by Caro Fraser
‘Well, he’s someone new, if that’s what you want.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks.’
Simon lowered his feet from his desk and swung round in his chair. ‘I’m meeting Sally for a drink in Leadenhall Market tonight. Fancy joining us?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Rachel with a smile. ‘I’ve got a load of household chores to catch up on. Bye.’
When she got home, it seemed very quiet in the flat. She had told Simon she had chores to do, and he had assumed she was meeting a man somewhere. But Rachel had been telling the truth. She set down her briefcase in the hall, then took off her coat. It was past seven o’clock, so she made herself a small vodka and tonic and switched on the compact black television set that stood discreetly in the corner of the living room. She left it tuned into the Channel 4 news while she went into the kitchen to make her supper. She made herself a salad of ham and avocado and lettuce hearts, a wholewheat roll with low-fat spread, poured a glass of milk, and took it all back into the living room on a tray.
When she had finished supper she washed up, rinsing the cutlery carefully, and then went to change. When she was changed into what she thought of as comfy old clothes, Rachel looked as immaculate and tasteful as something from a page in Vogue. She got out a tin of beeswax from the cupboard below the sink, a duster, some cleaning spray and a J-cloth. She cleaned all the surfaces and cupboards in the kitchen. She spread wax polish on the kitchen table and polished it gently, then replaced the vase of freesias that had been standing there. Rachel liked fresh flowers. Elegant little arrangements with faint fragrances, not opulent, imposing blooms with overpowering, sensuous scents. Those would have troubled her. When she had finished in the kitchen, she went into the living room and carefully dusted all the surfaces. Then she waxed and polished the wooden tables that stood by each sofa, and passed a duster over the glass of the framed watercolours on either side of the fireplace, and over the shining mirrors, and straightened the rugs. She stood back to admire her work. Then she stepped forward again to tidy the pile of magazines lying on one of the tables – the Law Society Gazette, Tatler and The Economist.
No need to do the bathroom – she had done that last night. Tomorrow night she would hoover and clean her bedroom. She washed her hands in the kitchen and gently rubbed hand cream into them; she always remembered to push back her cuticles with the soft edge of a towel when she did this. Then she put what little washing she had into the washing machine and set it off. In the morning she would hang it on the clothes rack which was left standing in the kitchen during the day. Rachel never hung clothing over radiators.
When she had finished in the kitchen, she fetched her briefcase from the hallway and went to her bedroom to do some work at her word processor. At ten she switched off her desk lamp and went back to the kitchen to make herself a cup of Ovaltine. She listened to The World Tonight as she drank it, flicking through the back of The Times to see if there was anything worth watching on television. When she saw that there wasn’t, she washed her mug, switched off the radio, and went to the bathroom to take off what little make-up she wore and clean her teeth.
In bed, she switched on her clock radio to The Financial World Tonight, and opened her book at the place where she had stopped reading the night before.
When she at last switched off her bedside light, Rachel fell quickly asleep, her arms curved protectively around her breast, her legs tucked in.
In her Brixton flat, Felicity lay back on a cushion with her eyes closed. The Guns N’ Roses tape that Vince had put on was competing with the sound of ‘Buffalo Soldier’ from the Rastafarians’ flat next door.
‘Come on,’ said Vince, ‘try it.’ He leant over, his long hair touching Felicity’s cheek as he spoke. Felicity shook her head and did not open her eyes. ‘Go on,’ urged Vince, ‘it’s good.’
‘No,’ said Felicity firmly. She opened her eyes to look at him as she said this, then closed them again. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve had half that joint and I’m not doing anything else.’
‘It’s not a joint – that’s so old-fashioned. It’s a spliff. You call it a spliff.’
‘Call it what you like,’ said Felicity. ‘That’s all I want. I’m getting up in time tomorrow. And you’re going home.’
‘Oh, Fliss, baby …’ Vince slid his hand quickly inside her bra and tried to kiss her.
‘I meant it.’ Felicity’s voice was muffled. She tried, not very hard, to remove his hand.
‘Why, Fliss? Come on, you’ve done everything else I’ve suggested, and liked it.’
