by Caro Fraser
‘When’s that?’
‘Oh, some time next year – March, probably. It’ll take four or five weeks – possibly longer.’
‘I see,’ murmured Camilla. She hesitated, rubbing the toe of one shoe against the back of her tights, and then suddenly said, ‘I was wondering, Anthony, if you’d do me a favour. That is – well, it’s not exactly a favour …’ She could feel herself beginning to blush and wished she could stop it. She didn’t normally blush when talking to men, but when Anthony gave her that sideways glance with his brown eyes, it was heart-stopping.
Anthony smiled at her. She was rather sweet, in an idiotic way. No one would imagine she was twenty-two. And why did she wear those awful suits with skirts that came halfway down her calves, and which completely concealed her rather nice figure? It might be an idea if she did something about her hair as well. It was a pretty colour, but it always looked a mess. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Spit it out.’
‘Well, it’s just that I’ve got two tickets for Grand Night on Thursday next week – you know, in Middle Temple. I was going with a friend, but she’s had to cancel – and I wondered whether – well … actually, really, you know, whether you would like to come.’ Grand Night was, as its name suggested, a gala affair in the Temple, a splendid dinner for which everyone dressed up, attended by the great and good of the judiciary, plus a handful of celebrated thespians who seemed to attach themselves somehow to the legal world. It was pompous, elaborate, and quite good fun for those who were seated well away from the high table and could get riotously drunk. Anthony had been once before. Camilla went on rapidly, ‘I mean, it’s purely – well, that is, I gather you’re going out with Sarah, and things, and I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I mean, it’s nothing like that. I just had a spare ticket, you see, and wondered, if you’re not doing anything, whether you’d like to – but I suppose you’re busy, and so on—’
Anthony, realising she could go on indefinitely in this confused vein, held up a hand. ‘Whoah! Stop. Enough.’ Camilla stopped and stared at him. He nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like to very much,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He immediately wondered whether he was doing a wise thing. It might not be a good idea to encourage her. Still, she herself had made it clear that it was purely a friendly thing, and it was useful to show one’s face occasionally at these official bashes. Camilla looked mildly astonished and gave a smile of delight, a smile that lit up her eyes, Anthony noticed. She had a sort of transparency, an innocence that was in complete contrast to Sarah’s opaque cleverness.
‘Great!’ She beamed. ‘Great … well … I suppose you’ve got a lot to do. I’d better let you get on. We can talk about it nearer the time. Bye.’ She left the room abruptly, leaving Anthony smiling in bemusement. Why on earth had he agreed to go? Grand Night, when they wheeled out every Bencher in existence, even the ones you’d thought were dead, or looked it, at any rate. Well, he’d said yes, so that was that. He thought fleetingly of Sarah, whom he’d spoken to last night. She had been cool, but had agreed to see him tomorrow evening. He was aware that their relationship was moving on to another level, one at a remove from the utterly physical obsession which had obliterated anything else in the early weeks, and he was not entirely sure whether he liked Sarah enough to continue it. But when he thought about making love to her, the sensuous perfection of her silky body, he managed to persuade himself that he might as well let it carry on for a while. Perhaps it would be best, however, not to mention that he would be going out with Camilla next Thursday.
Camilla went back to Jeremy Vane’s room, and Jeremy glanced up at her with a frown. He was a heavyset, pedantic man in his late thirties, with a ponderous manner which made him seem older than he was. The more light-hearted, easygoing members of chambers, such as Leo, had little time for him, although it had to be acknowledged that he was hard-working and conscientious, possibly too much so. Certainly Camilla, bright and willing as she was, did not entirely enjoy working for him. He was not easy to get along with, and he had a tendency to treat her rather as a workhorse, giving her boring, repetitive tasks to do, instead of involving her with the minutiae of his cases.
‘Can you take those briefs and give them to Felicity or Henry, please?’ he asked, indicating his wire basket in which two briefs lay, scrawled with upside-down loops to show they were completed. Camilla, still smiling from her talk with Anthony, picked them up. ‘And then,’ added Jeremy, glancing at his watch and picking up the phone, ‘perhaps you could look up this list of cases for me. I’d like the books, marked, on my desk first thing tomorrow, before we go into court.’ He waved her away and began to speak into the phone.
