Errors of Judgment

by Caro Fraser

  ‘Bad luck,’ she murmured.

  Anthony gave her a glance and shrugged. She read indifference – both to her and to the situation.

  ‘Darius says you’re pretty much a regular here.’ She watched as Anthony pushed forward two blue chips onto number five. ‘Says you lose a lot.’

  ‘And what’s that to you?’

  ‘Anthony, seriously – I don’t like to see you being taken for a mug. You’re a novice at all this. And I don’t believe you can afford it.’

  Anthony said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the spin of the wheel and the skipping clatter of the ball. The wheel slowed and the ball dropped into number five. Anthony scooped in his winning pile of chips and turned to Julia. ‘I suppose when it comes to taking me for a mug you’re the leading expert in the field, I’ll give you that. But I’m not the person I once was, Julia. You have no idea what I can and can’t afford.’

  Gabrielle had been watching them from the other side of the room. She knew from gossip that Julia and Anthony had once been an item, and she could tell from Julia’s subtle body language that Julia would like to rekindle that. Given the state of her marriage to Piers – which Gabrielle gave a year at best – it was hardly surprising that Julia was looking for a new flame. Or an old one. But even though she couldn’t hear the words exchanged, it was obvious to Gabrielle that Anthony wasn’t interested.

  She was curious about Anthony, and somewhat fascinated by him – a fascination darkly connected to the kiss she had witnessed that night in Middle Temple. She had thought often about this, confused by her conflicting emotions. Far from being revolted, she had found it faintly arousing, and realised she wouldn’t mind kissing Anthony herself. How weird did that make her? To desire someone her own father found attractive? She didn’t care. Normal rules didn’t apply to Leo, so maybe they didn’t apply to her. There was only one way to find out. She crossed the room to where Anthony was standing looking indecisive, touched his arm lightly, and said, ‘Hello. I don’t think we’ve met.’

  Anthony glanced round in surprise. He had been contemplating what to do with his winnings. Common sense dictated he should cash in his chips, have one last drink, and go home. But the relief at having at last covered his mounting losses and put himself back in the black had been swiftly followed by the now-familiar adrenalin rush, the sense that he could ride his big win like a surfer, go back to the tables and win even more. Even though he knew the pattern which was developing was not a good one, coming to the casino three nights in one week, making heavy losses which simply drove him to bet more, he couldn’t resist the urge to have one more spin of the wheel. And here was this beautiful girl looking into his eyes.

  ‘My name’s Gabrielle.’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘I asked someone. I’m Anthony Cross.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘I asked someone.’

  Anthony knew she was waiting for him to offer to buy her a drink. Much as he wanted to spend the next couple of hours sitting over drinks getting to know this delicious girl, he was itching to get to the poker tables and carry on gambling, though he knew he would probably end up losing it all, and leaving with less than he had come in with.

  She seemed to read his thoughts.

  ‘Come on,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Quit while you’re ahead. Cash in your chips and buy me a drink. Something non-alcoholic. I’ve got lectures in the morning.’

  ‘Orange juice all round, in that case. I have to be in court at ten.’

  ‘So you’re a lawyer?’ she said, even though she knew. She was interested in hearing Anthony’s own version of himself.

  ‘A barrister.’ Anthony bought drinks, and they carried them to a corner table and sat down. ‘So,’ asked Anthony, ‘what are you studying?’

  ‘Law.’

  ‘Well, well.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to the law. I thought I’d seen you around. It was in a pub near the Temple.’

  ‘I’m flattered you remember.’

  ‘You have a kind of unforgettable look.’

  She smiled. ‘Tell me about your case tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s only a case management conference. The case is to do with a casino, actually.’ He told Gabrielle about Astleigh’s and the Lion King and the bounced cheque, but she only half-listened, too busy concentrating on his face, his eyes, the way he occasionally frowned or smiled as he talked. The attraction was immensely powerful, and every time he met her gaze she could tell he felt it too. Yet at the same time she couldn’t get rid of the image of her father and Anthony together. Whatever was going on was wildly strange. She was curious to know about her father’s relationship with Anthony, but she realised she had to approach the subject obliquely. She certainly wasn’t about to tell him that Leo was her father.

  ‘I’ve got a pupillage in criminal chambers starting next July,’ said Gabrielle. ‘If I pass my Bar finals, that is.’ She hesitated. ‘It must be quite an intimate set-up. Working with the same people all your life in such an enclosed environment.’

