by Caro Fraser
‘Thank you,’ she said automatically. There was a pause, in which the sight of Anthony after so many months made her wish, suddenly and desperately, that it had been Anthony and not Leo with whom she had fallen in love, that it had been Anthony who had held the key, who had been able to lay to rest all the fears and dark shadows of her past. She did not think life with Anthony would be a complicated, unreal matter. But that was all dead and gone. Here she was, talking to him as to an old friend. Only he was not enough of a friend for her to tell him everything. How she wished there was someone to whom she could tell everything. ‘So you’re both on this Capstall case?’ she said. ‘It must be rather fun to be working with Leo. He’s so amusing – people like being with him …’ she added faintly. She glanced round again, and Anthony thought he saw a look of panic in her eyes.
Anthony cast around for something to say. ‘Are you – are you doing anything special over Christmas?’ he asked. Rachel was about to reply, but at that moment Charles Beecham joined them, and in the same instant Freddie came up beside Anthony and gripped his elbow in an unpleasantly tight, shaky grasp. He had been unable to get anywhere near Leo, so had decided he would make do with this fella Cross instead.
Ignoring Freddie for just a moment, Anthony shook Charles by the hand. ‘Charles. Good to see you. Rachel, may I introduce Charles Beecham? Charles, this is Rachel Dean.’ Then he added, ‘Excuse me, won’t you?’ before turning patiently to Freddie.
Anthony, without realising it, had introduced Rachel by her maiden name. But then, that was the way he had always known her. Rachel decided to let it go, and smiled at the man standing before her. ‘Charles Beecham? Why do I know that name?’ she asked, and sipped her champagne. She had drunk most of it out of nervousness while talking to Anthony, and it gave her a pleasantly mellow feeling.
‘Hah.’ Charles gave a laugh of embarrassment and looked away. ‘Now, either you’re teasing me, which I probably deserve, or else you mean it and I’m going to be horribly humiliated. Either way, I come out of this looking fatuously arrogant.’
‘Ah.’ Rachel smiled. ‘That means you’re famous.’ She hesitated and then laughed, raising a hand to push her dark hair gently back from her shoulder. ‘In which case, I’m the one who’s going to be humiliated.’
Oh, do that again, thought Charles, watching the way her shining hair slid from her fingers, his gaze travelling to her face, resting on the almond-shaped dark eyes. He had seen Rachel from the other side of the room ten minutes ago, had been completely transfixed by the sight of her, and had spent eight of those ten wretched minutes trying to talk his way free from Mrs Honoria Hunter so that he could get near to her while she was still talking to Anthony, and be introduced. She was absolute perfection, he thought, shining like a lovely light amongst this roomful of drones, bores and cranks. Charles was disposed to a fairly jaundiced view of his fellow Names this evening on account of yesterday’s late night at a restaurant with friends, and several bottles of wine too many. He almost hadn’t come this evening, but he’d been in town, anyway, going over the scripts for his new series, and thought he might as well kill an hour or so and imbibe some free champagne before catching the train back. If he hadn’t come, he now told himself, he would not have met this paragon. The idea was agonising. Was she as good as she was beautiful, he wondered? Then he realised that he was staring at her, that it was his turn to say something, and summoned back the words Rachel had uttered a few seconds ago.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘unless you’re interested in the Crusades, or the Mogul Empire or esoteric nonsense of that kind, there’s no reason why you should have the faintest idea who I am.’
She frowned, and he loved that, too. Then her eyes widened. ‘Oh – how stupid of me! You do those documentaries on Channel Four, don’t you?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.
Rachel was about to say that Leo watched the programmes, but something – the champagne, the pleasure of talking and joking with this suddenly familiar stranger – made her decide not to. She would not couple herself with Leo. Just as she had gone back to work to regain her independence, so she was going to have to assert it in other ways, too. She was herself, nothing to do with Leo. So instead she said, ‘It must be rather irritating, being recognised by people – or half-recognised,’ she added with a laugh.
‘No, I’m still vain and immature enough to enjoy it,’ replied Charles. ‘Or maybe that’s just because I’m just not famous enough. I suppose that it would become a bit irksome if one were, say, Michael Fish.’
