by Caro Fraser
Felicity passed her door and stopped to say goodnight. She noticed Rachel’s drawn, thoughtful face, and thought of all the things Rachel had told her last night. It seemed so sad, thought Felicity. She was so lost and mixed up, and yet Felicity had thought her totally in control, her life wonderful, matching the perfection of her outward appearance. She did not, at that moment, envy her boss.
‘You ought to go home and get some kip,’ she told Rachel, pausing in the doorway as the rest of the secretaries packed their belongings up and headed for the lift.
Rachel sighed. ‘I’m meant to be going out with Anthony tonight. I don’t feel up to it, but he’s not in chambers and he said he would pick me up here. I’ll have to wait.’ She passed her slender white hands over her face. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any aspirin, or anything like that, have you? Last night’s just beginning to catch up with me.’
Felicity, eyeing her, hesitated for a moment. ‘I think I’ve got something somewhere. Hold on.’ She went away, then reappeared a moment later. She laid two white tablets on Rachel’s desk and a little paper cup of water from the water cooler. ‘There you go. They should do the trick.’
Rachel thanked her and swallowed them with the water. Felicity said goodnight, and left.
By the time Anthony arrived, Rachel thought she was feeling distinctly better. She would be able to get through the evening without too much trouble. Just so long as she got home at a decent time. She would leave this Guildhall thing at nine, not let Anthony persuade her to go to dinner afterwards.
‘How are you?’ asked Anthony, as they stood together in the lift. She looked bright, he thought, but a little strained. Perhaps she was still jet-lagged.
‘Good,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Better than I did this time last night.’ And she did. Her mouth felt slightly dry, but she felt animated, alert. The lights along Bishopsgate, the traffic lights, the car lights, the shop lights – so many lights – all crowded in upon her vision. Yes, she felt good. She felt really good.
As she drove through the traffic on London Wall, Rachel tried to fasten her concentration on what Anthony was saying, but it seemed as though her own thoughts were rushing ahead of his words, jumping lightly from one thing to another, so that it was all she could do to nod and smile brightly at the right junctures. Anthony thought her preoccupied, but was glad she was so carelessly cheerful. It was a change from her usual watchful, slow-smiling reserve.
When they entered Guildhall, Rachel was struck by the way the great cathedral-like hall seemed to well up with sound, like a radio suddenly turned to full volume. Voices seemed to clash and rise, swooping notes of noise, and the faces that turned to her in the vast crowd of faces shone like discs. She was aware of a mild buzzing sensation in her limbs.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ she said wonderingly. She thought she had spoken to Anthony, but realised she must have been speaking to herself, that no words had come out.
They had reached some point in the hall and had stopped. Anthony was talking to people. Fred was there, Fred Fenton, and she spoke to him for a few moments before the crowd and the tide of conversation eased them away from one another. She lifted her eyes and looked up at the high vaulted roof, at the trembling rows of guild insignia. Or at least they seemed to tremble. She looked around slowly; the rigid forms and folds of the stone drapery on the Victorian statues and plaques ranging the walls seemed liquid with motion. How absurd, she thought, and smiled. She gazed ahead at the minstrels’ gallery, and it seemed to her that the music which floated from the unseen musicians filled the air with a charming swarm of notes, a carpet of sound floating above the heads of the crowd and into the lofty grey corners of the Guildhall roof. She wanted to touch people on the arm and say, ‘Listen! You’re not listening – listen to that!’
A sudden unsteadiness shook her and she looked away, staring down at the floor, and the dancing in her heart ceased and settled. Her vision steadied. Someone to whom Anthony had introduced her was speaking, and she was able to focus her attention. She managed to make conversation, and her brain became a little clearer. She spoke to more people, felt smiling and animated, and drank some of the champagne she had been given.
