‘Which only leaves the great British public. A few million good reasons to sue her and the paper.’
‘Or not, as the case may be.’
‘Meaning?’
Anthony picked up a length of red tape from the brief he’d been working on, and wound it round his fingers. ‘Think about it. In a few days’ time, the great British public will have other preoccupations.
The Sun
will be shafting some other poor bastard. Things move on, people’s memories are short.’
‘Not in the microcosmic world that you and I work in.’
‘That’s something you may just have to live with. The alternative, as I see it, is infinitely worse. Imagine. You sue for libel. Fine. Nothing happens for a few months. Then bang, just when everyone had more or less forgotten the original story, the case comes up for trial, and the publicity starts all over again. Only this time your private life comes in for some serious,
real
scrutiny. For each and every one of that woman’s allegations that you deny, the other side will try to find some basis in truth. Affairs with other men? Well, ask yourself, Leo
– do you really want the best lawyers
The Sun
can buy investigating that particular aspect of your life? Then there are all the things she says about how you neglected Oliver, didn’t show up on visits – that means the spotlight gets turned on Rachel and Oliver. The allegations about your professional life – all untrue, but do you think your clients are going to enjoy seeing their QC held up to the light and given a thorough inspection and overhaul?’ Anthony chucked the red ribbon on to his desk. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you all this. You already know it.’
Leo nodded. ‘But the point is, if I do nothing, then everyone assumes that every word she’s written is true. Can I afford to let that happen?’
‘The people who know you, the people who matter, don’t believe it. As for the rest, the tabloid readers, they’re not really interested in you. It’s just another titillating story to spice up breakfast or the journey to work. They don’t actually know or care about you. They won’t remember your name this time next week. If you sue, things will be a lot worse in the long run. Come on, Leo, you know it.’
‘You think I should just let it lie?’
Anthony nodded.
Leo stood up and began to pace again. ‘It makes me feel so bloody impotent.’
‘There must be something you can do to make good the damage without actually suing. You must know people. Isn’t there some journalist who owes you a favour? Someone
who can make sure a little more exposure is given to some truths relating to Melissa Angelicos?’
‘Such as?’
Well, if you’re not the reason why her career is on the slide – what’s the real reason? Then there’s the fact that she’s been harassing you to the point where you had to take out an injunction – that’s worth a bit of coverage.’
Leo walked to the window, brooding on this. Certainly there were strings that might be pulled. ‘Yes … Yes, I might be able to do a few things in that direction …’
‘If someone came to you for advice, you’d counsel them against suing – you know you would.’
Leo nodded slowly. ‘Okay, right. I’ll explore some other avenues first …’ He turned and glanced at Anthony. ‘Do you feel like going for a drink, or did you have plans?’
Anthony swivelled his chair and looked up at Leo. One glance from the blue eyes, one smile of invitation, and he felt his resolve weakening. Why had he been so hell-bent on keeping Leo at a distance? Fear of getting hurt again. No one was immune to that. He might as well just live for the here and now, enjoy what scraps of Leo’s companionship he could. ‘All right.’ He put away his papers, picked up his jacket, and they went downstairs and left chambers together.
‘You’ve talked me out of issuing a flurry of writs,’ said Leo, as they crossed Caper Court. ‘What are the chances of my dissuading you from leaving chambers?’
Anthony made no immediate reply. Their discussion about whether or not Leo should sue for libel had been
pretty perfunctory; Anthony suspected that Leo’s mind had already been made up before he came. He’d wanted an excuse to see Anthony alone, to neutralise the atmosphere so that he could broach this subject. As they came out into Middle Temple Lane, Anthony turned to Leo. ‘Feel like braving the stares and whispers of Middle Temple Bar?’
‘Not much,’ said Leo. ‘But it’s better than skulking off to some anonymous pub like a guilty man. Come on.’
There was a light buzz and a few more interested glances than usual in the crowded bar when Leo appeared, but no frosty silence or disdainful stares. A number of people went out of their way to greet him, as if in defiance of the scandal. Leo and Anthony took their drinks out to a bench in a quiet corner of the rose garden.
‘That wasn’t too bad,’ said Anthony.
