by Caro Fraser
‘Sell it.’ Gideon waved an airy hand. ‘All of it. All your Lehrmans. Pocket the proceeds and buy things you really like. That’s what I’d do.’
‘You’re not a sentimentalist, are you, Gideon?’ Leo settled himself in a chair.
‘Good God, no. When I tire of something or someone, I dispense with them. Out they go. Life’s really too short, old thing.’
Leo knocked back the remains of his Scotch. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It used to be my code for survival, and certainly life was less complicated when I lived it that way.’
‘No use being stuck with things you don’t like, pictures or people.’
Suddenly Leo’s front door bell rang, and he went to answer it. It was Mrs Gresham.
‘Someone called earlier and left this package for you, Mr Davies. A woman.’
Leo took the parcel from Mrs Gresham, and glanced at it with a certain sense of misgiving. ‘A woman?’
‘A blonde woman. Middle aged. She seemed a little agitated. Anyway,’ she turned to go back downstairs, ‘I’ve done my duty, Mr Davies. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs Gresham. Thank you.’ Leo closed the door. He stared at the package, neatly wrapped, his name printed on the front in handwriting he did not recognise, but whose author he could guess. Slowly he opened it and stared at the contents. He unfolded the letter, saw the number of sheets and glanced only at the first and last pages before folding it up again and dropping it on the hall table. He set the gift down next to it and sighed, passing his hand over his face.
Gideon came through from the drawing room. ‘Something up?’ His quick glance scanned Leo’s face intently, then settled into mildness as Leo turned to him.
‘No, nothing. Just some damn pest of a woman.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you must be used to that …’ Before Leo could stop him, Gideon had picked up the unwrapped leather pouch from the hall table. He slid the tiepin into his hand and admired it. ‘How very lovely. I wish some woman would pester me with trinkets.’ He raised his eyes to Leo’s. ‘Only in my case, you know, that’s rather unlikely to happen.’
His gaze remained fixed on Leo’s, searching there for some clue. Leo had talked about his ex-wife, and his child, but Gideon was not convinced. He had a sixth sense for these things, could usually spot someone’s sexual orientation at twenty paces. Leo, however, was an enigma. For the briefest of seconds, Gideon’s sharp senses detected a momentary unease in the atmosphere. No, whatever the truth about Leo might be, Gideon could tell when someone was attracted to him. There was nothing there. They were standing close together, yet even at this proximity there was no flicker of a muscle, no glance of the eye, not the slightest response. This would have been the moment – if Leo cared to take the hint. Gideon had given him the opening with his last utterance.
His gaze slid away from Leo’s and he dropped the pin back in its leather pouch. Then he turned and walked back into the drawing room. Leo stood for a moment in the hall, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. It had been a most odd, almost uncomfortable moment. He walked to the drawing room, where Gideon was finishing his drink.
‘Would you care for another?’ Leo asked. Without quite knowing why, he hoped Gideon wouldn’t.
‘No, thanks. I have to be going. It’s been a pleasant evening, though. I enjoyed strolling round the Temple, revisiting the pubs.’ He went past Leo into the hall and slipped on his overcoat. His manner and movements were assured, but slightly distant.
Leo felt himself to be at some peculiar disadvantage, as though some discourtesy had occurred for which he should apologise. A significant balance had subtly shifted between himself and Gideon. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason why, but was suddenly moved, as though to make up for whatever had happened, to say, ‘By the way, I was wondering whether you’d be interested in coming to the opening of Chay Cross’s new modern art museum in Shoreditch on Friday evening. Since you seem interested in my own modest collection.’
‘Far from modest,’ replied Gideon, turning up the collar of his coat. ‘That’s very kind of you. I should like to come.’
‘Good,’ said Leo. ‘I’ll put a couple of invitations in the post.’ He picked up a pen from the hall table. ‘What’s your address?’