A High Court judge made a speech, full of jocular topical references to the firm of Sinclair, Roche & Temperley on the occasion of their jubilee, and everyone laughed and felt cosy. Rachel could not follow much of it. Tables along the side of the hall were laid out with food, and she discovered herself to be ravenously hungry. She ate quickly and nervously, glancing from time to time back to Anthony, who was talking to some new people. She knew them, she thought – they were from 5 Caper Court. The big man with the moustache was Cameron Renshaw, whom she had instructed once. She must go and speak to him. She felt bright and eager and nervous, and swallowed back the remainder of her champagne before walking over to Anthony.
Leo had not wanted to come that evening. He had spent the past two days in sullen fury, unable to concentrate properly on his work, his talk with Frank Chamberlin gnawing away at his thoughts. For hours together he remained stolidly convinced that the thing was over, that he had lost the high moral ground and had now no hope of recovery. His application must fail, particularly in the light of the competition from Stephen. Then moments of cold clarity would occur, in which he told himself that the Lord Chancellor’s Office could not be so ludicrous, so bigoted, as to care about anyone’s sexual peccadilloes. In those brief intervals he had been able to reassure himself that Frank had gauged the temperature of the thing entirely wrongly, that merit alone would be the criterion. Good God, these were the eighties, after all.
But then the doubts would creep back, the imagined contents of that unread report, the possibility of parts of his past having come to the ears of such as Sir Mungo, or Sir Mostyn Smith. Perhaps someone had, somehow, found out about that boy who had once been Leo’s lover, and who had finished up dead in some bedsit in Balham. That had been long after Leo had lost touch with him, and he had not felt remotely touched by the tragedy then, but now it returned to gnaw at his conscience. All it took was one wrong connection, rumour imperfectly attached to fact, and he could be finished.
Not knowing what was known – that was the worst of it. Perhaps the business of Sarah and James – that tacky domestic arrangement which he had imagined to be so discreetly tucked away in its rural fastness, far from the City or anyone who knew him – had reached someone’s ears. Not heinous, but sordid enough to tarnish his reputation at this most critical of junctures. It was when he dwelt on these dark and tormenting possibilities that Leo felt staggered by his own past naivety, by his years of calm assurance and the constant belief that things could be kept secret.
But berating himself for his own folly could do no good. Neither, he had told himself, gazing in his room at the engraved oblong invitation from Sinclair’s, could it do any good to shuffle oneself out of sight, letting the uncertainty of the next few months eat away at one. After all, it could still be that Sir Frank was worrying about nothing – in which case it behoved Leo to act with his usual ease and brilliance, to be seen among the multitude of the great and good who would throng the Guildhall that evening, to conduct himself with his customary confidence and charm. Appearances were all, he knew. There was much that thinking could make so. If he were to behave as though such rumour as floated about neither troubled nor touched him, perhaps others could be persuaded that it simply had no basis, or was so slight in substance as to be easily dismissed. It was important to brave this storm, imagined or otherwise.
And so he stood near the entrance to the Guildhall, an easy, attractive figure, impeccably dressed, surveying the crowd with cool nonchalance. He made his way among them, murmuring a greeting here, nodding and smiling to an acquaintance there. He picked up a glass of champagne and drifted over to where Michael Winstanley, one of the Commercial Court judges, was chatting with Lewis Tree, a Lloyd’s arbitrator, and a couple of solicitors. Leo felt that his own conversation was as polished a
s ever, that the general laughter which greeted his wit was warm and appreciative, but then – or did he imagine it? – he thought he detected the narrowest of glances from Michael as he spoke, that the faintest breath of unease orchestrated the slight body movements of the other men. It was nothing, and yet it was everything.
Making an excuse, Leo moved off, his face relaxed and reflective, his heart grinding away at the suspicion that the manner of those men towards him had shifted in some minute degree, that something known yet unspoken hovered in the air. He told himself that it was all paranoia, nonsense, that his faculties were alert to find that which did not exist. In an effort to smooth away the tensions he felt, Leo drank several glasses of champagne. He attached himself to a rowdy and amusing little knot of the more jovial and urbane of Sinclair’s partners, but somehow his mood could not support itself for long, and he detached himself again, glancing at his watch and telling himself that it was time he left, sick of keeping up the front.
