by Caro Fraser
Melissa had stayed at home for three days on end, going out only to buy groceries and cigarettes. The rest of the time she sat alone, wrapped in a dressing gown, thinking and smoking. As the hours went by she could almost feel the world retreating. Sometimes, when she switched on the television, it would crowd in on her again, but then when things became silent again, the remoteness returned. She had written Leo several letters, and these lay scattered round the room. She was too afraid of him, and of the injunction, to post them. The buff folder full of clippings and photographs lay on her bed. She returned to it now and again, to look and touch. On the second day, she decided to write their story. She would do it by hand so that she would have a real manuscript. She covered sheets of paper, starting at the beginning, when they had first met and fallen in love, moving through the rapturous early months of their affair, dwelling on their passion, and on their mutual tenderness. About that she wrote for hours, stopping only when she was too tired, and had to go to bed.
The next day, about to start again, she had been distracted by the phone. The real world pressing in, an editor reminding her of a deadline that afternoon for a piece on Tracey Emin. In a state of irascibility, Melissa spent the morning working on that, faxed it through, and then returned to her beloved saga. The remainder of the story about the happy times took her well into the afternoon. Then she stopped. She ate some food, drank some coffee, and blanked out to the television for the rest of the evening. She couldn’t face what came next.
But the next morning, on the third day, she had to. The words were hard to write, and she wept as she dug them into the paper. The tale of how his love had turned into indifference, how he had betrayed her – not just with other women, but men. That man, that pretty man he had picked up at the museum opening. Him, and others.
She poured the hatefulness of it onto the paper, sparing nothing in the description of her own misery, and of how her love had turned to hate …
What happened next? She lit a cigarette, staring into space for a long moment. Of course. It was obvious what came next. She picked up her pen and began to write again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thursday morning was sunny and pleasant, and Gideon was in a most agreeable mood as he walked down Whitehall to his office. He had already picked up Leo’s voicemail, and could guess which particular topic Leo wanted to discuss with him. At his desk by eight o’clock as always, Gideon went through the post, drank his coffee, studied the papers with lightning thoroughness and, just before going into the inner sanctum to relieve the Minister of his red box at half past nine, rang Leo in chambers.
‘Leo, old man – got your message. What did you want to talk about?’
‘This isn’t something I want to discuss on the phone,’ said Leo. Gideon hadn’t thought it would be. ‘I suggest we talk about it over a drink after work this evening, if that’s convenient.’
‘That would be delightful,’ said Gideon. ‘Why don’t we meet in the bar at Middle Temple, just like in the old days? We can have a stroll in the rose garden. See you about six.’
In the little intervals for free thought which arose throughout the day between Gideon’s various duties, he reflected on how the conversation with Leo this evening might run. These things always had to be carefully handled, and with someone of Leo’s intellect and temperament, special care was advisable. By the time half past five came, as Gideon set off from Westminster along the Embankment to the Temple, he thought he knew pretty well how he was going to play his hand.
Leo was kept late in chambers by a last-minute phone call, but when he arrived at the bar in Middle Temple at six-twenty there was no sign of Gideon. Leo bought himself a drink and went out of the doors leading to the rose garden. There in the evening sunshine, he saw Gideon, taking his ease on one of the benches, a drink in his hand, gazing reflectively round the garden. Leo went down the steps towards him.
Gideon greeted Leo’s approach with cheerful nonchalance. ‘Good to see you, Leo. How’s the case coming along? You know, it’s a shame you had to dash off that night. You could have had a most enjoyable time.’ He lifted his glass. ‘I did. Cheers.’
‘Gideon,’ said Leo, sitting down on the bench next to him. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I went to the Shoreditch museum last night. I think you know what I saw there.’
‘Hmm. I think I do.’
‘I’m not concerned about how much you made out of the deal, Gideon. What bothers me is that you went to some lengths to deceive me – and your gallery-owning friend, come to that.’
‘Who’s complaining? By my calculations, you must have netted something in the region of thirty-odd thousand on those paintings. You can’t begrudge me my modest cut.’