  ‘No different from most workplaces, I imagine. And it’s not always for life. People come and go. Admittedly not that much.’

  ‘But you must make really close friendships.’

  ‘Of course. Some people make the mistake of letting their social lives become too bound up with other people in chambers. Same old dinner parties, holidays together, that kind of thing. There’s only one person in chambers I regard as a really close friend.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My head of chambers, Leo Davies. He was sort of my mentor when I first came to chambers. Taught me a good deal about many things. Anyway …’ Anthony finished his drink and glanced at his watch. ‘I should really be heading.’

  ‘Me too. Where do you go to?’ As they left the table Gabrielle was aware of Julia watching them.

  ‘South Ken. What about you?’

  ‘Holland Park. The slummy end.’

  ‘We can share a cab.’

  They left the casino, and a few minutes later were heading together in a taxi towards Kensington. They said very little to one another on the way, but just before they reached Gabrielle’s flat, Anthony pulled out his mobile phone.

  ‘Let me have your number, and I’ll give you a call. Maybe we can have lunch. Or you could come along to the casino hearing once it starts. You might find it interesting.’ Her expression was unreadable in the shadowy interior of the cab. ‘Or not, depending.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ She gave him her number, and Anthony tapped it in. She leant towards the driver. ‘Number seven, please, on the right.’ She turned to Anthony. ‘See you soon, then.’ The curiosity which had been burning in her for the last hour or two suddenly took hold. She wanted to know what it was like to kiss the mouth which her own father had kissed and enjoyed. She leant forward impulsively, and in the dimness of the cab her mouth found his.

  Anthony returned the kiss, which lasted only a few seconds, then she was out of the cab and heading towards the steps of the house. ‘Night,’ she called, without turning round. He watched her disappear inside. Then he said to the driver, ‘I’ll get out here, too, thanks.’

  He paid the fare and walked back through the quiet, chilly streets to his flat, reflecting on the remarkably pleasurable kiss, and wondering where it might lead.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was Friday morning, and Toby was getting ready for a trip north with old university friends.

  ‘Don’t forget this,’ said Sarah, picking up his washbag from the bed.

  ‘Thanks.’ He dropped it into his overnight bag. ‘Right, I think that’s everything. Let’s see – ticket, ID, wallet, keys …’ He shrugged on his jacket, adding to Sarah, ‘You know, I honestly don’t see why going out with your girlfriends on Saturday means you can’t make it down to Mum and Dad’s for Sunday lunch. You’ve got this Grand whatever-it-is thing tonight. I’d have thought that would be enough excitement for one weekend. If you stayed in tomorrow night you’d be OK to make it to the parents for
Sunday lunch. I’m heading straight there from Gatwick.’

  ‘I’d hardly call Grand Night exciting. You’re going off to Scotland for the rugby for two whole days with your friends, so I’m entitled to a girls’ night out, OK? Following which I intend to have a long lie-in, then spend the rest of the day in my dressing gown with the Sunday papers, recovering. I don’t want to have to drag myself all the way down just to eat roast lamb in Surrey.’

  He sighed. ‘OK. I’ll see you on Sunday evening.’

  She kissed his cheek lightly. ‘Have a lovely time. I hope England win.’

  The door of the flat closed. Sarah glanced at her watch. Nearly half three. Only four more hours, and she would be with Leo.

  That evening Leo waited inside the arched vestibule of Middle Temple Hall, as the great and good of the Inn thronged past in their evening finery. Cut-glass accents and gentle, confident laughter filled the air. He nodded and spoke in greeting to friends as they passed, but he didn’t allow anyone to catch his attention for long. He was on the lookout for Sarah, combing the faces, aware of an unfamiliar teenage edginess. He could only assume that this was because he knew only too well how fabulously unreliable she could be – and tonight really would not be a good night for her to be late. These formal evenings were always engineered with stopwatch precision, and with the clock ticking towards the kick-off time of half seven, the ushers were already hovering as the last guests trickled in. Where the hell was she?

  A taxi coming up Middle Temple Lane swung round, its lights brushing the cobbles. Leo glimpsed blonde hair in the interior. It had to be her.

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said to one of the ushers who stood ready to close the huge wooden doors. He headed towards the taxi. Sarah stepped calmly out, wearing a strapless dress of pale cream silk, and a cloudy-pink cashmere wrap against the cold air.

