Errors of Judgment

by Caro Fraser

  Ten o’clock, and still no Vince. Felicity had spent the evening in a state of agitation. No point in hoping he wouldn’t come – even if he didn’t, he was bound to show up some other night. As the hours ticked by, she couldn’t settle to anything, not even making supper. She had no appetite. At a quarter to eleven, just when she was thinking of going to bed, he rolled up. She opened the door to the sound of the buzzer, and there was Vince, slouched against the door frame, dressed in a thick combat jacket over a black T-shirt, hands in his jeans pockets. His dark hair was shaggy, and he had two-day stubble. He flashed her a darkly charming smile and leant forward to kiss her lightly on the lips. To her surprise, he didn’t smell of alcohol or dope.

  ‘I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.’

  Vince put out a hand and stroked her hair. ‘Would I let you down?’ He strolled past her and into the flat. The suggestion that this evening was her idea, and she’d be disappointed if he didn’t show up left her momentarily speechless. She closed the door.

  Vince glanced around the living room, pulling off his jacket. His body had grown leaner and more muscular during his time in jail, and Felicity couldn’t help thinking how good he looked, narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered. She was aware of a little surge of lust, and tried to suppress it. It wasn’t something she wanted to feel right now.

  Vince delved into his jacket pocket, held up a bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label, and set it down on the coffee table. Reaching into a second pocket, he produced a bag of dope and other paraphernalia.

  Felicity sighed. ‘Vince, no. It’s not what this evening’s about.’

  ‘Oh? What’s it about, then?’ He came towards her. She realised she was standing defensively, arms folded. Gently he pulled her arms apart and drew her against him, and kissed her. It was such a long time since she’d been kissed in that way, she just let it happen, unable to resist. After a moment he let her go. ‘Come on, then – get the glasses.’

  She fetched glasses, and Vince cracked the bottle open and poured the vodka. They sat together on the sofa, and Vince gathered Felicity into the crook of his arm. She didn’t resist. He smelt good, familiar, and she wanted to be at peace for a while. He started to talk about what he’d been up to since the day of Denise’s party. Felicity was barely listening, busy trying to work out when would be the best time to set things straight, to say the things Rachel had told her to say. Now, probably, before things went any further and he began to make assumptions. But somehow she couldn’t think of the words. She took long swigs of vodka, letting the warmth of it spread through her body, hoping it would inspire her with courage, unlock her tongue. But then Vince, tired of talking, began to kiss her again, fondling her in a lazy, proprietorial way. Felicity knew this was her moment, that she should stop this right now, explain to him that he wasn’t going to come in here and take her for granted like this … But, oh God, it felt so good, it had been such a long time, and she had to admit she liked being taken for granted. In fact, she liked being taken, full stop. She returned his kisses with a passion she had forgotten, helping his hands explore her body, unzipping his jeans and pushing up his T-shirt to run her hands over his warm, hard body.

  Twenty minutes later, she lay slack and replete, watching as Vince picked up his T-shirt from the floor and slipped it on. He poured more vodka. She drank it unthinkingly, wanting the warmth and sensual satisfaction she was feeling to go on for ever. She knew that none of this was good for her, but she didn’t care. They could sort out the future later. Tonight was just a bit of abandonment. She deserved it. She hadn’t let herself go in a long, long time. She watched Vince roll a spliff and light it, and when he handed it to her she took a deep drag. Not at all what she had intended this evening to be about. She began to laugh.

  ‘What’s funny?’ asked Vince, smiling.

  Felicity shook her head and laughed again. She reached to pick up her bra from the floor, and began to slip it on. Vince stopped her. ‘You won’t be needing that.’ He bent his head and kissed her breast, his tongue grazing her nipple, and Felicity arched her back with pleasure.

  ‘I feel pissed,’ she said. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat all day. Just a cream cake Leo bought us.’

  ‘Leo, eh? How is the old shirt-lifter?’