‘That was sex,’ replied Felicity. She took his hand out and stood up. ‘And anyway, I’ve made some resolutions. I’m going to get this place really cleaned up’ – she stared around through the haze of smoke at the dirty carpet, the tatty curtains, the sagging sofa, the empty glasses and cans, the pile of videos and dog-eared paperbacks stacked on a wooden shelf balanced on bricks – ‘and I’m going to get my life together. No more drugs, not so much drinking – and you can go home tonight.’
Vince, lying back against the split cushions with their stained batik covers, legacies of some hippy era, rocked one knee from side to side and laughed.
‘I think you must come out with this stuff once a week just to make yourself feel better.’ He took a deep drag of what remained of the joint smouldering in the ashtray. ‘Fliss, you’re always making resolutions. None of them come to anything. Why don’t you just sit back down here and try some of this?’
‘I told you, Vince,’ she replied, as he reached up and tugged her hand, ‘I’m tired of doing all this stuff. My head can’t stand it. Neither can my job. I’ve got to get some sleep so’s I’m up in time in the morning.’
‘A little tab of this and you wouldn’t even need to go to sleep. You’ll be flying for a fortnight.’ She allowed herself to be pulled back down next to him. ‘Go on.’ He gave her his best, beautiful smile, the one that made him look like Tom Cruise with long hair, and handed her the silver foil.
‘I’ve never done acid before,’ she said doubtfully.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, and leant back, closing his eyes. ‘Makes you want to make love all night.’
‘Honest?’ She gave him a sideways look and giggled.
‘And then you won’t be afraid to do all those interesting things I’ve been wanting us to do.’
‘That’s all you think about, isn’t it? Sex.’ She stared at the silver foil. ‘And drugs.’
‘And rock and roll,’ added Vince. And they both laughed. Just this once, thought Felicity. It’ll be all right with Vince.
The next day, the first of October, was bright and mild. Mr Slee, head clerk at 5 Caper Court, came back well satisfied after lunch. He had spent a profitable morning persuading the clerk of the Commercial Court to shuffle the lists in his favour, and had followed it with two pints in the Suffolk Arms with fellow senior clerks. He felt serene and benevolent. He smiled upon the typists, he whistled as he opened the lunchtime mail, and he delivered only the mildest of reproofs to Henry, the junior clerk, for negligently arranging a conference with solicitors for Mr Hayter on a day when he was already due in court.
As he made his way to Leo’s room with some papers which had just come in, Mr Slee felt like a king in his kingdom. He often felt this way. To hold the reins of power in such an illustrious set of chambers was a thing of great pride to him. Without him, the barristers would be lost. He it was who organised their cases, arranged their conferences, negotiated their fees. He liked, too, to feel that he acted as the spirit of tolerance and harmony within chambers. Not that he ever displayed his pride. Discretion and humility were all. Mr Slee was well schooled in this; his father had been a barrister’s clerk, and his father before him.
But as soon as he entered Leo’s room, Mr Slee could tell that Leo did not share his equable frame of mind that day. He sat behind his desk, some papers spread out before him, leaning back and chewing on a paperclip. Mr Slee didn’t know how Leo could do that, he really
didn’t; it set his teeth on edge just to watch him.
Leo leant forward and frowned as Mr Slee put the papers on his desk, murmuring some pleasantry about the weather.
‘William, what’s happened to the money on that letter of credit case? I should have had it weeks ago.’ It suited Leo to be peevish with William. He seemed to be in a perpetually bad mood these days and found it useful to take it out on his clerk. He’d spent all last weekend brooding over his application for silk, and that business of Sarah and James had been preying on his mind. Thank God he’d got rid of them – but how had he been such a fool as to let it start? He had only meant to pick up James in that club that night. Sarah had been James’s idea. ‘If you like it both ways, you’ll like Sarah,’ he had said. And Leo had. He had found the entire situation such a novelty that he allowed them to stay. They’d been useful, too – cleaning and cooking for him, looking after the house and the garden, as well as sharing his bed, driving back the loneliness. But nothing could drive that back for long. All this morning he had been chewing paperclips and wondering how he could have let his desires get the better of him, to the point of what now seemed like nauseating folly. Even though it was unlikely that anyone of any importance should learn details of his personal life, it was vital, now that he was applying to take silk, that his conduct should be utterly blameless. Vexation and guilt fuelled his irritation with his clerk.
