An Immoral Code

by Caro Fraser

  Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Mr Rothwell, when we last spoke on this subject, you said that you had reservations about my – my commitment to the firm. You said you felt that, because I am married with a child, that I couldn’t be relied upon in the same way as someone like Fred Fenton. I feel that I have demonstrated over the past few weeks that I’m every bit as flexible as any man in this firm, that I don’t necessarily put my family first, and I’m asking you now for a good reason why I shouldn’t be treated on the same footing as someone like Fred.’

  Mr Rothwell leant forward and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. She had given him a little ammunition. ‘I hardly think Fred’s situation is relevant. You know that I’m not prepared to discuss the position of other individuals in the firm. We are discussing you. Now, I think you made a very valuable contribution with your paper at the conference, and I’m grateful for the contacts you made. But the fact remains that you are a young married woman with a family, and it is not the firm’s intention to impose upon you burdensome expectations which would be inconsistent with your domestic situation.’ The fact was, there was a very good chance that she would go off and get pregnant again, only he couldn’t quite come out and say that.

  Rachel stared at him and, despite her seething anger, laughed. ‘This, if I may say so, Mr Rothwell, is extraordinary. Are you now saying that you’re doing me a favour by holding me back? That I should be somehow grateful to you for not allowing me to work too hard, so that my family doesn’t suffer? Don’t you think that’s just a little patronising? Not just towards me, but towards every other female partner in this firm?’

  Mr Rothwell’s own temper began to fray. ‘Rachel, you may choose to distort what I say, but the fact is that the rewards which you receive from this firm are rewards which we regard as commensurate with your work and the way in which you perform it. Now, I’m sorry that this should lead to any ill-feeling on your part, but there is nothing further to be said.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I have a meeting in a few moments, so you must excuse me.’

  There was nothing more she could say at that moment. This was not the end of the matter, she decided, as she left his office smarting with bitter frustration. She would take this further. But what if it cost her her job, as it surely would? Well, she would worry about that when the time came. Then she thought of Oliver, of nannies, of trying to find another job and fight for her rights in some drawn-out industrial tribunal, and already she felt overwhelmed and exhausted by the dubious prospect. She longed for the evening, when she could tell Charles and find some comfort from him.

  Charles and his friend Timothy had had an excellent lunch. A couple of drinks beforehand, a couple of bottles of very decent claret with the meal, brandies afterwards. They hadn’t left the place till after four. Maybe going on to the pub afterwards had been over-egging the pudding, but they’d been having such an enjoyable, witty conversation that it had seemed a shame not to prolong it. Charles now felt beautifully mellow as he made his way to the station taxi rank, realising that he was certainly not in any condition to drive himself home. He was mildly astonished, through his alcoholic haze, to see Rachel coming out of the station, and then realised that, of course, she would naturally be on her way home at this hour. She smiled when she saw him.

  ‘What are you doing here? You didn’t come to meet me, did you?’

  ‘No, my psychic powers aren’t quite up to that, my sweet. I’ve been lunching with an old friend, and we got talking … The fact is, I’ve only just left him.’ He glanced at his watch, astonished to see that it was already ten past seven.

  Rachel frowned anxiously as they walked together towards the car park. ‘What about Jeanette? She’s supposed to go off at half past six.’

  Charles felt mildly disgruntled at the implication that since she, Rachel, was late, it was up to Charles to look after Oliver. ‘Oh, she won’t have abandoned him, don’t worry.’

  When they got in, Charles loafed happily in an armchair, squinting at Rachel’s copy of the Evening Standard, while she put Oliver to bed. When she came down later, Charles was unpleasantly aware that the effect of the afternoon’s alcohol was beginning to wear off. There was only one cure for that, he knew, and that was to keep the old level topped up. He would regret it tomorrow, but since he was due to start a serious work stint the day afterwards, he might as well behave recklessly this evening. There would be enough sobriety over the next month, when he was being nagged by producers and working flat out. He went to the cellar and fetched a bottle of wine, then wandered into the kitchen, where Rachel was putting together a chicken salad. He was glad that supper was going to be light, after that lunch, he reflected, wandering from drawer to drawer in an exasperated search for the corkscrew.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rachel, as he handed her a glass of wine. ‘I need it, after today.’

