by Caro Fraser
‘Rachel! Stop putting Leo ahead of yourself, just because he’s a man! Pay the nanny overtime, for God’s sake! Double time, if needs be. Make some use of Leo’s money while you’ve got it. If you can show that lot at Nichols and Co that you’re prepared to go abroad on business, and do a damn good job into the bargain, then things will change. You’ll be able to make threatening noises, say that unless you receive equal treatment, you’ll sue them. The way things are these days, that will have them quaking. Very bad publicity.’ Anthea’s eyes shone, and everything she said filled Rachel with a sense of resolve.
She nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ll do that. If I can prove to them that I’m as good as any man around the place, including Fred Fenton, then they haven’t got a leg to stand on.’
When she got back from lunch, Nora called out to her from reception.
‘Two messages while you were out,’ Nora said, handing Rachel the telephone notes. ‘One from Mr Nikolaos. Could you ring him back urgently at his Piraeus office. He sounded in a bit of a tizz.’ Rachel groaned, wondering what fantastically complex mess her pet Greek shipowner had managed to get himself into this time. ‘And the other was from a Mr Beecham. Didn’t leave a number, didn’t say if he’d ring back.’
‘Thanks,’ said Rachel, and turned towards the lifts. She realised that she was smiling. It pleased her to know that Charles had called. She had few male friends outside work, and she liked the idea that he had been thinking about her. Of course, it could never be more than a friendship – she had too much hope invested in Leo and their future together. Still, it would be nice to see him. Perhaps he would call later. But the afternoon passed, and by the time Rachel left the office at half past five, there had been no word from Charles.
Camilla sighed deeply and leant back, weary of the documents she had been reading for most of the afternoon, and glanced at her watch. Nearly six o’clock. Anthony came into the room, his session with Leo and Murray Campbell over.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think I ever want to read another word about asbestos. I’ve just finished a light-hearted little report entitled “Asbestos: A Social Problem”, plus medical reports from the Lancet, the British Medical Journal and the British Journal of Industrial Medicine. They’ve taken me the better part of three hours.’
‘Cheerful stuff, I imagine.’ Anthony dropped his papers on his desk and sat down.
Camilla grimaced. ‘None of it exactly reflects well on Lloyd’s. It’s pretty obvious that the warning signs were there as far back as the early seventies. All those decisions of the US courts, construing insurance policies in strict favour of plaintiffs, circulars sent round the market by the Asbestos Working Party. Listen to this. This is an American attorney specialising in defending insurance companies addressing a meeting of the Lloyd’s Underwriters’ Non-Marine Association in 1981.’ Camilla leant forward, and the earnest expression on her face as she tucked her hair behind one ear and bent over her notes made Anthony smile slightly. ‘“There will be many more claims than we can possibly anticipate from toxic substances … such claims will often take many years to manifest themselves, and the pounds and dollars involved will be far greater than we can possibly imagine.’’’
‘That’s why Alan Capstall and others began to write those run-off contracts,’ said Anthony, and yawned. ‘To satisfy their auditors that they had made adequate provision for latent disease claims. I suppose it looked like good business – high premiums, good potential profits when margins on conventional policies were falling. But very, very rash, as it turned out. And, of course, all the outside Names knew nothing about what was going on. The run-off premiums were totally inadequate for the risks being carried. Asbestos claims began to mount, the US courts went for the deep-pocket approach, and bang – disaster for Freddie, Charles, Basher and all the rest of them.’
‘What I don’t understand is why Capstall and the others didn’t see what was coming. There was all the medical literature available, and our research into asbestosis seems to have been ahead of the American stuff, if anything. You would have thought that someone like Capstall would pay attention to that kind of thing, since he was in the business of assessing risks. What made him write all those run-offs?’
