by Caro Fraser
Neither looked at the other for the rest of the time that Leo spent talking to Michael. There was no need. For both men the tension and the vivid awareness of the other was electric. Anthony found it almost unbearable, particularly because he longed, with all of his heart, for the feeling to vanish, never to have been. After a time he looked up, conscious of his heart tightening as he looked at Leo, who was talking with idle amusement of some mutual acquaintance. When he stood up to leave, tapping his thigh lightly with his newspaper, he glanced over at Anthony for a second or two. His eyes as they met Anthony’s were cool, detached.
‘You know, don’t you,’ he remarked to Michael, his eyes still on Anthony, ‘about our great affair – Anthony’s and mine, that is – collapsing into a pile of dust on Friday?’
For a second, Anthony’s mind felt paralysed. But Michael merely replied, ‘The stevedore case? Settled, did it? Well, it’s just astonishing that the thing dragged on for as long as it did. Still, more money in the bank.’ Leo smiled lightly, and tapped Anthony’s desk with his newspaper.
‘I hope Anthony didn’t find his time entirely wasted.’
‘No,’ replied Anthony, looking up briefly, ‘it was fascinating. I’m almost sorry it’s finished.’ He found himself speaking in spite of himself, abhorred the innuendo, didn’t want this conversation to continue.
‘Maybe Leo will find something else for you once we’ve finished with this hearing,’ said Michael. ‘His work always seems a good deal more exciting than mine.’
‘I shouldn’t think I would have anything that would interest him much,’ said Leo, opening the door. ‘Though we can always see.’
As he went downstairs to his room, he clenched the newspaper tightly in his fist. God, why had he done that? Why had he let this whole business get the better of him? He should just have left well alone. The boy had made it clear enough on Friday night that he wasn’t interested. That ludicrous conversation. Those absurd double entendres … It was always the way, he knew. Distance from the object of one’s passion lent a certain detachment; one could resolve, coldly, not to allow oneself to be manipulated by useless feelings. But then one was in the presence of that person again, and one was borne hopelessly along. He had been so near, within touching distance. He sat in his chair, surveying sightlessly the spotless calm of his room. This must stop. There was, there could be, no point.
At his desk, Anthony was endeavouring to read and comprehend the work before him. He had dwelt too long on Leo’s last look as he left the room; had sought, in spite of himself, for some meaning. But the blue eyes had been cold, almost mocking, and that little game of words had been played merely to vanquish any trace of conceit that Leo thought Anthony might have had after Friday night. He wished that events had never happened, that he could still enjoy being with Leo as he had done only a few days ago. But he knew that the game had moved on; the rules were altered, and it was now one that he did not think he could possibly play.
On Wednesday morning Anthony received a brief letter from his father, giving him the name of the gallery in New Bond Street, where he was to take the paintings.
Dear Anthony,
I have found in my contemplation here a renewed vigour and light in my painting. Jocasta has told you of the material success that has followed. This is secondary, but for the sake of others I must make of it what I can. There is a woman called Betty Marks at the Marks-Schlomm Gallery in New Bond St, who knows you will be bringing the paintings from Islington. Why don’t you call her and introduce yourself.
The other thing is, I rang Graham and am sending him the bail money. I think if this thing takes off in a big way I may have to come back and face things. I have to legitimise myself. There is a lawyer here who spoke to a lawyer there who says it may only be a fine, although jumping bail might be a bit tricky. Anyway, you know about that kind of thing, I presume. I will let you know what I decide.
Maybe you should come here for a time. The people can be weird – the gallery people, I mean – but the place heals the soul.
Peace. Chay.
I need some soul-healing, thought Anthony, folding the letter up. He went down to the clerks’ room and looked the gallery up in the telephone book. He rang and spoke to Mrs Marks, who had a rasping, cool voice, and who seemed elegantly enthusiastic when Anthony told her about the paintings at the flat.
‘How wonderful. His work is receiving the most fabulous write-ups. Very thrilling for your family.’