  Charles circled her waist with his arm and softly kissed the side of her neck, making her shiver with pleasure. ‘Tell me about it, let me soothe away your worries …’

  She sighed, moving away from him, and set the plates and cutlery on the broad kitchen table. ‘Oh, it wasn’t all bad. This afternoon was quite encouraging, in fact. I left work early to look at a house in Kew. That’s why I got back late.’

  Charles took a healing draught of wine, and felt his alcohol level climbing comfortably back up. ‘And?’

  ‘It was very nice. Lovely, in fact. Big garden, decently sized rooms, not too far from the station and shops. The couple who are selling it have already found somewhere else and are ready to move, and I’m a first-time buyer, so it’s all ideal, really …’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Charles, with an enthusiasm he did not feel. Of course it had always been understood that she would be leaving – hadn’t it? – but the reality of it gave him a cold, bleak feeling. He took another gulp of wine and prodded moodily at a piece of chicken.

  ‘Is it?’ murmured Rachel, looking at him thoughtfully. Well, it was natural enough that he should be pleased. This was his home, he was used to being here alone. No doubt he was looking forward to having some peace and quiet again.

  ‘So … what was wrong with the rest of it? Your day, I mean.’ He did not want to talk about the house, did not want to hear her plans for redecorating, or where Oliver’s nursery would be. He didn’t, above all, want to think about this house after she had gone. A maudlin vision of himself sitting alone in the evenings, at this table, came to him. I could cry, thought Charles.

  ‘The rest of the day was horrible,’ said Rachel decisively. He noticed that she wasn’t eating. ‘You remember I told you that I found out that I wasn’t being paid as much as male partners, and so on?’ Charles nodded, listening absent-mindedly and gazing at her in a fond, hazy way, surprised at how randy he could make himself just by looking at her and thinking certain things. ‘Well, I was pretty convinced after this conference that they’d have to take a different line, that I’d shown them I was capable of doing the job without any concessions, just because of Oliver …’ She sighed deeply, her voice trailing away. ‘But,’ she went on, conscious of incipient tears rising, ‘I was wrong. They have no intention of treating me equally. You would think, wouldn’t you’ – her voice shook slightly as she tried to contain a sob at the thought of the sheer injustice of it – ‘that in this day and age women could expect to be dealt with on their merits, and not according to some chauvinistic …’ She put her face in her hands and let all the misery and frustration overwhelm her.

  Charles rose in consternation and went to her, putting his arms around her and drawing her to her feet. She held on to him, her slight fit of weeping already subsiding, but Charles, ever a susceptible fellow, and now made even more so by wine, was struck to the core by her unhappiness. With the vague idea that he could cheer her up by making love to her, he kissed her tears, then her mouth, and began to unfasten most of the buttons and zips that came to hand.

  ‘Don’t worry about any of that,’ he muttered. ‘Forget them … God, you are
utterly gorgeous,’ he breathed, as he fondled one breast and kissed her shoulder. It had always been one of Charles’s weak points that he confused sexual arousal with genuine emotional feeling, and now, as she responded to his caresses and returned his kisses, glad of their comfort as much as anything, he became entirely convinced that the worst mistake of his life would be to let this woman go off to Kew and leave him. ‘And another thing,’ he said, gazing into her eyes and kissing her nose lightly, ‘I don’t want you to go. Forget that house in Kew. Stay here. Stay here for ever. I love you and I don’t want to be without you. Truly. Please, please tell me you’ll stay … I want you to come and live with me. Permanently. God, how beautiful you are …’

  As he said it, Charles was entirely sincere. But then, after a day in which he had consumed two gin and tonics, a bottle of claret, two brandies, a couple of pints in the Crown and Trumpet, and a glass of Australian chardonnay, there was much that Charles might say and mean.

