Judicial Whispers

by Caro Fraser

  ‘That’s the last of those letters,’ said Felicity, turning to leave.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rachel, and swung herself into her chair, tucking her legs beneath her. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, as Felicity reached the door.

  For a moment, Felicity thought of confiding in Rachel, telling her all about Mr Lamb and his threats – but the time when she might have told Rachel about it, sought her help, was past. They were still friendly to each other, but Rachel felt guilty about Felicity, and this tinged their relationship with uneasiness.

  She looked at Rachel. ‘Time of the month,’ she said, with a little smile. ‘Just something someone said. You know how you overreact.’ And she left, closing the door behind her.

  She sat down at her desk and stared unseeingly at the little array of Christmas cards sellotaped to the back of Louise’s VDU. Why did they give each other Christmas cards every year, she wondered, when they sat next to each other all day, every day? God, she hated offices. So what if she didn’t get a reference from this place? Maybe she could find something closer to home, something she would enjoy doing. Working with kids, or handicapped people. Then she sighed. Fat chance. You needed qualifications and, anyway, it wouldn’t bring in the right kind of money. If only Sandy would get a job. Even if it was just banging out burgers at McDonald’s. But she’d given up nagging him. She felt tears rising again as she thought of what Mr Lamb had said. She shielded her eyes with one hand and stared down at a memo on her desk, as though reading, as Doris padded up.

  ‘Here, Fliss – d’you want to see what I got my little grandson in Petticoat Market? It’s ever so sweet …’

  ‘Yeah, in a minute, Doris,’ said Felicity with an effort, not looking up, hand still shading her eyes. ‘I’m just trying to concentrate on this.’ She waited until Doris had buttonholed a couple of the filing clerks and, to a background of ‘Innit lovely?’ and ‘Aw, it’s sweet!’, she made her escape to the loo, locked herself in a cubicle, and wept. When she had finished, she scrumpled up the length of lavatory paper into which she had been crying and stared at it. Someone banged into the cubicle next door, and there was a rustling of skirt and knickers, then a genteel tinkling.

  At least she’d be out of this prison of an office, she told herself, closing her eyes and resting her head on her fists. She’d sign on. They’d get by. Something would happen. It was just having that bastard stitch her up like this – that was the worst of it. That smug, horrible, groping bastard. And when she’d gone, he’d start on someone else. She pondered the possibility of going now to one of the partners and telling them what had happened. But it wouldn’t be any use. They’d have her out, anyway. They’d just about had enough of her before Rachel came. Besides, Mr Lamb was no doubt in John Parr’s room right now, selling her down the river, telling him that Miss Dean was finding Felicity too slack and that they’d have to ask her to leave.

  Oh, well. She sniffed, waited for the occupant of the next cubicle to leave, and then came out and splashed cold water over her eyes. At least it wasn’t all doom and gloom. She still had Vince. She brightened at the thought of Vince. She’d be able to go down the pub with him tonight and tell him all about it, get it off her chest. Yeah, she’d tell Vince, and he’d cheer her up, tell her it wasn’t so bad after all. He might not have a job or any money, Vince, but at least he was optimistic.

  On the other side of the City, the occupants of 5 Caper Court were in readiness for their own Christmas party. Sir Basil was, with trepidation, preparing to surrender his set of rooms to the use of the staff for the evening, trying not to think of the state the cleaners would find the carpet in afterwards. Each year it seemed to him that the thing sank to lower and lower depths. It was never rowdy or out of control, naturally, but it was no longer the exclusive, gentlemanly affair which it had been in Sir Basil’s father’s day, restricted to the tenants and the head clerk. Now all the staff attended and, with the unaccustomed luxury of free alcohol, some of them grew quite boisterous. Much food and drink was consumed, and the eldest of the typists, Mrs Frears, invariably got tipsy and started calling Sir Basil ‘dear’ and telling him about her son in the navy. That was always Sir Basil’s cue to leave.

  It was for these reasons that Sir Basil had held his own party at home a few days before, where he could relax in the knowledge that his guests would not have to witness the postboy being sick on the stairs, or Henry overindulging in Cameron Renshaw’s Glenmorangie.

