As they drank their tea they talked about the race meeting and the excitement of the storm. It was a way of pretending nothing else filled their minds, no unspoken thoughts or undercurrent of feeling.
Oliver, who had been playing with his toys in the living room, came through to the kitchen and demanded a biscuit.
‘Just one. I’ll be making your tea in a moment,’ said Rachel. She reached for the biscuit tin and handed him a custard cream. ‘What do you say?’
‘Fank you,’ murmured Oliver, and trotted back through.
‘I’d better be going,’ said Anthony, and stood up. ‘My things must be dry by now.’
Rachel went to the tumble dryer. She took his clothes from it and shook them out, then folded and smoothed them. Anthony watched as she did this, watched the slim, white fingers, her preoccupied face.
She handed him his clothes, then said suddenly, ‘Why don’t you stay? For supper, I mean. It’ll be very dull for me otherwise. There’s something about Saturday nights – always worse than other nights, for some reason.’ Anthony said nothing. ‘Unless you’re busy, of course. You probably are.’
‘No,’ said Anthony, ‘I’m not busy.’
‘Then will you stay?’
‘Yes. If you like. Thanks.’
He went upstairs to change. That had been the most threadbare exchange. But then, communication had been reduced to essentials. Someone had to say something relevant, soon.
They spoke very little as Rachel prepared Oliver’s tea. Rachel switched on the television in the kitchen, and the news provided some kind of a background. Things began to improve as they prepared supper together. Rachel took steaks from the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave while Anthony made a salad. They were able to have quite a jokey argument about the best way to make a vinaigrette dressing. The cosiness of doing domestic tasks together lent a cheerful superficiality. Rachel left Anthony to grill the steaks while she gave Oliver his bath and put him into his pyjamas. It was seven o’clock.
Rachel came downstairs. ‘He wants you to say night night.’
He indicated the steaks. ‘These are almost done.’
‘I’ll take over. Shall I open some wine?’
‘Yes, fine.’
Upstairs, Anthony bent over Oliver’s cot and gave him a kiss. He stared into blue eyes that were so like Leo’s. Then he made a revving sound and said, ‘Thunderbirds are go!’
‘Funderbirds
go!’
replied Oliver in delight, and thrust his small fists skywards. Then his face relaxed, he put his thumb in his mouth, turned his head sideways, and kicked at his quilt with sleepy feet. Anthony straightened up and
left the room quietly, switching off the light, leaving the door ajar so that the light from the landing fell a little way into the bedroom.
‘How is he?’ asked Rachel.
‘On his way out. He’s such a good little kid.’
‘He can have his moments, I assure you. He’s not always this easy in the evenings. I think a day at the races has finished him off.’
They were able to talk once more about the race meeting. Rachel had opened some wine, and she brought it to the table with the steaks and salad. Anthony was able to move the conversation effortlessly on to betting, and from there Rachel took it to money, and both were grateful for the apparent ease with which they talked. But there came a moment, at the end of the meal, when the talk trailed away.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ asked Rachel, to break the silence.
‘No, no coffee, thanks,’ replied. Anthony. ‘There’s something I want to say.’
Rachel waited, watching him. ‘Well?’
‘It’s been on my mind all day. I have to confess that I came here with the idea that something might happen – that is, I wanted something to happen between us.’
The air in the kitchen seemed to have grown very still. They looked at each other across the table. Rachel felt as though her mind was poised to fly; she had refused to contemplate this moment, and was still reluctant to. ‘I think I know that. I think maybe it’s why I asked you here.’
Anthony nodded, and said nothing for a few seconds.
‘The fact is, we’ve been dodging the issue all day. And I know why. You have scruples, and so do I.’
‘Do we?’
Anthony met her gaze. Her expression was a softer reflection of her earlier pleasure and excitement when she had won her money. He had never seen her look so open and expectant, yet so calm. He felt mildly confused. ‘The thing is, I can’t just come here, to another man’s house—’
‘I don’t belong to anyone, Anthony.’
Anthony shook his head. ‘That’s not true,’ he murmured.
Rachel stood up and came round the table to where he sat. She rested her hands on his shoulders and he looked up at her. ‘I don’t care if it’s true or not,’ she said. ‘Do you remember those times when we were seeing one another a few years ago, the times when you wanted to make love to me, and I couldn’t let you?’
