Errors of Judgment (4 page)

Sarah closed her eyes. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. She should be blissfully happy. She was engaged to a charming, decent, good-looking man, who was a much nicer person than she would ever be and thereby made up for all her personal deficiencies, who was in a fabulously well-paying job, and could keep her in the luxury to which she would quite happily become accustomed. And, of course, she loved him. Toby was very loveable. Was she in love with him? No – but Sarah had long ago decided that being in love was a deluded state, and not necessarily the basis for a successful relationship. Marrying Toby was a rational act. She certainly didn’t want to stay single all her life, she was pretty much fed up with the exhausting pleasures of dating, and of short-term relationships, and Toby was quite a catch. She didn’t believe in a soulmate, or The Perfect Man. Life
was all about compromise. And while Toby might not set her world on fire, the future with him looked secure, prosperous. She had already decided to give up her job when they were married. Being a broker didn’t exactly float her boat, and they wouldn’t miss the money. Toby earned enough for both of them. She would spend her time decorating whatever house they bought and then in a year or two, when she got bored with that, she might have a baby. Some of her girlfriends were already mothers, and it seemed like quite an amusing club to belong to. From babies her mind drifted to sex. She had to admit that, tender and affectionate though he was, Toby was ponderously unexciting in bed. But then, weren’t most British men? She sipped her tea, totting up the exceptions in her head. It was a short list. She considered Anthony Cross, whom she’d run into the other day. Would she put him on it? Probably, for enthusiasm as much as anything else. And a willingness to learn. But top of the list, head and shoulders above the rest, came Leo. With Leo, sex had been a game, a guilt-free pleasure ride of unbridled physicality and shameless gratification. She hadn’t seen him in four years, but she felt her stomach go into free fall just thinking about him. Perhaps there was such a thing as the perfect man after all. Of all the men she’d ever known, Leo’s outlook and personality were closest to her own. On top of which, he had money, taste, intelligence and wit. An ideal partner – only Leo wasn’t the marrying kind. Theirs hadn’t been a friendship exactly, more an enjoyable mutual antagonism, with recreational sex thrown in. Not the stuff of lasting relationships. So why did she always feel, with a confidence that bordered on certainty, that she would see him again, some time, some place?

She dragged her mind away reluctantly from Leo. It
wouldn’t do. She was marrying Toby, whom she loved, and who would make a satisfactory husband in every possible way. She took another sip of her tea, but found it had gone cold. She had been thinking about Leo for longer than she’d realised.

That same evening, Anthony and his brother Barry were meeting their father, Chay, for Sunday supper in a gastropub in Hackney. Chay Cross was a successful postmodern artist who spent most of every year flitting between his homes in Madrid and New York, soaking up the admiration and hospitality of well-heeled investors and socialites who, with more money than sense, were prepared to cough up tens and thousands for his works. This October he was on one of his regular visits to London to see his sons and check up on the progress of his pet project, ShoMoMa, a new museum of modern art housed in a former Shoreditch brewery which, with surprising foresight, Chay had purchased a few years earlier.

Their father’s artistic success remained a deep mystery to Anthony and Barry. Throughout their childhood he had been a shifting, insubstantial presence, an itinerant hippy moving from one squat to another, smoking an inordinate amount of dope, and dabbling unsuccessfully in a variety of creative mediums. He only came to visit their mother Judith when he was in need of a handout, though he had occasionally taken the boys on outings and camping weekends. His surprising rise to fame had come about when Anthony, an impecunious student barrister, had sold some of Chay’s paintings to a gallery in an attempt to pay off a debt. The gallery had found buyers for the paintings, critics had paid attention,
and within a few months Chay Cross was being hailed on both sides of the Atlantic as ‘a wuthering expressionist of plangent, emotional rawness’ (
Modern Painters
), ‘an artist with a thrillingly gestative response to the world’ (
Apollo Magazine
), and ‘a craftsman bringing meaning, mythology and dream alive within veiled abstraction’ (
Frieze
). Since which time Anthony, whenever he was forced to consider one of his father’s vast monochrome daubs, had the uneasy feeling he might have been responsible for launching one of the greatest public frauds in the history of art. Still, he seemed to sit in good company alongside Tracey Emin and Damien Hirst.