‘When you arranged for the purchase of those paintings, did you know just where they would end up?’
‘Oh, Leo, if I’d known that … well, considering the embarrassment of your position, do you really think I’d have landed you in such a spot knowingly?’
‘What d’you mean, the embarrassment of my position?’
Gideon gave a fastidious grimace. ‘Well, as things stand, it does rather look as though you’ve been feathering your own nest. Of course you and I know it’s nothing like that, but anyone unaware of the true circumstances might suppose that you’d used your inside knowledge of the museum’s collecting policy to sell on your private works at a profit. As a trustee, you’re probably technically in breach of some code of practice or other … Well, it strikes me as embarrassing.’ Gideon finished the remains of his drink, then added, ‘I would never dream of putting you in that position, naturally.’
‘But you have,’ replied Leo, digesting this new and disturbing aspect of the matter. With Caspar’s bombshell about Charles Beecham, Leo hadn’t had a proper opportunity last night to think through the implications of finding paintings from his private collection in Chay’s gallery.
‘Yes, I have … I’m dreadfully sorry.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘The good thing is, you and I know exactly how this unhappy state of affairs came about, so no one’s going to know unless I tell them.’ Gideon paused again. ‘The bad thing is … I’m rather strapped for cash at the moment.’
‘What?’
‘I know, I know, it’s my own fault. Too many misspent evenings at Aspinall’s. What can I say?’
‘Exactly what are you suggesting?’ asked Leo incredulously, although he already had a pretty good idea.
Gideon set his drink on the grass and leant forward, clasping his hands between his knees. ‘What am I suggesting, exactly? Let’s see. Well, these embarrassing stories do have a tendency to get about – you know, they end up as malicious little titbits in some gossip column or other. Not good for the reputation – perhaps even rather damaging, depending on one’s professional standing. I’m suggesting that, in return for a small loan, I’m prepared to ensure that nothing gets out.’
Both men waited as a couple of elderly benchers strolled by, drinks in hand, taking the evening air. Then Leo said, ‘Are you actually blackmailing me, Gideon?’ He smiled as he asked this, because Gideon’s expression was so boyishly guileless, and because the thing seemed so farcical.
‘Good heavens, no!’ replied Gideon. He sat back on the bench. ‘No,’ he smiled, ‘nothing like that.’
‘Because I frankly don’t see the need to pay money to prevent publicity about this unfortunate little transaction. Especially not to the likes of you. I should think, if I had to, that I could clear any misunderstanding up and conduct an efficient damage-limitation exercise where my reputation is concerned.’
‘No doubt you could – if that was all there was to worry about.’ Gideon sighed. He caught Leo’s look of bafflement. ‘Oh, I hate to bring up something so unpleasant on such a lovely evening. That place we went to after the Clermont Club … You remember? As I understand it,’ said Gideon, ‘someone there took photographs. Don’t ask me who. I was merely told about it. Very regrettable. Of course, they only show you kissing the boy
. But at the time, it turns out, he was supposedly in the care of the local authority. He’s back in care now. Absolutely scandalous. That’s the kind of thing I want to protect you from. You know how the Sunday tabloids, love that sort of story. Top QC in romp at boy brothel … People will do anything for money.’
‘Won’t they just?’ breathed Leo.
Gideon picked up his drink, drained his glass, and gave Leo a questioning smile. ‘Well?’
Leo, appalled, could find nothing to say. ‘Tell you what,’ said Gideon, ‘you think about it for a couple of weeks. I have to accompany the Minister on a cultural fact-finding mission to Tokyo. I’ll be in touch with you when I get back.’ He patted Leo on the knee, rose, and left.
Leo sat in the early evening sunshine, working through the conversation of the last ten minutes. He knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Gideon would not hesitate to expose him in the fullest way possible if Leo did not pay him off. He had the measure of Gideon now, and reckoned he was more than capable of it. If someone had photos of his encounter with the boy at that ghastly place Gideon had taken him to, he knew only too well that Gideon would be prepared to sell them to the highest bidder. How the papers would feast on it, how the story would be spread out over page after page, every corner of his life raked over and exposed, even as far as Rachel and Oliver. He shut his eyes. His life would be ruined, in more ways than one. He thought about all the times when he had feared this kind of thing might happen. He had never dreamt it might happen through the agency of the Principal Private Secretary to Her Majesty’s Minister for Artistic and Cultural Development.
