by Caro Fraser
This was too close to the truth, touched too finely on Leo’s fears. He rammed Anthony even harder against the wall, aware that the sound shook the walls of chambers, that people must hear.
‘Don’t,’ he hissed, his eyes glaring into Anthony’s, ‘don’t you ever speak to me about love. You know nothing about it! You’re so immature, so callow, so afraid! You want it all, yet you’re prepared to give nothing in return. That’s what it was like with us, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?’ He gave Anthony another push and then released him, letting his hands drop slowly to his sides. They stood close together, not moving. It was the only time, Leo realised, that he had ever seen passion in Anthony’s eyes, and he longed for it to be directed at him, not against him. ‘Don’t you remember? Or don’t you like to remember? There’s too much fear in you, Anthony. There are things you don’t want to confront – things about Rachel that you’ll never understand. You’re empty. You’re devoid of anything that could help her, because you’ve never been to that part of yourself where you find out things, the best and the worst. But you’re young. You’ll learn.’
Leo looked into Anthony’s eyes for a few more seconds, then turned and walked round behind his desk. Anthony was still leaning against the wall, a picture behind his head slightly askew where it had been knocked, his breathing growing more even.
‘I don’t want to learn,’ he said, his voice hard, but his anger flaking off, bit by bit, into misery. ‘I don’t want to learn what it takes to become someone as perverted as you. And I’m not just talking about sex, Leo – that’s bad enough. I’m talking about taking people’s trust and then abusing it. That’s the worst part. You’ve done it to me, and I’ve no doubt you’ll do it to Rachel. You just want to fuck everyone, don’t you, Leo?’
Leo turned and regarded Anthony. There was nothing he could say. Silence fell between them. Anthony pushed himself away from the wall, tugging down his waistcoat, aware that this had all been futile, but feeling that at least some of his anger had been drained from him.
‘You’ll discover,’ said Leo, as Anthony turned to go, ‘that none of this really matters. In time, you’ll see that.’ He looked sadly at the younger man, at his sullen, beautiful face. ‘It won’t matter – not between you and me.’
Anthony stared at him coldly. Leo’s words sounded to him smug, the victor patronising the loser.
‘Oh, yes, it will,’ he replied, utter certainty in his tone. ‘Not everyone is like you, you know. Not everyone is glib and shallow. Things matter to some people. This matters to me. Don’t you ever forget it.’
He opened the door and went out, brushing past Sir Basil, who had heard sounds from his room above and come to investigate, with a muttered ‘Good morning.’
Sir Basil, who had been joined on the landing by William and Jeremy Vane, stood for a moment, then turned away uncertainly as Leo quietly closed his door. He watched as Anthony clattered downstairs at a furious rate. Well, really. One might expect that any commotion in chambers would involve that young man. He might be exceptionally bright, but Sir Basil still had his doubts about him. He turned again to look at Leo’s closed door, then shook his head and went back up to his room. William and Jeremy melted away.
Leo stood by his window, looking down into the courtyard. He watched as Anthony appeared below, pulling on his jacket and striding off through the archway into Pump Court. Walking it off, thought Leo, watching him until he disappeared from sight. He sighed, turned away and sat down at his desk, wishing that he could do the same, evaporate his passions by physical exertion. But that was no longer possible. It took far more than that. Everything Anthony had said was true. Every single thing. Was this all worth it? Could he really use people in this way for his own ends and hope it would leave no mark on any of them? That might not be possible, he was beginning to realise. He had just witnessed the first casualty in this game of his. There would certainly be more.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Perfumed talk and laughter rose into the grey upper reaches of Lincoln’s Inn Great Hall as Leo made his way through the elegantly dressed crowd with Rachel by his side. He was acutely conscious of the glances that she drew; even he, a cynic in the matter of female loveliness, had been moved to a smile of warm and genuine admiration when he picked her up from her flat.
‘Do you like it?’ she had asked hesitantly, plucking at a fold of the crimson silk jersey sheath which clung to her body. Her dark hair was swept up from her slender neck, and she wore only a thin gold necklace and earrings.
