by Caro Fraser
‘Yes, I understand,’ replied Leo. ‘Not pleasant, staying here on one’s own, after this evening. We’ve both had quite a week, haven’t we?’
She left him and went into her bedroom, closing the door. In bed, she wept for only a short while, then lay awake in the darkness, remembering the evening when she had first gone to his bed and he had made love to her. The recollection was like a physical pain. Leo, too, lay awake, but the only pain he felt was the insistent throbbing of his hand, and the nagging worry of what James would say, what the repercussions might be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rachel arranged to go and stay with friends the following day. There was a certain awkwardness between herself and Leo, a sense of unfinished business still in the air.
‘I’ll call you at the end of the week,’ Leo said, as he put her things into the boot of her car. ‘We have to sort something out.’
‘There’s nothing to sort out, Leo,’ Rachel replied. ‘I’m having the baby.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I mean between you and me. We need to get a few things clear …’ Now was not the time. ‘Anyway, I’ll call you.’
He kissed her, and for a moment she clung to him, wishing suddenly that this baby did not exist, that everything could go on as before.
Leo spent the rest of the week in court before Sir Frank Chamberlin, in a dreary dispute concerning a joint venture agreement for the operation of a North Sea ferry service. His hand still hurt abominably, and having Frank’s lugubrious features before him all day and every day only served to remind him of the oppressive fears regarding his application for silk. The hearing drew to its close on Thursday afternoon, to the relief of all, and as Leo was gathering his papers together and chatting to his instructing solicitor, the usher approached him and handed him a note. ‘From Sir Frank, Mr Davies,’ he murmured.
Leo opened the note, read it quickly, then crumpled it up. He wasn’t sure if he wanted a drink with Frank, but he could hardly decline.
Sir Frank was in his private rooms in the annexe to his old chambers, getting rid of the day’s mail, when Leo arrived.
‘Ah, Leo! Excellent!’ said Frank, and motioned to Leo to take a seat. ‘I thought it might be pleasant to have a bit of a drink and a chat after the last four days. What will you have? The usual whisky?’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Leo, and settled into a chair, glancing round with pleasure at the interesting clutter of Frank’s room. He sipped gratefully at the whisky which Frank handed him. Over the past few days he had felt dreadfully tired, as though old age had suddenly overtaken him. He went to bed early every night.
‘What happened to your hand?’ asked Sir Frank conversationally, glancing at Leo’s bandaged hand.
‘Oh, just an accident with a knife at the weekend,’ replied Leo. ‘Rather nasty, actually.’
‘Mmm. That’s bad luck.’ Frank settled back into his chair with his drink. There was a companionable silence for a few moments. Then Frank said, ‘I gather there is a rumour that Sir Basil may be joining us on the Bench later this year?’
‘I think he’s been invited, but I don’t know whether or not he’ll accept. He’s very jealous of his position as head of chambers,’ replied Leo. He paused. ‘It’s rather odd, trying to imagine chambers without Basil. He’s been the head there ever since I started.’
‘Well, I suppose his departure would leave room for a little more weight in chambers, mmm? Improves your prospects.’
Leo sighed. He didn’t want to talk about this. He would have preferred general gossip and a few stiff Scotches. ‘I don’t know if anything is capable of improving those,’ he replied.
‘Well, you know, I’ve been canvassing opinion recently,’ said Sir Frank with a comfortable air, ‘and I’m bound to tell you that, as far as one can tell, not everyone regards this – ah – business of the boy as being in the least bit important.’
‘What boy?’ asked Leo abruptly. Surely no one had heard of the weekend’s events yet, had they?
Frank looked alarmed. ‘Oh, you know. Of course you know. About that friend of yours who died some years ago. It has been widely discussed, you know.’
Leo put his glass down on Frank’s desk. He shouldn’t have come for this drink. It seemed that every time he saw Frank, he told him something which he would rather not have known.