‘A mixture of arrogance and stupidity, I’d say. Which is why Leo should have a field day with Mr Capstall when he gets him in the witness box,’ said Anthony, laying down his pen. ‘Though no doubt Capstall will be busily blaming the reinsuring underwriters. It’ll be interesting to watch.’ Anthony glanced at his watch and looked speculatively at Camilla. ‘Now, it’s six o’clock and I don’t have to talk to you about run-off contracts or long-tail syndicates any more. What are you doing this evening?’
Camilla smiled. ‘Nothing.’
‘In that case, I suggest we go back to my flat and I’ll cook us a meal. Adam’s going to the theatre.’
Camilla hesitated. She’d been back to Anthony’s flat before, but Adam had always been there. She was aware, from the way in which things were going, that going to bed with Anthony was inevitable, and the idea, though desirable in itself, filled her with apprehension. When it came to sex, Camilla knew she was somewhat naive, but she couldn’t pretend to sophistications which she didn’t possess. She had had no more than five boyfriends since the age of sixteen, and apart from occasional sessions of what women’s magazines used to call ‘heavy petting’, her sexual experience consisted of a series of unsatisfactory and guilty couplings with a university boyfriend in his room at the hall of residence two years ago. At that time it had seemed like something she should do, part of becoming grown up, and she’d felt that once she’d started it, once it had become part of the relationship, she had to go on with it. Lust or enthusiasm hadn’t played much of a part. Her feelings about Anthony were entirely different. When he kissed or touched her she was conscious of acute desire, and she knew, as she gazed at him across the space between their two desks, that she couldn’t spend the evening alone with him without something happening. Anthony, she assumed, possessed a wealth of sexual experience. She imagined that his past must contain a string of lovers – Sarah, for instance, was only one of them. She dreaded the idea of her own gaucheness, of her inability to compare with someone as knowing and lovely as Sarah. She had no idea, really, of what Anthony would expect, but when she thought back to the sweaty embraces with Derek in the Clem Attlee hall of residence two summers ago, she did not feel particularly confident. She had always been shy about her body, and even the knowledge that Anthony cared about her, wanted her, did not convince her of her own desirability.
‘Why don’t we just go out?’ she said diffidently. ‘I mean, you needn’t go to the trouble of cooking.’
She met his eye, and he knew immediately what she was thinking, what she was afraid of. This was something they couldn’t skirt around any longer. He shook his head. ‘No. I like cooking. And I feel like staying in, for a change.’
‘All right,’ she said, wondering if it would be.
Camilla sat self-consciously on Anthony’s sofa, trying to read the paper and failing. She could hear Anthony clattering around in the kitchen, ostensibly putting some food together for them both. Since they had come back to the flat she had grown aware of a distinct atmosphere, an unmistakeable sexual tension which made her nervous. She wished, really wished that they had gone out, instead of coming here. Then it could just have been as it usually was, and the most she would have had to anticipate would be a kiss at the end of the evening. What on earth was she worried about? she asked herself. It was absurd – after all, she wanted it to become a proper love affair. It was the kind of thing she had desired very much in the days when she had hero-worshipped Anthony. But that had been different. That had been fantasy, and this was very much real. Camilla sighed and tried to focus once more on the paper. But her thoughts wandered back remorselessly to sex and Anthony. She had to face it – however easy and affectionate she might feel nowadays in his company, the thought
of going to bed with him terrified her. What if he didn’t like her with her clothes off? What if she didn’t know what to do, was too inexperienced for him? The whole prospect was depressing, and she knew that that was the last thing it should be.
Anthony turned down the heat beneath the pasta which he was cooking and glanced at his watch. Then he picked up the bottle of wine which he had opened, plus a couple of glasses, and wandered through to the living room. Camilla was sitting sideways on the sofa, her knees drawn slightly up, almost defensively, staring at the paper, unaware that her skirt had slid back to reveal the tops of her black stockings. That, together with the slightly troubled, childish look on her pretty face made her look extremely – if unintentionally – erotic. Anthony handed her a glass of wine and sat down next to her on the sofa. Camilla sat up awkwardly, pulling down her skirt, the newspaper sliding to the floor.