‘Oh, best send them to my mother’s place. I’ll be there for some time yet, until my place is finished.’ Preparing to depart, Gideon stretched out a hand and patted Leo’s shoulder. ‘You must come to dinner and meet some of my friends when I move in. I’m sure you’d like them.’
Leo smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He wondered in that instant, though, whether he wanted to be drawn into any further intimacy with Gideon. The man was good company, but something lurked behind those smiling, mischievous eyes. He opened the door to let Gideon out. ‘There’s a cab rank just up by Sloane Square. Should be plenty of taxis at this time of the evening. It’s still early.’
‘Oh, no trouble – I’ll walk. Thanks for the drink.’ And he was gone, feet noiseless on the carpeted stair. The front door closed. Leo went back into his flat and stared at Melissa’s gift and her letter. With a muttered curse he folded up the unread pages of the letter and put them on the table with the tiepin. Something about the events of the last ten minutes had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and he couldn’t for the life of him tell whether it was to do with Gideon or the wretched Angelicos woman. He went back into the drawing room, turned on some music, poured himself another drink, and wished he were not alone. The thought of Camilla, and her sweet, uncomplicated nature, came suddenly unbidden to his mind, and he allowed it to rest there, soothing him, letting it evolve into musings of an altogether more voluptuous nature. Thinking how pleasant it would be to have her here, in every sense, he closed his eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Leo brooded over the business of Melissa on his way into work. The basket of roses on Valentine’s Day – that he could have dismissed as the silly expression of an over-the-top infatuation. He’d known those before. Even the gift which she’d left with Mrs Gresham yesterday, tiresome though it was, could be dealt with somehow. Throw into the equation the fact that the woman had lain in wait for him late at night in an unbalanced, emotional state … well, the whole thing became more sinister. Apart from anything else, what seemed to Leo most unsettling was the fact that Melissa Angelicos, far from having any grounds for showering him with gifts and protestations of affection, had every reason to dislike him intensely. He had rebuffed every advance she’d made – apart from that drunken evening when he’d inadvertently humiliated her – and had been positively rude to her. If, as seemed to be the case, she had developed some kind of obsession with him, there was every chance that it could manifest itself in unpleasant ways, too.
He strode from Temple station and up through Fountain Court, wondering how best to deal with it. Presumably he would have to see her on Friday evening, at the museum opening, which wasn’t a prospect he relished. Then again, she was hardly likely to embarrass them both in public – was she? – and it would afford an opportunity in which to return her gift and letter, and spell out to her, in the most civilized terms, that unless she desisted from writing to him or visiting him, or sending him gifts, or communicating with him in any way at all, except at the trustee meetings which they both had to attend, he would take legal steps against her. That should be enough. If he acted firmly, he could stop this nonsense before it went any further.
Anthony, on his way down Middle Temple Lane, saw Leo coming through Fountain Court. The sight of the familiar figure, silver head bent in thought, hands in the pockets of his dark cashmere coat, gave Anthony a start of pleasure. He and Leo had scarcely spoken since the trustees’ meeting, and the effort of remaining aloof was tiresome. Anthony was glad of the opportunity to accost him with some good news. He waited for Leo at the entrance to Caper Court. Looking up from his reverie, Leo saw Anthony and smiled. They fell into step together, and Anthony pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Leo, who unfolded it.
‘Remember Edward Choke?’ asked Anthony.
‘Basil’s nephew?’
‘The same. Well, I bumped into him in the Devereux a couple of weeks ago, and he told me he was working in the new Ministry for Artistic and Cultural Development. I asked if he might be able to help out with funding for the museum, and I got this letter from him this morning. Believe it or not, he’s actually an officer with responsibility for handling East London bids for arts funding, and he reckons he might be able to pull a few strings. He’s sent some forms.’
Leo scanned the letter. ‘So he’s working for Tony Gear?’ He wondered if Edward was acquainted with Gideon Smallwood. It seemed very probable.
‘I imagine he’s fairly low down the ladder. When we met him, he wasn’t exactly talking about this job as a long-term thing. He comes into his trust fund next year.’