When Anthony arrived at the pub, Chay was already there, sitting at one of the scrubbed wooden tables reading the
Sunday Times Review
, wearing a startling Liberty print shirt, bright-blue Mordechai Rubenstein braces, grey flannel trousers and black canvas Oxfords. The look was distinctly, expensively New York. A halo of cropped, silvery hair shone on his bean-shaped head as he rose to greet his son.

‘Hi, Dad,’ said Anthony, returning his hug tentatively. They sat down.

‘You look well,’ remarked Anthony.

Chay nodded. ‘I’m good. And you?’

‘Yes, good, thanks. Busy.’

‘Busy.’ Chay nodded again. ‘You lawyers are always busy, I suppose.’

The tone was familiar. Chay had always made plain his disdain for his son’s orthodox choice of career. Not that it had put him above cadging fivers and tenners from
Anthony on a regular basis back in the days when he’d been permanently skint.

‘What would you like?’ he asked Anthony. ‘A beer?’

‘Thanks. Pint of Shires, please.’

Chay rose and went to the bar. Barry came in a moment later. He was tall, like his father and brother, but more broadly built, with a cheerful, open face and dark hair cut in a shaggy crop. He was dressed in denims, trainers, a jacket and a T-shirt that read ‘
Born To Chill
’. He high-fived Anthony, and went over to his father at the bar.

‘Wassup, Dad? Get us a lager, would you?’ He went back and sat down with Anthony.

Chay returned with the drinks. Barry slurped the foam off the top of his pint and nodded at the jacket slung over the back of Chay’s chair. ‘Nice threads, Dad. Versace?’

Chay smiled. ‘Brioni. Seven thousand dollars.’

‘Give over! How can you spend that much on a suit and live with yourself?’

Chay shrugged. ‘It’s all relative. I earn ten times that selling one painting.’

‘Yeah, and that’s a bleeding mystery to all of us.’

Chay gave a thin smile. Although apparently serene in his success, it irked him when his sons chaffed him, as though afraid there might be a grain of truth in their jokes. ‘So,’ he asked Barry, ‘what are you doing with yourself these days?’

Barry sprawled comfortably in his chair. ‘Stand-up.’

‘Stand-up? You mean, like a comedian?’

‘He’s always been one of those,’ said Anthony.

‘Thanks, mate. I’ve seen you in court and I could say the same.’

Anthony smiled and took a sip of his beer. Since dropping out of sixth-form college six years earlier, Barry had had a variety of jobs – pizza delivery man, bouncer, barman, stripogram, cycle courier – and no one was quite sure what to make of this new career departure.

Chay mused, rasping his hand across his bristly skull. ‘Comedy, I always think, has great artistic integrity. Good to see another artist in the family.’

‘I don’t reckon integrity has much to do with it, Dad. Or art. It’s telling jokes to punters.’ Barry picked up the menu. ‘Let’s see what there is to eat. I’m famished.’

They ordered food, and talked. Chay was full of the art world, of glamorous gatherings and people. Barry had good stories from the comedy club circuit. Anthony had a few interesting tales from the law courts. The talk came round eventually to the banking crisis.

‘So much for global capitalism,’ said Barry. ‘Immoral businesses run by greedy people. I’d like to see the entire banking system wiped out.’

‘I’m not sure you would,’ said Anthony.

‘I bloody well object to taxpayers’ money,
our
money, being used to shore up these rotten institutions.’

‘Since when did you pay tax?’

‘I didn’t say I did. Hey – what do you call twelve investment bankers at the bottom of the ocean?’

‘What?’

‘A good start.’ Barry grinned and polished off the remains of his lager. ‘Seriously, I’d like to see them all out of a job.’

‘A couple of my friends who work in banking have been made redundant.’

‘My heart fairly bleeds.’

‘Well, no doubt you’ll get good material for your comedy routine out of it all.’

