by Caro Fraser
Lady Henrietta smiled a meek and gratified smile. ‘Of course, darling, I know how precious your Fridays are to you.’
Lady Henrietta had no clear idea at all what Gideon got up to on Fridays. She only knew, in the short space of time that they had been living together recently, that those evenings were sacrosanct, given over to whatever nameless pleasures Gideon pursued until the very small hours. Saturdays were often the same. She didn’t care to think about the kinds of things he did, or the people he consorted with. There was a dark side to Gideon, and she had no wish to explore it. She had long given up any hope that he might find a nice girl with lots of money, and settle down. Not that he was wild. Far from it. Throughout the week, he kept regular hours and seemed to work very diligently at his job. Lady Henrietta had only the very vaguest idea what civil servants did, and beyond wishing that Gideon could have made his way into the higher echelons of the Foreign Office, gave her son’s career very little thought.
Gideon bent to bestow a kiss upon his mother’s papery cheek. ‘See you this evening.’
‘Lovely. I’ll pop down to Harrods and get us something nice for supper from the food hall.’ There were some habits which impoverishment could not break, and although she regarded herself as nearly destitute, Lady Henrietta’s lifestyle was still better than most.
Gideon put on his overcoat and his cashmere scarf, then left the flat and set off on the fifteen minute walk to his office in Whitehall.
The announcement from the Downing Street press office of the establishment of the new Ministry for Artistic and Cultural Development came two days later at eleven o’clock on Friday morning. Tony Gear had been informed by the Prime Minister the previous evening of his elevation to the post of Minister in charge, and rose to greet the day in fine spirits. The hours ahead would be hectic. There would be consultations with senior civil servants, briefings, a press conference at lunchtime, and then a tour of the premises in Whitehall which had been assigned to the new Ministry. He’d have to get moving on arranging redecoration and the installation of suitable furniture for his new office – Tony intended to stamp his personality and authority on this Ministry from the very outset. Tempting fate somewhat, he had dropped into Politicos bookshop a few weeks earlier and discreetly purchased a copy of Gerald Kaufman’s How to Be a Minister, and had in his spare moments dipped into this invaluable, if somewhat dated instruction manual for aspiring holders of ministerial office. He was keenly aware that the appointment of his private secretary was among the first and most important of his tasks. As the Ministry was a new one – Whitehall couldn’t line up their own squad of candidates – the job was in his gift, and Tony thought he knew just the man. For some months now he had observed Gideon Smallwood as he went about his duties as junior secretary in the Department of Culture, Media and Sport, and had been impressed by the man’s quick intelligence, discretion and general polish. Polish was something which Tony lacked, and he knew that it would greatly assist him in this new job, where he would be rubbing shoulders with thespians, directors of opera and ballet companies, as well as representatives from the Arts Council, to have by his side someone of Gideon’s sophistication. Gideon Smallwood could buff up, so to speak, the rougher aspects of Tony’s intellectual and artistic persona. Man was probably queer, but Tony thought he could live with that.
So it was, later that afternoon, that Gideon received a summons from the Government’s newest Secretary of State, and was graciously offered – and with alacrity accepted – the post of Principal Private Secretary. The glow of satisfaction which pervaded Gideon’s being as he left Tony Gear’s office was positively physical. As a PPS he would command a position of power and influence, something he had longed for. He would hold an entire private office under his sway, with secretaries and assistants of his own. As for his new master … oh, Gideon thought he had the measure of Mr Gear. He had watched him carefully over the last few months, listened to such words as he uttered in the House, studied every television appearance, taking in the clothes, the badly cut hair, the accent, the hungry, furtive eyes and the too-ready, too-loud laugh of a man who longs to be liked and yet jealously guards his own ambitions. Gideon saw a man on the make, someone probably too lightweight for Cabinet office, but who had succeeded through luck and good timing. Mr Gear’s tenure of his new office might, Gideon suspected, not be of long standing; the arts-funding brief, after all, was a notoriously tricky one. But Gideon felt he could certainly turn it to his own good use in the time available.