Charles, panicked by the idea that if he didn’t hold her interest this divine creature would depart from him for ever, continued to talk in a random fashion about the nature of celebrity, recounting a number of amusing anecdotes which had the virtue of being told against himself. Rachel listened, glad to be able to laugh and mean it, feeling more at her ease than she had done for a long time. She had been right to come, she thought, to get out and talk to other people. It helped one’s mood. She watched Charles as he talked, taking in the faintly creased, suntanned face, the aquiline nose and grey-blonde curls. He was even more attractive than he looked on television, she thought, somehow more alive and arresting. She supposed that television diluted images, adumbrated personalities. There was something vivid and fresh about this man, and he was very funny, in a hapless, self-deprecating way which she liked.
Leo, by now rigid with the boredom of discussing the iniquities of Alan Capstall, glanced across and saw Rachel laughing and talking to Charles. He was surprised by the feeling of slight annoyance this gave him, and wondered whether he should go over. No, he decided, he wanted to keep Charles entirely apart from any other personal areas in his life. He wanted the complete, unadulterated pleasure of talking to Charles on his own. He turned back and tried to concentrate on what Basher Snodgrass was saying about the American Superfund legislation.
‘Now, look, you’ve run out of champagne,’ said Charles, taking Rachel’s glass from her. ‘Let me get you a refill.’ He looked round for the waitress, anxious to keep Rachel to himself for a while longer. He had noticed the wedding ring on her left hand, but that didn’t perturb him. It never had in the past. When love struck, nothing else mattered. He was thoroughly enjoying the giddiness of this thrilling encounter.
‘Oh, no – really,’ said Rachel. ‘I have to be going. I only looked in for a few moments.’
God, she was going. What to talk about, how to detain her? ‘So, tell me, are you one of us? I mean, are you a Name?’ he asked, opening up a new vein of conversation.
‘No!’ Rachel laughed. ‘Do I look like one?’
‘No,’ sighed Charles. ‘You’re far too young and beautiful. And you haven’t mentioned Lloyd’s once in the last ten minutes.’
Rachel laughed again and blushed. ‘Actually, I work for Nichols and Co.’ She gestured towards Fred and Murray. ‘They’re colleagues of mine.’
‘Oh. Ah.’
‘But I’m afraid I really have to be going now …’
‘Listen, listen …’ Charles laid a hand on her arm. How cool and smooth her skin was. ‘Why don’t we have lunch together some time?’
She was momentarily startled. She looked at him, at the droll, faintly pleading expression in his eyes. She imagined that few women could resist that particular look. For a moment she hesitated. Why not? She liked him. He was charming, amusing – and if Leo could lead his own life, surely she could. But she was too afraid, too unready.
‘No – no, I’m sorry. That’s not possible. I’m very flattered, Mr Beecham, but I don’t really think my husband would be …’ Her voice trailed away. What would Leo be? Nothing. It was probably what he wanted – that she should start seeing someone else, so that he could be relieved of guilt, and do exactly as he pleased himself. ‘Anyway, I really must be going. I did enjoy meeting you.’ The smile she gave him was divine, that of a fleeing goddess.
Charles watched her go with regret. Oh, well, he’d been wrong about the wedd
ing ring. Sometimes it meant something, sometimes it didn’t. She was an utter peach, though. Pity. Like all romantics, Charles possessed the ability to convince himself instantly that he had met the love of his life, the woman of his dreams. But if it should turn out that the woman of his dreams was not available or open to persuasion, he rarely wasted time moping over it. That was the beauty of possessing a shallow nature. One’s caprices could be switched on and off at a moment’s notice.
Rachel went over to Leo and told him that she was going home, and he nodded. Not even for the sake of public appearances did they kiss on parting. It did not occur to either of them to do so.
When she was gone, Leo saw that Charles was standing by himself in the middle of the room, one hand in his pocket, sipping his champagne with an air of boredom. He excused himself from Basher and went over.