Sir Frank went blithely on. ‘Of course, there are, well, a few who will take the hard line on that kind of thing, but you’d be surprised how many take a liberal view.’
Leo shook his head. ‘I had no idea that that – incident was known to anyone. What are they saying?’
‘Well …’ Frank looked less comfortable now. ‘That you – um, had a, had a friendship with this young person – I mean, there are those who have it that he was, in some senses, a – I believe the expression is “rent boy”.’ A pause. ‘And that – that, well, a few months after the – the association ended, he was found murdered in his flat – or, perhaps, more accurately, his bedsitting room.’ Another pause. ‘Not, of course, that there has been the slightest suggestion that your – ah, that your friendship with this young – young person and his subsequent death were in any way related. No, no. No, no. It’s just that some see – well, some see the connection as being – shall we say, somewhat unfortunate? More whisky?’ He fetched the bottle and poured anxiously.
Leo drank deeply, feeling the tingling warmth spreading from his stomach through his limbs. The gash in his hand began to throb slightly. He said nothing. It didn’t matter what Frank said about some taking a liberal view; if this was known in the Lord Chancellor’s Office, if Lord Steele had come to hear of it, then the balance was now tipped right out of his favour. The only thing that could be said on his behalf was that it had happened years ago. Nearly ten years. If Rachel, if his conduct over the past few months had had any effect, then perhaps the present could overshadow, if not entirely eradicate, the past. He stared at his drink.
‘I have got the – the gist of the thing properly, haven’t I?’ asked Sir Frank, watching Leo’s face. Dear me, he always seemed to be responsible for upsetting Leo these days. But surely he must have heard, must have realised … ? Then again, one was often the last to know.
‘Yes,’ murmured Leo, raising his glass again. ‘Yes, that’s about right. He wasn’t a rent boy, though. Not then.’ He took a drink. ‘Not,’ he added, ‘that it makes any difference. It’s what people believe that matters, isn’t it?’ He smiled slightly.
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so,’ said Frank sadly, thoughtfully. ‘But, you know,’ he added, ‘I think it will make less difference than you imagine. I mean, there is the present to consider. That is what matters.’ Thank you, thought Leo. ‘It is well known that you have – well, I believe the expression is a – ah – steady girlfriend. That kind of thing matters. They take account of that. And you are so well liked. Very well thought of by everyone on the Commercial Bench. I can assure you of that. No, no, despite this most recent rumour – dear me, there do seem to have been so many – very unfortunate, really – I think that, in spite of it, things look less black than they did. I really do think so, you know.’
He sounded so genuinely sympathetic and encouraging that Leo actually felt quite cheered. Frank made it all sound better than he had imagined. Rachel had helped. Image was everything. People’s immediate perceptions of one were what counted, not dried-up pieces of scandal from the past. And Rachel had helped, though at a cost that he could never have foreseen.
A few whiskies later, Leo made his rather light-headed way home. He decided to walk all the way, filling his lungs with night air, more sanguine about his own future than he had felt for some time.
He was rooting around in the freezer for something to eat when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’ Leo’s jaw stiffened in a yawn as he answered.
‘Mr Davies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Davies, my name’s Alan French, from The Sun. Just wondering if you can fill us in on a story we pi
cked up from the Oxford Gazette. About this chap who broke into your house last weekend – understand there was something of a bust-up. He says he was staying with you as a summer guest last year, that you had a bit of an interesting household. You and him and a young lady. Would that be right?’
Leo’s first instinct was to tell the man where to go and put the phone down, but he hesitated. That would mean they might print the story just as it was. Trying to make his voice as cool as possible, he replied, ‘Absolutely ludicrous. I don’t even know the person who broke into my house.’ But even as he said it, it sounded feeble. He should just hang up.
‘But the young lady. There was a young lady?’
‘I employed a young woman to look after the house and cook for house parties when I came down at weekends.’