‘I’m not likely to forget.’ Anthony gave a little laugh, but it died away swiftly.
‘I want to make up for those times.’ She bent and kissed him. The gentle touch of her mouth was electrifying.
‘I don’t want to mess things up,’ he said, when she took her mouth, away. ‘Between you and Charles.’
‘That’s my business.’ Her voice was soft, confident.
He stood up and took her in his arms, and kissed her, and instantly the fierce current of desire within her transmitted itself to him. He could feel the longing which tensed her limbs and warmed her blood, so different from the chilly fear with which she had once repulsed him. When their kiss ended, her voice was breathless, a little broken.
‘It won’t be in our bed. There’s another room. Please. Please. I need you so much.’
He kissed her again, drawing her as close to him as he could. It didn’t matter anymore where they were, or whose bed it happened in. Nothing in the world existed or mattered except the two of them, at that moment.
Leo arrived back at the Belgravia flat early on Sunday evening. He felt very well indeed, still buoyed up by the events of the weekend. Dropping his overnight bag in the hall, he went into the drawing room and opened one of the long windows which looked down on the garden square. It had been raining in London over the weekend, and the air was fresh and gentle. He let it fill the room. He poured himself a drink and paced the room, glancing at his pictures. Usually they brought a soothing satisfaction, but this evening the sight of them merely stirred a recollection of the treasures which reposed in Adriana’s private gallery. All in her keeping, for her to enjoy whenever she wanted.
He sat down in an armchair and leant back, closing his eyes. It would be easier, of course, if the little Greek princess had meant none of what she said. But he had known many women in his life, and this one was utterly sincere. She wept when he made love to her. She had passion in her voice and in her eyes. He had absolutely no doubt that he could do with her entirely as he wanted. She might be powerful, she might be wealthy, she might be the head of one of the biggest shipping lines in the world, but, quite without any intent or design on his part, she was very definitely his. In
the time that was available to him – which was to say, for as long as she was in love with him to the point of desperation – and allowing for a natural mellowing of feeling, he could make her his for good. To do so would involve compromise, a surrender of certain freedoms – but with considerable returns. Would it be so hard to be part of her world? So hard to accept everything she had offered him?
He speculated on the kind of life Adriana and he could have together, the pleasures they could enjoy – the kind they had enjoyed this weekend. There was much to be said for wealth. Suddenly the prospect of slogging away at the Bar for the next fifteen years seemed distinctly unattractive by comparison. He didn’t love Adriana, never would, but he liked her well enough. He had no doubt that he could keep her sufficiently happy and satisfied, though the terms would be hers, and the wealth.
As he sat musing on this latter point, and on the difficulties of accepting ancillary status, the sound of the telephone jarred his thoughts. He opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. In all probability it was Camilla, ringing as she had said she would. Small eddies of guilt stirred in him. Not that he didn’t love her. He did. It was just that in his present frame of mind, he didn’t see how he could possibly speak to her. He swirled the melting ice cubes in the dregs of his drink, and let the phone ring.
Anthony was grateful that the case management conference on Monday morning was relatively straightforward. His mind was still full of the events of the weekend, and as he sat
in court with his client and solicitors, he had to force himself to concentrate on the issues. It had been the strangest two days. Recollected moments had almost surreal qualities. Waking in bed in the darkness, momentarily disoriented, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, while Rachel soothed a fretful Oliver in another room. Then Rachel slipping back into bed next to him, the merest touch of her skin setting off again that deep, unsettling desire – quite unlike anything he had ever known before, beyond sex, beyond mere emotion. Then holding her, no more than that, listening to the rain …
‘Perhaps Mr Cross can give us some guidance as to when Mr Tully will be giving his evidence?’
Anthony looked up with a start, momentarily confused. He glanced down at his papers. His instructing solicitor leant over and murmured something. ‘Um – yes, we would anticipate Mr Tully will be available in the second week of October.’
