by Caro Fraser
‘I’ve done enough thinking. Let’s just leave it, shall we?’ replied Camilla gently. ‘Don’t spoil the evening.’ And she leant forward to kiss him.
Leo woke on Monday morning a little before nine. He had, at first, no sense of its being morning, or indeed any particular day. He was conscious only of grey light from the window. The curtains were open. It was only the angle of the light which gradually brought home a rough realisation of what time of day it must be. He could hardly move his head from the pillow. A pressure like a tight band of steel bound fast against his skull enveloped it. Not pain, but a remorseless tightening sensation. His limbs felt cold and his tongue seemed to have swollen to the roof of his mouth. Shivering, he put out a hand and drew the duvet up around him, realising as he did so that he was still partially dressed, having managed to divest himself only of his trousers the night before.
The night before. He could remember little of it, except as a dark, empty remnant, the end of a grey day spent drinking himself back into oblivion. Saturday? Saturday came back to him in very gradual, crepuscular recollections. He had a memory of being in Earl’s Court, looking for Joshua, walking round the streets. How had he got there? He must have been drunk then, or somewhat, though he had no recollections of anything he had done on Saturday morning. He couldn’t even recall waking up. He must have gone by train, though again he recalled nothing of the journey. He remembered going back, though, on the tube, and going to the off-licence to buy more whisky. Then nothing. Back to Sunday, grey and lost.
He put up a hand to his chin and felt the three day stubble. He had, he realised, been on what was known as a bender. Never in his life had he done such a thing. Perhaps he was lucky he could remember anything at all. As though seeing himself through several layers of smoky glass, he remembered dimly that his sole aim and preoccupation for the past two days had been to stay in a state of partial oblivion. Well, he had succeeded and this was the result. Jesus Christ … He drew his knees up almost to his chin and lay there, curled up, stiff with self-hatred and disgust, his face screwed as though to shut out the thought of himself. Moisture seeped between his eyelids, not so much tears as a rheumy, exhausted watering. He could smell the rank scent of whisky from his very pores. It came very slowly and dimly to him that it was the start of the week. He tried to grasp hold of this, to gain some sense of the day’s significance. To do this, he had to put himself back to Friday and work through it from the very beginning.
Realisation, clarity, came to him with pain, a sudden, throbbing bolt of pain that seemed to lance his brain. If this was Monday morning, he had a hearing at ten o’clock in the High Court. The ship repair case. He turned to look at the clock and saw, thankfully, that he had an hour in hand. Then, as he heaved himself out of bed and put his bare feet on the floor, Leo realised with a thrill of horror that he hadn’t put in his skeleton argument. Of all procedural oversights, this was one of the most unpardonable. He showered, shaved and dressed in a kind of hideous, waking dream. His cuff-links were impossible. His hands shook so violently that he couldn’t begin to thread the links through. With a curse, he went through to the drawing room. The whisky bottle, uncapped, stood on the mantelpiece. Leo lifted it to his mouth and took two swift swallows, then sat down in a chair, closing his eyes. After a few minutes he held out his hands. They still trembled, but only slightly. He went back to his room and managed to fumble the cuff-links in and knot his tie.
In the bathroom he cleaned his teeth twice again and searched in the bathroom cabinet for some breath freshener. The whisky had made him feel better, clearer, though he knew this was illusory. By lunch time he would feel like death. The few brief hours till then were almost beyond contemplation. He could think of nothing he would say or do in court to cover his omission. It did not for one second cross his mind to call chambers with some excuse, and simply not show up in court. It was not a thing Leo had ever done. Work was duty, and duty was something one automatically fulfilled, even if one had cocked it up quite monumentally.
He gathered together his belongings and drove in, knowing that he shouldn’t, but knowing, too, that it was too late to take the train. Not that he could have faced a crowded commuter train even if he had had hours to spare. His head was beginning to throb violently as he parked his car in the Temple, and he wondered, as he walked up King’s Bench Walk, whether he wasn’t about to be sick there and then on the cobbles. He had forgotten his overcoat and the cold of late October made him shiver uncontrollably again as he walked, fighting against the rising of his gorge.