‘Amazing,’ said Leo, turning her round and inspecting the gently dipping back, the silk falling away in soft lines.
‘I spent about four hours in South Molton Street trying to find something,’ said Rachel, her eyes bright with childlike pleasure at his admiration of her. ‘I did want to look – well, you know. I wanted to look all right for you.’
And he had kissed her, thinking sadly that she was very sweet. Far, far too sweet.
Now he realised, as he smiled at acquaintances, making his way over to where he could see Sir Mungo standing with Sir Mostyn Smith and their wives, that her beauty was a significant asset in this business. Everyone would remember her. Apart from being the loveliest woman there, she was also the youngest.
Sir Mungo turned and saw Leo approaching. Despite what Bernard had said, he was always pleased to see Leo, who lightened the tedium of this sort of occasion. Though he would never have admitted it, Sir Mungo was not overfond of Mozart, and would sooner have been at home in front of his fire with a Dick Francis novel. But as a senior member of the judiciary, it behoved him to attend these things, and to appear to enjoy them. He saw, with surprise, that Leo was with a woman.
‘Mungo,’ said Leo easily, ‘very good to see you. And Lady Stephenson. How do you do?’ Lady Stephenson shook hands with him, and then Leo introduced Rachel, taking care to let his eyes rest on her face with just the right amount of pride and affection as she shook hands and responded to Lady Stephenson’s soft little twitterings.
‘How lovely to see some young people at these gatherings!’ she exclaimed, enchanted by Rachel’s prettiness. ‘I do think we old people rather tend to dominate them.’ She turned to Leo, for whom she had always, in her secret heart, had a great weakness. ‘And tell me, Leo, what interesting things have you been doing lately? You always seem to lead such a busy social life!’
Leo seized this opportunity. ‘Oh, it’s been fairly quiet of late,’ he replied, glancing with a smile at Rachel.
Sir Mungo had been busily puffing himself up to the right pitch of confidence to speak to Rachel – Sir Mungo, the scourge of the Appeal Court, he whose very glance could make the most seasoned counsel quail, was always acutely self-conscious in the company of lovely young women. Especially the girls one met nowadays – they were so damned brisk, so full of themselves. But he found Rachel delightfully easy company. Sir Mostyn, who had been watching Sir Mungo’s jovial progress with Leo’s beautiful companion with some envy (Sir Mostyn rather prided himself on his way with the opposite sex, had been something of a ladies’ man in his youth), sidled over to join their conversation after a while. Leo, talking to Lady Stephenson and Lady Smith, glanced at Sir Mostyn’s beaming profile as he conversed with Rachel. Good girl, he thought, returning with a brief smile her fond, stray glance in his direction. Excellent.
By the time the opera was due to begin, Leo had, in a casual, desultory way, managed to introduce her to most of those present who might be in any way influential in the matter of his application for silk, and he was satisfied to think that their presence as a couple – a very distinct couple; an item, as David Liphook would say – had been well noted.
‘Look here,’ said Sir Mostyn, sotto voce, detaching himself and Sir Mungo from the ladies as they made their way to their seats, ‘what was all that stuff you were telling me about young Davies being queer? Eh? Doesn’t look that way to me.’
Sir Mungo sighed and raised his eyebrows. ‘My dear Mostyn, if you will listen to all
the tittle-tattle in the Temple … Oh, I do beg your pardon!’ he grunted, disentangling himself from the hem of an elderly woman’s dress.
‘But you told me yourself!’ exclaimed Sir Mostyn in a whisper, sitting down next to his wife.
‘Did I? Surely not,’ murmured Sir Mungo, squeezing his bulk into his chair. ‘Damned uncomfortable seats these.’ He glanced at his watch and sighed.
‘Well, I don’t know … Anyway, that’s the best-looking girl I’ve seen in a long time,’ answered Sir Mostyn.
‘What’s that, dear?’ murmured Lady Mostyn.
‘I was just saying to Mungo what an attractive girl Leo Davies is with,’ he replied to his wife, who leant over to catch his words.