  ‘Stop it,’ murmured Felicity. She eased herself off the sofa and stood up. ‘I’m going to make something to eat.’ She bent down and took the spliff from him and took another drag, slopped some more vodka into her glass and drank. ‘Need something to mop up the booze.’ Vince gazed with idle appreciation at the creamy curves of her body as she strolled naked to the kitchen with her glass, her dark, curling hair falling round her shoulders. He reached out and took a long swig of vodka, listening to the sound of cupboards opening and closing.

  ‘Fajitas all right?’ she called.

  ‘Whatever. Anything’ll do me.’ Vince leant back and smoked contentedly. He’d been worried there might be problems tonight, that she wouldn’t be prepared to let him back into her life and pick up where they’d left off. Things had been a bit rough between them before he’d got banged up. But the evening was shaping up very promisingly. If he played his cards right, he’d be moving in in a couple of weeks. Living with Fliss would definitely ease the pressure of having to find a job and sort himself out. It was the perfect set-up – a girlfriend with a nice flat, a car, money in the bank, food in the fridge and booze in the cupboard. Oh yeah, and that beautiful body. Sweet.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Leo had spent an entire afternoon filling in the online High Court judge application form, so when Henry knocked on his door and looked in, he was grateful for the diversion.

  ‘Spare a moment, Mr D?’

  ‘By all means, Henry. Come in. This Judicial Appointments Committee form has just about finished me off. If there’s one thing I loathe, it’s self-assessments, having to make up spurious guff to demonstrate one’s leadership qualities and independence of mind. This bit about my intellectual capacity – I think I lost it around page three.’

  ‘No need to worry. You’re tailor-made for the job.’

  ‘You say that, but I’m not entirely sure I tick all the JAC’s politically correct boxes. Besides which, I’ve probably managed to offend at least one member of the committee at some stage in my professional life.’ He tapped the page and scrolled down the committee list. ‘Here’s a shining example – Gregory Hind.’

  ‘Senior partner at Reed Smith?’

  ‘The very same. He instructed me when I was a junior on a ship grounding case. We had a slight falling-out over the presentation of the technical evidence. Well, more than slight. He threatened to disinstruct me. Didn’t help that I was ultimately proved right. I have the feeling he’s loathed me ever since.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘Sir Vivian Coleman’s on the committee, too – father of our ex-pupil, Sarah. He’s one of the professional members. Anyway …’ Leo closed his laptop. ‘How can I help you, Henry?’

  ‘It’s that time of year, Mr D. We need to make a decision about the Christmas party. Where and when, who to invite, how much champagne to order. The usual.’

  ‘I’m happy to say that you’ve come to the wrong person, Henry. That ball is now firmly in the court of the social committee. Headed by our young Mr Cross, if I am not mistaken. He’s the man you want to see.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Budget and everything?’

  ‘Budget and everything. It’s one responsibility I am very glad to be rid of, frankly.’

  ‘OK. I’ll go and have a word.’

  ‘You do that. By the way,’ added Leo, as Henry turned to go, ‘how is our fledgling clerk coming along? He seems very keen.’

  ‘Liam is turning out very nicely, thank you, Mr D. Shows aptitude. Very quick on the uptake. I’m hoping by the time Robert leaves I’ll have him well in harness.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  When Henry had left, Leo opened his laptop and pondered the members of the JAC. He knew none of the lay members, though some of the names –
Baroness Paradeep, and Dudley Callow, for instance – were vaguely familiar, but all the judicial members were known to him. Gregory Hind was probably the only one he didn’t get on with, and in all truth he didn’t believe that Hind would let any personal animosity interfere with his judgment. He had met the Committee Chairman, Alastair Flockton, at various functions, and recalled him as a rather highly strung, irritable man. His Honour Judge Ian Cole, so far as he could recall, was an immigration lawyer. Mervyn Woodall he knew only by reputation – a Treasury counsel, Bencher of Grey’s Inn, and an amiable eccentric. Julian Hooper was a fellow silk with whom he got on well, and on whom he felt he could count.

