by Caro Fraser
Two of the other trustees had just arrived – Derek Harvey, the art critic, looking crumpled and weary, sporting his perennial raincoat over a polo-necked sweater and baggy jeans, and Graham Amery, a prominent banker whose elegant, pinstripe suit and shining, black shoes contrasted sharply with Derek Harvey’s appearance. Amery and Anthony chatted while Derek wandered round the main gallery morosely examining unwrapped exhibits.
Tony Gear, Labour MP for Parson’s Green, arrived five minutes later. He cultivated a deliberately scruffy look, that of a man too busy to be concerned with his appearance, content with an M&S suit and a tie that had seen better days, and battered suede shoes which he fondly imagined were becoming something of a trademark. Gear was a man who believed in the profile and the soundbite, and although his interest in modern art was negligible, he had jumped at the chance to become a trustee of Chay’s museum. The word in Westminster was that the Prime Minister, keen to deflect recent attacks on the government’s arts-funding policy, intended to establish a new Ministry for Artistic and Cultural Development. In the true socialist spirit, Tony Gear was keen for advancement. He longed to hold that ministerial post, yearned to enjoy all the trappings of high office. To be associated with the Shoreditch venture did his reputation no harm in this regard. He raised a swift hand in greeting to Anthony and Amery, and went straight to the office to fetch himself some coffee, his pager already bleeping. Derek pulled a chair up to the makeshift meeting table and sat down, unfolding his copy of the Evening Standard.
Just as Chay and Leo returned to the main gallery, Melissa Angelicos arrived, clad in a voluminous coat and a swirl of silken scarves, her capacious bag bulging with papers, her blonde hair loose. From three feet away Anthony could catch the heady drift of her perfume. She dumped her bag on a chair and began to divest herself of coat and scarves, already addressing Derek in a rapid voice about the contents of Brian Sewell’s column in the Standard.
Leo was careful to sit at the other end of the table from Melissa. She was, as far as he was concerned, bad news. He had seen the jittery, intense creature that lived behind the attractive facade, and mistrusted her. From the very first she had pursued him, and even when he had rejected and humiliated her, she seemed unwilling to give up. Leo was accustomed to the attentions of hungry, single, middle-aged women, but never had he come across one whose passion, he suspected, could turn poisonous and obsessive, if given free rein. He had no intention of allowing that to happen. On the infrequent occasions when he met her now, he was formally, almost frigidly polite. To his relief, she seemed of late to have cooled towards him. Well, he could live with that.
When everyone was seated, the meeting began; with Anthony taking minutes. As usual, apologies were conveyed to the assembly for the absence of the seventh trustee, Lord Stockeld, whose business obligations abroad were of so pressing a nature that he had so far only ever attended one trustee meeting. For forty-five minutes or so they discussed the prospective launch of the gallery, considering the guests, drawing up a list of names which would blend heavyweights from the creative and artistic spheres with a judicious sprinkling of A-list celebrities. Everybody had their own suggestions to make, and at one point Melissa and Derek wrangled briefly over two of the names. One was the art critic of an important broadsheet who had previously been a lover of Melissa’s, had dumped her, and had been the subject of a vendetta by Melissa ever since. The other was a young female artist shortlisted for last year’s Turner Prize, who had poured beer over Derek at an Ellsworth Kelly retrospective and called him a pretentious wanker. When, it had been pointed out by the rest of those present that both critic and artist were too important to omit from the guest list, the grumbling subsided and the meeting moved on to the business of fixing an exact date for the opening. This was largely dictated by the availability of the most important guests, which Chay had already ascertained, and they eventually settled on the evening of the first Saturday in March.
‘I’ll have some invitations designed and let you all see them first. Anything else we need to discuss?’ asked Chay, lighting another cigarette and glancing round.
‘Just one thing,’ said Graham Amery. ‘What about that idea that you floated before Christmas, Chay – the one about the restaurant and the cinema? I mean, it would obviously enhance the museum if we could have more than a coffee shop, and although the cinema idea is ambitious, I think it’s worth looking at. There’s certainly enough space on the site, and it seems a pity not to utilise it.’