‘So you completely deny everything this boy says – including that you slept with him and your – cook?’
‘Completely. Now piss off.’
He slammed the phone down and stood, tense and angry. He could see it now. ‘Barrister’s saucy summer romps. Love triangle that turned sour.’ A nice spicy little piece to liven up the February gloom. He rubbed his hands across his face, suddenly feeling very sober and not at all hungry. He must speak to Sarah before anyone else did. Christ, what if they were on to her right now? She could say anything – she had little enough reason to love Leo, after their last meeting. And she had always said, in that flip way of hers, a little toss of the blonde head, that she didn’t care what people said or thought about her; she did as she pleased. All very well to say, thought Leo, but she wouldn’t come out of this very well if she did tell the papers how things had been last summer. For all that bravado, he suspected she would rather keep it quiet. Still, he couldn’t take the chance. He had to get hold of her.
As soon as he reached chambers the next day, he asked Henry to get him the Recorder of the City of London’s office. But Sir Vivian Colman was not at his office, and was not expected until the end of the day. Leo rang Lady Margaret Hall and tried to get her address from the college, but they would not give out details of undergraduates’ addresses.
It was late in the afternoon when he managed, at last, to speak to Sarah’s father.
‘Sir Vivian, good afternoon. My name is Leo Davies, from 5 Caper Court, in the Temple.’
‘Oh, yes?’ The mention of 5 Caper Court lent Leo’s enquiry an air of respectability, at any rate. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Davies?’ Sir Vivian’s voice was as fruity and fat as he himself had appeared at Sir Basil’s party.
‘I met your daughter, Sarah, Sir Vivian, at Sir Basil Bunting’s party just before Christmas. Unfortunately, I don’t believe that you and I were introduced. But I told Sarah that I would send her some materials on – ah – that is, to help her with her international trade studies.’
‘I see.’
‘And I find that I have mislaid her address and telephone number. Naturally, her college doesn’t hand out that kind of information, and so I hoped that you might be kind enough to help me.’
‘Yes, well, I imagine I can, Mr Davies. Just one moment,’ replied Sir Vivian plummily. Leo breathed a sigh of relief.
Thirty seconds later he put down the phone, in possession of the information he needed. Leo lit one of his small cigars and dialled Sarah’s number. To his relief, she was in.
‘Hello, Sarah. This is Leo.’
In her terraced house in Oxford, Sarah smiled and picked up the telephone from the hall table, trailing it through to the sitting room. She settled herself happily in an armchair.
‘Leo. How old ghosts are haunting me these days. James called to see me last week.’
This threw Leo for a second. Then he said, ‘Oddly enough, he is rather the reason I’m calling.’
‘Oh?’ Her voice, ever knowing, made him wonder whether she already knew all about the business of last weekend.
‘Sarah, have any journalists been calling you?’
‘Not that I know of, darling. Why? Have you been doing something indiscreet?’ She curled her legs up beneath her and wound the cord of the phone round one finger.
He found it difficult to answer for a second. This had to be handled with care. He could hear from her voice that she was smiling, but Sarah’s smile could mean many things, and he did not wish to mishandle this. She could be a sour, spitting little cat.
‘I might as well tell you exactly what has happened,’ said Leo levelly. ‘James broke into the house last Saturday.’
‘Goodness.’
‘And he and I had a fight. He managed to stab me in the hand.’
‘Poor Leo.’ Sarah was not smiling now, but listening with interest.
‘When the police came and took him away, he started mouthing off about our little domestic arrangement of last summer—’
‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Sarah, her eyes narrowing.
‘—and yesterday I had some chap from The Sun ringing up and asking me about it. They picked it up from the local paper.’
‘And what did you say?’ Sarah tried to keep the anxiety from her voice, but she was touched with fear. Whatever she might airily have said to Leo, she did not wish her family, or her tutor – or anyone else, for that matter – to learn about her working life last summer.