The judge nodded. Talk drifted on. Anthony’s mind slipped back to Sunday. In the morning the rain had stopped, but the sky was overcast. Rachel was quiet. He had stayed for breakfast and lunch, and they had made love again while Oliver slept in the afternoon. Then they had talked about Charles, and Rachel had wept, and Anthony had been bereft of consolation. He couldn’t unravel her life for her. All in all, despite this new step in their relationship – or maybe because of that – it had been a miserable Sunday. Everything seemed bleak and touched with guilt. When Anthony left late in the afternoon, they had made no arrangement to meet. Anthony knew he would call her, but
now the gesture would seem furtive, clandestine. He had wanted to bring about this state of affairs with Rachel, but now that it existed, it seemed oddly joyless.
The judge’s voice broke into his meditations once again. ‘No doubt the matters we’ve discussed can be put into formal words—’ The judge glanced in the direction of the downtrodden junior on the other side. ‘Mr Foxton, if you would be so kind?’ Young Mr Foxton gave a weary sign of assent. ‘Good,’ said the judge, shuffling his papers together. ‘If I could perhaps have that sometime later this afternoon …?’ Chairs scraped and people rose. After a brief chat with the client and solicitors, Anthony left the Law Courts and made his way back to Caper Court.
Halfway down Middle Temple Lane he caught sight of Roger Fry crossing Fountain Court. He waited for him.
‘I’ve just been talking to Stephen Bishop,’ said Roger. ‘Apparently Roderick’s going to the High Court sometime in October.’
They passed together through the archway into Pump Court. ‘Which means a new head of chambers,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ll bet Jeremy thinks he’s in with a good chance.’
‘Someone should tell Maurice that. He thinks he’s got it sewn up.’
‘Seriously? But he’s only been with us a couple of months.’
‘I admit that Maurice can be a bit blinkered by his own ambitions. But I don’t see that it matters how long he’s been here. He’s the one who’s been turning things around in chambers of late.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,’ said Anthony. ‘Redesigning the chambers’ website is one thing, but he’ll have to carry the confidence of the rest of the tenants if he wants to become head of chambers. I don’t feel I know him well enough.’
‘I can see that. Personally,’ added Roger, as they paused at the foot of the steps to 5 Caper Court, ‘I would have thought Leo would be the obvious choice, but the word is he’s not bothered one way or the other. You can accuse Maurice of being over-ambitious, but at least he’s up for it. Anyway, catch you later. I’m going to get some lunch.’
Anthony went into chambers, and through the door to the clerks’ room. The mention of Leo’s name had unsettled him slightly. As far as his relationship with Rachel was concerned, Leo shouldn’t matter in the slightest. But he did. He seemed to overshadow and affect everything.
And there he was, standing in his shirtsleeves by Henry’s desk, laughing at some joke of Henry’s. Anthony fished his mail from his pigeonhole and scanned it. Leo sauntered past, and Anthony glanced at him.
‘You’re remarkably cheerful today,’ observed Anthony.
‘I am indeed. Had rather an enjoyable weekend. How was yours?’
‘Pretty good. I went to the races with Rachel and Oliver. We were doing well, until it began to pour down. Rachel won a packet on some outsider.’ Then he added, ‘She’s probably told you all about it.’
‘No,’ said Leo, ‘she didn’t mention it.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ He was suddenly anxious to get off a subject
he wished he’d never raised. Why had he done it? To arouse Leo’s ire or interest, get his attention. The old story. ‘By the way, did you know Maurice Faber pretty much thinks he’s going to be our next head of chambers when Roderick goes off to the High Court in October?’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ replied Leo, as they went upstairs together.
“The love of power is the love of ourselves,”
or so Hazlitt has it. And God knows, Maurice is vain enough. Not that there’s a lot of power in being head of chambers – or glory, come to that. But I suppose Maurice must think he’ll acquire both.’
They paused on the landing outside Anthony’s room. ‘Most people would far rather see you as head.’
‘It doesn’t interest me. I’m happy doing my work. The whole thing is just another load of PR bullshit in the world of Maurice and his kind.’
Anthony smiled. ‘Perhaps you’re right. See you.’
Leo carried on upstairs. Anthony had given him two things to think about. On the score of the vacancy which Roderick would leave, what he had said to Anthony was true – he didn’t care about it one way or the other. Not for himself. On the other hand, the idea of Maurice Faber,
arriviste
and major ego, becoming head of chambers – well, frankly, he’d sooner see Jeremy doing it. And that was a fairly unpalatable notion, too. Then again, perhaps the whole thing would be an irrelevance by the end of the year. He might not even be here.