‘I agree,’ said Melissa. ‘The coffee shop’s all very well, but a decent restaurant would be fantastic. Shoreditch is only beginning to wake up as an area, and it could be just the thing the museum needs. Obviously it would be a long-term project, but I really think we should definitely investigate it. A cinema would be marvellous, too – art house movies, Basquiat, that kind of thing …’ She waved a vague hand, then added doubtfully, ‘I suppose that would be rather expensive, though.’
‘Well, that’s the trouble,’ said Chay. ‘Money. I’m all for the idea in principle, but where would we get the funding?’
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Everybody was thinking the same thing. Surely Chay was rolling in the stuff, so why didn’t he fund it himself? But as Chay’s office staff could have told them, Chay was remarkably tight-fisted. He hated parting with his own money, kept a strict eye on the teabags, and, anyway, he would have argued, he had already expended a considerable amount on refurbishing the brewery. He wasn’t about to volunteer to build a restaurant and a cinema with his own money, not if he could find someone else to pay for them.
‘There are grants,’ said Leo. ‘Possibly Lottery money.’
‘Why don’t I look into it?’ said Anthony, scribbling it down with the rest of his notes. He was bored and hungry and wanted to get away. ‘Maybe Tony can help with finding out the sort of funding that’s available.’ He glanced at Tony Gear, who nodded.
‘Fine,’ said Chay. ‘See what you can come up with.’
The meeting broke up. Anthony picked up his coat and went to join Leo. Just as they were leaving, Melissa stopped them at the doorway and touched Leo’s arm. He was startled, unaware that she had been anywhere near him, and almost flinched. The musky breath of her perfume enveloped him.
‘Leo, I was wondering … Are you going in my direction? My car’s being serviced, and you know how hard it is to find a cab around here.’ Her beseeching smile was too winsome for a woman of her age, and somehow repellent. The last thing Leo wanted was to be alone in a car with this woman. That was how the whole thing had started – by giving her a lift home after that first trustees’ meeting. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
He moved his arm from beneath her hand. ‘I’m going in the opposite direction, I’m afraid. I’ll be happy to ring for a cab, though.’
‘Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll see if Derek can give me a lift.’ She gave him an arch look and added in a lower voice, ‘You’re always my first choice, though.’ She flicked the end of one of her long scarves over her shoulder and moved away.
‘Appalling woman,’ murmured Leo, as he and Anthony stepped out into the night air. ‘Have you seen any of her recent interview series on Channel 4? Quite abysmal. She should have stuck to the arts-magazine format. At least she could handle it.’
‘You know modern art isn’t my cup of tea. But I did read a review of her interview with Anthony Caro. Bit of a stinker. What have you got against her personally?’
‘A few months ago I made the mistake of going out for a few drinks with her. We finished up at her place.’ Leo sighed. ‘I’d rather not go into it. Let’s just say that I don’t particularly want to give her any kind of encouragement.’
Anthony stopped at the brewery gates and stared at Leo. ‘Not her as well?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Christ, Leo, it’s what I was talking about earlier! I mean, don’t you know when to stop? Isn’t there anyone you won’t sleep with?’
<
br /> Leo was nonplussed by the volatility of Anthony’s reaction. In fact, it seemed to him like an overreaction. What was this new, sensitive area they had touched upon of late? ‘I’d hardly put it that way. Nothing happened, and anyway—’
‘Oh, forget it, Leo. I don’t want a lift.’ Anthony turned angrily on his heel and walked off down the cobbled street. Leo gazed after him, bemused, tossing his car keys thoughtfully in his hand. Whatever was eating Anthony, he’d have to work it out by himself. Clearly, there wasn’t much Leo could do. He heard voices behind him, and turned to see Melissa and Derek Harvey leaving the building. He moved off hastily in the direction of his car.
Twenty minutes later, Derek’s car slowed in a queue of traffic at some lights in Bayswater. Turning to glance out of the window, Melissa saw an Aston Martin two cars ahead in the adjoining lane, waiting to turn right. The lights turned to green, and as they passed the Aston Martin still sitting in the filter lane, Melissa saw Leo’s profile, the unmistakable glint of his silver hair. She looked away abruptly. Leo had lied. He hadn’t wanted to give her a lift, hadn’t wanted her company. An insignificant slight, perhaps, but to Melissa, such things could never be insignificant.