  Leo moved down the list and smiled when he saw the name of the Committee’s Vice-Chairman. The Right Honourable Lady Justice Daphne Hunter might look formidable enough in her photo, a slim, handsome woman in her early sixties with a piercing gaze, but having appeared before her on numerous occasions, Leo knew that she was as susceptible to his charm as the next woman. In a hearing a couple of years ago, before her elevation to the Court of Appeal, she had even gone so far as to indulge in some judicial flirtation with him during the cross-examination of an expert witness.

  Sir Colman he knew very slightly on a professional level – Leo had appeared before him when Sir Vivian was Recorder of London, and was on the guest list for Sir Vivian’s champagne and hotpot parties – but one would hardly call it a friendship. Probably just as well, since Leo had been sleeping with his daughter on and off for some years. Well, not lately, which was a pity, really. Why had he let things slip? Had something happened which had brought about a cooling off? He couldn’t remember. The relationship had always been volatile. He thought about the last time he’d seen her at her father’s party, wearing that outrageously sexy dress, and felt a little surge of lust. God, she had been something else in bed. Only now she was engaged to a characterless banker, and beyond his reach.

  Leo shut his laptop. He would finish the application form later. He got up and strolled to the window, gazing down at Caper Court, thinking about Sarah and her banker boy. What was his name? Tony, Toby, something like that. Hadn’t she said something about him becoming recently unemployed? The credit crunch had spat out any number of young bankers. Not much chance of him getting another job any time soon. A blow for Sarah, no doubt. Leo guessed that the six-figure salary and hefty bonuses had been a large part of Tony or Toby’s attraction. In fact – and in merely thinking the thought, Leo felt an odd sense of clarity, as though he could read Sarah’s mind – might she not be thinking twice about the whole marriage thing? He smiled to himself. Perhaps he was doing her a disservice, doubting her love and loyalty. Somehow he didn’t think he was.

  Leo returned to his desk. Even if he was right, he knew that persuading her back into his bed was going to be far from easy. Fiancé or no fiancé, she had a new air of defensiveness about her. No – that was the wrong word. Of strength. Coolness. Sarah had always known what was good for her, but had been too busy having a good time to care. Nowadays she probably cared a good deal. Her appetites had very sensibly given way to extreme self-interest. This wasn’t going to be a pushover. Which, of course, made it all the more interesting. He took out his mobile phone, scrolled down to her number, and pressed ‘call’.

  ‘Grand Night? What the hell’s Grand Night? Sounds a bit northern to me.’ Toby was slumped on the sofa in the Docklands flat, laptop on his knees, filling in the online teaching training application form.

  ‘It’s a big swanky dinner in the Inns of Court, usually with some visiting dignitary they want to make a big deal of. Everyone has to turn up in white tie, and the crumbliest old Benchers put on their medals. There’s a champagne reception, and a dinner – not that the food’s any better than usual – and a thing called the “loving cup” that gets passed round for everyone to drink from, and is basically unhygienic. All extremely archaic and posh, but in reality just another opportunity for people to get hammered.’ Sarah spoke in an offhand manner, but Leo’s phone call had left her with a feeling of elation, and a sense of possibility which she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  ‘Sounds a bundle of laughs. This Leo that you’re going with – isn’t he that oldish bloke you were chatting to at your father’s party? Should I be worried?’

  ‘Hardly. He probably only invited me because I’m a member of the Inn, and outsiders aren’t allowed.’ She leant over Toby’s shoulder. ‘This teaching course you’re applying for – when does it start?’

  ‘January. And you’ll have another job by then, so we’ll be OK.’ He turned and stretched his face up to kiss her.

  Sarah returned the kiss half-heartedly. ‘You’re more optimistic than I am. I’m going to struggle to get a half-decent reference from Hugo, remember.’ She stared over his shoulder at the screen of his laptop. ‘Honest to God, Toby, I wish you would rethink this teaching thing. It’s mad to throw away seven years of City experience just because of one crash. Think where the banks would be now if everyone had walked away from banking during the last crisis! You should be holding your nerve, maintaining your confidence.’ She knelt down, and laid her cheek against his arm. ‘You don’t have to run away. You’ll find another job. I believe in you.’

