by Caro Fraser
Anthony was looking forward to the May Ball with mixed feelings. He knew the nature of such things from his university days, and they were not entirely to his taste. He sometimes wished that he could behave with the lack of restraint that he saw in others, who enjoyed such things with high-spirited and unselfconscious abandon. On the other hand, it made something of a welcome break from his essay on the Divisional Court and the long hours that both he and Michael were presently putting in on an appeal from an arbitration award; the past four days had been spent in court.
On Tuesday, the day before the Ball, people passing through stopped to watch the enormous marquee being erected in Inner Temple Gardens. The air was thick with summer heat, as often happens in late May, and a general sense of carelessness and excitement infected the more junior reaches of the Bar. Julia had already tried on her new dress several times, delighted with the peacock shimmer of its taffeta folds and strapless bodice. On the first of these occasions, Anthony had eyed her for a long moment before gently unzipping her.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she said to her reflection, as the gown slipped rustling to her knees. ‘Mummy is perfectly wonderful, sometimes. It cost an absolute fortune.’
‘Beautiful. But I think I prefer you without it. Can’t you go to the Ball like this?’ murmured Anthony, his lips on her bare shoulders, his hands over her small, naked breasts. At times like these, he thought, he didn’t care if he had to starve for months, just so long as he could have her. It was only at other times, away from her pliant, desirable body and lovely face, that a whisper of doubt would creep into his mind.
It was there that Tuesday, as he sat in court with Michael, listening to the drone of argument from their opposing counsel, the portly Mr Farrant. They had lost the case, in the face of a particularly unsympathetic judge, and Michael had spent Tuesday morning putting forward arguments as to why they should be given leave to appeal the judgment in the Court of Appeal. Now Mr Farrant was endeavouring, at what seemed to be interminable length, to persuade the judge to the contrary.
‘… your Lordship has had the opportunity of hearing wide-ranging argument, and I think both my learned friend and I are grateful for the attention paid to it by your Lordship in your Lordship’s judgment. That being the case, it is often said that the matter should rest with the Commercial Court judge, and I would so submit. Our third point is this …’
Mr Justice Cox nodded mournfully and Anthony’s attention strayed, returning to Julia and the eternal problem of how – or rather, whether – he could afford to go on seeing her. He had been through all this once before, and now here he was, right back where he had started, or rather, where he had finished. It was simply that, every time he saw her, he wanted to take her to bed. It was a difficult habit to break. The problem of money seemed to be getting worse now that summer was looming. She had talked of Henley, taking it for granted that he would want to go, and of tickets for Wimbledon, of a trip to France that Piers was arranging. She smiled and chattered and smiled and cajoled … Anthony couldn’t see where it was going to stop. As he had predicted to himself, now that the days were long and warm she was no longer content to curl up with Anthony and a bottle of wine. She wanted to sit in the gardens of riverside pubs and listen to amusing conversation, or to have supper at smart little restaurants where the music was cool and the windows were open to the summer air.
‘And therefore I do submit strongly, my Lord,’ Farrant was saying, well into his stride now, ‘that the fact that your Lordship may be persuaded to grant a certificate does not necessarily mean that your Lordship should grant leave. And that must be the case, because subsection 7A contemplates that division; and that is why I would urge on your Lordship …’
Even Michael was yawning discreetly, and the judge thumbed absently through the documents before him. A fly had found its way into the court and buzzed dazedly about; the clerk flapped at it in a muted manner, frowning, whenever it came near her.
It wasn’t as though he could come to some sort of arrangement with her, seeing her only every other weekend, and not at all during the week. It simply wouldn’t work. He’d asked her, in an offhand way, if she had seen Piers at all during the time that they had been apart, and she had replied, equally offhandedly, ‘Now and again.’ It gave Anthony no clue as to what, if anything, might have happened. It wasn’t his business, he supposed; she had been free to do what she liked. But he found the thought of Piers particularly detestable. The fact was that while he, Anthony, was around, Julia did not see Piers. Not so far as he knew, at any rate. A change in voices brought Anthony back to the present.