‘Well, that’s probably a blessing for Her Majesty’s Civil Service. Have you told Chay?’
‘No, I’ll tell him on Friday at the opening.’
Leo handed the letter back to Anthony. ‘I do foresee problems, you know. Now that Tony Gear is the Minister for the Arts, I don’t know how it would look if his department starts handing out grants to a museum of which he’s a trustee.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ They mounted the steps to the doorway of 5 Caper Court. ‘Surely, he’ll have to step down from the trusteeship of the museum?’
‘I imagine he will.’
‘In which case, we can appoint another trustee and go ahead with the funding application.’
‘Possibly. I think it might be worth talking to Chay and Tony Gear about it on Friday evening.’
In his room, Leo hung up his coat and commenced the endless task of studying the documentation in the Lloyd’s case. He glanced at the empty table and chair in the corner which Sarah was temporarily occupying, now that David was in Bermuda. Half past nine, and she still wasn’t in. Not exactly committed and industrious.
Recalling their conversation in the pub, Leo reflected that marrying a rich man was probably the best option for Sarah. She was never going to hack it at the commercial bar at this rate.
Shortly after ten o’clock, Sarah arrived and set down a cup of coffee on Leo’s desk and one on her own. She yawned and sat down. ‘OK, put me to work.’
‘Those came over from Nichols last night.’ Leo pointed to two large cardboard boxes of documents by the door. ‘Go through everything and make sure it’s all properly paginated and in date order.’
‘God, that’s going to take days. How boring.’
Leo was beginning heartily to regret suggesting that Sarah help out on the Lloyd’s case. The relationship between them was such that it was easy for Sarah to treat him, and everything to do with the case, too casually. What he really needed was someone scurrying around in mortal fear of him, carrying out orders instantly and with meticulous care.
He leant back in his chair. ‘I’d suggest, too, that from now on you get in on time. Start taking this case seriously.’
She sipped her coffee nonchalantly. ‘OK, OK. Why don’t I spend more nights with you? That way you could make sure I was in bright and early.’
Leo sighed. ‘Don’t presume too much on what’s gone on between us in the past, Sarah – this is work, you know.’
‘All right, don’t get stressy. I had a late night. Sorry.’ She opened the top box and began to haul out Lever Arch files.
‘Maybe you should give up late nights for the duration of this case. Take a leaf out of Camilla’s book, put work before your social life.’
Sarah snorted. ‘That’s not exactly hard for Camilla. She hasn’t got a social life. Never has had, unless you count Anthony.’ She bent her head over the pages of a file.
Leo didn’t bother to reply to this, and they worked on throughout the morning in relative silence, interrupted only by the occasional phone call and by the sounds of the workmen in the annexe. When he glanced across at Sarah she seemed to be working diligently enough, and Leo hoped he would find everything in order when the hearing started. You never knew with Sarah.
Melissa woke late, slightly hung over from a party the night before. She lay back, massaging her aching temples with her fingers, thinking about the evening. It hadn’t been her kind of thing at all, a desperate relaunch of a fashion magazine by a friend who was old enough to know better. The place had seemed to be jammed to the hilt with impossibly young people, the women all interchangeably pretty. Melissa hated their fresh faces, their perfect smiles, their silky hair and gym-slip bodies. Everybody seemed to be bloody young these days. It had happened overnight. One minute her world – the world of television, art and fashion – had been populated by people of her own age, and the next it was apparently run by children. How horribly significant the slipping of the years became. In two months she would reach her forty-eighth birthday, and then fifty loomed menacingly close. She sat up and fished a cigarette from the packet on her bedside table, lit it, and lay back again. She had given up six years ago, but recently pressures had got to her …
She glanced at the clock. Ten past eleven. Her commissioning editor had arranged lunch today. Twelve-thirty at the Ivy. Her mind shied away from the possible reasons why he might want to talk to her, buying an expensive lunch to cushion her against – what? She didn’t want to think about it. Everything these days felt precarious. One newspaper had recently axed her weekly arts diary. She told herself she didn’t care. There was enough work on the journalistic side, even though she hated the deadlines. It was more the empty spaces. The ones in her life and in her head, which she tried to fill up. Things had changed subtly over the last year or so. The life that had once seemed busy and bright had become arid and threatening. Anxieties which she had once coped with now obsessed her, thoughts of dying, or loneliness, or the point of waking up to face life. Sometimes there were pauses in the day when her mind would fill with frightening thoughts, and she would try to talk herself out of the fear. Literally. Sit and talk, make it go away. Her own voice in her ears.