‘Charles,’ he said, ‘good to see you.’ He shook Charles’s hand, delighting in the fact that no one in the room could possibly be aware of the significance to him of this small physical contact. And for Charles? He still could not tell. Charles had dropped no hint during their encounters so far. But then, he was a man of discretion, and must realise the circumstances of this case were not appropriate to an acknowledgement of mutual attraction.
‘Leo,’ said Charles with a smile of genuine pleasure. ‘How are you?’
Leo lowered his voice. ‘Bored rigid, if you want the truth. I was hoping you’d show up, so that I could at least have a bit of sensible conversation.’
‘I nearly didn’t come, actually,’ said Charles, swirling the champagne in his glass, wondering if it would be wise to drink any more. Rachel had slipped from his mind already. ‘But I happened to be in town this afternoon, so it seemed the polite thing to do – pop along, you know.’
Leo’s heart fell slightly at this. Clearly Charles had not regarded the possibility of seeing Leo as of any special significance. Or perhaps he was being deliberately casual as a way of masking his feelings. Leo so much wanted Charles to reciprocate what he felt that he made himself believe this. ‘Tell you what,’ said Leo, glancing round, conscious that his mouth was dry. He took a quick drink from his glass. ‘After another twenty minutes or so I rather think I’ll have done my duty by this lot.’ He glanced in the direction of the buffet tables, where food was now laid out, and where Freddie Hendry was making heavy play among the chicken legs and vol-au-vents. ‘And I’m not keen on this particular kind of food. What say we escape for dinner? There’s a rather good restaurant round the corner which I’ve been meaning to try.’
Leo felt his pulse quicken with anxiety as he watched Charles make a face and glance at his watch. He had not felt this way about anyone for a long time. The balance was cruelly out, and he was glad that Charles had no idea of how abject Leo felt his position to be. That balance, Leo told himself, must be perfectly redressed in the months before he made his move. They must come to one another on equal terms. In the meantime, the best he could do was to hope that he might at least secure Charles’s company over dinner for an hour or so here and there.
‘I’m afraid I have to get the eight o’clock train back down,’ said Charles, genuinely sorry at having to turn Leo down. He could have done with a decent dinner – that awful sushi stuff the television people had insisted on having for lunch hadn’t gone far, and the thought of Leo’s conversation and a couple of bottles of good wine was appealing. For a moment he was sorely tempted. But he knew himself too well, knew his own weaknesses. He’d only finish up drinking too much and regretting it in the morning. And with the punishing work schedule of the next few weeks, Charles knew he couldn’t afford to do that.
‘Maybe some other time,’ said Leo, masking his own acute disappointment with an easy smile.
‘Yes. Yes, definitely. Anyway, I just have to have a few words with Basher before I go for my train. Good to see you, Leo …’ Charles lifted his hand in farewell, and Leo raised his glass in return. He watched Charles’s tall figure weaving through the little groups of people, and sighed inwardly, letting his idle hopes and fantasies for the evening subside. Well, he’d better just get on with this PR exercise. He’d talked to just about all of the Names already, except for Freddie, so he might as well get that over with. In a resigned fashion, Leo went over to where Freddie was ham-fistedly trying to roll up a few chicken legs in a napkin, just managing to cram them into his pocket before Leo arrived.
On her way out, Rachel passed Anthony standing near the doorway. He smiled at her and murmured goodbye, and she noticed his gaze stray to the stairs, where a red-headed girl had just arrived. The girl passed her, and she heard Anthony say, ‘So you decided to honour us with your presence, after all?’ Despite his faintly caustic tone, Rachel could tell that he was pleased about something.
Rachel went downstairs, buttoning her coat. As she paced slowly down the dark street towards the gleam of lights and traffic of Park Lane, she decided that she would watch Charles Beecham’s documentaries from now on. At least it would give her something pleasant to think about. She wished she was the kind of woman who could have said yes to him. Sighing, she turned up her coat collar against the cold.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The City ushered in Christmas with its customary spirit of commercial bonhomie. Everywhere – on office walls, on the sides of filing cabinets, pasted on windows – hung the masses of Christmas cards sent out by firms to choke the postal service, depicting the Thames in winter, snow on St Paul’s, and containing seasonal greetings in any number of languages, designed to cover the global market. The windowsill and mantelpiece of every executive, broker, lawyer and accountant boasted an array of invitations from other executives, brokers, lawyers and accountants to an endless round of drinks parties and festive get-togethers. Cases of wine, bottles of Scotch, parcels of smoked salmon and hampers from Fortnum’s and Harrods were delivered daily in the offices of chairmen and managing directors, and secretaries everywhere, in time-honoured ritual, bestowed upon their bosses a variety of tasteless mugs and ties in exchange for Belgian chocolates and bottles of Cacharel.