  Sir Basil would willingly have paid for a lavish luncheon for the staff at one of the Chancery Lane restaurants, so that the chambers party might revert to being a discreet little festivity among the barristers only, but, as Mr Slee pointed out, in these days of egalitarianism, such a thing would smack of elitism and the typists wouldn’t like it. It sometimes seemed to Sir Basil that the members of his typing pool displayed all the refined temperament of thoroughbred racehorses.

  Mr Slee himself oversaw the preparations for the festivities in quite a Pickwickian frame of mind, but that day he was conscious of feeling not quite so well as he should. He sat down heavily in the clerks’ room after he and Henry had carried the two cases of Moët up to Sir Basil’s room, trying to pace the thump and flutter of his heart. Too much carrying, he thought. That was all it was. He should have got one of the younger tenants to help Henry. He sat, recovering himself, and eyed Jeremy Vane, an arrogant man in his middle thirties who regarded himself as by far the most able man in chambers, as he came in with two briefs.

  ‘There we go,’ said Jeremy loftily, scribbling the inverted looped cross on their backs to show they were completed, and dropping them into a tray. He glanced at Mr Slee.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been hitting the festive spirit early, William. You’re looking a bit pink about the gills.’

  Mr Slee stared at him indignantly. ‘Certainly not! I’ve just been humping great crates of champagne about for the likes of you to drink this evening.’

  ‘Oh God, the chambers party,’ said Jeremy. ‘Well, I can only look in for half an hour or so. I’ve got a frightfully heavy workload, even if it is Christmas.’ Jeremy regarded his practise as one of monumental importance and dedicated more energy and attention to it than his clients or his bank balance required.

  Leo came in in his shirtsleeves and grinned at Jeremy. ‘Got judgment in the Kapetan Kirios this morning. Your amendment was struck out and the application dismissed. But I suppose you know that?’

  ‘I was aware,’ said Jeremy coldly. Try as he might, he always found himself cast in the pompous, unbending role when Leo was about. ‘I still feel it was a perfectly proper case for service of a third-party notice.’

  ‘Well, well. I won’t say I told you so. Win some, lose some, eh, Jeremy? By the way, the word among the secretaries is that the new typist has the hots for you. Save yourself for this evening. We know you like them young.’

  Jeremy took a dim view of Leo’s frivolities and said nothing for a moment. Then he smirked and remarked, ‘Speaking of which, I hear your new girlfriend is rather on the – ah – young side. Young for you, that is.’

  Leo only smiled. ‘Twenty-seven, actually. I’m so glad you’re taking an active interest in my love life, Jeremy.’

  Jeremy sniffed and left the room, and Leo, after fishing out some refills for his stapler, went out, too.

  ‘What’s this about a girlfriend?’ Mr Slee asked Henry, staring after Leo. Henry broke off whistling ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ and glanced at Mr Slee.

  ‘Didn’t you know? David reckons it’s love. Leo’s been out everywhere with her. Even took her to the old man’s bash the other night. A real looker, David says. Funny that,’ added Henry, tucking a sprig of holly behind the computer, ‘but in all the time I’ve been here I never heard he had a girlfriend. Not till now. I was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t queer. I mean, the way he dresses an’ all. You know?’ He resumed his whistling.

  Mr Slee looked at him but said nothing, merely laid a hand over his heart, testing, won
dering.

  The atmosphere at the chambers party was always a little uneasy to begin with, until people had had a few drinks and begun to loosen up. Anthony turned up early, at six-thirty, determined to stay for only a short time and then leave; Leo, he knew, always worked late, and Anthony wanted to be gone before he showed up. It had been a few weeks since he had last seen Rachel, and the pain of loss had begun to fade, but the blow which Leo had inflicted on his pride still smarted. He picked up a glass of champagne from a tray and went over to join Cameron Renshaw, who was leaning against one of Sir Basil’s ceiling-high bookcases with a glass of Glenmorangie in one hand and a chicken drumstick in the other.

  ‘Do you think I’d make a good Father Christmas?’ Cameron asked Anthony glumly.

  Anthony smiled and regarded Cameron; take away the glasses and the moustache, and the basics were all there.