In chambers he went to David’s room. David wasn’t in yet and Leo fished around in a drawer where he knew David kept some Alka-Seltzer. He fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and dissolved four of the tablets, then drank it. He picked up his robing bag and made his way to the Royal Courts of Justice. Once robed, he had to make a quick detour to the lavatory to throw up the whisky and the Alka-Seltzer. They swam in the pan in an unpleasantly yellow, foamy mixture. Thereafter, everything he did and said seemed to Leo to be surreal, detached.
The judge hearing the case that day was Mr Justice Aston, a stony-faced and humourless man, who had once been Leo’s leader some years ago in an unfortunate case which they had lost, for which Aston had largely blamed Leo. Now he stared down from the bench at Leo, who endeavoured to make his excuses and apologies, two things which he loathed doing.
‘Really, Mr Davies, this is a most appalling waste of the court’s time and a gross discourtesy to all the individuals involved. I find it quite inexcusable that someone in your position should come to court today without adequate preparation. I have no alternative but to stand this case out of the lists.’ He glared down through his spectacles. Leo felt a horribly queasy rocking in his stomach and wondered if he was going to have to flee the court room to throw up again. Mr Justice Aston went on, ‘Given the circumstances, Mr Davies, can you give the court any reason why you should not bear the costs of today’s wasted exercise yourself?’ Leo muttered words to the effect that he couldn’t. ‘Very well, the costs today will be borne personally by you.’
It was all Leo could do to offer his apologies to Bernard Pannick, who uttered a few curt words and walked away. Leo went slowly back to the robing room, his footsteps echoing on the stone flags. In his heart he did not think he had ever felt so wretched and alone. He went into the robing room and took off his wig. Above all, he was conscious, despite his nausea, of a craving, now familiar, for a drink to ease the depression he felt. He knew, with a kind of detached clarity, that the chemistry of his body had been altered over the past few weeks and that this was the reason for the feeling. But even that dispassionate knowledge did not alter his longing for a couple of large Scotches to make him feel better.
He stuffed his gown, wig and bands into his bag and went back to chambers. The costs of today’s futile exercise could be anything in the region of ten to twenty thousand, he reckoned. He would settle it out of his own funds as swiftly as he could, rather than let it come out of his chambers’ insurance. In that way, the other members of chambers might not come to hear of what had happened, though he doubted it.
In the clerks’ room Felicity was busy with some accounts, when Leo came in. She glanced up and smiled. ‘Everything all right, Mr Davies?’ she enquired innocently.
‘No, everything is not bloody all right. Why didn’t you remind me last week that I hadn’t put in my argument in that ship repair case? I’m incredibly busy at the moment and it’s up to you to make sure that I’m on top of things. I have just spent a very embarrassing half-hour in court trying to explain myself.’
Felicity stared at him. ‘But I did remind you. I told you at the beginning of the week, and then I reminded you again on Friday.’
‘Not to my recollection, Felicity,’ retorted Leo. His tone was still angry, but a small misgiving sprang up in his mind. Through the hellish haze that was the past few days, he couldn’t really recall the events of Friday. Had she said something? Still, he couldn�
�t remember her mentioning it at the beginning of the week, so he clung to that. ‘You’re my clerk and you’re there to remind me about these things. Don’t let it happen again.’
She watched him go upstairs, incredulous. How could he say that? It had been bad enough having to go out of her way to remind him, without him blaming it all on her. Smarting with the injustice of it, she went off to have a moan to Henry.
On the way upstairs, Leo met Jeremy. ‘Hello, Leo.’ Jeremy glanced more closely at Leo’s red eyes and pallid face. ‘You look as though you had a bit of a heavy weekend.’ Leo muttered something by way of reply and was about to go into his room when Jeremy continued, ‘By the way, I think I’ve found new chambers for us.’
Leo looked at him indifferently. All he wanted to do was to lie down somewhere and think about absolutely nothing at all. With an effort he responded, ‘Have you? Where?’