  Rachel was too far lost in the familiar passion which Charles now aroused in her to say anything instantly. But the words sank in and, just as Charles was wondering if he was too old to make love over the kitchen table or whether it would put his back out, she replied in a happy murmur, ‘Yes, of course I’ll stay. I love you, too.’ And Charles, as he pushed the plates aside in a clatter and lifted her onto the table, was convinced that this was exactly what he wanted to hear.

  It was after eleven when the phone rang. Leo was slumped in an armchair with a book, a glass of Scotch balanced beside him, feet on the coffee table. In the past weeks he had grown accustomed to the unbroken silence of the house, and the sound of the telephone startled him. He stretched out a hand to pick it up.

  ‘Hello?’ he murmured, hoping like hell that it wasn’t Murray or Fred getting themselves into a lather over some obscure point. That was the trouble with solicitors – always fearing the worst and looking round for trouble.

  There was a pause before the voice on the other end spoke, and when it did, it was with a light, breathless catch.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Leo. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Francis.’

  There was a long pause. Leo wondered for a moment whether he should simply hang up. Francis was the last thing he needed right now. He thought he’d made it clear to the boy months ago that it was all over. How the hell had he got his home number? But after a moment’s hesitation he decided it would be better to speak to him.

  ‘Francis … What can I do for you?’

  Francis laughed, a brief, light sound that Leo had once liked and had entirely forgotten. But his voice, when he spoke, was tired and dull. ‘Not very much, I don’t think … I’m afraid this is a duty call, more than anything. I can imagine that you didn’t much want to hear from me, but I’m afraid I hadn’t much choice. I’m rather unwell, you see.’

  For a second Leo was tempted to ask what the hell that had to do with him, and then a small, cold fear struck him. He felt his grip tighten on the receiver. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said evenly, waiting.

  ‘I’ve got Aids, Leo,’ said Francis tersely, his voice shaking a little. ‘A few weeks after – after you last came to see me, I had a test, and I was HIV positive. And now it’s something rather worse.’ The chill of fear which Leo had felt now seemed to numb his body like ice. He himself hadn’t been tested for six months. He thought suddenly of Rachel and Oliver. Christ. Oh, sweet Christ. He closed his eyes momentarily, then heard Francis continue. ‘That’s why I had to call you. So that you – so that you know. I—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. God, look – I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry.’ Was he? Could he care less about Francis? It was himself he was sorry about, himself he was concerned for. He could have himself tested tomorrow, but this couldn’t have come at a worse time, in the middle of this case, when he needed to be at the peak of his form, concentrating on nothing other than the issues. It was a nightmare. Struggling to control the fear he felt, Leo said, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’ It seemed an absurd, trite thing to say. But what else was there to say?

  ‘I just hope …’ Francis hesitated, then went on, ‘I just hope – you know, that everything is all right for you.’

  Oh God, thought Leo, add your prayers to mine, Francis. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I hope so, too.’