  ‘I know you do. That’s why I’m doing this. How many times do we have to go over this? Everything that’s happened – the recession, getting sacked – has enabled me to re-evaluate what I want to do with my life. Deep down, I think I’ve always wanted to teach. This is my chance.’ He stroked her hair. ‘And it’s because I have you here, believing in me, that I can do it.’ He returned to his laptop.

  Sarah flopped into an armchair and picked up the paper, then realised she’d read every page already. Who knew not working could be so boring? It felt claustrophobic being cooped up here in the flat with Toby day after day. She had moved in the week before Toby had lost his job, when the flat was meant to be a temporary measure before buying a house. A house. What a distant dream that had become. She felt as though the world was closing in on her. She knew even as she had uttered her words a few moments ago that they had been futile. After Hugo had fired her, she’d hoped the fact that they were both out of a job might make Toby reassess the situation. But he was sticking doggedly to his plan. Every time she so much as hinted at all the material advantages they would have to forfeit, he just smiled in that patient, killing way of his and told her he wasn’t interested in materialism any more, that he’d had his fill. He was positively evangelical about it. She didn’t see how the relationship was going to survive this. It wasn’t about love. Marriage was a package, and love was just a part of it – other things had to be right, too. The future – the kind of future Sarah wanted – required more than love to keep it afloat. Money, comfort, security, decent clothes and holidays, being able to afford private school fees – without these things, marriage was scarcely worthwhile. But how could she explain to Toby that if marriage meant living in a suburban semi on a secondary-school teacher’s pay, then the love she felt for him simply wasn’t enough to sustain such an existence? It would mean telling him that he wasn’t enough. And that was the awful truth she was having to wake up to and face every day now. Toby was kind, handsome, and a much more decent person than she could ever be, but the fact was that without a six-figure income he simply wasn’t such an attractive marriage prospect any more. Other people might think her a heartless cow, but Jane Austen would have understood.

  Toby’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I’d love a coffee, if you’re making one.’

  ‘Sure.’ She headed for the kitchen, glad of something to do.

  As she waited for the kettle to boil, a sense of sad determination overwhelmed her, and she felt her resolve crystallise. There really was no going back now – or rather, forward. It was simply a question of how to end things. She thought of the Kitterings, and of her father, and of their collective disappointment, but she wasn’t going to abandon herself to a life of penury simply to avoid upsetting them. It was Toby she wa
s most worried about. If she simply dumped him now, when he was at his lowest ebb, it would destroy him. Well, he was going to be destroyed one way or another, so better that it should happen in such a way that he could salvage some pride. She had to put herself in the wrong. A bit of self-abasement was called for. It wouldn’t be the first time. She thought of Leo’s phone call half an hour ago. The fact was, he wanted her, and he needed to find a way back in. Perhaps they could do each other a favour.

  It was almost midnight at Blunt’s, and Julia was feeling hellish. She had taken a line of coke half an hour earlier to lift the boredom, but all it had done was to make her brain buzz within the confines of its own ennui, like a trapped and angry wasp.

  ‘I see your boyfriend’s in again,’ murmured Darius Egan.

  Julia followed the line of his glance and saw Anthony at one of the tables. ‘I wish you’d stop calling him that. It’s childish.’

  ‘Don’t get so defensive. Anyone would think he’s important to you. He’s certainly becoming that way to us.’

  Darius took a sip of what looked to all intents like a glass of champagne, but was in fact fizzy water tinted with a drop of Angostura bitters – a tip he had picked up from his father. Seeing the casino boss with a glass of bubbly made the punters feel convivial, like guests at a party.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Just that he’s in every night, dropping a ton of the stuff. He used to have the odd win here and there, big enough to keep him going, but he’s been losing heavily recently. I’m afraid he doesn’t do himself any favours. Doesn’t know when to stop.’ Darius scanned the room. ‘Now, where’s that husband of yours? I have a little business to discuss with him.’

  As Darius went off in search of Piers, Julia crossed the room to the roulette table where Anthony was playing. In three spins of the wheel she saw him lose four hundred, then another two, then claw back eighty.