Camilla went downstairs to the clerks’ room, where Felicity was busy tapping at the computer screen and sipping coffee. She glanced up at Camilla and took the briefs from her.
‘Mr Vane’s latest efforts? Thanks. He’s always late getting them back.’ She noticed that Camilla’s face wore an unusually glowing look. ‘You look like the cat who’s just had some. Tell me about it.’
Camilla glanced across the room to where Henry was busy on the phone. ‘I’ve just invited Anthony to Grand Night – it’s a sort of formal dinner in Middle Temple Hall. It’s a week on Thursday. He said yes.’
‘He never.’ Felicity smiled at Camilla’s radiant pleasure.
Camilla shrugged. ‘It’s just platonic, I know that. I mean, he’s got a girlfriend. Someone I know, actually.’
Felicity waved this away. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing. Anthony’s girlfriends come and go so fast it’d make your head spin.’ She folded her arms and sat back, surveying Camilla with a candid expression. Gawd, she was a mess. Nice face, good cheekbones, good skin – but not so good that she could go about with absolutely no make-up, the way she did – and possibly quite a good figure. The trouble was, you couldn’t tell, beneath those layers of drab clothes, and those high-buttoned blouses that were meant to be white but had gone grey with being washed too often. Felicity wondered what she was planning to wear to this thing next Thursday. She sighed involuntarily at the thought, and then her eyes met Camilla’s.
‘What?’ asked Camilla. ‘Why are you looking like that?’
Felicity shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. ‘You really want to know?’ she asked.
Camilla looked at Felicity’s frank expression and wondered whether in fact she did. ‘Go on,’ she said.
Felicity leant forward and, putting one elbow on the desk, rested her chin on it. ‘The trouble is, see, with someone like Anthony, you’re going to have to try a little harder. Take my meaning?’ Camilla said nothing, but glanced at Henry, who was still talking on the phone, and subsided into a chair opposite Felicity. She looked despairingly at her. ‘I know you barristers have got to wear all that black stuff,’ went on Felicity, ‘but – well, there are ways of making it a bit more attractive. Know what I’m saying?’
‘I look awful, you mean.’ Camilla’s tone was dull.
Bloody awful, thought Felicity, realising she was reaching one of those sticky conversational patches that always made her long for a fag. That was the trouble with the chambers’ ‘no smoking’ policy, which only Leo seemed to manage to flout. It stopped you from lighting up just when you needed it most. ‘No!’ Felicity’s voice was bright and reassuring. ‘No, I didn’t say that. It’s just that – well, what are you planning to wear on Thursday?’
Camilla looked at her sadly. ‘Well, I’ve got the dress I wore to my college May Ball … I suspect it’s a bit tight now, though.’
‘What colour is it?’
‘Black.’
‘Uh huh.’ Felicity thought for a moment. ‘Definitely not,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Definitely not your colour. That’s half the trouble, see? Black doesn’t suit you. Now, what you want, with your colouring, is some deep sort of colour, but vibrant. Sort of dark magenta, or dark green, something like that.’
Camilla sighed. ‘I’m so awful at choosing clothes, though. I really h
ate it. I hate those shop assistants who come in and ask you how you’re doing when you’re trying to do up the zip. I’d rather wear my old college dress than shop for something new. Besides, I haven’t got much money.’
‘How much could you run to?’ Felicity put her head on one side, already dressing Camilla in her mind. She’d have to find out what lay beneath those horrible suits of hers, though. Girl might have a waist like a sack of potatoes, for all she knew.
‘I don’t know. My mother offered to lend me some money to get something new, but she didn’t say how much. Anyway, I said my old dress would do.’
‘Well, you find out what she’ll give you, and you and me will go shopping tomorrow lunchtime. You can’t go to this posh do with Anthony wearing some old black number that doesn’t suit you. You put yourself in my hands, and I’ll make you look fantastic. Dress, hair, the works. How about it?’