Her face lit up. ‘Isn’t she? And I do think it’s so charming that she seems so devoted to him. I think he’s a very lucky young man!’
She sat back in her seat as the orchestra began to tune their instruments. More than a few male eyes glanced in Rachel’s direction, resting on the swanlike neck and pale profile, envying Leo as she turned her soft, smiling eyes to his in response to some remark.
As the murmur of voices ceased and the music began, Leo leant back and let his thoughts drift away. There was a constant uneasiness in his mind these days. Although he had persuaded himself that Anthony’s words of a few days ago had not affected him, that he had been expecting such a reaction and could dismiss it out of hand, he knew that this was not true. He had a deep and abiding affection for Anthony, and at the memory of the disgust and unhappiness he had seen last Monday in the boy’s eyes he now felt prickings of self-detestation. Still, it could not be helped. This thing was too important. Anyway, nothing could have come of Anthony’s relationship with the girl. She had said as much herself. He glanced sideways at Rachel during the duet in Act One, touched by the rapt intentness of her expression as she listened. He pressed his fingers to his lips and looked away. But Anthony had been right. What was he going to give her in return for her love? He closed his eyes momentarily. He had never intended that she should fall in love with him, had never … well, what had he intended?
He tried to look ahead, tried to think logically of the sequence of events. He had come to realise recently that the months between now and Easter, which had seemed such a brief time at first, stretched ahead in a pattern of inevitably deepening intimacy between himself and Rachel. A few months could be a long time in a love affair. And then what? Whether he failed or succeeded in his application for silk, would he just drop her, cast her off once she had served her purpose? He turned his head slightly to look at her again, and this time she became conscious of his gaze and returned it with a radiant smile.
Oh God, he thought, his own smile freezing on his lips as she looked away again, this could become the most unholy mess. He wondered if he had it in him to behave so badly to her, once Easter had passed, that she might simply end the thing herself. It struck him that this might be the only solution. But he genuinely liked her. He liked looking at her, even talking to her – for brief spells of time – and he took special pleasure, these days, in contemplating making love to her again. Anticipation had always been one of Leo’s chief delights, the key ingredient to his particular brand of pleasure. She was so vulnerable. It would not be difficult to hurt her. But it would not be pleasant.
At the end of the evening they emerged from the warmth into the freezing air of Lincoln’s Inn; Rachel shivered involuntarily, drawing herself close against Leo, huddling into her coat. ‘Leo, I’m so hungry! I was sure that everyone would hear my stomach rumbling in the quiet bits.’
‘They weren’t exactly generous with their supper, were they?’ replied Leo. ‘If you could call a few canapés and a couple of glasses of white wine supper. Where would you like to eat?’
‘I think I’m too tired for restaurants.’ She yawned as she spoke. The clasp of her hands upon his arm, keeping herself close to him against the bitter cold, was so confident, so trusting. ‘Why don’t we go back to my flat and I’ll make us some scrambled eggs?’ she murmured, looking up at him.
He blew out a soft, silent breath of air, watching it plume in the darkness. ‘All right,’ he said after a moment. ‘Let’s do that.’ This has to start some time, he told himself. Why not tonight?
How very feminine it all was, thought Leo, gazing round her living room as she went through to the kitchen and began clattering pans. Pale, clean colours, muted lighting, pretty cushions. And so very pristine – cool and cautious, just like Rachel. He walked around, examining the pictures. She has taste, he thought – perhaps too much of it. He turned back and stared at the room. There was something arid about the place. As lifeless as those dried flowers in a vase in the fireplace. She has penned herself in here, thought Leo. She has built this clean, pretty cage as a defence against all her fears, a still place where nothing can touch her. No wonder Anthony hadn’t made any headway with her when he had come round to supper. No violating the sanctuary.
And what about me? wondered Leo, shedding his scarf and then his coat. He went through to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. She was breaking eggs into a bowl, and turned to glance at him.
‘Shouldn’t you change?’ he asked. ‘I don’t think I’d like to see that pretty dress covered in egg yolk.’