CHAPTER THREE
February the fourteenth. Felicity contemplated the large envelope which had arrived, addressed to her, with the rest of chambers’ post. She didn’t recognise the handwriting as Vince’s. She didn’t recognise it as anybody’s. Maybe he had got someone else in the remand centre to write it for him. Somehow she couldn’t picture Vince doing anything that soft. You’d probably get beaten up, asking someone to do something like that. A valentine. Where would Vince get a valentine while on remand? And the postmark. The postmark was WC2. Not even Vince could manage that, not where he was. Besides, when had Vince ever sent her a valentine? She turned it over thoughtfully, then began to open it.
Henry watched from a discreet distance.
The card was very pretty, in a naff sort of way, very traditional, with lots of flowers, no jokey message. It just said ‘with love’ in gold letters on the front. She opened it. Inside someone had written: ‘From a distance. Always.’ Ah – that was lovely. And a bit sad, sort of enigmatic. Not Vince’s style at all. Mind you, considering the mess Vince was in, from a distance was about right. She pondered it, wondering who her remote admirer might be.
‘Ooh, somebody loves you. Just the one? I got three,’ remarked Robert, who was the post boy and trainee clerk.
Felicity clipped his head with the card, then slid it back into the envelope, smiling to herself as she did so. Henry saw the smile, and his heart turned over. In a way, it was an anti-climax. It was one thing actually to be able to see her open it and read it, but he longed to be able to tell her that it was from him. He watched as she put the card into her desk drawer, then sighed and carried on with the fee note he was drawing up. Leo came into the clerks’ room with his robing bag and took a bundle of papers from his pigeonhole. He glanced over Henry’s shoulder at the computer screen.
‘Henry, you can’t charge that – it was only a two-day hearing.’
‘It’s what the job’s worth, Mr D.’
‘Well, can’t you bring it down a bit?’ He pointed to an item on the screen. ‘You can waive that, for a start.’
Henry sighed. ‘Mr Davies, if I was to let you get away with this, we’d all be in the poorhouse. Go on, then.’ Henry tapped at the keyboard.
Robert put his head back round the door of the clerks’ room, grinning. ‘Come and have a look at this.’
Felicity and Henry went to the door. A messenger from Interflora was struggling through the front entrance from Caper Court with an enormous, heart-shaped basket filled with red roses and swathed in red ribbon. He set it down, and drew out his delivery list. ‘You got a Mr Davies here?’
Felicity glanced at Henry, who was smirking. ‘Yes,’ she answered.
‘Good,’ said the messenger, and ticked his list. ‘This lot’s for him.’ And he departed.
Henry went back into the clerks’ room, where Leo was standing in his overcoat, scanning his diary print-out. ‘Someone’s just dropped something off for you, Mr D.’ Leo glanced up. ‘Out there.’ Henry nodded in the direction of the hallway. ‘Bit big to bring in.’
Leo took off his spectacles and went out to investigate. At that moment David Liphook was coming downstairs. They both looked at the basket.
‘Good God,’ said David. ‘Who’s that for?’
Leo stepped forward and gingerly plucked the small, square envelope from among the roses. If this was a practical joke, it was a very elaborate and expensive one. He drew out the card and read, ‘From an ardent admirer. M’
‘Someone really fancies you,’ observed David, not without a shade of envy.
Leo was bemused. He must know plenty of people whose name began with M, but off the top of his head he couldn’t imagine who would have sent such a thing.
‘What the hell am I going to do with them?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ David went through to the clerks’ room, with Leo in his wake.
‘Felicity,’ said Leo, ‘would you like a very large basket of roses?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Felicity with a grin. ‘I can’t see me managing that lot on the bus tonight.’
Leo sighed. ‘Well, I’ll just have to leave them there. See if anyone else in chambers wants them, will you, Henry? Try Jeremy. I’m sure he’d be delighted to be given the chance to impress his wife at no cost to himself. I’ve got to be in court in ten minutes.’ He turned to David. ‘Did Sarah tell you she was coming to court with me this morning?’
‘Yes, she mentioned it. Said she’d be down in a moment.’
Leo went out and met Sarah coming downstairs. Pausing to pull on her coat and lift her blonde hair from beneath the collar, she glanced at the basket of roses. ‘Who on earth are those for?’