Barry turned to Chay. ‘I’ll bet Dad agrees with me – don’t you, you old unreconstructed Marxist? You always used to bang on about the greed and corruption of the markets. I’ll bet you’re delighted at the nationalisation of the banks. Totalitarian government in charge of the economy, right on, eh?’

Chay put his head on one side, and gave a wise smile. ‘I have to confess my views have mellowed over the past few years. I used to be rather naive about money.’

‘You mean when you didn’t have any?’

‘Wealth brings responsibilities. Money needs to be invested, made to work.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like capitalism,’ murmured Anthony, remembering Chay in his idleness, wheedling loans from friends, living on handouts from long-suffering relatives, pontificating all the while about the redistribution of wealth and the iniquities of the capitalist system.

‘The rich are rich for a reason. The more of them I meet, the better I understand that. I’ve been lucky enough to have made some very useful contacts. Last year I met someone who has helped me to make some spectacularly good investments.’

Barry looked at his father with keen interest. ‘Really?’

‘What would you say if I told you I’ve been getting steady returns between ten and eleven per cent for the past two years?’

‘I’d say it sounds too good to be true,’ replied Anthony.

‘And I’d say, please can I have a piece of it?’ exclaimed Barry.

‘That’s just it. Not everyone can. This financier is very selective about his client investors. I know people who’ve begged him to take them on, but have been refused.’

‘How did you meet him?’ asked Anthony.

‘I was introduced to him by a mutual friend at a country club in Palm Beach.’

Anthony recalled the terrible squats his father used to live in, the candlelit rooms, bare floorboards and damp walls, lentil stews, incense sticks, sleeping bags. Now he was glad-handing top-flight investors in Palm Beach country clubs. You had to marvel at it, really. ‘And he knows something that no one else does?’

‘Every field has its experts, and this guy just happens to be the best. He’s absolutely solid. He’s a very astute businessman and philanthropist, highly regarded in New York social circles.’

‘What’s his name?’

Chay shook his head. ‘His name wouldn’t mean anything to you. But the reason I mention him is that I was thinking I could invest the capital sums I’ve set aside for you both with him, if you like.’

Anthony caught Barry’s keen expression, and could tell he was busy calculating how much that rate of interest would net him over the next few years. Barry set a lot of store by the couple of hundred grand that Chay had, allegedly, earmarked for each of them, and which they were to receive on their thirtieth birthdays. Barry nodded. ‘Yeah, do it, Dad. I mean, ten per cent – what’s not to like?’

Chay turned and looked enquiringly at Anthony. Anthony reflected, twisting his beer glass on the tabletop. At last he said, ‘No, it’s OK, thanks. Leave mine in the bank.’

‘Are you mad?’ said Barry. ‘You have to speculate to accumulate.’

‘He has his mother’s cautious streak,’ said Chay. ‘Not one of life’s adventurers. Not a risk-taker.’

Anthony forced a smile. He was getting heartily sick of being labelled boring and cautious, but in this particular instance he didn’t feel like living dangerously. It seemed odd that anyone should be getting those kinds of returns in the present economic climate. He shrugged and said, ‘I’ll leave it to you wild creative types to do the bold, daring stuff.’ He drained his drink. ‘Just remember – if it looks too good to be true, it usually is.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m in court tomorrow.’

‘Go on, then, you young pillar of the judicial establishment,’ said his father. ‘I’ll probably be over again around Christmas. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Fine. See you. And thanks for dinner.’ He nodded at his brother. ‘Barry.’

‘Cheers, Tony,’ replied Barry. ‘See you around.’ Barry tapped his pint glass. ‘Come on – get them in, Dad. You’re the one with the money.’

Monday morning was not going well for Rachel. Her meticulously planned schedule took its first knock just as she and Oliver were about to leave the house, when Oliver had announced that he needed to take six baby photos of himself to school for a class project. Why was it, Rachel wondered as she hurried to the study to rummage through boxes, that children came up with these things at the last moment? She was already running late, and was bound to miss her train at this rate.