‘Members of the Bar are far too civilised to behave in any other way. It’s the impact it’s going to have on my practice that I’m worried about. Anyway, forget all that.’ Leo leant back and sipped his Scotch. ‘You haven’t answered my earlier question. Are you still determined to leave chambers?’
‘I don’t know.’ Anthony took a drink of his beer. ‘I’m looking around, certainly.’
‘I don’t want you to go. Nobody does.’
‘So you said before,’ replied Anthony shortly. ‘I’ve got my reasons for wanting to leave.’
‘Can’t stand the sight of me?’
Anthony looked very directly at Leo. ‘Quite the opposite. As you bloody well know.’
The effect on Leo of that gaze, the depth of feeling in those brown eyes, was profound. But the risks in becoming involved with Anthony were too great for him to contemplate. ‘Come on, Anthony, can’t we put things back the way they were? For the sake of our friendship? It means a lot to me.’
Anthony looked away. ‘It’s not just you and me. It’s other things. Camilla, for instance. Why did you have to start an affair with her? Of all people, why her?’
Leo took a small silver cigar case from his pocket, and nicked it open. ‘I happen to be pretty serious about Camilla.’ He lit a cigar and blew out a stream of smoke.
Anthony gave a small, wincing smile. ‘Right. For how long, though? You have a famously short emotional attention span.’
Leo said nothing for a few seconds. Then he nodded. ‘That’s the worst of it. The fact is, I don’t know how it’ll work out.’
Anthony turned his glass round in his hands for a few seconds, dunking. It was no longer important that Camilla had once been his girlfriend. That was history now. Leo could do as he liked; so could she. ‘For God’s sake, don’t make her suffer the way you made me.’
A brief silence fell between them, broken only by the occasional drowse of insects in the roses, and gusts of chatter and laughter from students further up the garden. Leo thought he detected, in the way Anthony spoke, some suggestion that he was beginning to reconcile recent past events. When he spoke at last, he said, ‘In return, promise
me you’ll reconsider leaving. Nobody wants you to. Especially me. Whatever has happened between us, I need you.’
But not, thought Anthony, in the right way. He sipped his drink and said nothing. ‘Anyway,’ Leo went on with a smile, ‘let’s forget about personal problems for a while. Tell me what you think about this new bunch joining us tomorrow.’
Anthony shrugged. ‘I only really know Marcus. He’s all right. Fancies himself a bit. Then again, he’s terrifyingly bright. That’s probably his main problem – he’s very keen to let you know how much he knows, how right he always is.’
‘I think I deflated that particular balloon a couple of months back. He was on the other side in a case involving freight forwarders. Not very significant, not much money involved, but the boy had really gone over the top in preparation. Didn’t see the wood for the trees, as it turned out. You’re right – he didn’t take that particular defeat very well. I put that down to his age. He’ll learn that he can’t win every case.’
‘He’d like to.’
‘Well, that’s a good sign. Maybe he’ll have mellowed a bit by the time he becomes our first black law lord.’
‘You think?’
‘Oh, yes. If the lords spiritual and temporal still exist in thirty years’ time, that is.’
‘As for the others, I can’t say. Maurice Faber has a pushy reputation, but I don’t know him personally. Roger Fry’s a
decent enough bloke, by all accounts. David gets on well with him, which must be a good sign. Ann Halliday’s very able, isn’t she?’
Leo nodded. ‘She can be quite formidable, the kind of person that others often underestimate. To their cost. I suspect she was under-employed at Three Wessex Street, which is why she’s made the move. I’ve known her a long time. We were at Bar School together. Nice girl. Quite
good-looking
once, but she’s let herself go a bit.’ Leo sipped his drink reflectively.
Anthony gave him a wry glance. No doubt Leo had once considered Ann Halliday worth the effort. Perhaps he’d even made the effort. Few people of any passing attraction escaped Leo’s promiscuous attentions.
For the next half hour they talked idly of the respective merits of the new tenants, and exchanged chambers’ gossip, until Anthony felt a return of the peaceful, familiar pleasure he had always derived from being with Leo.
By the time they parted, around half past eight, Leo felt pretty sure that he had managed to restore something of the old equilibrium, and that Anthony would think twice about leaving. An interesting exercise in subliminal persuasion, but not exactly a difficult one.
