by Caro Fraser
‘So, tell me—’ said Mark, leaning back in his chair, ‘how do you think the series is going?’
Melissa took some time to light a cigarette. ‘Hard to judge, really – we’re only halfway.’ A little knot of suspicion and fear tightened inside her.
Mark nodded thoughtfully, gravely. ‘True. But we’re not getting good feedback. I’m sure you’re aware of that …’
It took five minutes. He watched the anger growing steadily in her, but carried on with what he had to tell her.
‘I see,’ said Melissa.
‘Naturally, you’re disappointed. We all—’
‘Of course I’m fucking disappointed!’ flashed Melissa, crushing out her cigarette. She kept her voice low, to his relief. ‘I put everything into this series, and now you pull it from under me! God …’ She looked away, blinking.
He prayed she wasn’t going to cry. Not yet, at any rate. He hadn’t finished. He leant forward, about to carry on. But she had started talking. Talking in a low, breathless voice about something he couldn’t at first understand. Then he realised that she was talking about love, about how everybody needed one special person in their life. She was making sense, but it had nothing to do with anything. Not that he could see. The expression on Melissa’s face was wild and soft, and she kept her eyes fixed earnestly on the tablecloth as she talked. At first, Mark made sympathetic noises, nodding from time to time. Then he grew faintly alarmed. She didn’t seem to be with it at all. He laid a hand on her arm, and she stopped, quite abruptly, and looked up at him. Something which seemed to have fled from her eyes returned in that moment.
There was silence for a few seconds, in which space of time Mark decided to pretend nothing untoward had happened. He also decided to shelve the other piece of bad news for the moment, that the magazine programme which she’d hosted for ten years was going to get the chop, too. That could go in a letter. There was something a little wrong here, and he didn’t want to upset her further.
‘So … you do understand?’ He had to make sure she’d taken it on board.
She lifted her chin and gave him a brief, hard look. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I do. I suppose you have to pretty it up with lunch, and so forth …’ She picked up her bag. ‘I have things to do. There really isn’t any point in making small talk over the coffee. I’ll be speaking to my agent about this.’
Mark said nothing. He didn’t like to tell her he had already discussed it very fully with her agent. He let her go. She was furious, and he couldn’t blame her. But the series was no good. She couldn’t cut it any more. Even dear old Sir Anthony Caro hadn’t been able to salvage much from his interview, hard though he’d tried. Mark sat back in his chair, glad it was over. It could have been a hell of a sight worse. He allowed himself another twenty seconds or so to feel sorry for the poor old bat, then asked for the bill.
Camilla had had a hearing all day, and returned to chambers at five. She went to Leo’s room, where he and Sarah were still working in industrious silence.
Leo glanced up. ‘Just the woman. Have you got a couple of hours? Freshfields have sent over the agreed list of issues. We’ll have to spend some time going through it this evening, I’m afraid. I’d like to be able to talk to Fred and Rachel about it first thing tomorrow.’
‘Fine,’ said Camilla. ‘I’ll just get myself a coffee. Anyone else want one?’
Leo shook his head and carried on writing.
Sarah glanced up and gave Camilla a smile. ‘No thanks. I’ve done my stint for today.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Another twenty minutes and I’m off. Meeting some friends for a drink.’ She leant her chin on one hand. ‘Don’t you find that all the work you do is seriously interfering with your social life? I mean, isn’t there a balance to be struck in these things?’
‘If there is, it’s a balance you haven’t exactly got right yet,’ remarked Leo, seeing the defensive look on Camilla’s face.
Sarah shrugged and turned back to the documents. When Camilla had left the room, Leo added, ‘Lay off Camilla. She’s having to work bloody hard at the moment.’
‘Just as well. She’s got nothing else to do.’
Leo sighed. ‘Why don’t you make an early start for the wine bar? Leave me in peace.’
Sarah was happy to agree. As she was putting on her coat, she remarked, ‘If you feel like some company later on, I’ll be home around eight.’
‘Don’t you think we’ve had enough of one another for one day?’