‘There you are,’ she said, slipping them into an envelope and handing them to Oliver. ‘Come on – where’s your reading book? We’re late. Hurry!’

In the car, six-year-old Oliver took the photos from their envelope and gravely examined each in turn. The last one he gazed at longest, then remarked, ‘That’s me and Daddy.’

Slowing at a red light, Rachel glanced down at the photo. It was a close-up of Leo kissing Oliver’s soft baby
cheek. It had been taken when Oliver was just eight weeks old, in the garden of the house where she and Leo had lived briefly, back in the deluded days when she’d imagined their marriage meant something. How quickly she’d learnt. No one person could ever be enough for Leo. There always had to be some third person, an illicit, faceless lover, male or female. Her glance lingered on the picture. Even now, the sight of Leo made her heart contract. She could have done without being reminded of how in love she’d once been. She was startled from her thoughts by a car horn telling her the lights had changed, and pulled away quickly.

‘So, what are you going to be doing with these pictures?’ she asked Oliver.

‘We have to write a story about ourselves, and then we cut it out and stick it onto … onto … something, and then we stick our pictures aaaall around the story,’ Oliver made a big circle with his hand, ‘and Mrs Latham puts them on the wall.’

‘That sounds nice. Can I come and see?’

‘If you like,’ replied Oliver casually. ‘I’m going to put the picture of me and Daddy right at the top.’

The next setback came when Lucy, Oliver’s childminder, told Rachel that although she’d agreed to keep Oliver till seven, because Rachel was speaking at a seminar, she was no longer able to. ‘The hospital’s brought my mother’s operation forward. She’s going in this afternoon and I need to visit her this evening.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort something out,’ said Rachel, without the least clue what she was going to do.

Rachel kissed Oliver goodbye and drove to the station car park, deciding on the way that her only option was to call
Leo and ask if he could get away early. She sent him a quick text, hoping he didn’t have a con or a hearing arranged for the afternoon, and hurried to the platform to see her train pulling out. She would have to wait twenty minutes for the next one.

Once on the train, she tried to concentrate on reading documents in a new case in which she’d been instructed, but memories revived by Oliver’s baby pictures kept crowding in and distracting her. God, how she wished she could simply erase Leo from her life and mind. But nothing was that simple. She closed her laptop and stared out of the train window. A few men had come close to displacing Leo in her heart, but only ever for a short time. She wished she could have made it work with Charles – he had been the kindest, sweetest man. The trouble was, for all his infidelity and incredible selfishness, Leo was a hard act to follow. Or was it those negative qualities which made him so attractive? She’d given up trying to work it out. The fact was, she needed someone to eclipse Leo. She needed to be in love. Easier said than done. She knew she was more than averagely attractive, and still young at thirty-three – but where were all the eligible men? The City of London should be teeming with them, but all the ones she came into contact with were either middle-aged and married with families, or young, conceited and gormless, or nudging sixty and lecherous. Her work as a solicitor meant she saw the same old faces every day, and most of her non-working hours were spent with Oliver. Where were the opportunities? Something had to change. It was ridiculous still to be brooding over one’s ex after five years.

It was after 9.45 when Rachel reached the offices of
Nichols & Co in Bishopsgate. Her colleague Fred Fenton accosted her as she emerged from the lift.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ Fred told her, as he walked with Rachel to her office. ‘Ann Halliday has had to pull out of the casino case. A six-week hearing she had coming up in December has been moved forward. So she’s having to bow out.’

Rachel slung her coat on a hook, and sat down with a sigh. ‘That’s all we need. I’d better see who else is free. Oh, and Fred, can we have a word at some point today with Andrew about that Drucker arbitration?’

‘Sure. Catch you later.’

It was clearly going to be one of those days, thought Rachel. Not yet ten o’clock, plenty of time for more things to go wrong. Her mobile began to buzz in her bag. She fished it out, and saw the caller was Leo.

‘Hi – did you get my text?’

‘Yes. Not a problem. I’ll pick Oliver up.’

‘Thanks. I’ve got this wretched seminar after work, and I probably won’t get back till after seven.’