On the kitchen table in the house in Newbury which Leo’s ex-wife, Rachel, shared with her lover, Charles Beecham, lay a well-thumbed copy of
The Sun.
Charles had picked it up that morning at the village shop. It was not a paper he would normally have bought, but the headline caught his
eye, and when he realised that the story concerned Leo, he hastily purchased a copy and made his way back from the village very slowly indeed, reading as he walked. As a writer and presenter of popular historical television programmes – his latest project was an American commission concerning Anglo-American historical relations, which took him off to the States every couple of weeks – and a not particularly industrious academic, Charles’s days at home were spent spasmodically loafing and working. Today all thoughts of work vanished entirely, and it soon became clear that loafing wouldn’t be on the agenda, either.
Charles’s initial reaction to the story had been one of incredulous amusement. He had once been a client of Leo’s and liked him enormously, and didn’t believe one word of what he read. It was only when the first importunate journalist arrived at the house and tried to doorstep him with questions about Rachel and Leo that Charles realised how serious the repercussions of the story, false or not, might be. This was bad news not just for Leo, but for anyone close to him. The phone began to ring so incessantly that Charles had to take it off the hook. By lunchtime, four journalists and two photographers were camped outside the gates of the house at the bottom of the drive. Oliver, Rachel’s two-year-old son from her marriage to Leo, was due to go to a friend’s house down the road for tea, but the nanny was reluctant to run the gauntlet of shouting reporters. The household felt besieged.
As soon as Rachel had arrived home at the end of the day, Charles could tell from her face that she was already
aware of the paper and its contents. Unlike Charles, her reaction had been one of indignation and fury. Whether she believed the story or not, Rachel blamed Leo for the fact that it had found its way into the papers. According to her, there had to be some foundation to it. She had been married to Leo; she knew him. Charles thought this all rather unfair, and was inclined to take Leo’s part. After all, the poor sod was even quoted as denying all the allegations quite comprehensively. It was now eight-twenty, and they had been talking about it for two hours.
Charles, tall and rangy, paced the kitchen and ran his fingers through the greying-blond curls so beloved by female viewers of his documentaries. ‘Talking about it isn’t going to make any difference. I’m hungry. I’d like to have some supper.’ He turned to Rachel, who stood by the sink like a martyred Madonna, her dark, silky hair framing her pale, angry face. ‘It’s not really our problem, in the long run.’
‘Not our problem? With reporters outside the house all day long?’
‘They’ve gone now. Come on – the story’s a one-day wonder. They won’t come back. At least, I very much doubt they will.’
‘I have to speak to Leo. I’m going to call him now.’
‘Why? The poor guy’s probably had a bad enough day, and I don’t get the impression you intend to offer him your commiserations.’
‘Bloody right I don’t! This mess is of his making, it’s affecting us, and I want to find out what he intends to do
about it!’ She turned and picked up the phone.
Charles sighed. At times like these, a stiff drink was the only answer. He poured himself a gin and tonic and watched as Rachel stabbed at the phone buttons. He knew why she was calling Leo. There were the ostensible reasons, like finding out what he intended to do, and giving a little vent to her wrath, but the real truth was Rachel hungered for contact with Leo. She wanted to speak to him, for whatever reason. And this gave her a solid pretext. Charles was well aware of all this. He had known it for as long as he had known Rachel. Not that it was something she would ever admit to – not even to herself. She gave Charles love, in that she gave him time and affection, but Leo had always been a dominant presence. Charles had always assumed it was something she would get over with time. But lately, with their own relationship undergoing difficulties and uncertainties, he had begun to wonder whether Rachel was ever going to fall out of love with Leo.
Leo drove back to Belgravia, feeling worn out. It had been a bastard of a day. He wanted nothing more than to excise the demons of the past twelve hours, even if only on a temporary basis. What he badly needed, he thought, as he parked his car in the mews and walked round to the flat, was to find Camilla sprawled on the long sofa, looking suitably and gravely school girlish, ready to be undressed and made love to over some duration. One of his favourite pastimes,
at the moment, was finding novel ways of shocking and exciting her in the same instant. He took particular pleasure in provoking the incredibly sensual expression of wide-eyed perturbation that she wore at such moments, enjoying the sensation of being both aroused and amused by her. That, at any rate, would take his mind off his problems for an hour, at least.