‘Oh, I don’t think of myself as having had you in any way at all. In fact, it’s been a long while … A fortnight, at least.’ She came round his desk, leant down and kissed him briefly, lifting his hand to her breast.
Leo stroked his thumb over her stiffening nipple. ‘You are—’ He stopped, pushing her gently away.
‘Mad?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head and picked up his pen again. ‘Impossible. Stop doing this in my room. It’s very distracting.’
She went back to her desk and picked up her bag. She could hear Camilla approaching the room, and as she came in bearing a file of papers and a cup of coffee, Sarah, as though she hadn’t seen her, glanced across at Leo and said, casually, intimately, ‘See you later, then.’
She gave Camilla a little smile as she passed her. ‘Night, night.’
Camilla and Leo pored over the list of issues to be agreed between both sides in the Lloyd’s case until well after seven. Leo was grateful for the intelligence and incisiveness of Camilla’s approach to every aspect of the case. He’d harboured certain doubts about taking her as his junior at the beginning, but he had none now. The work she’d done so far on the skeleton argument was as good as anything Anthony could produce. As they were shuffling papers back into order, Leo glanced across his desk at her. She looked tired and slightly dejected. He thought about what Sarah had said about her, how all she had in her life was work, and felt mild stirrings of guilt. He might be appreciative of the amount of time she was putting in on the case, but she should have other things in her life.
‘Tell me,’ said Leo, on a sudden whim, ‘what are you doing tomorrow night?’
She looked across at him in surprise. ‘Why? Do you need me to work late again?’
‘God, no. Not on a Friday night. I wondered whether you were busy.’
‘I’m going to a dinner party with some friends.’
Leo wondered why on earth he’d been so convinced that what Sarah had said was true. How stupid. You only had to look at Camilla to realise that she must have plenty of friends, and a normal, London social life. What did Sarah know about it? Why had he formed some image of Camilla as a lonely young thing, spending the evenings and weekends alone? It was ludicrous, really. But he was also aware of a sense of disappointment, one which prompted him to ask, unguardedly, ‘Can you cancel it?’
Instantly she wanted to say yes, yes, that anything he wanted, she would do. While she hesitated, Leo went on, ‘You see, I’m a trustee of a museum of modern art in Shoreditch. It’s having its opening-night party tomorrow, quite an up-market affair, if you like celebrities and endless supplies of champagne. I thought it would do my image good to have a pretty young thing like you on my arm.’
It was badly put. Gathering her courage, Camilla replied, ‘I’m not really into massaging egos, I’m afraid. I’m sure you can find someone else. Sarah, perhaps. Besides, I don’t want to let my friends down.’ She had astonished even herself. She wanted more than anything to spend an evening with Leo, but some instinct told her this was the right thing to do.
Baffled, Leo leant back and folded his hands behind his head. ‘Sorry – maybe I didn’t put that very well. I don’t want my ego massaged. That wasn’t why I asked you. I quite understand that you’d rather not cancel the dinner party. But what on earth has Sarah to do with it?’
‘I happened to hear her parting remark to you this evening.’
Leo frowned. ‘Which was?’
‘Something to the effect that she would see y
ou later. I took that to mean tonight.’
She didn’t want to believe that Leo was just another of those randy old QCs, chasing every skirt in chambers, but if she had read Sarah correctly, that was what he was.
She had to fight to keep a sense of proportion in the face of her feelings for him.
Leo regarded her thoughtfully, then rose and came round from behind his desk. He put his hands in his pockets, leaning against the desk, close to her. He found the remote, defensive look on her face rather sweet, quite a turn-on, in fact. Camilla couldn’t take her eyes from his, waiting for what he had to say.
Leo put his fingers gently beneath her chin, and said softly, ‘She was saying goodnight, that’s all. It’s just a turn of phrase.’ He leant forward to kiss her.
Camilla drew back. ‘Don’t’ There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I really don’t think this is a good idea at all, Leo. I’m your junior on an important case. This kind of thing could be—’
‘What?’ Leo felt disturbed, slightly annoyed. He knew she wanted him, he felt it. So what was all this about?