Then he saw Anthony and Cameron with a couple of people, and he strolled over to join them, thankful at the sight of Anthony’s young, kind face. Anthony would not judge him. Nor would Cameron. With them he could relax, feel more like himself, shake off this dog of self-doubt, if only for a little time.
At the same moment, Rachel was walking towards Anthony and Cameron, and as she approached them, she was struck by the appearance of the man who had just joined them. His head was turned away from hers, his handsome face grim and distracted as he sipped his champagne and stood, one hand in his pocket, detached from the chattering crowd around him. She noticed his silver hair, the rapidity of his blue gaze as he scanned the room impatiently, the fine, restless fingers that held his glass. Then he turned to look at her, and as his eyes met hers, Rachel felt as though jolted by some force. But his glance merely brushed hers and he looked away, his expression faintly troubled and bored.
Leo was wondering whether he knew this woman, and whether the manner in which she had looked at him meant that he should smile and say hello as though he remembered her. This kind of thing annoyed him. He liked to think that he had an unfailing memory for names and faces, that it was one of his social excellences. She was familiar, certainly. Damn, damn … He ran his mind back, glanced at her face again, and then realised that Anthony was introducing them.
‘How do you do?’ he said politely, and took her hand, which felt thin and cold. Then he remembered. This was the girl to whom Anthony had been talking in Fountain Court a few weeks ago, and who had passed him as he stood at the postbox. That dark-haired beauty. He made his customary, detached assessment of her charms as they made small talk, his eyes straying across the fine-boned, delicate face with its wide mouth and almond-shaped blue eyes. Rather bright eyes – possibly she had had too much champagne. He felt confirmed in this as he began to realise that her conversation was somewhat out of the ordinary. It was neither the mannish, robust line normally taken by women who found him attractive but were damned if they were going to show it, nor was it the flirtatious, intelligently inviting approach favoured by women more sure of their own good looks. This was something else entirely – really rather sweet and unusual. She was talking to him very seriously about the measurements cast in brass lettering and figures in the stones at their feet, which interspersed metal crosses and fleurs-de-lis set in the marble floor.
‘You see,’ she was saying, ‘it says a hundred links. Now to what do you suppose that refers? Is it the distance from here to there – and if so, where?’
He smiled at her. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he admitted.
‘Now, did you know,’ she went on seriously, ‘that a chain is sixty-six feet? I don’t think many people here would know that. Everyone’s forgotten about roods, poles and perches, things like that.’
Leo picked up the train of discussion with some amusement. She must be on something, he thought as he listened to her and scanned her intent, glowing eyes. Yes – though he couldn’t guess what. Certainly more than champagne. He wondered if Anthony knew about it. At that moment Anthony said something to him. The talk became more general; she began to talk to Cameron, then someone accosted Leo, and so they drifted apart in the eddies of conversation and people that swirled around the hall.
As she saw Leo moving away, talking to someone else, Rachel excused herself from Cameron and went over to one of the tables and put her glass down. She could not believe she had babbled so incoherently to that man, Leo. Something about him had made her so nervous, so self-conscious, that she had just said the first things that came into her head. What a fool he must think her. She felt most peculiar, she realised. Her mind felt as though it were ablaze, dancing with tiny fiery imps of thought, yet at the same time she felt giddy and weak.
I must go, she thought, and lifted her tongue to the parched roof of her mouth. She looked back to where Anthony stood and could not face the thought of speaking to him, of explaining, of trying to get away into the night without him. She had to leave now.
She retrieved her coat and made her way out into the freezing air. Someone in a peaked cap gave her a little salute and said something; she gave him a wandering gaze and a tremulous smile. She walked across the cobbled square towards Gresham Street, where she had parked her car, and wondered whether she was capable of driving home. She had had only two glasses of champagne, and yet she felt so strange. She heard a voice behind her and turned. Someone loomed up through the semi-darkness.
