You look good,’ he said. ‘Who was that you were talking to?’
‘Just someone from my old chambers. Oh God, here come your parents. Your mother cornered me a while ago, wanting to discuss our plight. You’d think the fucking atom bomb had dropped. Have you spoken to them yet?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve kept a pleasant surprise up my sleeve. I wanted you all together before I told you.’
Sarah realised there was a clarity and brightness about him. He looked happy. ‘Shit! You’ve got a job.’
‘Sort of. But not quite. You’ll see.’
Jonathan and Caroline arrived, and Toby kissed his mother. Sarah decided she could even forgive the way Toby called her ‘Mumsy’, if only he would tell them all that everything was going to be all right.
‘Managed to tear your mother away from two batty old judges,’ said Jonathan Kittering. ‘Now, what’s this summit meeting all about?’
Toby glanced from face to face, preparing his announcement. ‘I wanted to let you know that I’m taking a change of direction. My life’s going to be about something entirely new from now on.’ No one said anything. Sarah found her eyes meeting Caroline’s briefly. ‘I was coming out of the gym at Canary Wharf,’ went on Toby, ‘when I saw this notice in the lobby of one of the buildings. I went inside, and I spoke to the guy, and – well, to cut a long story short, I went along to a recruitment meeting. Well, not exactly recruitment, it was more some kind of information forum—’