‘Yes, I read something in an American magazine that my father sent me. It seems to be going down well. I thought perhaps if you sent a taxi over to Islington at six o’clock this evening to collect the paintings?’ This had struck Anthony as the best financial solution; he knew the chances of recouping a taxi fare from Chay were long and slender.
‘A very good idea. I shall arrange that. Why don’t you bring yourself along with the paintings? I should so like to meet Chay Cross’s son.’
Anthony hesitated. Why not? Fill up another blank hour or two. ‘Yes, all right. Thank you.’ And he gave her the address.
At ten to six that evening, Anthony stood in the barren disorder of the Islington living room, watching the street below from the window. Although the late April air outside was invitingly warm, the atmosphere in the flat was still chilly and bleak. The paintings stood ranged against the wall, their awkward blooms of colour gaping at the room. Anthony watched a couple walking slowly under the spring trees. The girl lifted her head, laughed soundlessly and moved like a slow dancer into the man’s embracing arm. Anthony thought of Julia; he hadn’t seen her for weeks. He hadn’t even unconsciously scanned the distant faces in the human traffic of the Temple for her features. He did not want to remember. The thought of her mouth, of her warm, slender body filled him with unbearable need and a sense of loss. He leant his head against the naked window frame. How could he possibly feel such longing for her and still be prey to some inchoate attraction for another man? It was different – was it different? Was the mesmeric quality of Leo’s voice and look, the charm of his attitudes and restless movements, on some other plane, set apart from the petulant, arresting loveliness of Julia? He tried, for the first time, to resolve and understand his attraction to Leo. He took it apart in his mind and examined each aspect. It was not sexual, but it was more than platonic. It was hunger for – what? What could he possibly want from Leo? He knew he wanted to be with him, to listen to and watch him, to be able to enjoy the pleasure of his face and feelings. But what more? The truth was, he did not know what more there could be. He had never been there, never tasted the absolute possession of another man’s attention, devotion. He wanted to matter, to be of the utmost importance, that much he knew. But, as he remembered Leo’s look on Monday morning, he thought that that was now impossible.
As he watched and pondered, he saw a black cab pull up in the street below. With a sigh, he pulled himself away from the window and bounced down the shabby staircase into the street. With the help of the driver, the canvases were loaded into the taxi, and they set off through the London evening traffic.
When the paintings were unloaded at the other end, Anthony discovered in himself a faint anxiety. He hoped they were not going to disappoint Mrs Marks. But Mrs Marks, who was younger and less elegant than Anthony had imagined, seemed delighted. She picked up one of the smaller ones and brought it over to the light.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured appreciatively, ‘clearly in his formative period, but very much with that primitive clarity.’
Anthony murmured in agreement, trying to see beyond the unevenly textured series of mango-shaped splashes that glowed against a navy blue background. Mrs Marks put her neatly cropped dark head on one side and smiled at Anthony, then laid the painting carefully back with the others.
‘Do you paint – Anthony, is it?’
‘No,’ said Anthony, ‘I’m a barrister.’
‘How exciting!’ replied Mrs Marks, with the vague, practised thrill of one who customarily said this in repl
y to any revelation. ‘Will you have a drink?’ She brought out a bottle of Beefeater gin and another of vermouth from a cupboard next to the smart oval reception desk. ‘We have a new exhibition opening here tomorrow – Vernon Dunn. Such exciting work. Sculptures. Do you like sculpture, Anthony?’
She was leading him, by gesture, towards some aggressive abstract pieces balanced beautifully on long, white, slender columns. He stood and looked at them while she went back and began expertly to mix two cocktails. They all seemed to Anthony to be variations on the same theme, though he was uncertain what that was. There were more further down the room, beautifully lit, the larger ones resting on low, squat plinths. Leo would like these, thought Anthony. Mrs Marks handed him his drink. He took a sip, and instantly felt the delightful, numbing effect of almost neat gin.
‘Delicious,’ he said, with surprise.
‘I learnt how to make a proper martini when I was living in New York as a girl. So much better than our boring gin and tonic, don’t you think?’ She gave a laugh. ‘Of course, that was a long time ago.’