Camilla looked at her wonderingly. ‘You mean you’d help me choose something? And do my hair?’
Felicity smiled, nodding. ‘Yeah, and a bit of make-up. We could have you looking like a million dollars, I reckon. At least good enough to be seen with our young Mr Cross. Have you ever seen him in a dinner suit?’
‘Anthony? No.’ Camilla could imagine, though, how wonderful he must look.
‘Well, he’s something to live up to, girl, I can tell you.’ Henry put the phone down on the other side of the room and came over. ‘We’ll go up west tomorrow and kit you out. It’ll be fun,’ added Felicity.
Camilla smiled uncertainly. She wasn’t sure about Felicity’s taste – she could be pretty outrageous. On the other hand, she did seem to know what men found attractive. She nodded. ‘Yes. All right. Thank you.’
Felicity flapped a hand. ‘Nothing to it. You’ll see.’ She watched as Camilla went back upstairs to look up Jeremy’s cases, two inches of dusty hem hanging down at the back of her skirt. Felicity sighed and shook her head. Oh, well – nothing like a challenge.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Henry.
‘Oh, Camilla and me are getting up a sort of chambers feminist group. Something quite radical – militant, even. So you lot better watch yourselves,’ said Felicity breezily. She smiled at Henry. ‘We’re calling it the Inner Thigh Club.’ She picked up the briefs which Camilla had left, put on her coat, and went out, leaving Henry looking uncertainly after her. He never knew what to make of Felicity. He had spent the past few weeks trying to persuade himself that she wasn’t on his level, that she was really quite common and not worth being hung up about. His mother wouldn’t have liked her, that was for sure. But that kind of thinking hadn’t helped. He still found himself fantasising about her when he was doing the photocopying, or some other mundane task. She was, he suspected, on a level way above him, and there was no way of reaching her.
That evening Sir Neville Graham, Master of the Rolls, as wise and fair-minded a man as ever distinguished the senior ranks of Her Majesty’s judiciary, sat nursing his varicose veins by the fireplace at White’s. He was waiting for his two fellow Lords of Appeal to join him to discuss their judgment in the Capstall case, and was impatient for their arrival, having decided not to order a drink until they got there. He glanced at his watch. Ten past seven. Blast them. He longed for a large Scotch, but it was a peculiarity of his character to set up little rules and codes for himself, and then employ all his powers of self-discipline to abide by them. It had begun in his boyhood, when, at boarding school, he made it a rule not to have jam on his bread unless the second hand of the dining-hall clock was approaching an even number when he came into the hall. He still avoided the cracks in paving stones on those rare occasions when he found himself walking in London’s streets, and his clerk had noticed that Sir Neville liked to have the pens on his desk arranged on the left-hand side of his blotter. He was unaware, however, that Sir Neville made it a private rule to have morning coffee at half eleven instead of eleven if the pens should perchance be arranged on the other side. Now he would not permit himself to order his drink until his colleagues showed up.
Five minutes later, when it was beginning to seem to Sir Neville that his powers of self-restraint were being quite impossibly tried, Lord Justice Manfred appeared, incongruously attired in a pinstripe jacket and waistcoat, and leather motorcycle leggings. He greeted Sir Neville and sat down in an armchair, and it was only the creaking of his trousers and the surprise in Sir Neville’s gaze that caused him to glance down.
‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘Back in a moment. Quite forgot.’ He left the room, and Sir Neville ground his teeth, wondering if Manfred’s arrival permitted him to order his drink, even though he had subsequently disappeared. He decided that, although on a strict view it might, an even stricter interpretation would require the arrival of both of his fellows, not just one.
Manfred, who was a middle-sized, energetic man with a schoolboyish face and thick grey hair, reappeared a few moments later, his legs now decently clad in pinstripe trousers. On his way through the room he halted a passing steward and ordered a drink for himself, then came over and sat down again in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. He glanced at the empty table at Sir Neville’s elbow. ‘No drink? Dear me, I would have ordered you one with my own, if I’d realised.’