‘Mmm. I have always wondered whether that was the right approach. Yes,’ Mr Justice Cox was murmuring. Encouraged, Mr Farrant pressed on.
‘Indeed, my Lord, one speculates about the costs to date in this case and in the future. But I would respectfully submit that finality does demand that a time has come …’
She couldn’t, could she? She couldn’t be seeing Piers as well … It was possible. With Julia, anything was possible, he was beginning to realise. He closed his eyes. But she wouldn’t sleep with two people at once, would she? If he thought that she and Piers – that would be the end of it. Still, that didn’t seem possible. Very unlike Julia. Reflecting on the physical aspect of things, it was beginning to occur to Anthony that, out of bed, they perhaps had less in common than he had at first supposed. The conversation of her friends – friends whom he had once cultivated for the sake of being with her – had begun to bore him. It was gossip, mainly, not a thing he cared for, especially when it concerned people whose lives and doings did not interest him.
He glanced across at Farrant’s pupil, Colin Potterton. Boiler Potterton. What a twit. He was one of Julia’s charmed circle. Looking across at him as he murmured self-importantly over his shoulder to the instructing solicitor, nodding very fast in that pursed-lip, frowning way that he had picked up from Farrant, Anthony realised that he was one of a type that he had done his best to avoid at university. So why did he now spend so much time with Potterton and his like, and so little with Geoffrey and Simon, his friends from university? Because of Julia. And because of his own spinelessness.
‘In individual terms,’ Mr Farrant said, in tones of great dismissiveness, ‘fifty thousand dollars may be a large sum, but in my respectful submission—’
‘That has not prevented many cases from going so far as the House of Lords, has it?’ interrupted the judge, dashing Mr Farrant slightly.
‘Well, my Lord, I see that. But I always think that the cases that go that far are very often the cases where there is a very small amount involved indeed. One wonders whether that is the right approach, especially after the 1979 Act.’
Anthony scratched his head beneath his wig. The air in the courtroom was stale and warm. One of the overhead fluorescent lights had begun to fail, and was now flickering imperceptibly. The judge and the court clerk both glanced up at it.
From thinking about Julia, he fell to thinking about Leo, and the hours they had spent together in conversation, amusing and delightful hours. They had talked, talked properly. With Julia, her glance would eternally wander to other tables, other people. She had an irritating habit, he had recently realised, of interrupting one in mid sentence with some observation utterly unrelated to what one had said. She had a butterfly quality that was initially endearing and ultimately infuriating. Maybe all women were like that, he pondered; maybe only with other men did one achieve any strength of understanding, some proper exchange of ideas. He tried to concentrate on the case again as Farrant drew his arguments to their conclusion.
‘… and that being the case, I would submit that there is no basis whatsoever for granting any certificate at all in relation to those last two points, nor, even less, in granting leave to appeal. Unless I can assist your Lordship further, those are my submissions.’ Mr Farrant sat down with plump satisfaction. Anthony looked at him speculatively, wondering what it was about the Bar that made a man of thirty-eig
ht adopt the manner of a man of fifty. Boiler Potterton was just as bad, he thought, watching him mutter importantly to Farrant as he arranged his papers with a sharp edgewise tap. Michael cleared his throat and rose slowly. His voice was gentle and reedy by contrast with Farrant’s round, polished tones.
‘My Lord, might I then deal, first of all, with the “unsafe port” point. Nothing that my friend has said can, in my submission—’
Mr Justice Cox interrupted brusquely with an impatient shake of his head. ‘No, you need not trouble me about that point, in either aspect.’
Michael had expected no more nor less than this.