‘I’ll have him for the night if you like. I was going to work from home tomorrow morning, so I can take him into school.’

‘Really? He’d love that. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Of course I don’t. By the way, did you see Whiteside’s judgment?’

‘Yes, I did. What a hash he made of it! It seemed wrong from start to finish.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. A complete travesty. That’s what comes of letting any Tom, Dick or Harry sit in Admiralty cases. It makes one wonder about the calibre of people getting onto the High Court Bench these days.’

‘That’s because hardly anyone wants the job. Would you do it?’

‘I doubt if Henry would let me.’ Leo paused, then added, ‘I suppose it has its attractions.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Tell me about them when you become Mr Justice Davies. Then I’ll believe it.’

‘At least I wouldn’t be handing down ludicrous judgments like Whiteside’s and clogging up the Appeal Court lists.’

They talked about the case briefly, then Leo said, ‘I’d better go. I’ve got a con in a couple of minutes.’

‘OK. Thanks for this afternoon. I’ll ring Lucy to tell her you’ll be taking Oliver to school in the morning. Bye.’

Rachel wished that all conversations with Leo could be as amicable. It reminded her of the early days of their relationship. They’d always had so much to talk about – in bed and out of it. On paper, they were a perfectly suited couple. If only it could have been as easy as talking – or even making love. She brought her drifting thoughts to a halt. That was enough. She was going to have to do something about her situation.

Later that morning she rang her friend Sophie, the mother of Oliver’s school chum Josh, who lived just round the corner.

‘Hi, it’s Rachel. I just wondered if you were free later this evening for a glass of wine. Say around nine? My love life needs sorting out.’

‘Absolutely. I’ll be gasping for a drink after I’ve got this lot to bed.’ Rachel could hear the sound of small voices and clattering in the background. ‘Josh! Put that down! It doesn’t go in the dishwasher. Sorry, Rachel. Yes, I’ll pop round and leave Richard to do the evening shift. They’re all
in bed by eight, so it doesn’t involve more than him sitting with a beer watching the Dave channel, and keeping an ear out.’

‘Great. See you later.’

That was the evening taken care of. Now to find someone to take Ann Halliday’s place in the casino case. She rang the clerks’ room at 5 Caper Court and spoke to Henry, who consulted the on-screen diaries of the various members of chambers. ‘Let’s see … Mr Vane’s no good, he’s in court that day. Mr Bishop, no … How about Mr Cross? He’s free to do the hearing, and he hasn’t got much heavy work on in the run-up.’

Rachel hesitated. She needed someone who could get their head round what was a very complex case in a short space of time, and Anthony would be ideal. The truth was, ever since their affair a couple of years ago, Rachel had avoided briefing Anthony. They’d remained good friends, but she had the feeling it might be tricky working on a case together. Still, it seemed she didn’t have much choice.

‘Mr Cross will be fine.’ They discussed fees, and Rachel said she would send the papers round within the hour.

Shortly after one, Leo went to Anthony’s room. Anthony was sitting at his desk reading, his feet propped up on a cardboard box stuffed with documents. Unlike Leo’s room, Anthony’s was comfortably messy, with files and books everywhere.

Leo gave the box a kick. ‘Christ, man, how can you work in this squalor? Didn’t I teach you, when you were a callow and giddy youth, to keep a sense of order?’

‘Don’t kick that! It contains highly valuable evidence.
Besides, everything is in perfect order. I can lay my hands on any given document in seconds, if required. It just looks disordered to the untrained eye,’ replied Anthony.

‘Oh, yes? What’s this, then?’ asked Leo, picking up a random piece of paper from a pile on the table.

Anthony squinted at it. ‘It’s a chart. Something to do with a grounding case. Put it back. You’re destroying an intricate filing system.’ He swung his feet off the box. ‘Rachel has just instructed me in a case that’s coming up for a hearing in a few weeks’ time. Rather an unusual one.’

‘Tell me about it over lunch. How do you fancy beer and sandwiches at The Eagle?’

They left chambers and walked to the pub in Bouverie Street.