  ‘Um – with the costume – and a bit of padding, of course—’

  ‘Bugger the padding,’ replied Cameron, finishing his chicken and dropping the bone into Sir Basil’s wastepaper basket, then hitching at his braces with his thumb. ‘I’ve got enough of that already. My wife has told the assorted heads of the Cubs and Brownies – Big Badgers and Brown Owls, or whatever they are – that I will be Santa Claus at their damned party this weekend.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be very good,’ said Anthony mildly, as David Liphook came over to join them, fresh from the wine bar with William Cooper.

  ‘What’s all this?’ enquired David, who didn’t like to be left out of any conversation. Anthony told him. ‘Oh, yes, marvellous casting, Cameron. Ho, ho, ho! You know, you could have used this evening as a dry run. Dressed up and handed out little pressies to everyone. Sir Basil would love it.’

  Cameron sighed morosely and poured himself another drink. ‘To think of it – I, a QC, the toast of the Commercial Bar, scourge of the Admiralty Court, in a red suit with a white cotton-wool beard. It’s not as though I even volunteered. Oh God, here they come,’ he added, as the typists flocked in and made their chattering way towards the trays of champagne. The heady scent of Anais Anais filled the air.

  Forty minutes later, Anthony was crossing the room on his way out when Sir Basil intercepted him with a bottle of champagne and refilled his glass. Anthony accepted it, knowing that it wouldn’t be diplomatic to let Sir Basil see him leaving too early. They talked together for a moment or two, Sir Basil formal but avuncular, Anthony polite but not entirely at his ease. He remembered only too well Sir Basil’s opposition to his joining chambers two years ago, when the beloved Edward, before he had decided to take up farming, had been the favoured candidate.

  ‘And how is your father?’ asked Sir Basil. ‘I understand he had a new exhibition recently. My sister Cora bought one of his paintings.’

  ‘Oh, he’s well, thank you,’ replied Anthony, recalling the one occasion on which Chay and Sir Basil had encountered one another, when Chay had just been busted and bailed and looking thoroughly disreputable. That had been at a chambers Christmas party, too. Sir Basil was also recalling the encounter at that moment. He had thought at the time that Chay Cross had looked a most unsuitable type to be the father of a prospective tenant at 5 Caper Court, but then artists were hardly like other people. The man was now celebrated and wealthy, and for these twin virtues Sir Basil could forgive any amount of bohemian eccentricity.

  ‘Now, I see my secretary needs a bit of a top-up,’ said Sir Basil, wagging his bottle jovially. ‘Do excuse me.’

  Anthony murmured something, and was about to make his escape when he saw Leo come into the room with Michael. He had been steering clear of Leo, not even going to tea in the afternoons in the Inner Temple Common Room with the others, and he had not seen him for over a week. As ever, the sudden sight of Leo had a peculiar effect upon Anthony, as though he stood out from the rest of those in the room, more alive than they, vivid and compelling. Anthony, this time, mistook the force of his feeling for deep dislike. He didn’t want to be in the same room as the man.

  Leo saw that Anthony was about to leave, and while Michael was fetching them both a drink, Leo stayed near the door, so that Anthony had to pass by him on the way out.

  Anthony, feeling absurdly childish, tried to ignore him, but as he went through the doorway and out onto the landing, Leo followed him and gripped him by the arm. In a way, Anthony realised, he was glad to be detained by him. He turned, his face expressionless.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ said Leo, glancing behind him at the crowded room, ‘that this is all becoming rather ridiculous?’ Anthony said nothing. ‘I mean, how long is all this going to go on? We work in the same chambers, Anthony. It’s bad for the whole set if you’re going to go around looking sulky and avoiding me.’

  ‘How do you expect me to behave after what you’ve done?’ replied Anthony. ‘Do you imagine I like you for it?’

  ‘You don’t have to like me,’ said Leo. ‘You merely have to learn to behave in an adult fashion, not like some teenager.’

  ‘Look, Leo,’ said Anthony, ‘if I’m fed up with you, then I’ll act fed up. OK?’ He didn’t have the heart to feel angry, merely defensive.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that’s all it is,’ said Leo mildly. He paused. ‘What have you done about the Valeo Dawn papers?’

  ‘I’ve told Rachel I’m sending them back. I haven’t got around to it yet,’ replied Anthony.