‘Well,’ said Mr Slee in answer to Leo’s question, ‘I gather the solicitors are having a bit of trouble with their clients. You know how it is.’
‘Bloody Church and Moylan are always having trouble with their clients,’ retorted Leo sharply. ‘Can’t you chivvy them a bit?’
Mr Slee folded his arms above his broad stomach. ‘Naturally I’m doing my best, sir, but we don’t want to go upsetting them too much. Might start taking their work elsewhere, otherwise.’
‘We shouldn’t be taking work without money up-front. You know what these bloody Iranians are like. Quite frankly,’ added Leo, ‘I wish they would take their work elsewhere.’
He snapped the paperclip in two and leant back. Mr Slee waited. He had known Leo for twenty-two years and was aware that a storm of minor irrelevancies always preceded some more important issue.
‘William,’ said Leo after a pause, ‘how do you think it would be if I applied to take silk?’ Mr Slee looked at him attentively, concealing his surprise. ‘I mean, how do you think the work would stand?’
Mr Slee pursed his lips and tried to look nonchalant. He had not expected this. When Stephen Bishop had confided in him, two weeks ago, his own intention to apply for silk, Mr Slee had regarded it as a sensible and timely move. One that might have been made two or three years earlier, but still, better late than never. There were already four silks at 5 Caper Court – Sir Basil, Roderick Hayter, Cameron Renshaw, and Michael Gibbon, who had taken silk only last year – and that was quite a lot for a chambers of their size, but Mr Slee had thought the thing would work. He was confident that Leo, Jeremy Vane, and the younger tenants, William Cooper, David Liphook and Anthony Cross, would generate enough work to keep five QCs busy. But now Leo was thinking of applying, too. This altered the picture entirely. Mr Slee leant back against the bookshelves and said nothing for a few seconds. Leo raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
‘Well,’ said Mr Slee, shifting his weight, ‘I would hope that there would be enough work to go round. Anthony is bringing in a good deal, and Sir Basil is thinking of taking on another two juniors …’ He ran his thumb along his lower lip. As a matter of confidentiality, he could not tell Leo about Stephen’s application, but it was regrettable that they should both choose to apply in the same year. He did not like this. He did not like it at all. It was always possible that the Lord Chancellor’s Office might give preference to Stephen, as being the more senior in chambers, but he felt in his heart of hearts that, of the two, Leo was more likely to succeed. Mr Slee had spent years talking to lawyers, clerks and judges, had spent the better part of his life immersed in the grey mysteries of the courts and their workings, from the minutiae of the daily grind to the cogitations of the highest law officers in the land, and he felt this in his bones. Leo would succeed, and Stephen’s nose would be put badly out of joint. Tensions would inevitably arise in chambers. That one member should leapfrog another in the matter of taking silk would not be well regarded. Still, Leo must have his own reasons. Mr Slee eyed him. For all his dapper good looks, for all his careless charm and good humour, he knew Leo to be flint-hearted in his ambition. Not that Mr Slee liked him the less for it. That was just the way Leo was.
‘You don’t sound very certain,’ remarked Leo, swivelling from side to side in his chair, his eyes fastened on the clerk’s face. It was very important, he knew, that William should support him in this.
‘No – I was just thinking,’ replied Mr Slee quickly. ‘Just thinking about figures. No, I’m sure enough work would come your way. Not a doubt of it.’
Leo nodded. ‘Let’s talk about those figures, then.’
When Mr Slee left his room fifteen minutes later, Leo sat back with some satisfaction. At least William seemed to foresee no particular problems with his application. Nor had any mention been made of the fact that he might be seen to be overstepping Stephen. He felt more cheerful as he resumed his work. He would put that sordid episode of the summer behind him and concentrate on the matter in hand. He must succeed in this –it was a matter touching his vanity, as well as his ambition. The names of the new silks would not be announced until the following Easter. That gave him a good six months in which to live the saintliest of existences, just in case the Lord Chancellor’s Office turned its attentive eye upon him, as no doubt it would.