But Leo was too practised at listening to responses, at detecting certain notes in the voices of witnesses under pressure. He heard the ever-so-slight overhastiness of her question, the giveaway.
‘I said I had never seen James in my life’ – Leo reached for his cigar and stared at its glowing tip – ‘that you had worked as my housekeeper and as a cook when I had weekend parties. And that the whole thing was an utter fabrication.’
‘Why did you bring me into it?’ she snapped, only partly relieved.
‘I didn’t, my dear. James had already done that. I didn’t mention your name, but no doubt James has done that, too. Now, the point is, I think that once Mr French from The Sun gets hold of your name, he’s going to track you down and ask you about your side of it.’
Sarah smiled and stood up, wandering over to the window with the phone, gazing out at the gathering dusk in the street. She could not resist a little malicious teasing. Why should she give Leo the reassurance he wanted?
‘Well, now,’ she said in a slow, deliberate manner, ‘I wonder what I shall say to him? Mmm? I think you’ll just have to start buying The Sun each day, Leo.’ And she put the phone down.
Leo sat staring at the receiver for a few seconds, until the dialling tone began to purr. Then he replaced it. That bitch. He felt cold inside. She could say anything. And he would be finished. He would just have to hope she was sensible about it – after all, she had something to lose, too.
The odds were stacked heavily against him now, he realised with a sinking heart, first with the story of that boy from years ago doing the rounds, now with this business … Even if Sarah backed him up, there would be talk. But he had no more cards to play. He had done everything in his power, and he had this unholy mess with Rachel into the bargain. All because Frank Chamberlin had come up with the ludicrous suggestion that he should get married.
Leo stared for a moment at the plaster covering the wound in his hand. No, that was utterly absurd. The last thing he could do was marry Rachel. That was too big a card to play, even though such a move might redress the balance spectacularly. But it was impossible. It was too much.
He swivelled round in his chair and looked out across the winking darkness of Caper Court. He heard footsteps hurrying over the flagstones, fading into silence. And he suddenly had a vision of himself, old age and obscurity closing around him, his fortunes unchanged, all hopes of further brilliance faded and forgotten, while the gas lamps burnt on in the winter’s darkness and the footsteps went hurrying by outside, on and on, down the days. If he could do anything to change that picture, he told himself, he would do it.
He opened and closed his left hand slowly, and felt suddenly overwhelmed by an inner weariness. The incident on Sat
urday night had shaken him horribly. There now crept into his mind a small, questioning doubt – were the events of last summer, the way in which he had simply picked James up and then dropped him, to blame for the way James was now, and for what had happened? He remembered his words to Sir Frank yesterday evening, talking of that poor creature, Ian, whom he had once taken to his bed and then later forgotten, only to hear of his death months later: ‘He wasn’t a rent boy. Not then.’ Not then. Leo remembered making the boy a present of some money – a lot of money, really, for someone of his age. He closed his eyes now at the recollection, and at the memory of last summer. Did he really imagine he could go back to that kind of life now? Even if he was made a QC, the evidence of his senses told him that those things in his life which he had sought to keep private were now rising to the surface like so much scum … He had learnt, to his cost, that nothing could be kept secret in this life. It had all been mere squalor.
He thought, too, of this child, his and Rachel’s, which would eventually be born. It would be a part of him. It already was. He would be someone’s father. And he recalled his own father, the longed-for presence so rarely there, and who had ultimately vanished for ever. That was a pain, a crippling loss which he could not inflict upon his own son or daughter. Maybe he could marry Rachel, and lead an ordinary sort of life. Dull, unexciting – but what had been the real excitement of his sordid escapades up until now? It would be possible, he could see that. If he did not love her – he no longer knew what love was like, he thought – then at least he felt affection for her. They had tastes in common. She was beautiful, amusing in a quiet way … And above all, this would set a respectable seal on his life at a time when he needed it most. He would have to do it. There was scarcely any alternative.