‘My Lord, I am grateful for that indication,’ he replied serenely, glancing down at his notes and turning a page with spidery fingers. ‘May I then turn to make my submissions on the other two points and deal, first of all …’
Anthony hitched his gown a little and sat forward, trying to concentrate. Mr Justice Cox poured a glass of water from the flask before him, carefully replacing the little cloth weighted with beads that covered its mouth, took a drink, and glanced at the clock. Then he sat back, put the tips of his fingers together and sighed, listening patiently to Michael and looking exactly as a judge should look. From reflecting on Michael’s habitual nervousness, and on whether all Wykehamists were similarly afflicted, Anthony found himself wondering whether he was so drawn to Leo by the very fact that he was not an ex-public schoolboy, that he was not cluttered with the affectations and ponderous affability of the Old Marlburian, or the breezy raffishness of a Salopian, or the arrogant cut of an old Etonian. He had noticed at Bar School how so many of these types seemed to be clearly marked, like birds clucking on a lawn. Leo was none of those. Leo’s charm and grace were utterly, wonderfully unique.
Mr Justice Cox leant forward, pulling his robe around him. ‘If you have leave to appeal on the second point,’ he was saying, ‘I do not think it is actually going to hold you up in terms of time.’
‘Well, my Lord, it might have that result,’ replied Michael in his well-modulated tones. He sounded almost propitiating. ‘The lists of the Court of Appeal are well known to be very congested—’
‘Yes.’ The judge nodded.
‘—and appeals do have difficulty in coming on.’
But Leo, Anthony had to acknowledge to himself, was evidently homosexual – wasn’t he? – and Anthony, so far as he knew, was not. Something in him – it was not any sense of revulsion – refused to accept this idea. He could not imagine Leo in love with another man. In love. The words struck him. What else could have been meant by his words, his touch? Suddenly the recollection of the events of that evening made his pulse beat faster. His cheeks burned. He looked up at Michael’s gaunt figure, trying to clear a space in his mind where he could focus on what was being said.
‘My Lord, there is perhaps one further matter. If your Lordship is minded to order a variation of the Award—’
‘Yes?’ said Mr Justice Cox, glancing up at Michael and then glancing down again.
‘—might I ask your Lordship to stay that order varying the Award, pending the progress of the appeal?’
Mr Farrant rose, flashing a quick smile at Michael. ‘I was waiting for my learned friend to tell your Lordship the reason for that. I can see no reason for it whatsoever, and if my friend can tell either your Lordship or myself, I will listen with interest.’
Boiler Potterton smirked with complicit satisfaction at Anthony. Michael, however, carried smoothly on, without looking at his learned friend, who kept darting him satisfied smiles and pulling his robe happily round his large bottom.
‘My Lord, the reason is simply this: that the Award, as varied, will give my friend an entitlement for costs which he may seek to enforce straight away, and we would submit that it is appropriate that that be held in abeyance pending the decision of the Court of Appeal.’
Mr Farrant now positively sprang up, and said with stiff good humour, ‘My Lord, I have never heard a better reason for your Lordship amending the Award.’
Anthony wondered if Leo would be back when they returned to chambers. He would know by glancing at the car park. He remembered, with pleasure, the piece of work that Leo had left him, and over which he had taken such pains. At least he had an excuse to go and see him. But what was the point of all this speculation, this hope?
‘No,’ Mr Justice Cox was saying, gathering his papers together and uncapping his fountain pen to write, ‘I make the usual order. I will give Mr Farrant his costs of the appeal.’
Mr Farrant bobbed up. ‘I am obliged, my Lord.’
Maybe they could put that evening behind them, as though it had not happened, and start again. Leo had himself told him to forget it. Perhaps it didn’t matter.
‘As to the terms of the certificate,’ continued the judge, finishing what he was writing and glancing up at Michael, ‘it will have to reach me in the course of post, I think, because you will need my initial to it, will you not?’
‘My Lord, yes,’ said Michael. ‘Will your Lordship be available tomorrow?’
But that poem, the sense of it. Whatever Leo envisaged between them, it was not mere friendship, or the occasional game of squash.
‘No, I will not,’ Mr Justice Cox was saying, again glancing at the clock. Boiler Potterton was stuffing papers into a folder in preparation to leave. ‘I think it will have to reach me in the post, I’m afraid.’