‘Surely not,’ replied Anthony gallantly. He glanced at her speculatively. About his mother’s age, probably; small, spare, with very square features. Her mustard-coloured dress was well cut and close fitting. She smiled a lot, probably from practice.
‘Well,’ and she laughed again, looking up at Anthony from under her eyelashes as she sipped her drink, ‘not that long ago, perhaps.’ She eyed him as he looked blankly at the sculptures. A very attractive boy, she thought – how lovely when they still had that half-formed, childish strength. Such dark eyes. Beautiful hands. Her small tongue darted unconsciously over her lips. So young. Would he …? she wondered. He finished his drink, suddenly aware that it had gone to his head somewhat. He hadn’t eaten much at lunchtime.
‘When will you be sending the paintings to America?’ he asked, for something to say. She stood smiling and looking at him, her head on one side.
‘We might keep them here. Our New York gallery is incredibly busy this year. I was thinking that it really might be a good idea to introduce his talent over here now. A small summer exhibition, I thought. Perhaps we could use these and some of his more recent work. It would be wonderful if we could entice him back here, don’t you think?’
Anthony thought briefly of Islington Magistrates’ Court. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m sure that would be a good idea.’
He put his empty glass down and ran his fingers through his hair, unaware of the stir this caused in Mrs Marks’ well-worn heart. She saw that he was about to go, and said quickly, ‘Won’t you have another drink? You haven’t looked at the rest of the exhibition yet.’ And she splashed some more gin into his glass and a hasty dash of vermouth. Anthony opened his mouth to refuse, saw that it was too late, and said nothing. He wished he could think of some intelligent conversation to offer this woman. He thanked her when she gave him his second drink, and then set off uncertainly up the room. She followed a little way behind, catlike. Just when he was trying to work out what one of the sculptures reminded him of – a fir cone? the thing at the end of a lavatory chain? – he felt, to his surprise, a hand on the back of his thigh.
‘You are such a charming young man, my dear,’ Mrs Marks was saying, somewhat breathily. ‘Don’t you think we should carry on our little conversation somewhere more comfortable? My flat isn’t very far away.’ She slid round in front of him, her hand still on his leg, and looked up at him winsomely.
‘Ah, no – not really,’ said Anthony, bemused. What on earth was going on? He hardly knew this woman, and she was fondling his bum.
‘Oh, come on,’ she persisted, quite blatant now, using her most seductive rasp, and rubbing her hand on his crotch. He stepped back in alarm, and then laughed.
‘Listen, thanks for the drink, but I must go.’ And he headed for the door, his footsteps rapid and clear on the polished floor of the gallery. She scuttled up behind him as he reached the door.
‘There could even be a little … present for you. You look as though you could do with some extra money. For a new suit, perhaps.’ He was struggling with the catch of the locked door. What an appalling situation, he thought.
‘No, honestly, thanks very much,’ he gasped politely. At last she opened the door for him, smiling slyly.
‘Don’t forget,’ she cooed, as he fled into the night, ‘I’m always here.’ She watched his figure retreating down the pavement. ‘What a darling,’ she murmured to herself. ‘What a pity.’
Anthony walked fairly fast until he reached Albemarle Street, then slowed down and began to laugh. She hadn’t wasted any time, you had to give her that. Offering him money, too. Nice work if you could get it. He wondered, idly, how much his twenty-two-year-old body was worth. A fortune, to the right person, he supposed. He glanced in the windows of the expensive shops and galleries as he made his way towards Piccadilly, coveting the cashmere sweaters and handmade shoes, the badger-bristle shaving brushes and other expensive trinkets that the rich seemed to amuse themselves with. He cut down into Jermyn Street and admired the ties and expensive shirts, the immaculately thick, creamy cotton, the rough, colour-splashed silk. Oh, he sighed. One day, when he was a tenant at Caper Court – a QC, even – he would be able to fritter away his money on silk dressing gowns and expensive rubbish. He’d even be able to afford one of those sculptures in Mrs Marks’ gallery. He would be able to give it to Leo. At this point, his fantasies stopped. Leo. And money. Or rather, the lack of it. In only two days Len would doubtless be ringing him up again, demanding his friend’s money. And where the hell was he going to get it? Maybe he should go back to New Bond Street and knock on Mrs Marks’ door again, he thought ruefully. The weight of his debt to Len pressed on him, blotting his mind to all other thoughts, as he made his way home.