‘In Sussex Street.’
‘Sussex Street? But that’s out of the Inns of Court.’ This new idea of Jeremy’s seemed to Leo to be even more unattractive than Lincoln’s Inn.
‘Well, yes, but there are advantages. The rent’s lower, for a start, and there are probably all kinds of things we can do in a building of that kind which we couldn’t do in the Temple. Air-conditioning, central heating, lifts.’
Leo said wearily; ‘I don’t like the idea, Jeremy. It’s too much of a break with tradition. It’s really not us.’
‘Face facts, Leo. There are eighteen of us now and we need to expand. I’m not interested in tradition. I’m concerned with moving ahead, modernising things. I’m going to set out these proposals at the next chambers meeting. If you’ve got a better idea, you’ll have to come up with it by then.’ He clumped off downstairs, then stopped and turned. ‘By the way - perhaps you haven’t heard.’
‘What?’
‘Cameron. He died last night.’ Jeremy turned and carried on downstairs.
Leo went into his room and closed the door. He felt very, very unwell. He sat down heavily in his chair and glanced round the room. Everything was as it always was - the books, the pictures, the neat rows of briefs, the view from the window. At this moment it all meant absolutely nothing to him. How typical of Jeremy, to put the news of Cameron’s death in second place to his wretched proposals for moving chambers. He looked at the briefs ranged in a row, the work which awaited him. The thought of taking one down and looking at it was utterly beyond him. Not just at that moment, hung-over and tired, but at any given moment in the near future. The idea of being himself, of being a barrister, of being someone on whom others depended and of whom they thought highly, was a stark impossibility. He felt as though he didn’t want to be anything to anyone ever again. As he understood the truth of this, he wondered fleetingly whether he might not be having some kind of breakdown. He didn’t think so, but, then, he didn’t know what one of those felt like. The only thing he wanted was to feel Joshua’s arms around him, to have that comfort, that love. His need was entirely childlike. Beyond that, he cared about nothing.
Slowly Leo stood up. He left his room, closing the door behind him, and went downstairs.
Felicity was talking to Henry in the clerks’ room. They both glanced up as Leo came in, instantly silenced by his appearance, which was dreadful, tired, aged and red-eyed.
‘Felicity,’ said Leo, ‘I think I should apologise for what I said earlier. I’ve probably only myself to blame. Anyway—’ he stopped, looked absently around, then went on with an effort of concentration ‘I think I have to have some time to myself. Things have been going rather badly lately. I shan’t be in for the next two or three weeks.’
And with that he turned and went out, leaving Henry and Felicity staring after him in astonishment and dismay.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘I dunno,’ said Felicity in exasperation. She looked squarely at Anthony. ‘He said he needed some time to himself and that he wouldn’t be in for a few weeks. That was it.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I wish I was. He’s dropped me and Henry right in it. I’ve spent all morning on the phone to solicitors, trying to bluff my way out of things. There are some things that won’t wait - in fact, there’s an arbitration next week that Freshfields want you to take over. I’m trying to juggle your diary around to fit it in. All the solicitors are mad as hell. Whoever said clerks spend their entire lives spinning a load of bullshit was right. Pardon my French.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Mr Davies certainly isn’t doing himself any favours. Some of his work might even have to go out of chambers, and you know how Henry feels about that.’ She made a throat-cutting gesture and raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
‘But when was this?’ asked Anthony.
‘Yesterday morning, after he came back from court. I thought you’d’ve heard by now.’
Anthony went up to his room, digesting this information. That Leo should just walk out of chambers, leaving weeks of carefully arranged work - arbitrations, conferences, court hearings - up in the air was extraordinary, entirely out of character. Clearly there was something wrong. The last time he had spoken to Leo was when Leo had asked him for a game of squash last week. Anthony realised with a pang that Leo must have been in need of someone to talk to then, and he had turned him down, possibly when he had needed Anthony most. He’d been aware that Leo hadn’t been himself recently but had been too preoccupied with his own affairs to do or say anything to help. Too busy screwing Sarah every night, then bemoaning his weak character and nursing his conscience ever since Camilla’s return. God, how he detested himself of late.