It was with high good humour that he worked his way through the remainder of the afternoon’s tasks. The prospect of meeting his mother and the rest of those Lloyd’s bores in a few hours suddenly seemed much more bearable.
Leo and Michael Gibbon sat at tea in the Inner Temple Common Room; Michael idly flicking through an early edition of the Evening Standard.
‘I see Blair’s having another go at appeasing the luvvies on the left,’ he remarked. ‘A new Ministry for art and culture, no less.’
‘Who’s the unfortunate being in charge of that?’ asked Leo.
‘One Anthony Gear, MP for Parson’s Green, apparently. Never heard of him.’
‘Yes, you have. He’s the scruffy one, bit of a Ken Clarke lookalike, only younger. Always banging on about the rebuilding of Wembley Stadium.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Michael, stroking his moustache with thin fingers, ‘that one. Since when did he have the right qualifications to be an Arts Minister?’
‘Presumably he’s been known to visit the odd gallery now and then. That would do. He’s also on the board of trustees of Anthony’s father’s new museum.’
‘You’re a trustee of that as well, aren’t you?’
‘Of the reactive variety.’
Michael laid down the paper and looked at Leo with interest. ‘So when will this museum open? I imagine it’ll be quite a ritzy event, Chay Cross and other artistic luminaries in attendance.’
‘Oh, yes, he’s got them all lined up – Bowie, Damien Hirst, Hockney …’
‘Really? Quite something.’
Leo glanced across as David, cup of tea in hand, came to join them. ‘How is life in the House of Lords these days?’ asked Leo, as David pulled up a chair.
David gave him a weary glance. ‘We finished this morning. I rather suspect we’re in for a right royal judicial kicking. Anyway, just as I was looking forward to a quiet life for a few weeks, Henry has arranged for me to spend five weeks in South America taking depositions on a ship-building case, as of the end of next week.’
‘Weather will be nice.’
‘I could do without it, frankly.’
‘The curse of fluent Spanish. If you will advertise your specialisms …’
‘What am I going to do about Sarah for that length of time? I can’t just leave the girl kicking her heels.’
‘Oh, someone will find her things to do,’ remarked Michael. ‘Jeremy, for instance.’
‘Spare her that,’ said Leo. ‘If you want Sarah kept busy while you’re away, she can help me to prepare for this Lloyd’s case.’
David rubbed his chin. ‘Yes. She might enjoy that.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but she could be useful.’
‘Who’s your junior?’
‘I rather think it’s going to be Camilla.’
Michael glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better be getting back.’
Leo drained his cup. ‘I’ll join you.’
They walked back through the cloisters. ‘So what’s this bunch of Lloyd’s Names like?’ Michael asked Leo. ‘As much fun as the last lot?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll find out tonight. The committee chairman is hosting a reception at the Guard’s Club, and I’m going along.’
‘Have you time for a quick game of squash beforehand?’ asked Michael.
‘Absolutely. I’ve got a con in ten minutes, but it shouldn’t last long. Book a court for five.’
Leo passed Sarah on the stairs. ‘By the w
ay, I just spoke to David at tea. Apparently he’s going abroad for a few weeks, so out of the goodness of my heart I said I’d take you under my wing while he’s away. You can help Camilla and me to prepare for the Lloyd’s case.’
Sarah’s initial pleasure faded. ‘Camilla?’
‘She’s my junior. Some problem?’
‘No,’ muttered Sarah, and passed on into the clerks’ room. The idea of being Camilla’s dogsbody for a few weeks was singularly unattractive. Still, at least it meant being around Leo on a full-time basis, and that might present all kinds of useful opportunities.
After a few games of squash with Michael, Leo drove home to his flat in Belgravia. The red light was winking on his answerphone. Dropping his coat on a chair, Leo pressed the button and let the tape wind back, which it did, at length, indicating that there were quite a few messages. He poured himself a drink and loosened his tie.
At first he didn’t recognise the breathy female voice.