‘Just an orange juice for me,’ said Anthony, when they were at the bar. ‘I need to finish those documents. We have a con tomorrow afternoon.’

They took their drinks and sandwiches to a table. ‘So,’ said Leo, ‘fill me in. What’s the case about?’

‘A gambling debt, basically. Some rich Saudi gambling on credit at a private casino in Mayfair, paying for his chips by cheque. One night he writes a cheque for about three million, gets into an argument with one of the croupiers, and next day he stops the cheque. We’re acting for the gaming club, trying to recover the debt – some years down the line, I might add.’

‘No time bar, I take it?’

Anthony shook his head, wolfing down a sandwich.

‘Sounds straightforward enough.’

‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? The trouble is, even though he put a stop on this whacking great cheque,
the gaming club – Astleigh’s – let him carry on gambling there for the next couple of years, because he was a hugely important client. The croupiers used to call him the Lion King. Something to do with the look of him, his big voice, stuff like that. Anyway, the club carried on grumbling about the debt, trying to strike a deal with him to repay it out of his winnings, but of course that never happened. In the end they lost patience, and now they’re suing for their three million. And here’s the interesting bit. The Lion King is arguing that by allowing him to carry on gambling after his cheque was dishonoured, the club was extending him illegal credit within the meaning of the Gaming Act, so their claim against him is unenforceable. Not only that, on the same basis he’s counterclaiming all the sums he lost gambling during that period.’

‘Cheeky sod,’ chuckled Leo. ‘Who’s on the other side?’

‘Linklaters. They’ve instructed George Freeman.’

‘Sounds like one of his typically ingenious lines of argument. It’ll never wash.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Anthony took a reflective sip of his orange juice. ‘I don’t understand the attraction of gambling. Surely you know the minute you walk into a casino that the odds are stacked against you.’

‘Of course. That’s not the point. I take it you’ve never gambled?’

Anthony shook his head. ‘Not even as a student. There were always plenty of games of three-card brag or stud poker around, but I never played. I was on such a tight budget I couldn’t afford to lose a penny.’ Anthony was visited by a sudden memory from his student days, of sitting in his bedroom with all the loose change he’d collected from
every pocket, cranny and chair-back set out in pathetic little stacks on the table in front of him, trying to work out if it would last the week. ‘The Lion King gambled over fifty million in the space of five years. Fifty million! He could lose a couple of million in a single night and think nothing of it. If you ask me, that’s not just stupid, it’s downright immoral.’

‘You’re right, of course – in theory. But people don’t only gamble for money. They do it for the buzz, the tantalising possibility that just this once, they might get lucky. Of course everyone loses in the long run, but they win often enough to keep them hoping. It’s like any other high. And then there’s the atmosphere. There’s something supercharged about a private gaming club. High stakes, serious money, beautiful people.’

‘All very James Bond, no doubt. But when you come down to it, what’s the difference between a game of roulette and a game of bingo?’

‘A whole world, believe me.’ Leo was suddenly visited by a memory of his own, one of Anthony when he’d just arrived in chambers as a raw and inexperienced pupil, resplendent in a new Marks & Spencer suit, startlingly handsome and intelligent, touchingly naive, perfect to be moulded and educated in the ways of the world. Leo had taken it upon himself to act as a mentor, introducing him to all kinds of entirely straightforward pleasures, which young Anthony had thought the height of sophistication – West End restaurants, decent wine, art galleries, plays, concerts of classical music. It had been a delight to educate him, and to observe his intense enjoyment of things which Leo had long taken for granted. Anthony had represented his own
forgotten self, a lower-middle-class grammar school boy of exceptional talents, determined to achieve success and to find acceptance in a class-ridden profession through his own brilliance and professional excellence.

‘Perhaps I should take you to Crockfords some time, or Aspinalls,’ said Leo. ‘It’s an interesting social experience, if nothing else.’

‘Rachel and I have to go to Astleigh’s tomorrow afternoon to talk to the management. Everything that happened took place before the repeal of section sixteen of the Gaming Act, and the club was operating its own credit system, which we need to get our heads around.’