  ‘About time,’ said Leo, chucking a twenty at the driver.

  He hurried her up the stone steps and across the vestibule, and the ushers closed the wooden doors behind them, the sound causing the guests, milling around with drinks, to turn to look in their direction.

  ‘I could almost believe you planned this late entrance,’ murmured Leo, picking up two glasses of champagne from a tray and handing one to Sarah, ‘just to grab everyone’s attention. But I think you have it, anyway. You look delectable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ smiled Sarah. ‘You look pretty tasty yourself.’

  They mingled for a short while until the signal came for the guests to be seated, with the minor European royal who was the guest of honour taking pride of place at the centre of the high table. Since Leo was a Bencher, he and Sarah were seated at the high table, too.

  ‘I hadn’t realised that you’d become an official member of the old farts’ brigade,’ observed Sarah, as they took their places.

  ‘Pipe down,’ said Leo. But the elderly Bencher on Sarah’s right had either failed to pick up her remark on his state-of-the-art hearing aid, or was too happy to be in the proximity of such warm, enticing flesh to care. He nodded and beamed at Sarah, then delivered some innocuous remark regarding the grace of the occasion. Sarah murmured in agreement, and gave Leo a smiling glance.

  After some gavel-banging and the intoning of grace, the meal began.

  ‘Is the food still as bad here as it used to be?’ asked Sarah, watching the waiters bring in the first course.

  ‘Actually, it’s improved,’ said Leo. ‘A bit.’

  Sarah gazed around at the sombre panelled walls and the stained-glass windows. ‘I haven’t been here in years, literally. Not since I had to eat all those horrible dinners before call. Give or take the odd Christmas champagne party. It’s as dismal as ever.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ asked Leo. ‘This place is astonishing. It never fails to move me every time I come here, and I’ve been doing that most weeks for the better part of thirty years.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s because you’re an impressionable grammar school boy from the valleys. It represents everything you ever aspired to, it reeks of intellectual and social elitism. One of the most exclusive clubs in the world, and they let you in. No wonder you love it.’

  ‘An interesting analysis, but quite some way off the mark. It’s not what the place represents that I love, but what it is. It’s alive with history. Do you realise that this table we’re sitting at is almost five hundred years old, a present from Queen Elizabeth to Middle Temple? Cut from a single oak and floated up the Thames from Windsor Park. And Sir Walter Raleigh came to this very hall, this same hall, and took a standing ovation after tanking the Spaniards at – somewhere or other. I forget. How can you fail to be impressed by that?’

  ‘Probably because I’m a dreadfully shallow creature,’ murmured Sarah. ‘Is there any more wine?’

  Sir Vivian, seated at the other end of the high table, was surprised to see his daughter. He hadn’t known her to attend any of the Inn’s functions in years, and he wondered at whose invitation she was here this evening. Old Hugo Leveson, seated on her right, was hardly a likely candidate. He could see Hugo leering goatishly at Sarah’s cleavage, and shot him a glare, but Hugo appeared not to notice. Sir Vivian doubted if he could see that far. He peered past the arm of the waiter setting down the soup plates to get a glimpse of the person on Sarah’s left. He recognised his face and distinctive silver hair. Leo Davies, wasn’t it? He’d been at the party a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly the Bencher opposite, Colin Fryer, remarked to his female companion, ‘I see Leo Davies has turned up with some stunning girl, as usual.’

  ‘Quite a striking couple,’ observed the woman, glancing down the table. Then she added, ‘He’s tremendously attractive. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Leo Davies. One of our top commercial silks.’ Fryer dropped his voice, but Sir Vivian caught the words, ‘The stunning girl could as easily have been some stunning young man, from all I’ve heard. There are more than a few rumours flying around concerning Leo Davies’ private life. Boyfriends, and so on.’

  Sir Vivian was agog. He tried to fasten on the rest of what Fryer was saying, but a rather deaf retired Law Lord, the Right Honourable Lord Dutton of Chelmsley, chose that moment to enquire loudly what soup they were eating. ‘Is it some kind of vegetable? I can’t make it out.’

  Sir Vivian seethed with irritation. He thought Fryer had just uttered the words ‘male lover’, but he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I believe it’s broccoli and stilton,’ replied Lord Dutton’s neighbour.

  Lord Dutton nodded. ‘That accounts for the colour.’ Sir Vivian was still trying to home in on the conversation opposite, and could just pick up ‘—in a sense one would prefer it if he were one thing or the other, rather than bisexual.’