That evening, his head aching horribly, Leo lay on the sofa in his drawing room, the windows flung wide, the tepid summer air hardly moving the curtains. He had meant to see Camilla tonight, but had rung her to say he wasn’t feeling well enough. He couldn’t see anyone, least of all her. His mind was weary of going over and over his problems. Why, when life had seemed to be turning a corner, had it decided to do these hideous things to him? Within the space of two days he had discovered that not only was his son likely to be taken off to another continent, where he could hardly ever expect to see him, and certainly not to feature in his life, but he was also being blackmailed for something he hadn’t even done.
His first instinct, as a lawyer, was to turn Gideon over to the police. But Gideon was the slipperiest, most glib-tongued individual, and at present Leo had no evidence to show that Gideon was blackmailing him. Even if he had, even if he could nail him, Gideon would make sure that everything to Leo’s discredit, fabricated or otherwise, came to light. God alone knew what other information about him was in that man’s possession. He could see no way round this. What alternative was there but to pay him? Of course, it wouldn’t stop there; Gideon would always come back for more. But the man wasn’t a fool. He had probably already calculated that if his demands on Leo were modest – or at any rate not extortionate – he could do very nicely out of this on a long term basis. Leo was wealthy enough to weather it, he supposed. Much depended on how much Gideon was after. Once that was established, he would just have to try to live with it. The idea was galling, but he couldn’t see what else he could do.
He got to his feet, stretched, and groaned wearily. He would try to put it from his mind for the present. He had a more pressing problem to address, in the form of his ex-wife. Tomorrow, he would speak to her, see how the land lay and take it from there.
Leo strolled to the window and looked down. Dusk was beginning to fall and the air was growing cooler, thank God. He thought about Camilla in her Clapham flat, wondered what she was doing, whether she was wearing her silk pyjamas. He found himself smiling at the thought of her, that funny thing she did in bed of rolling over onto him, like a puppy, when she had something to ask him. Thoughts came to her so fast, sometimes eccentric notions, sometimes deep questions. She liked to lie for a long time after making love, asking him things. He found it amusing and odd. She always seemed to want to know so much about his childhood. No one else had ever wanted to know him so thoroughly, not Rachel, not Joshua, not anyone. Two nights ago, he had talked about his father, something he rarely did, and she had lain patiently against his shoulder, listening, never saying a word. Then when he stopped, she just kissed his face, and held him, and let the space and silence spread out around them. There had been no need for either of them to speak again. They just fell asleep.
He found himself wondering sadly what Camilla might have become to him, if this problem with Rachel and Oliver had not thrust itself upon him with such pressing need. But it wasn’t worth thinking about, he decided. Next to Oliver, it simply didn’t matter.
Rachel was in court the following morning, going through the previous day’s proceedings with Fred, when Leo approached her.
‘Are you busy at lunchtime?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘I just wanted to talk. Catch up on things. Personal things, you know.’
She nodded, and watched him as he made his way back to the table where Camilla was arranging the day’s bundles. Although their divorce was several months old, his presence was still familiar and necessary to her. Even long days spent in court listening to hours of cross-examination, the way he stood, the sound of his voice, the movements of his hands and body as he turned, picked up papers, nodded … It was like having something brought home to her, time and time again. She tried once more to imagine being on the other side of the world, without the knowledge that she would see him soon – if not that day, then at some case conference, or the next weekend when he came to pick up Oliver. The prospect was barren, almost futile. Maybe that was a good reason to go away, if only for a year or so. Give her time to wean herself from the addictive habit of Leo. For if she didn’t, what future was there? Over the last couple of months, time spent with Charles had become more and more guilt-ridden. Perhaps they needed to be together somewhere where there was no Leo, and where she could feel she belonged properly to Charles, without this ghost of her marriage haunting her.