‘I will put it in hand straight away,’ replied Michael, and sat down. The judge looked round, assembling his papers, glanced up at Michael and Mr Farrant and smiled politely.
‘Yes. Well, thank you both very much.’ And he rose and left through a side door. Michael and Anthony began to collect their belongings, Anthony hoping that the blue Porsche would be in its place in the car park.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Anthony changed into his evening dress in Michael’s room the following evening. He could only judge his appearance by the small mirror above the wash-hand basin in the lavatory, but he knew from the fitting at the shop that his suit hung tolerably well on him, and he rather liked the dashing effect of his bow tie and dress shirt. He combed his hair carefully and gazed at himself blankly for a few seconds, wondering if he should have brought a razor. Humming, he wandered back into Michael’s room. It was a quarter to seven, and he had arranged to meet Edward and David and Julia for sherry in the minstrels’ gallery in Middle Temple Hall at seven.
Idly, he wandered to the window and looked out. Most people had already made their way home or were getting ready for the Ball, and the courtyard was empty. He pulled up the sash window and leant out into the warm evening air. There was no breeze, and the new leaves on the tree below hung motionless. He could hear from far away the hum of traffic on the Embankment. Then he heard footsteps, and a figure came into the courtyard. Anthony recognised it with a sudden thrill of surprise that seemed to electrify his body. Since his car had not been in the car park that afternoon, Anthony had assumed that Leo had not yet returned.
He drew his head quickly in from the window, bumping it on the sash; Leo did not look up as he made his way towards chambers. He was not dressed with his usual dark formality, but was wearing green corduroy trousers and a light shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Anthony had never seen him dressed informally before, and the sight made a curiously tender impression upon him. Leo’s figure disappeared from sight as he entered the chambers. Anthony heard his key in the lock, then his footsteps on the wooden stairs. He was whistling. Anthony stood motionless, gazing at the sundial on the wall of the building opposite, waiting and willing the footsteps to stop outside Michael’s door. But they passed on up the stairs. After a moment he heard voices, those of Leo and Stephen, faint and far away. Then the footsteps came downstairs again, passing Michael’s door without pause, down, out and away. Anthony’s heart was thumping with disappointment and longing. He sat down at Michael’s desk and buried his face in his hands, willing his heart to stop.
‘Anthony, you’re late! Where hav
e you been?’ exclaimed Julia, as he hurried up the little wooden staircase to the minstrels’ gallery. Her voice sounded bright and rapid with excitement.
‘Sorry,’ said Anthony, ‘I had some last-minute work to finish off. Thanks.’ He took the small glass of sherry that David passed to him, sipped and said appreciatively to Julia, ‘You look quite stunning!’
Julia’s smile sparkled with pleasure; in truth, Anthony felt that he was looking at her from far away. He saw her expensive gown, from which her soft shoulders and slender arms emerged with a peach-like freshness, saw her soft blonde hair framing her happy face, her expensive little trinkets of jewellery, and felt as though he were trying to bring her into focus from some other plane. The thought of Leo was blazing in his mind like some light that would not be turned off. He greeted Edward’s cousin, Anthea, who stood looking serene and willowy next to a proud and animated David, and Hermione, who was Edward’s latest girlfriend and who looked to Anthony very much like the last one.
‘God, this is disgusting,’ he remarked of the sherry to Edward, in an attempt to bring himself back to reality.
‘Yes, well, you’ve got the sweet stuff. They ran out of fino before you got here.’
The crush was enormous, as people foregathered for the Ball, the air stifling and heady with different perfumes, voices growing louder and louder. Gradually, with conversation, the thought, or feeling, of Leo faded.
‘It’s bloody hot in here,’ said Edward, as Julia was bumped towards him by someone shouldering past. He steadied her. ‘Why don’t we make our way over to the gardens? I don’t want to drink any more of this stuff, anyway.’