‘Cheer up,’ he said, taking a sip of his wine and stroking her cheek. He leant over and kissed her softly on the mouth, then drew back, contemplating her. ‘You are,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘incredibly sexy. Did you know that?’ They looked at one another for a few seconds, and then Anthony took the wine glass from Camilla’s hand and set it down on the floor next to the sofa. ‘Come here,’ he said, drawing her towards him and kissing her with greater intensity.
Oh God, thought Camilla, this was too nice, far too nice. And clearly Anthony thought so, too. He unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse and kissed her skin just above her breasts, his breathing growing harder, and Camilla, in spite of herself, arched her body slightly towards him at the pleasurable sensation. Why was it, she wondered, that her body seemed to respond so effortlessly, so easily to everything he did, when her mind was doing frantic, unconnected things somewhere else? She could feel his hands sliding inside her clothing, over her breasts, and with a little moan she lay back on the sofa beneath him, let him kiss and touch her. Then she heard herself say, for some reason, ‘What about the pasta?’
‘Oh, sod the pasta,’ muttered Anthony, and began feverishly to try to unfasten her clothing.
Camilla struggled into something of an upright position. ‘No, really,’ she murmured, ‘won’t it burn? I mean – shouldn’t you …’
Anthony stopped what he was doing and looked at her. She could feel his chest rising and falling beneath his half-unbuttoned shirt as his breathing slowed. ‘What are you going on about?’ he asked.
Camilla said nothing, tried to straighten her hair, and Anthony pushed her gently back on the sofa, resuming his kissing and exploration of her underwear. But again she pushed him off. ‘Don’t,’ she muttered.
‘Don’t?’ Anthony propped his head on one elbow and looked at her in astonishment. ‘It’s not the pasta that’s bothering you, is it? Come on, what’s up?’
‘It’s just …’ Camilla let out a sigh and met Anthony’s gaze. How absolutely lovely he looked, she thought, with his hair all rumpled, that little pulse beating in his neck. What on earth was wrong with her? Maybe she should just tell him, get it out of the way. She drew in her breath and said, ‘If you want to know, I really don’t think this is such a good idea. I mean, it’s just … I’m not, you know, very experienced.’ He said nothing. Oh, God, thought Camilla, this was coming out all wrong. What did she sound like? She put her hands over her eyes so that she would not have to look at him and said quickly, ‘Actually, I’m quite scared of this. Of you. I’m frightened that I won’t be any good. And everything has been so nice between us up till now, that I just think it would be awful if we made a mess of things.’
There was a silence, and then Camilla could feel his body shaking against hers. She realised he was laughing. He pulled her hands away from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, still laughing. ‘But you are so sweet. You really are.’ She watched him uncertainly as his laughter died away, leaving only a smile so thoroughly filled with affection that she began to feel distinctly better about everything even before he spoke. ‘I don’t want you to worry about anything at all. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Don’t think about it. Do what comes naturally. I have to say that, until you started going on about the pasta, you were doing it very well indeed.’ He kissed her lightly. ‘Would it help,’ asked Anthony gently, ‘if I were to tell you that you are the most desirable, the most fantastic turn-on anyone could imagine? And that I want you very, very much?’ She nodded, and he kissed her again, drawing her against him so that she began once more to feel that familiar, dizzying heat spreading through her body. Only this time her anxiety had subsided, and she returned his kiss hungrily. Anthony drew his mouth away from hers. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I shall go on telling you all night, because it’s true.’
Half an hour later she was lying face down on the rumpled sheets of Anthony’s bed, inert, drowsily happy. She smiled and shivered as Anthony drew his fingers lightly across her shoulders, then dipped his head to kiss the curve of her back. He lay down, his head next to hers on the pillow, lightly lifting strands of hair from the side of her face so that he could look at her properly. She was wonderful. Soft and voluptuous, eager and wonderfully unspoilt. He lay looking at her, and thought how completely he loved her. Nothing could be more worthwhile than the amount of time he had spent getting to know her, learning gradually that he wanted her in a way which he had never wanted anyone else before.