  ‘You know she doesn’t want you to,’ said Leo. ‘Her client is hard up as it is. She doesn’t want him forking out for another counsel to go over the same ground twice.’

  Anthony stared at him, thinking absently that Leo was getting older, that his handsome face was becoming more drawn and lined. There was a touch of weariness about the eyes. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said suddenly. His voice sounded challenging, genuinely curious.

  ‘If you want,’ replied Leo, moving away a little from Anthony and leaning on the banister. Why couldn’t the boy just let it alone?

  Anthony’s eyes were still fastened on Leo’s face. ‘Explain it to me. I mean, tell me what’s going on.’ There was a pause as they gazed at one another, Leo saying nothing. ‘Because I don’t understand it. You tried to seduce me once’ – his voice was soft against the growing chatter of the party behind them – ‘and now Rachel. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Nothing is ever straightforward,’ answered Leo, glancing down at the brown polished wood and rubbing it with his thumb. ‘Life and people – all very complicated.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have answers for you.’

  ‘But why Rachel?’ said Anthony insistently. ‘I mean, why her, of all people? You don’t love her, do you?’

  Dear Anthony, thought Leo. You still think everything would have been all right with her, if only I hadn’t butted in. How wrong you are. But I can’t tell you that. What can I tell you? He looked up. How many lies was he going to have to tell in the course of this thing?

  ‘I liked her when I met her. I asked her out. That’s all.’ He paused, then added, ‘Perhaps I do love her.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ answered Anthony, his voice still soft.

  ‘Don’t you, Anthony?’ said Leo, straightening up, his voice flat and uninterested in contrast to the intensity of Anthony’s tone.

  ‘No,’ said Anthony, ‘I don’t. Have you told her about your – let me get the right word – your sexual ambivalence, shall we say? I mean, is she getting the real Leo here?’ Anthony’s voice was light and dangerous.

  ‘I think so. Yes. Yes, she knows, if that’s what you mean.’

  This took Anthony aback. She knew and she didn’t care. She must feel very deeply for Leo indeed. Or was it that he simply didn’t understand the way women’s minds worked? He hesitated for a moment, then murmured, ‘You’re beyond me. It’s all way beyond me.’ He turned to go. From downstairs came the sound of the door to the clerks’ room slamming, then Mr Slee’s key in the lock. ‘Merry Christmas,’ added Anthony over his shoulder, aware that he felt no real anim
osity, no real anything. It had all been a waste of time and emotion. Let them get on with it. He didn’t want to know any more.

  As Anthony reached the landing below, and Leo the doorway, there was a sudden heavy thudding, as of something bumping downstairs, and then a groan. Anthony stopped, looked over the banister, then back up at Leo, who had reappeared on the landing.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Leo.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anthony, and then raced down to the bottom, where he found Mr Slee slumped outside the door to the clerks’ room. ‘Jesus, I think he’s had a heart attack,’ said Anthony to Leo, who had followed him downstairs. They bent over him. Mr Slee’s eyes were closed, his face grey and his lips bluish.

  ‘We’d better call an ambulance,’ said Leo. He rattled the locked door of the clerks’ room, then turned and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  On the other side of the city, in Bishopsgate, the Nichols & Co party was in full spate. With an office of more than two hundred people, this was a rowdy and crowded affair. One of the conference rooms next to the boardroom on the ninth floor had been turned into a dark, cavernous disco, complete with sound system and rented DJ (husband of one of the secretaries) and coloured strobe lighting. The boardroom itself heaved with people, all drinking as much as they could at the expense of their employers, forming themselves into exactly the same little cliques as they did at work – the partners at one end, already glancing at their watches and preparing to drift off, the denizens of the post room at the other, and little knots of people from various different departments in the middle.

  Felicity was standing near one of the buffet tables with two of her mates. She was wearing a low-cut cerise dress which she’d bought in Petticoat Market just that afternoon, and which stopped several inches above her knees, and her curly hair was piled up on her head. She’d nearly decided not to come this evening, but, having decided she would, she thought she might at least make an effort. Anyway, she liked dressing up and showing this bunch how good she could really look. When she went out with Vince she never really had a chance to dress up. Not properly. He liked her in her black leather skirt and halter-neck blouse. This was her chance to look a bit glam.