‘You. From me.’
For the briefest of seconds, Sarah believed him. Or wanted to. ‘Oh, sure. That’ll be the day.’
‘All right, but why don’t you have them, anyway?’
‘You mean they’re yours?’
‘Someone’s idea of a joke, I suppose. Come on, we’re going to be cutting it fine.’
‘A very expensive joke,’ said Sarah, as they went out together and crossed Caper Court.
‘That’s what I thought.’
Sarah felt the nibblings of a little worm of jealous curiosity. Of course, she wasn’t the only woman in London with her eye on Leo. Before he’d married Rachel, his social life had been something else – she remembered all the stiffies gracing the mantel of his place in Stanton, with probably more back in London. No doubt it had picked up again since the divorce. But who on earth would be so blatant as to send him a huge basket of flowers on St Valentine’s Day? Very uncool.
‘Don’t you have any idea who sent them?’
‘Not really. It would take a bit of pondering and deduction, and I’m afraid I haven’t really got time for that.’ They reached the top of Middle Temple Lane and crossed the Strand to the Law Courts. ‘Now,’ said Leo, ‘forget about my secret admirer and turn your mind to the Hague-Visby rules and the question of whether or not they’re incorporated in our client’s charter party by virtue of a clause paramount.’
In her office high over Bishopsgate, Leo’s ex-wife, Rachel, sat drinking her first coffee of the morning. She was in her late twenties, slender, with long, dark hair, and dressed in the cool, business-like fashion of a City solicitor. Her appearance was as meticulous as her professional dealings, giving the impression that little could ruffle that composed exterior. This morning, however, she felt distinctly discomposed. On her desk sat the latest bundle of statements in the Lloyd’s case. The documentation was unbelievable. Two years ago Fred Fenton, a fellow partner, had handled the first stage of this litigation, and he had hoped then that he had seen the last of the Lloyd’s Names. That case, in which Leo had figured prominently, had resulted in a settlement for the Names, who f
elt aggrieved by the losses they had suffered through their membership of Lloyd’s. But in the end there remained certain individuals, a somewhat eccentric and desperate band, who refused to accept the settlement and were now pressing ahead with a fraud claim against Lloyd’s. Rachel and Fred had spent the last six months in the preparation of this last-ditch stand. Now the paperwork had reached a point where Rachel and Fred, together with their team of assistants, felt they could hardly cope.
Fred came into Rachel’s office and eyed the stack of statements on Rachel’s desk. ‘Have you spent the weekend with that lot?’
She nodded and sipped her coffee. ‘I got through as much as I could. Charles is in Los Angeles at the moment, and Oliver was a real handful at the weekend. I’ll have to try to get some more done tonight. It’s got to the point where I’m skimming them. I don’t know how on earth Grimley is coping.’ Conor Grimley, QC, a veteran of the commercial bar, was their leader in the Lloyd’s case.
‘That’s what I came to see you about’ Fred, fair-haired and lanky, settled himself in one of Rachel’s office chairs. ‘The grant’s finally come through from the Legal Aid Board. So all we have to do now is decide on a leader on behalf of the legally aided Names.’
‘It’s taken them long enough. Did you have anyone special in mind?’
‘Well, a few people occurred to me. Edward Fellows, Bob Coulthard, Tim Young … The thing is, we need someone who’s really sharp when it comes to cross-examination. It’s vital to this case.’ Fred glanced hesitantly at Rachel and added, ‘I thought Leo Davies would be the ideal man, if he’s free.’
Rachel said nothing for a moment. She set her coffee cup on her desk. It was only a few months since her divorce from Leo had become final. It had been one of the most painful episodes of her life. She was lucky – she had made a new relationship with Charles, something stable and affectionate, and she and Leo had parted on good terms and reached a decent arrangement concerning Oliver. But the fact remained that Leo was the first man she had ever truly loved, and that wasn’t something Rachel thought she would ever get over. There had been a brief time last autumn when, if someone had asked her to choose between Charles and Leo, she would have chosen to return to Leo. But it wasn’t what he wanted, and she knew that such a move would have been fatally destructive. Fatal. That was the word you could apply to Leo.