‘Leo darling, I hope you liked the roses …’ He turned cold. Melissa. The basket of flowers which had turned up the other day in chambers. Melissa had sent that thing. The voice went on. Wasn’t I naughty? But I can never resist Valentine’s Day, not if there’s someone special. And you are very special. I wanted to show you that I’m prepared to put things behind us and make a new start. Do you think we can do that? I could tell at the meeting the other night that there’s still that chemistry between us. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’ Click. The message ended.
Leo sat, slightly stunned. The next three messages, from his stockbroker, a bookshop and his mother respectively, played, but Leo wasn’t listening properly. What had got into that woman? He’d made it perfectly clear he wasn’t in the slightest bit interested. In fact, he’d been pretty sure she’d seen him at the traffic lights after he’d declined to give her a lift at the last trustees’ meeting, which must have told her that he’d lie rather than spend time with her. Yet here she was, cooing down the phone like Fenella Fielding, telling him she was waiting to hear from her. Barking. That was the only logical explanation. Oh well, best just to ignore it and hope she would go away. He showered and changed, then took a cab to St James’s to offer himself up for inspection by the Committee of Lloyd’s Names.
It was Gideon’s policy to arrive late at most functions – not so late as to imply discourtesy, but allowing sufficient time to have elapsed to enable him to scan the room, assess the company, swiftly decide whom to bother with and whom to avoid, and work the room in the most expedient manner. He entered the dreary portals of the Guards’ Club at half past seven and was directed to the room where the Lloyd’s Names were holding their bash. He stood to one side of the doorway and surveyed the room. There were one or two faces he knew, elderly Lloyd’s Names and acquaintances of his mother’s, but for the most part he reckoned them to be geriatric nonentities. Hardly anyone seemed to be under fifty. He stepped forward and took a glass of champagne from a tray – one sip told him it was inferior and insufficiently chilled – and went to greet his mother, vowing as he did so that he would be clear of this place in twenty minutes, if not less.
‘Gideon, darling!’ His mother was bright-eyed with pride and affection as she clasped his arm and proffered her cheek for his kiss. ‘You know Verity Eames, and her husband Charlie? And this is Harold Bessemer – Harold, may I introduce my son, Gideon …?’ Gideon smiled into the rheumy eyes and shook the bony, liver-spotted hands, recalling from childhood the sensation of being offered like some tender morsel to the hungry yearnings of the elderly. How they liked young people, how they looked to them eagerly for some sustenance, for news of the vital world of which they were no longer part. Gideon, as he sipped his champagne and made charming, bright conversation, squirmed inwardly. The only good thing to be said of a gathering such as this was that it dispelled any sense of one’s own incipient middle age. To be thirty-six felt positively juvenile.
On the other side of the room, Leo had been cornered by Sir Caradog-Browne and his cohorts and was being closely quizzed as to his view of the case, their chances of success and his intended strategy. Conor Grimley, the elderly Irish leader already instructed in the case, stood by, sipping his champagne and feeling faintly huffy. He was put out by the fact that Leo had been brought into the case, being of the view that he could conduct the cross-examination of the Lloyd’s witnesses perfectly well. Of course, he knew Leo’s style, and it was a modern approach which he did not care for. Leo was too easy and friendly with judges and witnesses, he didn’t keep the kind of reserved distance which QCs of the old school did. On the other hand, he could be acerbic and cutting to a point which Conor regarded as rude. Conor had been on the other side from Leo in a couple of cases, and knew that Leo regarded the lengthy case conferences which Conor himself thought necessary to the proper preparation of a case to be time-wasting. He was determined that Leo’s legendary energy and briskness would not force him beyond the customary leisurely pace at which he liked to conduct things. It might put him in conflict with Leo, but that would just be too bad. He’d been instructed first, anyway.