At 5 Caper Court there was a distinct atmosphere of frivolity and cheerfulness, rather like that at the end of a school term. People took long lunches, or came in late after cocktail parties and drinks parties in the various Inns, and the steady stream of work slowed perceptibly. Christmas fell on a Sunday that year, and the annual chambers party was to be held on Friday evening. Thursday saw Felicity in a state of high elation, organising the arrival of the champagne and food and wearing a large, dangling pair of Christmas-tree earrings with tiny flashing lights. The sight of her so depressed Leo as he came into the clerks’ room to drop off some post before leaving to go home that he almost resolved not to attend the party. Normally Leo enjoyed Christmas, but this year a mood of anxiety and gloom had settled on him. Twelve months ago he would not have believed that his life could have drifted into its present unhappy confusion. There were days when he felt that he had lost sight of his own identity. Once it had been simple – he had a public face, that of a high-flying, handsomely paid barrister with all the material and social trappings of a successful and happy bachelor, and in private he conducted himself as he pleased, taking his pleasures with men or women, according to his fancy of the moment, enjoying the fact that his secret world was entirely his own, shared with no one. Now – now he was married, for the sake of his career, to someone whom he could never love as she wished to be loved, caught in a relationship in which the carefully contrived domestic conversations which had held it shakily together had recently descended into constant bickering, the father of an infant son whose very existence both puzzled and profoundly moved him, and there seemed to be nothing private or personal left. He still had his work, was still known and admired as a QC, but the magnitude of the Capstall case demanded all of his time and attention, so that he no longer enjoyed the stimulus of a varied range of work, regular court appearances and the customary string of successes which inflated the ego and the bank balanc
e. He lived and breathed Lloyd’s, the audit evidence, run-off contracts, open years, RITCs, time and distance policies, asbestos and pollution liabilities, and seemed destined to remain so immersed for the next year. There was Charles, there was the pleasure of being in love, but somehow his married state and claustrophobic domestic life rendered it faintly absurd and pathetic. He had nothing he could call his own.
Now the sight of Felicity in her jaunty earrings, with a sprig of mistletoe tucked in the bodice of her low-cut jumper, made him wish time could suddenly leap ahead by two weeks, obliterating the prospect of the holiday that was to be got through. He and Rachel had not discussed how they were to spend the time. They discussed nothing now. It had occurred to Leo that he could just take off to Wales, spend Christmas with his mother, leave Rachel to her own devices, but this seemed callous. Besides, he would have to endure his mother’s questioning. And it would take matters no further. No, he decided, as he dropped his letters in the tray, tonight he would talk to her. They must resolve certain things, find a modus operandi. Otherwise life would be insupportable. Revolving this in his mind, he didn’t hear Felicity as she called out goodnight, but merely turned and walked out of the clerks’ room, grim-faced.
‘Bloody hell,’ remarked Felicity to Henry. ‘Look at the face on him. Like a smacked arse. Doesn’t believe in the festive spirit, obviously.’
When he got in, Rachel was still not home. The sight of Oliver’s expensive pushchair in the hallway lowered Leo’s spirits even further. In the living room toys and bricks lay scattered across the carpet, and from upstairs he could hear the sound of Jennifer talking to Oliver as he splashed in his bath. That was another thing, thought Leo, kicking a stuffed rabbit aside as he crossed the room to the cupboard where the drinks were kept. The nanny. He and Rachel might be virtual strangers to one another, but somehow the presence of an outsider, even if unseen and unheard most of the time, heightened the tension. Why couldn’t Rachel stay home and look after Oliver herself? God knows, she didn’t need the money.