  ‘I thought at first it was courgette,’ observed Lord Dutton. ‘I think I prefer courgette to broccoli. In soup, that is.’

  ‘My wife makes courgette soup with mint. Very pleasant in summer.’

  ‘Does she grow her own?’

  ‘Oh yes. Courgettes, broad beans, tomatoes, lettuces. She has a veritable potager. Quite the good life. We’re a regular Tom and Barbara.’

  As the polite chuckles died away, Fryer was saying, ‘I mean, what woman would care for the idea that her lover’s previous fling was with some man? A bit iffy.’ Sir Vivian saw Colin Fryer’s guest glance at Leo with a faint smile, and she said, ‘That depends, I suppose.’

  Sir Vivian was appalled and dismayed. He was aware that certain Members of the Bar were homosexual – how he detested the misappropriation of the word ‘gay’ – and he always tried to avoid their company, without letting it be apparent. Somehow the notion of bisexuality seemed even more disgusting. He leant forward to try to get a better look at the man Davies. He now recalled Leo appearing before him a couple of times when he was Recorder of London. A clever advocate, no doubt, but he could wish that Sarah had not chosen such a person to escort her this evening. No doubt she knew as much as Colin Fryer did, but the young seemed not to let such matters
influence their judgment. In that they were misguided. Old-fashioned notions of morality were too readily discarded. He could only be thankful that she was marrying someone as decent and upstanding as young Toby. Sighing at the sorry state of the world, Sir Vivian returned to his soup.

  When dinner was over, speeches were made – interminable speeches, it seemed to Sarah – and port was passed.

  Sarah sniffed at the contents of her glass. ‘This stuff is like the blood of dead relatives. Do we have to stay much longer?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  For the past twenty minutes Leo had been preoccupied with the question of whether or not he would be able to persuade Sarah into his bed this evening. Once upon a time, in a situation such as this, he would have been pretty confident of success. He and Sarah had always had a relaxed, straightforward approach to sleeping with one another whenever both of them felt like it. But Sarah was engaged now, and while his instincts might tell him she could well be having second thoughts about marrying Toby, the fact was that she had a pretty substantial diamond glittering on her left hand. Nothing – if anything – could be taken for granted. This would require delicate handling. But the sooner they got away from here, the sooner he would find out.

  He turned to her. ‘Do you remember the first time we met?’

  Sarah sipped her port. ‘Vaguely.’ This was far from true. She would carry with her for ever the memory of that afternoon, of seeing Leo for the first time across the lawn at a Pembroke College garden party. The chemistry, the attraction, had been instant. She had been twenty, and Leo had seemed to her excitingly sophisticated and – it had to be admitted – pretty old at forty-one. Mutual desire had kindled after just twenty minutes of conversation, and after that each simply wanted to get the other into bed as fast as possible. They had left the garden party, escaped in Leo’s car to his house, and had finished up having sex in the garage, too overcome by lust to get as far as the house, let alone Leo’s bed. The hours that had followed, once they reached his bed, were a long tangle of mutual pleasure, the details admittedly indistinct. But for some reason the events later in the evening were imprinted on her mind: stepping barefoot into the darkness of the garden, trailing a rug across the cool grass, sitting cross-legged, waiting for Leo to bring out wine and the only food he could find – cold cocktail sausages and a punnet of strawberries. It was the summer solstice, the day had been long and full of heat, and the glimmer of morning lay just behind the darkly fragrant night as they lay there, eating, drinking, talking, kissing, making love. It sounded romantic, but in fact it hadn’t been. Exciting, erotic, intensely pleasurable, but both of them had been too self-aware and self-absorbed to give anything of themselves. She had stayed the next day, and the day after that, and eventually for the entire summer, a mutually satisfactory arrangement for both of them. It enabled Sarah to escape London and the limitations of living with her father, and enjoy the pleasures of a life in Leo’s enchanting country house, which he had only recently bought, while Leo had someone to look after the place while he was in London, and oversee the builders during the renovations, and to cook when he came down at the weekends. Sex was a fringe benefit for both of them, long, intensely pleasurable hours of it. The idyll had only come to an end when Leo introduced into the household a young man he had picked up in the village pub, James. The threesome lasted a couple of weeks, and then it had all gone disastrously wrong. Still, it had been a glorious summer while it lasted.