It did not occur to Leo to say anything to Camilla when the court adjourned for lunch; he was already in another sphere, one where Camilla was discounted for the time being. She watched as he and Rachel left together, telling herself that of course they must have things they needed to talk about, but conscious, too, of a smarting disappointment. Leo had suddenly resumed that air of preoccupation of two or three weeks ago, and it was clearly something she was going to have to get used to. His brief phone call of the night before, his absent manner this morning … she tried not to read anything special into these, but it was hard, very hard.
Leo had no real notion of what he was going to say to Rachel. He took her to a wine bar a couple of streets away, and ordered sandwiches and mineral water for both of them.
‘So,’ he said, ‘will it be OK for me to have Oliver next weekend?’
Rachel nodded. ‘I don’t see why not. Assuming the madwoman doesn’t breach the terms of the injunction. It seems to be having some effect, for the time being, at any rate.’
‘Yes,’ said Leo with a sigh, ‘for the time being.’
Rachel was about to ask Leo exactly what had gone on between him and Melissa Angelicos to precipitate her harassment of him, but thought better of it. She had decided to make a deliberate effort not to be antagonistic, even though it seemed to be the only way of provoking Leo to respond to her emotionally. Instead she said, ‘Things must have been pretty unpleasant for you over the past couple of months.’
‘Surreal, is the way I’d put it. The kind of thing you read about, but never for one moment associate with yourself. Being stalked has a most peculiar … tainting effect. I can’t think of any other way of describing it. A sense of everything in your life being defiled. Not just yourself, but people you love.’
‘Oliver.’
‘You and Oliver.’ He spoke the words swiftly and naturally, almost as though stating the obvious.
Leo did not so much as glance at her
; he knew the effect his words would have. ‘So,’ he said, changing tack, ‘has Charles finished all his business in the States?’ This, he thought, if ever, was her clear opportunity to tell him. He waited.
‘No, as a matter of fact, he’s away again just now. He won’t be back until next Wednesday.’
She wasn’t going to tell him. She saw no present need. She still hadn’t made her mind up. Leo took a sandwich and pushed the plate towards her. She shook her head. Leo knew of old that whenever she was even lightly emotionally stressed, she could not eat. ‘Well, look, why don’t you bring Oliver down to Stanton a week on Saturday and stay for the day? It gets rather dull, just the two of us. I’m sure he’d like it.’
Rachel hesitated. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘Why?’ Leo gave her a smile. ‘Will it be so hard to spend a day with me?’
She smiled in return, a little sadly. ‘No, of course not. I’d like it.’
‘Good. Come as early as you can.’
They talked for a while about Oliver, and about matters peripheral to the case, then Leo’s mobile phone rang and he spent ten minutes talking while Rachel ate half a sandwich and read the paper. By then it was time to go back to court.
By the end of that Friday afternoon, Leo’s recent troubles, combined with a week spent cross-examining auditors and underwriters, had left him exhausted. He was unusually quiet on the way back to chambers.
‘Are you feeling better than you did last night?’ asked Camilla.
‘Oh, so-so.’
‘What do you think was wrong with you?’
‘Old age. Problems getting me down. I’m sorry I put you off. I wouldn’t have been very good company.’
‘What about this evening? I could come round and cook some supper for us. My cooking’s getting a bit better.’
‘I’m driving down to my country place tonight. I intend to spend tomorrow relaxing and thinking about nothing, and on Sunday I’m playing in the village cricket match.’ He glanced at her. She was trying so hard to look nonchalant and not disappointed. He found it painful to contemplate how it would be for her when he had to transfer his time and attention to Rachel. Until then, they might as well make each other happy. Come to think of it, he would rather not be on his own this weekend. How could he possibly spend it thinking about nothing? He would welcome a distraction. ‘Why don’t you come down with me? We can pick up some groceries on the way. I promise you can still cook supper.’ They had reached the steps of 5 Caper Court.