There was always one escape. There was one place of feathery fantasy, as mentally comforting as eiderdown, to which she could go. She rose from her bed and crossed the room, and took from her underwear drawer a buff folder. She carried it back to bed with her and opened it, drawing’ out the contents one by one. Not many, admittedly. Photos of Leo were hard to come by. She had managed to cull these few from the photo library of one of the newspapers she wrote for, some attached to brief articles about important cases in his career, one from a piece in The Times of two years ago about top earners in the legal world, and two which formed part of a long piece printed in the Evening Standard a year ago, devoted entirely to Leo. This she treasured. She reread the piece over and over, dwelling on the tantalizing little clues, the paragraph about his divorce, the speculation about the loneliness of so successful a figure …
Melissa stroked long fingers over the newsprint picture of Leo striding into the Law Courts. He must be lonely. She felt he was. She knew him. She had been close to him for a few hours, and they could be close again. Properly. It was a matter of persistence. He would see. Poor, lonely Leo. They were made for one another. He would see. The gift would help, soften him. She could find many more of those. Little kindnesses, reminders that she cared for him. She might have to keep reminding him. Or else there were other ways to make sure he paid attention.
Melissa rose from the bed, put the folder back in the drawer and went to shower. She felt pliant, easier in her mind after looking at the photos. They were the next best thing to seeing Leo in the flesh. Which she would on Friday. That evening held many possibilities. It could be wonderful – they could be wonderful to one another. It only took a little sense on Leo’s part to see that it was better for him, for everyone, if she was happy. It was up to Leo to make sure, to be careful not to make her angry. It was all up to him.
Mark Ashton sat at the table in the Ivy, sipping his spritzer, waiting for Melissa. He was a fresh faced, chubby m
an in his late thirties, sporting youthful clothes, shoes and haircut, as befitted the head of a television production company. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to one. The Melissas of this world always made a point of being late. He tapped his fingers nervously on the table, working over in his mind how he was going to play this lunch. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing – hated it, in fact. But the interview series was proving to be little short of a disaster, and someone had to tell her they were pulling it after this first run. How would she react? Apart from knowing she had a reputation for being mildly eccentric, he had also heard she could be a complete banshee on occasions. He glanced round the restaurant, hoping she wasn’t likely to make a scene.
At that moment he caught sight of her coming through the door and raised a hand in greeting, smiling automatically. They double-kissed one another as though long lost friends, their expressions conveying delight at seeing one another, their eyes wary. For the first hour or so, Mark made cosy, chatty conversation. He specialised in putting people at their ease, keeping things light. They gossiped, talked about Mark’s children, and then the property in Italy which Melissa had inherited the previous year – the Italian theme kept them going for a good twenty minutes.
Mark wasn’t sure whether or not it was a good thing that Melissa was knocking back the Chablis in a businesslike fashion – probably good, he decided. Hoped. As he thought of what he had to say, he felt a flash of pity for her. She had clearly been something of a beauty fifteen years or so ago, but it had all faded and grown hard. The quirky enthusiasm and offbeat charm, which had made her such a good presenter when she had started in the late eighties, seemed to have dried up, coarsened somehow. Would there be much more work for her after this? He doubted it. She’d probably had her day. By the time they had finished the main course, he could put it off no longer – the tension was too palpable.