Mr Slee left Leo’s room in a less happy frame of mind. Leo’s application raised all kinds of new possibilities. A thought suddenly occurred to him. What if both men were successful? It was possible; the Lord Chancellor’s Office moved in mysterious ways. If that were to happen, it would put the squeeze on Sir Basil’s practice, which was not so fertile as it had once been. And that could cause problems for Mr Slee. His heart contracted at the thought. He came to a halt on the second-floor landing and gazed out at the fading leaves on the autumn trees. He and Sir Basil were of a generation. He had been the callowest of junior clerks when Sir Basil had first joined chambers. He stared down at the familiar flagstones of Caper Court; he could remember vividly the very first day he had walked across those very stones and through the door of number 5. If Sir Basil were forced to retire, what would that mean for Mr Slee? Perhaps, with Sir Basil gone, the other members of chambers might feel it was time for him, too, to give way to a younger man. He was finding it difficult, he knew, to keep up with a lot of this new technology, and sometimes he felt the pace of chambers pushing him a bit. And there was Henry, spry as you like, nearly twenty-nine, ready to step into his shoes any day.
Mr Slee leant the tips of his fingers on the wooden windowsill. He did not wish to retire. The Temple was his life, his second home. No, in many ways his real home. He felt that the Inns of Court, and all the lawyers and clerks that worked and lived there, were the very lifeblood of the City. Even the most commonplace, everyday workings of the law courts possessed a drama and significance which existed nowhere else for him. He loved everything, from the sonorous majesty of the Bench to the scuttling ordinariness of the lowliest clerk. He could not leave it.
Revolving all this in his head, Mr Slee went back to the clerks’ room in a frame of mind very different from that in which he had left it. He was conscious now of the importance of his unspoken power weighing heavily upon him. He knew that there was much he could do to affect matters. He had not lived and breathed the air of the Temple and the law courts for forty years for nothing. His influence was great, his contacts extensive. The risk of both men succeeding in their applications might be slight, but it was one he could eliminate entirely, merely by a few timely conversations with the right people, a little well-placed information in the
hands of the wrong ones. He had watched and worked with Leo for many years, and knew much. If he chose to, it was within his power to stop Leo’s application dead in its tracks.
He glanced up as Henry came in and sat down at the computer, watching him as he tapped the keyboard, his eyes on the screen, young and confident. Yes, thought Mr Slee, he was going to have to think carefully about all of this. Very carefully indeed.
CHAPTER FOUR
In her Majesty’s High Court of Justice, Chancery Division, Court Number 11, Michael Gibbon QC shifted his spindly frame on the hard wooden bench and watched musingly as Anthony made his closing submissions. It was extraordinary, really, how the boy had matured. He had a self-possession now that no one would ever have guessed at two years ago, when he had been Michael’s pupil. Yet his voice still possessed a certain diffidence, and his handsome face that quality of openness, which seemed to give him a peculiarly modest charm – it appeared to work especially well on older people, judging from the benign way in which Mr Justice Howe was nodding as he listened to Anthony.
‘Well, Mr Cross, what do you say about costs?’ asked the judge.
‘We would respectfully ask for costs on the basis that, as my Lord has seen, this was a lengthy and costly matter, and one in which the plaintiff has succeeded.’
‘That is only because, for the purposes of the motion, Miss Llewellyn and I have to accept that your case is right.’ Michael could have sworn Mr Justice Howe almost smiled at Anthony. Anthony cast a glance at their opponent, a horsy and energetic woman who had, Michael felt, done her best in difficult circumstances. She caught the glance. Not even Miss Llewellyn can resist our junior tenant’s charms, thought Michael with amusement. He had never seen the keen features of that notoriously able lady counsel soften quite so perceptibly.
‘As an alternative to an outright costs order in favour of the plaintiff, might I suggest the plaintiff’s costs in cause – which is a customary order to make?’ replied Anthony. He might have been an eight-year-old boy asking for his ball back.