Leo stood, his champagne untasted, nodding and listening with every evidence of keen interest to the detailed litany of complaint from the Names surrounding him. Their grumblings fell upon his ears with a numbing familiarity. He knew what lay ahead. It was all a matter of patience and reassurance, of apparently complying with their mad suggestions and schemes, their crafty plans to scupper the other side, and of gently distracting their fevered minds while trying to conduct the case as one saw fit. Fortunately, Rachel and Fred would take most of the flak if the committee got stroppy, as he knew they would. No doubt Conor Grimley had been happily going along with everything they’d said up to this point, allowing factions to develop. Conor would do most things for a quiet life. Leo had already taken on board the fact that two opposing camps existed in terms of tactics. He glanced across to where Lady Smallwood and friends formed their own huddle and wondered whether there was some way of smoothing out the tensions which clearly existed. Division between the Names would only make things very difficult as the case got underway. He noticed that a younger man had joined the group and regarded him with interest for several seconds. Very attractive. Wasn’t there something familiar about him? At that moment the man looked across, and as their eyes met Leo knew that he had encountered him before. But where? He couldn’t think.
On the other side of the room, Gideon knocked back the remains of his champagne and smiled, ‘You didn’t tell me the new leader was Leo Davies, Mother.’
Lady Henrietta glanced up at her son and then across at Leo. ‘I told you his name. I’m absolutely sure I did. Why – have you heard of him? That is a good sign.’
‘I haven’t just heard of him – I know him. From some time ago. He was my sponsor when I was at Bar school.’
‘Your what, darling?’ Lady Henrietta, after three glasses of champagne, looked sweetly baffled.
‘Sponsor. It’s when an older barrister is nominated by his Inn to look after a younger one. You dine with them, have the odd drink, then after a while they get bored, and the whole thing rather fades away. I was Leo’s spondee.’
‘Isn’t that something to do with dactyls? Or so I always thought. How very quaint.’ Lady Henrietta looked across at Leo again, this time more searchingly. ‘He’s very good-looking.’
‘Hmm. Always was. Gone grey a bit early, though.’ Gideon was rather proud of the fact that his own hair was still dark and lustrous.
‘Well, why don’t you bring him over? I think Caradog-Browne has monopolised him for quite long enough. We have a few important points to put to him, haven’t we, Harold?’
Gideon set down his glass and sauntered across the room. Leo glanced round and saw Gideon approaching. Damn it, the man was smiling at him. He clearly remembered Leo, but Leo for the life of him couldn’t place the fellow.
Gideon stretched out a hand ‘I don’t expect you recall me,’ said Gideon, with uncharacteristic mod
esty, as Leo shook his hand. ‘Gideon Smallwood. I was your spondee at one time. No doubt one of many, so I would hardly expect you to remember me.’ This was quite untrue. Gideon always expected to be remembered, but he was prepared to forgive Leo. It had been fifteen years, after all.
‘Good heavens, of course I remember you, Gideon – how are you?’
‘Very well, thanks. I’m one of your clients, as a matter of fact. My mother, Lady Henrietta is over there by the window. She’s a member of the committee and she’d very much like to meet you.’
Gideon introduced Leo to Lady Henrietta and friends, and Leo sat for a good half-hour having roughly the same conversation as he had had with the other lot. This time his concentration was disturbed by the surprise of meeting up with Gideon Smallwood again. The Gideon of fifteen years ago had been a slight, rather effeminate youth, with beautiful eyes and an unsettling manner, and an ageless quality about him. He had been a fixture in the Inner Temple Common Room for several months, playing endless games of bridge with his friends. A fiendishly excellent bridge player, Leo recalled. But at the time they knew one another, Gideon was already unenthusiastic about the practice of law, and when eventually his dapper presence was no longer to be seen in the Common Room and around the Inns of Court, Leo for one was not surprised.
He glanced at Gideon, who was leaning by the window, half-listening to the conversation, bored, Leo could instantly tell, out of his wits. At a glance he took in the details of Gideon’s expensive clothing, his air of utter assurance, and wondered what Gideon had made of the world, and the world of Gideon, over these fifteen years. Gideon’s fine-boned face had filled out slightly, and the lovely eyes had a weary air, but he still looked dashing and youthful. Leo was aware that Gideon was exactly, in a superficial sense, the kind of man he usually found sexually attractive, but, looking at him now, he felt no direct response, but rather a sense of unease. Gideon, bored and restless, eyeing the room, was an enigma.