She glanced down, tossing the last of the shells aside. Her hair was beginning to come loose at the back, and strands fell about her white shoulders. ‘Oh – I suppose you’re right …’
‘I’ll help you,’ he murmured, dropping a kiss on her shoulder as she passed him.
Her bedroom, thought Leo, was even more awe-inspiring than the rest of the place. He was reminded of an illustration in a book he had had as a child, when Tom, the little chimney sweep in The Water Babies, came tumbling down the chimney into the bedroom of a girl, a room all white and soft and lovely. And he all sooty and foul. That was like this room.
He approached her softly from behind, sliding his arms around her waist, kissing the back of her neck, pulling down her hair. Then he leant away and looked her up and down.
‘How does this thing unfasten?’ he asked. She showed him, standing very still as he unfastened the dress and slid the straps from her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground.
‘What about the eggs?’ she asked, closing her eyes and leaning her head back as his hands drifted across her breasts and stomach with unbearable lightness.
‘They can wait,’ murmured Leo, pressing himself against her, kissing the side of her throat, already embarking on his own private, erotic voyage. He had no thought for her except as the instrument of his immediate pleasure, but when she turned in his embrace and drew his mouth down to hers, there was something so single-minded in her kiss, as though she were drinking him in, utterly absorbed in loving him, that he was oddly moved. Her existence as a person was suddenly recalled, touching him childishly, and for a moment he responded unequivocally, longing to blot out the lonely, intriguing part of himself. He returned her kiss hungrily, his hands exploring her body as she fumbled urgently with his tie, his shirt buttons; they clung to one another as they shed the last of their clothing, greedy for the touch of the other’s flesh.
He stopped kissing her only long enough to lay her down on the unsullied whiteness of her bed, holding himself away from her as he kissed her again, fondling her, touching her lightly everywhere, conscious of the gathering longing in her movements, her murmurs. He looked down at the slender curve of her body arched towards his, her hands caressing him, urging him, and he whispered in her ear, flicking his tongue lightly over her lobe, ‘Tell me what you want me to do. Everything. Tell me everything.’ It was so practised, yet so potent.
When she spoke, eyes closed, features blurred with longing, the low hesitancy of her voice seemed to him unspeakably erotic. Then he forgot her instantly, carried away to his own world of sensuality, of anticipation, and ultimate gratification. She was no longer Rachel, and he was alone, wanting only to exist for ever in this realm of purest pleasure, the only
place where he was really happy.
Later, after making love, she rose without speaking, kissed him and pulled on a robe. He lay for a while, pondering the satiability of human need, listening to sounds from the kitchen. Then he got up and dressed swiftly – he did not wish to spend the night in that white bower of a room – and went through to the kitchen.
He watched as she made the eggs and heated coffee. He was not sure, he realised, leaning against the kitchen table, how he was going to cope with the full-blown domesticity which this affair might involve. He loathed intimate suppers, games of Scrabble, yawning and leafing through the dregs of newspapers to the sound of the ten o’clock news. The prospect was stifling. But that would be the kind of thing Rachel wanted. Everything warm and safe. Oh God, what am I doing here? he wondered, rubbing his hands over his face.
They ate in the kitchen, he listening as she talked, watching her face. This, too, he realised – the cosy, idle conversations after lovemaking, little exploratory meanderings into one another’s life and past, seeking out truths and secrets and ties to bind …
‘What do I think is important?’ he said, in response to one of her questions, one of her loving probes into his soul. ‘Well, I suppose I think I am.’ He laughed. How true this was. ‘And chambers. And the work I do. My mother.’ He glanced at her. Oh, very well. ‘And you are,’ he added.
She leant her elbow on the table, head on one hand, staring into her coffee cup. ‘Am I?’
‘Of course you are.’ He tried not to sound too brisk. ‘Anyway, what I mean is, it’s the things close to me which are important, the things which immediately touch my life. The rest – oh, the things that go to fill up all the column inches in the newspapers are important in a way. But not really. Only in so far as they affect me.’
‘Isn’t that a very selfish way of looking at life?’ she asked, her voice hesitant as her eyes searched his face.