  Leo replaced the receiver and sat staring unseeingly ahead of him for a long, long time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Leo left the Harley Street clinic shortly after nine, leaving himself just enough time to get to chambers and pick up a few things before getting to court. As he swung his car away from the meter and into the traffic crawling across Wigmore Street, he could still see in his mind’s eye the enigmatic features of his doctor, whom he had known for fifteen years. The man’s tact, discretion and swiftness of response were worth all the money they cost – but, beyond that, there was nothing more to be bought. Leo was in a situation now where all the money in the world could not buy him the peace of mind he wanted. At least he would not have long to wait – he had been told he could pick up the results of the test at the end of the day. He had slept wretchedly the night before, and was grateful for the fact that at least he did not have to perform today. Underwood would be giving his opening address, which was bound to be short, and would then begin the examination of the expert witnesses. The crux of this case was, for Leo, his cross-examination of Capstall, and that was several days away, by which time, all being well, he should have recovered his equilibrium. If he could get the man to admit in court that he had had no business writing those risks on behalf of the Names, given the potentially overwhelming liabilities to which he was exposing them, then they were home and dry. But he knew Capstall, had seen and heard him often enough to know that this would be no easy task. He was a slithery type, glib and extremely good at giving oblique answers. Leo’s mind lurched suddenly away from the case and back to his own predicament. What did any of that matter, should the result of this test turn out to be positive? At this thought, Capstall and the Names seemed to shrivel into insignificance. He tried to envisage how it would be … Would he be able to carry on? Would he have to ask Anthony to take over? Even as he contemplated the enormity of the possibility that the result would be positive, Leo could not imagine how he would react. It was one thing to suppose, to conjure up the demon, but until he actually stared that mortal reality in the face, he had simply no idea how he would cope. All he could do was to get through today.

  The hours in court that day were long and slow and painful for Leo, but perhaps the worst part was having to behave normally, to smile and talk, to appear responsive and attentive to the day’s proceedings, when all he wanted to do was to creep into a quiet lair of introspection. It was not true, he thought, struggling to pay attention to Underwood’s words, that activity helped time to pass. When the ticking was that of one’s own mortal clock, no amount of talk or action served to distract one from its dull, endless stroke. The unsettling rumour concerning himself and Anthony seemed trite now, a groundless piece of gossip which had, for Leo, now paled into an ironic insignificance.

  ‘… of course, my Lord, no doubt my learned friend Mr Davies would be quick to say that this matter is one of Lilliputian proportions when compared to the larger issue of the run-off contracts …’ Underwood turned slightly to glance smilingly in Leo’s direction, but the faint grin with which Leo responded was no more than a muscular response, for his concentration was so destroyed that he was incapable of feeling the slightest glimmer of amusement.

  At one point he glanced round towards the back of the court, wondering, as he had wondered each day so far, whether Charles would look in. But the public benches contained only the solitary figure of the loyal Freddie, blinking in a mystified fashion, and a couple of bored journalists. The thought of Charles now seemed a hollow, bleak one. How, in these circumstances, could he ever contemplate the possibility of another lover? What was it one said to placate the fates? Make everything
all right, God, and I won’t ever be a bad boy again, I promise. How untrue. If everything did turn out to be all right, he knew that his passion for Charles would be undiminished, and he would remain undismayed by any threat such as that which now hung over him. But if only all might be well … The sound of Sir Basil’s voice and the realisation that he was being addressed brought Leo round with a start.

  ‘Do I take it that you agree with that, Mr Davies?’ There was a pause, and Sir Basil frowned slightly, aware that Leo’s mind had been elsewhere. ‘That the 1984 consultative document should be read in conjunction with page 104, paragraph 7?’

  Leo hesitated momentarily, glancing to where Anthony’s finger had flicked to the relevant page of the bundle and was indicating the paragraph in question. ‘Yes, my Lord,’ replied Leo after an instant’s furiously concentrated thought, ‘I quite accept that reading of the document.’

  ‘Good.’ Sir Basil nodded. ‘We appear to be achieving some degree of consensus.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Well, I think that this might be a convenient moment to stop for lunch.’

  Anthony rose and began to tidy his papers together, the bustle and hum of the court rising around them, then stopped and glanced curiously at Leo, who was still seated, the fingers of one hand touching his lips, his gaze vacant and steady.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked in a low voice. He had noticed all morning that Leo seemed exceptionally subdued, as though his mind were not properly focused on the proceedings.

  Leo took a slow breath and glanced up at him. ‘Yes, yes I’m fine.’

  ‘Fred and Walter are going to go over the deficiency figures. Do you want to come and have a bite of lunch? You look as though you could do with an hour spent away from all this.’