‘Oh, hello, Roger,’ she said faintly. Roger caught up with her, his soft, interested eyes taking in her unsteady, smiling features. Dear dear, so Miss Dean was capable of having one too many after all. And where was that boyfriend of hers? This was something of a fortunate occurrence.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
She stood uncertainly for a moment. ‘Do you know, Roger, I think I’d better take a taxi home. The thing is, I’ve left my car in Gresham Street – it’s all right there at this time of night, but …’ Her voice trailed off. She wasn’t quite sure what she was saying. ‘I have to get my briefcase from it. Do you—’ She looked at him, trying to concentrate. ‘Would you mind finding me a taxi, Roger?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Roger easily. ‘No trouble at all. Let’s just get that briefcase of yours first. Wouldn’t do to leave it in the car overnight.’
‘No,’ she agreed. And she walked down the deserted street with him, glad that there was someone who could at least see her safely into a cab.
When they reached her car and he made his slow pass at her, it was as though all the loose, untidy ends of her mind flew together. His hands clutched her arms and he pushed his mouth against hers so that she fell back against the side of the car; the keys fell from her fingers into the gutter as she tried to push him away from her.
‘Just a little goodnight kiss, Rachel,’ he was saying, his voice soft but intent, and his grip utterly immoveable.
At the smell of his breath and the forcefulness of his mouth and body, a wave of fear broke over Rachel and she began to shudder and tremble violently in his grasp. She felt totally unable to struggle free from him, and as she wrenched her face away from his she brought her hand up and raked the side of his face with her nails. He stepped back and cried out with pain, but as she took a couple of staggering steps away and bent to fumble for her keys, her heart hammering, her only desire to get into her car and away from him, he grabbed her by one wrist and pulled her upright. He began to say something, and she had no idea what was about to happen next, when she heard a voice say, ‘Hey, hey. Come on.’ Roger turned to look at the figure approaching them in the dimly lit street. He dropped her wrist and flexed his body, tugging at his jacket and stepping nervously back as Leo walked up. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, his steps loud and hasty in the empty street.
She leant back against the car, clutching her keys in her fingers, looking away from Leo. He was standing, head on one side, hands in pockets, surveying her curiously. She was about to say something, she did
not know what, but felt her chest begin to heave, dry sobs rising to the surface. She turned away, shaking, and leant against the car, dry, croaking sounds of misery and fear breaking from her throat. The metal frame of the car window felt like ice beneath her trembling hand.
Leo stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder, and felt the shaking of her body.
‘Hey,’ he said again. ‘Come on, come on. What’s all this about?’ He knew Roger Williams of old and could see that Roger, as usual, had been attempting to force his unwelcome but trivial attentions on this girl, but she seemed more than averagely upset about the whole thing. He turned her round and put his hands on her shoulders. Her whole body was convulsed with these dry sobs, and her head was bowed. This was not good, he told himself. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then glanced at his watch. Ten past nine. Here we go again, he thought, Leo the Good Samaritan. A distressed lady with too much champagne inside her and a little of something else, besides. He took the car keys from her fingers.
‘In you get,’ he said. He opened the passenger door and she slid inside. He got into the driver’s seat, searched for the ignition and surveyed the unfamiliar dashboard. Then he glanced at her, watching her fasten her seat belt, seeing the visible trembling of her whole arm as she did so.
‘Shall I take you home?’ he asked.
She whispered something, her head turned away.
‘Sorry?’
She lifted her head, but still did not look at him. ‘No. No, please. I don’t think I could …’ And the crying began in earnest, racking her completely.
Oh, hell, thought Leo. He wondered whether he should go and fetch Anthony. Then he turned to look at her again, and some instinct told him that was not a good idea. He sighed.
‘OK,’ he said, and started the engine. ‘I’ll take you back to mine for some coffee. I could do with the company of someone in a worse state than myself.’