She looked back at him, trying to fathom the faraway look in his eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’ she murmured.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Anthony, shifting slightly and turning his head to stare at the ceiling, ‘how stupid I have been up till now. How I have always got things the wrong way round.’ He looked back at her. ‘But now they are just as they should be.’
She smiled. He had been absolutely right. She had worried about nothing. Clearly sex with someone you really loved was very different from any other kind. Anyway, she had taken him at his word and had done what came naturally, and it had been wonderful. And in spite of her own sense of awkwardness, Anthony seemed to like her very much without her clothes on, so that was all right. In fact, it was more than all right. She felt prized, desired, perfect … and then suddenly remembered what Anthony had been doing in the kitchen before all this.
‘I’m still a bit worried about that pasta,’ she remarked.
‘Oh, bugger,’ said Anthony, and leapt out of bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rachel went to Mr Rothwell the next morning with her proposal for attending the conference in Sydney. She had discussed it with Leo the previous evening and he had seemed perfectly happy for her to go, so long as Jennifer was able to work during the evenings. In fact, he had been enthusiastic and supportive in a way which quite cheered her up. Now, as she sat before Mr Rothwell in his office, she felt confident, buoyant.
‘… so I thought I could present a paper on mycotoxins in cargoes. I’ve noticed that it’s something which exercises our Japanese clients when it comes to food cargoes, and there doesn’t seem to have been much coverage of it so far. I’ve been studying the Working Party’s latest report, and I think it would make an original topic.’
James Rothwell swivelled his chair from side to side and regarded Rachel thoughtfully. Ever since that confrontation with her at the end of last year he had felt rather wary of her. That cool, beautiful composure of hers had always daunted him, and the business of salary differentials had added a certain guilty unease. Still, she hadn’t mentioned it again. No doubt she realised that it was only a point of principle, and that she and her husband earned enough money between them to make it not worthwhile fussing over. He was somewhat surprised, however, that she was so keen to travel to this conference, and leave her baby for a week. Perhaps there was some hidden agenda. He mulled over her suggestion for a few seconds.
‘All very complex and scientific, though, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly,’ said Rachel. Her manner was not exactly eager, since she was too contained to manifest that kind of emotion, but her voice took on a certain in
tensity. ‘There’s an enormous amount of scientific literature on the subject, and the governments in different countries all seem to issue different guidelines. I think it would be useful to provide simplified background information and some advice on what shipowners should do if they run into problems over mould growth in cargoes.’
James Rothwell nodded. It would be quite impressive to have someone from the firm covering this kind of area, and Rachel was sufficiently meticulous to ensure that any paper she presented would be of the highest standard. Those looks of hers would go down well, too. Her Japanese clients had brought in a great deal of useful extra business, and this could be a way of courting some more. The firm could do with some Pacific Rim expansion. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If you think you can get it together in two weeks’ time. I understand you’ve got quite a heavy caseload at the moment?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure I can handle it.’ She would just have to find time after Oliver was asleep.
Rachel left Mr Rothwell’s office, mentally calculating the amount of office time she could set aside for working on the paper, and found the phone ringing in her room when she returned. ‘Hello?’
‘Rachel? This is Charles. Charles Beecham.’ At the sound of his voice she smiled with pleasure and sat back in her chair. ‘Sorry I couldn’t call back the other day. I had to spend all afternoon doing a voice-over for this series. Anyway, how are you?’
‘I’m fine. And you?’
‘I’m being run completely ragged at the moment, if you want to know the honest truth. I’ve been banging backwards and forwards between the studio and the British Library for the past two weeks. I’m trying to research my next series on the history of China. I thought I knew quite a lot about it, but in fact I know practically next to nothing. Which is not good news for someone who’s meant to be presenting an authoritative historical perspective.’ He wondered if he was babbling. ‘Anyway, it would do me a large amount of good to see you. How’s your work going?’