‘Damaging. You should realise that.’
She turned away and began to put papers into her briefcase. Then she picked up her jacket from the back of a chair and put it on.
‘Look,’ said Leo, disliking the position he found himself in, ‘if this is simply about Sarah, let me assure you that you have entirely the wrong idea. I asked you to come tomorrow night because I want your company. And I wanted to kiss you because …’ He paused. She looked up and met his eyes. He took his cue and smiled, a sensual but kind smile, one that made Camilla’s insides melt. ‘Because you are extremely pretty and because it’s hard being near you without wanting to kiss you.’
Camilla fought against her feelings. ‘Then maybe you’d better find another junior. One of us has to be professional about things.’ She looked away again, picking up her belongings. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.’ And she was gone.
Leo stood leaning against the desk, examining his feelings. He had just come close to making an utter fool of himself – and what for? What he had told her was true. Spending this much time with her, he had developed feelings for her which he couldn’t define; the easiest thing was to translate them into simple terms of desire. It was more complicated than that, he knew, something to do with the respect he had for her mind and her abilities, and little ways she had of doing and saying things … Putting it plainly, he wanted her. And the way she had rebuffed him made him want her even more. He felt angry with himself, and with her. That high-handed line about professionalism. The trouble was he knew she was right.
He moved back around his desk and sat down. The arousal he had felt as he leant to kiss her was still there. He glanced down at his papers. He couldn’t work any more tonight. After a few seconds’ thought he reached out for the phone. There was one easy way to relieve his feelings.
At the other end, Sarah picked up the phone. ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour,’ said Leo.
Half an hour before the museum opening party, Chay was into his twenty-second Gauloise of the day. He had been there all afternoon, pacing anxiously from gallery to gallery, reviewing the installations, making last-minute switches and adjustments. In the central gallery, waiters in black tie hovered behind white-linen-draped tables laden with food and champagne. On a table in the foyer, copies of the museum’s catalogue stood in pristine, glistening heaps for the guests. In the smaller, offshoot galleries, assistants were making final lighting adjustments and fretting over the video installations. The atmosphere was buoyant and buzzing.
Leo and Anthony arrived together, having changed in chambers. It occurred to Anthony that he was quite glad Edward Choke was coming. He doubted whether, apart from the trustees and his father, he would know anyone else. One by one the trustees arrived, Derek Harvey in newly washed and pressed denims for the occasion, Tony Gear looking self-important, with a couple of political underlings in tow, and Melissa, scented, carefully made-up, her blonde hair loosely pinned up, dressed in a dazzling blue creation in silk and chiffon and looking ten years younger than usual. Graham Amery and Lord Stockeld, with their middle-aged wives dressed in safely staid evening attire, represented the affluent and dignified world of commerce.
Guests began to drift in, and as the minutes passed and the museum filled, the air grew brighter and shriller with conversation. Cigarette smoke drifted high into the gallery, around the massive central installation, and below, little groups of people moved through the various rooms, behaving as though interested in the exhibits, while keeping an eye out for photographers and fellow celebrities.
Anthony kept himself amused simply spotting famous faces. Every time a new A-list figure arrived, a little tide of excitement rippled through the sea of guests. Although Chay behaved with no more than casual mateyness when Mick Jagger turned up, Anthony could tell that it was the crowning glory of his evening. He had them all there, glittering figures from the world of fashion, rock and pop, art and letters, to say nothing of daytime television and popular journalism. The evening smelt of success. People lavished praise on the exhibits and the layout of the gallery, and Chay was generally feted and admired.
Leo moved around the gallery alone, drink in hand, greeting people, but not stopping to chat. Before he began to socialise, he wanted to find out how the gallery and its contents were being received by those who weren’t just there to drink Chay’s champagne and be photographed for Hello! magazine. He was intrigued by some of the exchanges he overheard.