‘I had decided to wait until you both arrived,’ growled Sir Neville. His varicose veins throbbed again, and he lifted his leg slightly to ease the pain, wincing. The steward returned with Lord Justice Manfred’s drink, and at that moment Bertrand Howell appeared in the doorway. He saw his two colleagues by the fire, raised his copy of the Financial Times in greeting, and strode over. Sir Neville sighed with relief and gestured to the steward. His mood brightened as he ordered Scotch for himself and a dry Martini for Lord Justice Howell.
‘You just missed Guy coming in in his motorcycle leggings, Bertrand,’ he remarked jovially to Lord Justice Howell, who glanced with mild disapproval at Lord Justice Manfred as he sat down.
‘Damned silly thing, riding that scooter about town. Don’t see why you can’t take taxis like anyone else.’
‘Penis extension, if you ask me,’ smirked Sir Neville.
But Lord Justice Manfred, settling back easily in his chair and sipping his drink, merely smiled tolerantly. ‘Do I detect a note of envy? Some of the most attractive young members of the female Bar strike up conversations with me on the strength of that motorbike.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, we didn’t come here to discuss my BMW. I’ve got dinner in fifteen minutes, so let’s hurry this up.’
‘Right,’ said Lord Justice Howell, swirling his dry Martini and popping the olive into his mouth. He chewed, then popped the stone out of his mouth and flung it into the fire. ‘Perfectly clear to me that the claim isn’t time-barred. All the hogwash Fry came up with about the Names having constructive knowledge of their losses when they got Capstall’s letter – utter tripe.’
Sir Neville glanced at Howell’s drink, then at Manfred’s gin and tonic, which he was sipping very slowly. He would ask whichever one of them finished his drink first to write the judgment, he decided. He certainly had no intention of writing it himself, even though he would read it out on behalf of all three of them. He always liked that bit. He glanced again with faint misgiving at Howell’s drink, realising that it had arrived moments later than Manfred’s. Was that strictly fair? Oh, well, rules were rules.
Lord Justice Manfred rubbed his hand across his chin. ‘I go along with what you say about the letter, but there are the accounts, you know. I can’t help thinking that the Names could have seen from those that the position was deteriorating year by year, and that the reserves and reinsurances were clearly inadequate.’
Sir Neville raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I think we can work our way round that, you know. The point is, it’s a political thing, this decision. I mean, we all know someone who’s out of pocket through this Lloyd’s business. What about your brother, Guy?’ he asked, glancing at Manfred. This caused Lord Justice Manfred to take a sudden gulp
of his gin and tonic.
‘Yes,’ admitted Manfred cautiously. ‘He’s suffered pretty badly.’ Surely Sir Neville wasn’t suggesting that they base their decision on whether or not they sympathised with the plight of the Lloyd’s Names? That would be a little too much.
Lord Justice Howell said nothing, but nursed his Martini and thought of his sister-in-law, whom he’d had to bail out so that her boys could remain at Eton, and of several of his friends at home in Gloucestershire who were facing complete ruin.
‘I have to tell you,’ said Sir Neville, ‘that I’d be inclined to decide this case as a matter of policy, if I had to. Those people at Lloyd’s can’t just be allowed to walk away from this mess, and I certainly wouldn’t allow a technicality to prevent the Names pursuing a just claim.’ He met Lord Justice Manfred’s enquiring gaze with utter serenity, and went on, ‘Fortunately, however, I don’t believe we have to decide it on that basis. I regard Fry’s decision as wrong in law. I believe he was unnecessarily restrictive in his interpretation of the requirements of Section 14.’
Howell took a long swallow of his drink. Down to an inch, noticed Sir Neville. He glanced at the ice cubes that cluttered the bottom of Manfred’s drink. Did they count? he wondered.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Lord Justice Howell. ‘In my view, you can’t say that Capstall’s letter amounted to constructive knowledge that the risks reinsured weren’t reasonably quantifiable. Fry simply wasn’t entitled on the facts before him to say that the claims were statute-barred.’ He lifted his chin and tossed back the remainder of his drink.
Watching him drain the glass, Sir Neville felt a faint relief that he did not have to concern himself with the issue of the ice cubes. He liked to be strictly fair, and those ice cubes would have worried him.