By the time Friday came, Anthony had exhausted all possibilities. He had asked Barry, knowing that it was hopeless, and had been met with a guffaw of incredulity. He thought of pressing the matter with his mother, then thought again. He even considered approaching Michael, but could not bring himself to this. Once or twice he had been on the verge of phoning Len to ask him to put the thing off until his next scholarship cheque came through, but he weighed this against the possibility that Len didn’t need the money as badly as he had said, and might not even ring for a bit. He decided to take the chance that Len might forget the matter, for the moment.
Friday morning passed without incident, although on the two occasions when the telephone had rung, he had felt the palms of his hands sweating and his heart contracting with dread. But as he came back into chambers from lunch, passing the clerks’ room, Mr Slee called out to him.
‘Gentleman called when you was out at lunch, Mr Cross. Said he’d call back again.’
‘When was that?’ Anthony could think of no one, except Len, who might call on him and whom Mr Slee would not recognise.
‘Oh, ten minutes or so ago.’
Anthony took the stairs two at a time and went into his room. Michael was still out. Anthony went over and stood at the window, watching the people passing from the car park to the courtyard, coming and going up and down King’s Bench Walk, in the spring sunshine. He watched for some fifteen minutes. And then he saw, distinctive in its sauntering lack of purpose from the other businesslike figures, a man dressed in working clothes making his way towards Caper Court. It wasn’t Len, but something told Anthony that this was something to do with him. As he watched, with dread, the man approaching the steps of chambers, he saw Leo following in his wake, head down, the sun glinting on his thick silver hair.
Without waiting for the phone to ring, Anthony hurried down, his footsteps hollow on the wooden stairs, and as he reached the bottom the man in working clothes was turning towards him and Mr Slee was saying, ‘Yes, Mr Cross is back now. Oh, here he is.’
The man smiled slowly and unpleasantly as he looked at Anthony, and said, ‘I’m a friend of Len’s. Paul.’ Over his shoulder, Anthony could see Sir Basi
l and Cameron Renshaw, both in shirtsleeves, standing in the clerks’ room by the telex machine, talking. Oh, Christ.
‘I thought I’d pop over about my money,’ Paul was saying in a casual, low voice. ‘Len told me where you worked. Said sorry he didn’t ring.’
‘Look, can we go outside and talk about this?’ asked Anthony softly, desperately hoping that the man would agree. But he shook his head regretfully, slowly.
‘Sorry. Nothing to talk about. Just give me the dosh and I’ll be on my way.’
‘The thing is—’ Anthony hesitated. He knew that as soon as it became evident that he was not going to give Paul any money, the trouble would begin. He started again. ‘I’ll have to go to the bank. It’s just up on the Strand, if you want to—’ Paul smiled and shook his head again. He looked round at the bustling clerks’ room. Sir Basil had already glanced over once or twice at Anthony and his incongruously dressed acquaintance.
‘Look, Anthony,’ he said, still talking quietly, laying unpleasant stress on Anthony’s name, ‘Len was more than generous with you, giving you all that money. But unfortunately, that money wasn’t strictly his. Now, I don’t like to get unpleasant with Len, ’cause he’s my mate. But I don’t mind getting unpleasant with you, see?’ He said the last word suddenly loudly, jabbing Anthony in the chest with his finger. ‘And I don’t mind getting very fucking noisy, either!’ He was almost shouting, and both Sir Basil and Cameron Renshaw looked up, startled. Anthony closed his eyes, praying for words that would stem the flow of Paul’s eloquence. He opened them and saw from Paul’s angry face that he was about to continue, when suddenly the cold, low sound of Leo’s voice cut in.