At one end of the main gallery, he heard Chay explaining to the art critic from the New York Journal of Modern Art that the aim of the gallery was to get away from traditional forms of display. ‘I’m totally against the imposition of anything like a master narrative,’ Chay declaimed.
The critic nodded sagely. ‘I guess you feel that any narrative is an interpretation.’
It was tacitly understood between both conversationalists that nothing either said had to make any sense, so long as the words made beautiful patterns of apparent authenticity.
‘Exactly so,’ replied Chay. ‘I take a Jacques Derrida view of art. I eschew the linear approach.’
‘So we could say that what you’re trying to achieve here is a collection that avoids being taxonomic?’
‘Of course. I think we have to move away from the canonical narrative that privileges some works of art above others. That’s not to say that we don’t recognise the centrality of artists such as Picasso and Matisse …’
Leo smiled and moved discreedy away. At the other end of the same gallery he came across Derek Harvey explaining to the Guardian art critic that the new museum respected orthodox presentation and was at pains to identify, either by chronology or by reference to particular ’isms’, the distinct movements which had influenced the progress of modern art through the twentieth century.
‘We have a chronological narrative,’ he heard Derek explaining, ‘which is something the Tate Modern definitely doesn’t have. I mean, where is the raison d’etre? It’s simply curated chaos, a Braque hung next to a piece by Craig Martin simply because both works are in glass. It won’t do. Here at the Shoreditch the approach is linear, whereas the Tate Modern is a mass of undeveloped themes.’
Bemused, Leo wandered away, wondering if Derek and Chay realised that each assumed the museum fulfilled a function exactly the opposite of what the other supposed. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Melissa, resplendent tn blue chiffon, talking and laughing loudly with a group of people. He moved quickly away, anxious to avoid her. Twice this evening he had glimpsed her coming towards him, and on both occasions he had evaded her. He had resolved to return her gift and speak a few words to her, but intended to do so only when he was leaving, and not before. He caught sight of Gideon Smallwood lounging elegantly next to an Opdahl landscape, talking to Tony Gear. He wondered whether Gideon had chosen to stand next to that particular painting, knowing that it toned perfectly with his beaut
ifully cut evening jacket of taupe velvet. Probably. He went over and greeted both men, aware that since Melissa detested Tony Gear, she was unlikely to come and join them.
Anthony let the waiter fill his champagne glass for the sixth time. He was beginning to feel pretty drunk, and he didn’t care. He had spent the last forty-five minutes with Edward, his friend Tristram, and an excitable bevy of young women who all seemed to know Edward and Tristram from somewhere, and their mood of hilarity had failed to infect him. The girls were all very pretty, all apparently unattached, and he suspected that he could have picked up any one of them if he’d wanted to. The fact was, he didn’t. For the hundredth time his eye sought out Leo. He had seen him moving round the gallery throughout the evening, clearly bound up in his own thoughts. On the one occasion when Anthony had approached him to talk, he had stopped for only a moment before excusing himself and moving on. Nursing a feeling of rejection, Anthony had watched him obsessively ever since. Why did it always come down to Leo? Why couldn’t he just ignore the man and concentrate on enjoying himself? He could see Leo now, standing with Tony Gear and some dark-haired man, extremely good-looking and slightly effeminate. Anthony watched the way the man’s lazy, amused gaze rested closely on Leo’s features as Leo talked. He liked Leo, that much Anthony could tell. He looked gay, too – probably wanted him. Would probably have him – if Leo’s track record was anything to go by. lust the thing to round off Leo’s evening. Anthony knocked back his champagne, hating his own train of thought, trying to define the emotion that filled him.
Jealousy, that was what it was. He stared morosely at his empty glass. Christ, I’m a mess, he thought.
‘Cheer up, Tony – you’re a boring bugger this evening,’ remarked Edward. ‘We were all just thinking of going off for a spot of clubbing. What do you say? That might liven you up a bit.’
Anthony glanced at Edward, then at the girls. ‘No, I won’t come, thanks. It’s Dad’s big evening, so I’d better stay.’