Anthony picked up the phone and dialled Leo’s number in Belgravia, and listened as the phone at the other end rang a few times, then clicked into Leo’s answering machine. He hesitated, thought of leaving a message, but put the phone down. If Leo had problems, maybe he had gone away to sort them out. He had a house in Oxfordshire somewhere. The memory of going there with Leo to spend the night after a chambers cricket match surprised Anthony with an ache of tenderness. How infatuated he had been with Leo in those days, how much he had wanted to be able to respond to him. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he wouldn’t have made such a God-awful mess of his relationships if he had just let Leo be the focus of his life. He thrust the thought aside. That was all history. The point was that Leo was in trouble and he, Anthony, had neglected his friendship. He sighed. Had Leo gone to ground in his house in the country? Even if he had, Anthony didn’t have the phone number and didn’t think he could find the house if he tried. He couldn’t even remember the name of the village. He would just have to keep ringing his flat throughout the day and, if he couldn’t reach him, he’d go round there tonight. Other than that, there was nothing anyone could do but wait and see. For how long, Anthony had no idea, but he knew that if Leo let too many weeks go by, people - clients, solicitors - would grow impatient, his reputation would inevitably suffer and his practice would begin gradually, but steadily, to crumble away.
That evening after work Anthony and Camilla went for a drink with David.
‘I told Sarah to join us later,’ said David, bringing drinks over to the table. ‘She’s presently slogging away digging up authorities for a hearing tomorrow.’
‘Slave-driver,’ remarked Anthony. ‘Still, I don’t think I’d much enjoy having a pupil. I imagine it simply makes more work for you.’
‘Initially, yes,’ said David. ‘But Sarah’s actually very useful. Got off to something of a sticky start, but she’s pretty sharp.’
‘Oh, yes, she’s that, all right,’ murmured Anthony. Conscious of Camilla’s eyes on him, he tried to move the subject away from Sarah. ‘So, what do you make of Leo’s disappearing act?’
‘I couldn’t believe it when Michael told me,’ said David. ‘I know he’s had a pretty rough year, what with his divorce and so on, but I never thought of Leo as the kind of man just to drop everything like that. I mean, I’ve known him for ten years now, and he’s always put
his work first. It’s just not like him to land everyone in it like that. Henry’s going mad.’ David shook his head. ‘I must say, I never thought Leo could behave so selfishly, whatever problems he might have in his personal life.’ David glanced at a group of people who had just come into the pub. ‘Ah, there’s John Wright. I’m just going to have a word with him. Back in a minute.’
When he was gone, Camilla murmured, ‘In my experience, Leo’s capable of behaving extremely selfishly.’
Anthony glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’ He felt a prickle of resentment. What understanding could Camilla possibly have of Leo’s character, given the limited dealings she had had with him?
Camilla, catching the sharpness in Anthony’s voice, thought for a moment, then said, ‘You remember I told you last February that I had the feeling that certain people in chambers might not altogether approve of the fact that I was seeing you, that we should cool things until I’d got my tenancy?’
Anthony nodded. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It was Leo who suggested that might be the case. But it was just a bluff. He wanted to split us up. In fact, he even went so far as to take me out to dinner and spell it out for me. Stop seeing Anthony, or I might make life difficult for you. He didn’t say it in those words, of course, but the meaning was pretty clear.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘He was jealous. He thought it might be an effective way of ending things between us. Don’t you think that’s pretty selfish behaviour?’
Anthony said nothing for a few moments. That Leo should go to such lengths to wreck things between himself and Camilla seemed astonishing, but at the same time it explained much about his behaviour since last Easter, when Camilla had got her tenancy and Anthony had started seeing her again. That must have been fairly galling for Leo. But what had he hoped to gain by such manoeuvres? This thought found voice. ‘I don’t see why he would do such a thing,’ said Anthony.
